This man could be as insolent as his son, but Joyce had to gamble that he wasn't. If Walter was to be saved, the father had to be made to understand.
"I think we'd better discuss your son and his behavior at school."
"I guess that snot nose was telling me the truth."
"He told you what happened?" Joyce stared.
"He told me you was the best piece he's had since he started at that there school, even though you went out like a light before he was hardly finished."
She almost choked as she sucked in her breath.
"Then you know everything. What punishment have you given him?"
"Well, I told him next time to pick a better place. He could've been caught and tossed into the can. Then I'd have to bail him out. I wouldn't like that."
"My God, is that all you care about?"
"Listen to me, that boy can have anybody he wants. He's not a rape, because he'll get his ma and me in trouble, but if the shack doesn't mind, then it's all right. It's what they call the permissive society. Everybody doing his own thing. Letting it all hang out ... and old stud Walter has plenty to hang, hasn't he?"
"I think that will be all. I'm sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Bogg."
The heavy head was shaking.
"I'm not gonna waste any more time. Wally told me you love it. I aim to get myself a piece before we're through...."
CHAPTER ONE
Joyce felt funny. She'd been away from Warren too long, and strange things were happening inside her body. She didn't understand what they were, but she was in great distress.
She was restless.
Her upper legs itched.
Occasionally she broke out in a sweat.
She was cranky.
Joyce needed something.
She hardly heard the droning voice as a pimple-faced girl named Mary Ann Waitkus read a few paragraphs from The Red Badge of Courage.
God knew it was a small enough book; but if all the sophomores were as dull as this child, they'd be all semester finding out which side won the Civil War.
Joyce sat at her desk, facing the class. She'd not liked the desk from the first day of school, but old Mr. Frankel hadn't been able to find her a desk that wasn't the see-through style. Joyce doubted that Mr. Frankel tried very hard, because he seemed bent on making her uncomfortable. He was doing a good job of it.
She squirmed, careful to keep her knees together. Lord, but she was uncomfortable. California wasn't all that warm, but she'd never felt quite this way back in Nebraska. She'd never been away from Warren this long, either; and that one night in bed with him before they'd parted had been a terrible mistake.
Joyce eased the center desk drawer open and plucked a Kleenex from the pink box. She wiped her lips and then her palms, before wadding the tissue and dropping it into a wastebasket to one side.
She saw the boy looking at her again when she raised her eyes to scan the class.
The semester was hardly a month along, but she knew his name well enough. Walter Bogg. He was a big lout of a boy with a long face marked by a cruel chin and insolent eyes. He was a classic discipline problem-poor scholar, bored, unwilling to study, difficult to handle ... and something else.
They hadn't told Joyce about high school boys like Walter Bogg when she'd been at State Teachers College. She was almost afraid of him because of the way he would smirk at her, just daring her to make another scene. He was smirking now.
Joyce frowned and shook her head almost imperceptibly, her eyes dropping to the book she held.
He got her message clearly enough, but he was not going to obey. He kept on smirking while a finger dug into his left nostril.
Joyce was afraid she was going to become sick again. She was that angry, that frustrated.
She looked at Mary Ann and then at the clock. There was still fifteen minutes before the hellish hour was up, then she'd have a free period. She wouldn't wait to give him hell on her own time. This was her moment to strike back.
Joyce stood.
"Thank you, Mary Ann," she interrupted. "That will do for today. Class, I'm going to dismiss you early; but I want you all to go to the library and find something by Crane or others who wrote about the terrors of the Civil War. I'll expect a report from each of you, one hundred words by the time we meet tomorrow."
She knew that less than half of the class would do the assignment. They didn't care, especially the blacks. She had a half dozen of them in her class; and she'd been unable to motivate them, despite the fine new ideas they'd given her at college.
Walter Bogg's reaction to her assignment was loud enough for her to hear, even though he always sat in the back row.
"Fuck that noise," he rasped to another giant of a boy who sat across the aisle. "I ain't gonna spend the rest of the day in the goddamn lib.. . "
"Walter Bogg!"
Her voice broke as she snapped the word so that it came from her lips as more of a desperate sob than anything else. Her chin worked as she struggled to keep it from crumpling.
The class froze, half in and half out of their seats, their books motionless in the act of being scooped into their arms. It was like a wax museum, except that these people were alive and anticipating some sort of a confrontation.
Only Walter Bogg shuffled all the way to his feet.
"Ma'am...?" he drawled, collecting a laugh from several of the boys.
"I won't have that kind of talk in my English class. I want you to march straight into Mr. Farr's office, and tell him what you said here."
Her face was hot, and red splotches were appearing on her neck.
God, she hated being so helpless! Why did she hate him so ... or was it all really hate?
"Shit!" he snapped. "I'm on my way home. Pa wants me to help him work on the truck transmission."
Joyce quivered, her knees shaking.
"Class, leave at once-except for you, Walter. You stay right where you are."
Walter stared at her, his lips still twisted in a smirk.
The class was curious, but the young people shuffled toward the door as they whispered. Their eyes darted back and forth, and Joyce knew they all wanted to stay to see what would happen.
Two or three of Walter's cronies hung back until he waved his hand, then said:
"You guys go ahead. I'll see you out front. This won't take long."
Joyce was rooted at the side of her desk, the knuckles of her right hand jammed against the top so that she wouldn't lose her balance and fall. She kept her chin in the air, and her lips made a firm red line.
At last they were gone, and she went to the door and flipped up the rubber stop so that it hissed closed. She pulled the blind over the small window that looked out on the corridor, then she turned and looked at him.
He was still by his desk, slumping against it, his hands on his hips.
Joyce kept her back against the door, as she said:
"Well, Walter...?" "Well, what?" he drawled.
"When are we going to come to terms? It can't go on this way. You'll never get through to your junior year. I've tried as best I can..."
His laugh stopped her. Shaking his head, he sauntered to the front of the room and sat at her desk. Casually he began opening drawers, poking his hands into them, examining books, papers, and a few of her private things. He took out her purse and placed it on the desk.
She started toward him, her finger pointed and accusing.
"Get your hands off my things!"
Outrage washed over her again, and she wished she had the strength to kill.
She stopped a few feet from the desk, unwilling to touch him. Something was happening inside her. She hated him, but she was curiously stunned and helpless at the sight of his hands snapping open her purse. Her jaw worked and her fingers were clenched into fists as she stood rooted.
He poked through the purse, pulling our her compact, comb, car keys, and then the letter.
He smirked, then said:
"Shit, I thought I might find a Kotex in here, Joyce."
"Don't you dare call me by my first name, Walter Bogg!" she gasped.
He stared up, looking as though he couldn't believe her words.
"What the fuck you talking about? I can call my mama an old cunt if I want. Pa don't care. Why should you?"
Cunt. Fuck. Shit. The. boy knew all the filthy words whose meanings Joyce hadn't known until she'd gone to college. Her stern parents had never allowed her to be around people who used such language or, if they had their way, around people who thought such thoughts.
This meant that she'd seen very little of boys, because boys everywhere thought those words. She knew that now. She'd found that out in college.
Warren wasn't that kind, of course; but she'd allowed him to lead her to bed. Lead her to bed! She couldn't bring herself to admit he'd just plain fucked her.
She moved her knees, because her thighs were burning. This confrontation, the thoughts of Warren, the sight of this filthy lout opening the envelope of her private letter-it did something to her body. She needed some release, or she'd begin to scream. That would create a public scene she could never bear.
He was reading the letter.
"Who's Warren?" he asked, without raising his eyes.
"None of your business! Get away from my desk."
"Hmm ... all the way from New York, but he remembers back home in Nebraska. Sounds like him and you had a high old time. Find anybody here to take his place?"
Joyce grimaced, unable to speak. She was again gripping the side of the desk.
"I bet you been without any nookie for maybe a month or two. That ain't natural, Joyce."
He dropped the letter and stood, taking a step toward her.
She glanced quickly toward the door, realizing it was locked, since she'd released the inside catch. She could get out, but nobody could walk in on them.
"Forget the door. You and me are gonna talk about my problem ... and your problem. You got a worse problem than me, teacher. You got a burning pussy, and I can put out the fire."
"You conceited fool!" she hissed. "Get out of here at once! If you touch me, I'll scream so loud they'll hear it all the way down to the principal's office."
"No, you won't. You won't make any noise at all. You need me, lady, and you're gonna get me right now."
She opened her mouth; and, in less than a second, his hand was clapped over it, stinging her, stifling her, except for a few anguished gurgles'. His other arm went around her waist; and when she reached back to. paw at his grip, he caught her wrists in his heavy fingers. Her arms were trapped behind her back as surely as though she wore handcuffs.
She struggled, but her movements were not strong. She felt drained of the will to resist.
He was still smirking as though he'd expected it all along.
"See? I knew you wanted this. You're going crazy because I got a hold of you, huh? You eat it up. You got a hot twat, and you can't wait to be pronged."
He removed his hand from her mouth; and she opened her lips at once, forming them for a cry of alarm. But no sound came forth. Instead, her mouth twisted and crumpled.
"I hate you!" she hissed. "I'll see that you're expelled and thrown in jail for this."
"You'll see nothing, except a few pounds of raw dong." He chuckled with a sick sound deeply in his throat. "Go ahead and scream. You'll look like a damned fool when they come in here and find nothing wrong. Why don't you relax and enjoy it? You know what you want, and I sure as hell been wantin' it ever since the first day I sat down in this room."
"You're an animal!"
"So are you, baby. We're all animals. Admit you can't wait to be serviced. You want me to give it to you."
She struggled again, but his hand locked over her wrists in a fresh grip. Still, she didn't cry out. It would be too much, too dramatic. She wanted to scream, but something stopped her. That same little voice had been telling her air along that something was wrong, that her body wasn't normal.
His face hovered an inch from hers, and she stared up into his dark eyes. His face was massive, and his straight black hair hung over his forehead and almost down to his collar over his ears. He seemed almost like a thyroid case, with his long jaw and massive teeth.
She could see the dark bristles on his chin and the pores, some of them harboring blackheads. He'd had acne at one time, and there were a few scars remaining that had not yet lost their angry red. His eyes were dark pools, deeper than anything she'd ever seen. He was a much stronger person than Warren.
Dear Warren! Weak as he was, she wished she had him with her now.
Again she struggled, but his hand was like a vise. His eyes looked down her writhing body, and her eyes followed as she paused.
She wore a crisp white blouse and a lightweight skirt. Her collar was open at the throat; and she knew he could see down to the tops of her breasts, down where her mounds first divided to form their jutting twin hills. She was thankful that she wore a bra. She always had, but many of her friends at college and some of the teachers at West High did not.
"You got knockers, Joyce-I'll say that for you.
You might not know what it's for, but you got a body to set a guy nuts." He licked his lips. "But I think you do know what it's all about. I'm gonna show you the fine points."
She wiggled again, and her hip ran into his loins. She felt his stiffened cock jabbing against his jeans and against her thigh like a steel bar.
Lord, she thought, he must have the equipment of a farm stallion!
He pushed her back, and his eyes went farther down her body.
"Hmm, good crotch and hips. The engine room is important, Joyce. That's where the power comes from. You got a fine ass too, and good long legs. I'd say you must be pushing five-ten, huh? They grow 'em big back in the corn country."
She made a sound of disgust as he laughed; and then his free hand went into action, swiftly so that she could do nothing more than suck in deep breaths to keep from fainting. He was pawing her breasts, cupping one and then the other.
For some reason, she hoped he wouldn't leave grimy finger marks on her clean blouse; but she needn't have worried.
He was unbuttoning her, as he said:
"Let's just open this little old shirt, honey, so we can let those babies inside have a little air. Okay?"
She closed her eyes as she swallowed. "God," she blurted, "please give me some strength!"
But she was powerless. Her struggles were only a token effort. She had to work to keep her knees from giving way.
"Come on, lady-straighten up and fly right," he rasped into her ear.
She could feel his breath on her hair, and a fresh wave of dizziness rocketed through her.
She choked as he parted her blouse and his fingers jerked it from her waist. She followed his eyes as he spread the blouse to her ribs and stared. Her breasts seemed larger, filling her pink bra cups until they were in danger of spilling over the tops.
As she sucked air, they heaved in and out, the cleavage between them growing ever deeper. They ached, and the pain was sweet and delicious. She found herself wanting to touch them, to massage them. Or, better yet ... no!
"My, God, so you really do wear one of them harness things," he snorted. "I thought all of you liberated broads gave them up. You really are right off the farm." He licked his lips again. "Looks like they're filled with goodies, though. All the guys thought you had real ones. I wasn't sure but what they might be fake."
For an instant, Joyce resented his accusation. Her wearing falsies, indeed! It was out of the question. The Remington women had always been well endowed. Her mother, her grandmother, and as far back as anybody knew. The women were tall on both sides of the family-tall and straight and beautiful, their fair skin and hair glowing over the flat farmlands.
"I guess we're ready for the main event," he said, in a low voice.
Joyce glanced toward the door and then at him.
"Let me go. It's your last chance," she said.
"Christ, lady, this is your big chance. You're gonna get laid like you never got laid by any rube called Warren. I can promise you that."
Joyce wanted to run; and she realized that she could, for he was no longer holding her wrists.
She was free, but she merely cowered against the side of the desk.
She wasn't going anywhere for a while.
CHAPTER TWO
He was slipping the blouse from her shoulders, and she was letting him. What in the world was happening to her? Of course, she was a healthy, adult woman; and she needed sex. But with this lout? There were a number of young, .eligible teachers who'd asked her for dates; but she'd turned them down, mostly because of Warren. But now, suddenly, this boy had made Warren seem distant. She couldn't remember Warren's face.
"Warren!" she cried out.
"Lady, you still don't get it," Walter said, as he rolled her blouse and tossed it onto the desk. "That guy's nothing. If he was, you'd be where he is-or vice versa. He was just something that happened on your last night at home, so far as I could tell from that letter. Hell, if it had been me, I'd've been fucking you from the time you were fourteen."
She said nothing; instead, she cowered. She leaned against the desk; and it caught her at the middle of her buttocks, thrusting her hips forward. The heels of her hands were on the desk top as she leaned back to support herself. Her position might've appeared inviting and seductive, but she told herself that wasn't what she had in mind.
But Walter liked what he saw. That was obvious as he reached over her shoulders and worked at the catch of her pink bra. He must've been six feet, two. Joyce was more than five-nine, but she still felt small before him. She judged his weight to be a hundred and eighty pounds or more.
He reminded her of the Nebraska farm boys, but he didn't remind her of Warren-the balding, bookish, small, raspy voiced Warren.
She sighed as he released the bra, and she felt the sudden freedom about her breasts.
"Ah, so you like that, after all?"
She shook her head, her blonde hair swirling.
"I was thinking of something else," she replied.
"We can't let that keep on." He chuckled. "I keep telling you-you're gonna forget all about that other guy."
"I doubt that."
He didn't waste time arguing. Instead, he lifted the bra from her, plucking the straps over her shoulders. For an instant, she was proud of his gasp of delight. His eyes bugged, and again he licked his lips. She thought she might have enjoyed kissing those lips, if only he'd kept himself cleaner and if only he'd shaved that morning.
He stood back, then said:
"God, love them pink nipples!"
Then his hands were swarming over them; and, instantly, she felt her buds respond by thrusting forward and hardening. She closed her eyes as their ache for attention was answered.
This was so wonderful! Warren had felt her; but he was so considerate, so tender, that she'd missed much of the pleasure. This lout of a boy knew of no such restraints. He was pinching her and hurting her, leaving bruise marks ... but she was loving it.
She closed her eyes as her head fell forward.
He grasped a handful of golden hair and thrust her head back. It lolled to the rear so that a generous expanse of throat was exposed. Then she felt the mouth on her Adam's apple.
She swallowed, and his lips moved with her. He was pecking and nibbling, working over her creamy skin until she was unable to stifle a moan.
He lifted his mouth an inch, as he said:
"Still thinking of that Warren bastard, aren't you?"
"Please shut up."
"Yes, ma'am."
His mouth pecked its way the length of her throat and then it was hovering over her breasts. She wanted to dig her fingers into the back of his neck and push his face into her pillow softness, but she dared not. She couldn't encourage this awful person-not if she was going to survive later. She had a professional position, and that position wasn't one of fucking her students.
She needn't have worried, for Walter kept on his route. He pecked his way into the valley between her breasts, and she loved his heat on her skin. She was already warm, and moisture was gathering between her mounds; but he added to her heat. It was like moving closer to a stove in an already warm room.
He had his nose buried, and then he was turning his face. He moved up the side slope of her right breast, heading toward the pink and taut peak. When he reached it, he kissed the puckered area immediately around the knob. Then he let the point pop between his lips. It was like an eager puppy waiting to be nursed. He sucked hard on the nipple, and his tongue rasped across it.
Joyce remembered an erotic game she'd played when she'd been fourteen. Fourteen ... that's when this boy said he'd have been fucking her regularly! Instead, she'd had to content herself by playing with her kitten.
She'd placed butter on her nipples in the privacy of her upstairs room and then placed the kitten on her belly. The eager little thing had lapped at Joyce's budding breasts until she'd felt the moist flush of pleasure between her legs. She didn't know at the time that she was having her first orgasms. She'd only known that she felt ashamed of her pleasure.
Walter jerked her back into the present when he bit the right nipple.
She cried out softly and placed her hand at the nape of his neck.
He lifted his face, then asked:
"Too hard?"
"Too hard," she agreed.
Then, as though she were reciting in a language she couldn't understand, she spoke like a zombie, as she added:
"This is wrong. You must let me go."
"like shit," he muttered..
His mouth went to her other breast, and he began to lick it. His tongue moved in large circles around the perimeter of the mound, moving in ever smaller rings until he'd zeroed in on the bursting and neglected nipple.
He finally took it into his mouth, and her fingers hammered on the desk top. She quivered as her nerves jumped from her toes to the roots of her hair.
Again he looked up. "You goin' off already?" he asked. "Shut up, you gorilla!" she hissed. How could she hate him so and still adore every touch?
He only laughed as his tongue resumed its strumming.
She wondered if her nipple would break off like a steaming icicle. Her breasts wanted to jump right out of their skin, splitting it like split melons that have been allowed to hang on the vine too long.
He straightened and looked into her eyes.
"Ready for the next act?" he asked.
She was proud that she was able to say:
"No! Get out-get out at once. I'm going to charge you with attempted rape!"
He shook his head as he grinned.
"Not attempted rape, teacher. Walter Bogg never attempts anything. He just does it."
"And then he brags about it," she taunted, knowing she was challenging him to go on.
He was laughing as his face went back to work. He kissed her breasts again, lightly and swiftly. Then he moved his mouth lower, pecking down over her ribs and hitting her high on the belly.
She felt her middle sucking in and out as her panting grew in intensity.
He paused and rubbed his hands together.
"Time to shift gears again," he said.
She shook her head, but he ignored her pale protest. Instead, he grasped her hips and jerked her body roughly so that she presented her profile to him. He dug at her hip until he'd gripped her zipper and jerked. The hiss was loud in the silent room, and she felt the waist of her skirt sag.
At that instant, the bell clanged. They could hear doors opening throughout the building. There was the thunder of hurrying feet and the chatter of excited young voices.
She glanced up at the clock, then asked:
"Do you have a class?"
He shook his head, then said:
"I told you-Pa wants me home. But he'll know I had a dandy excuse." He grinned. "What about you? Got another thirty punks waitin' to come in here?"
"No. Free period."
He nodded, saying:
"Free and easy, if you ask me."
She stiffened, and her arm swung before she knew what was happening. It caught his cheek with a sharp crack.
"I don't need your insults, young man!" she told him. "I may be free, but it isn't coming easy. You'll find that out when Mr. Farr gets his hands on you!"
If Walter was surprised, he didn't show it. Joyce wondered how so young a person could be so cool.
He shrugged off her brief burst of temper, then he did something that surprised her a great deal more-he struck her.
The slap caught her on the cheek with the same force she'd hit him; and the report was loud in the empty room, ringing off the rear wall.
Her eyes filled with tears and her body went hot with shame. A wave of hysteria swept over her, and she had to fight to regain control of herself.
"All right," she said. "Now you can get out-I mean it!"
She pointed to the door, wondering how ridiculous she looked with her bare breasts pointing with her.
"The fuck you do, lady," he replied.
His arms went around her, and he bent her over the desk. His cock jabbed against her lower belly, and she could feel the iron thing sweep back and forth like a club.
Something inside her snapped, and she felt her resistance flow out like air from a punctured balloon. Her face was buried under his chin, and the heat was intense. She sagged.
He caught her under the arms and propped her against the desk.
"Stand up. Don't turn into a dead lay on me."
Joyce did as she was told, and he began to pull at the waist of her skirt. It fell; and, when he pulled her hip away from the desk, the garment plunged to the floor. He knelt and lifted first one leg and then the other, helping her step from it. It went on the desk by her rolled blouse. That was three pieces gone, with one left.
He was staring, and she knew why.
"So you like to play private games, you big bitch!"
"I ... I hadn't counted on anybody seeing." "Not even some of the other teacher broads in the can?"
She shrugged, then replied:
"You ought to see what some of them wear. You'd really be surprised."
"I don't think so." He stroked his chin. "Does your mama know you wear black lace panties?"
"No, thank God. She doesn't know what I'm doing."
"Relax. You're not the first cunt to sin."
He pushed her against the desk, and she stood flat footed as he rolled down her pants. He jerked her forward as he rolled the revealing lace over her buttocks, then she fell back again. The pants went to her knees before giving up and falling to the floor by themselves.
Again she stood, her feet twelve inches apart. She wondered if his approving inspection really meant so much to her.
He was grinning and nodding, his hands on his hips.
"So you're a real blonde. Nice little crop you got growing down there."
When she didn't answer, he bent again to his task. He knelt before her, and somehow the gesture was incredibly exciting.
Imagine! This tall, handsome youngster on his knees, as though she were a goddess and his to command. In fact, she couldn't command anything, but her beauty was enough to bring him down.
Down he went, kissing her on the belly; and she could hear her own panting. It seemed to fill the room. She tried to suck in her navel; but his tongue chased after it, drilling into the soft folds of the hole and sloshing about until she wondered if he'd actually poked a hole into her middle.
His mouth went lower until he was worming his way among the first stiff hairs.
She could feel her own dampness lubricating her crotch. She'd already had at least one slight orgasm, and another was on the way. She placed her hands on the back of his head and tried not to press too hard.
He didn't seem to mind as his face went lower, and soon he was kissing her directly on the blonde thatch.
She shuddered and gripped handfuls of his hair, squeezing her eyes shut, lifting her face toward the ceiling. The shock again went through her, taking its toll, giving her great pleasure and weakening her at the same instant.
When it was over, she was shining with sweat and panting like an excited puppy.
He lifted his dripping face, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"So you're making it again," he said. "I guess it's just about my turn, baby."
He scrambled to his feet and leaned against her, pressing his hands into her crotch. She felt his strong, thick fingers roaming about, pushing through her forest, finding her wet, puffy lips and slipping between them. He pushed one or two fingers into her, and Joyce shuddered again.
He took his hands away, then said:
"I guess I'd better leave you a little for the main event."
As she panted, her breasts lifting and falling with quivering shakes, like twin mounds of pink jelly, he pulled open the waist of his jeans and began to rip at the metal buttons. They snapped, one by one, until she could see his thick mat of curly hair pushing forward from inside.
He wore no undershorts, and somehow she was not surprised.
He grasped at his hips and jerked the jeans until they slipped to his knees, still tight against his muscular thighs.
Then she made herself look at the thing. It was as gigantic as she'd suspected-fully eight inches long and as big around as a large cucumber, standing out from his body like something with which to do battle. The skin was pulled back tightly from the knob, the bared head turning dark, as his blood raced into the tip. His body had collected its great power in his cock for the final act.
For an instant, he looked around. Then his hands darted to her waist. He lifted; and she floated from the floor, up a foot ... two feet, and then he was shoving her over the desk top before her buttocks came down in the middle of her blotter.
She went backward, his hands pressing lightly against her swollen breasts, until she was out flat and the desk top was hitting her behind the knees so that her feet dangled off one end and her head the other. Her hair was streaming almost to the floor as she let her head go all the way down.
She heard and felt him scrambling upon the desk. He was pushing at the insides of her knees, spreading them and then thrusting a jean-clad knee between hers. He got the other knee inside and loomed down over her.
He took most of his weight on his elbows, and the knob of his penis wormed into the pit of her stomach. It felt hot, like a poker.
She lifted her arms and touched his shoulders gently as he wormed back a few inches and lowered himself again, this time directing the cock into her bush. It shoved with an iron will of its own, ripping the hairs to the side as it fished into her swollen gates.
He slammed at her crotch, and the head snaked inside.
She whimpered, for he was huge and hurting; but it was more wonderful than anything she'd ever before felt.
He lurched again, and the thing was bucking its way inside her, like a hose being forced into too small a space.
Again she cried out:
"I'm too small, and you're too big! I can't take it!"
"like shit!" he hissed.
He lurched again, and her insides were burning up. She began to beat on his shoulders, and she groped for his face to claw; but there wasn't time. As the pain shot through her, she felt him go rigid from head to toe. He hovered, and then the dam of passion broke loose.
The hot seed was scalding against her womb, boiling its way all the way up her passage and turning back on itself to churn. It seemed to go on for minutes before it began to subside.
Through it all, he was like a steel horse-bucking, lurching, cutting at her, wheezing.
Then the room went fuzzy before her eyes. The last thing she could remember was Walter Bogg pulling himself from her and standing, his legs spread, buttoning his fly....
CHAPTER THREE
Joyce stirred and opened her eyes.
It was crazy! What was she doing on the top of her desk? Then her foggy brain began to clear, and she sat up quickly. Too quickly. The room spun, and she gripped the corners of the desk until it stopped.
As she shot a glance at the clock, she remembered everything. Impossible! Only a few minutes had passed. She still had her free hour mostly intact.
She was a mess. Her cunt was still dripping its thick milky juice, and the perspiration was still drying between her swollen breasts. Gently she gathered her wits, bringing her knees together and moving them slowly.
Be careful, she told herself. Don't go crazy, now that it's over. Don't scream. You should tell somebody, but who would believe you?
She looked around. There was nothing but her neatly stacked clothing. No signs of a struggle, except for the sweaty papers on the desk and the stained blotter.
So he had raped her ... why hadn't the paste pot been spilled in the struggle? The truth was that Joyce hadn't been raped.
She'd been forced, yes-but as much by seduction and coaxing as by muscles stronger than hers. She wouldn't have a case. Oh, even if Mr. Farr believed her, he wouldn't be able to punish Walter Bogg-not without proof. He couldn't be thrown out of school-not with the permissive policies of the board of education taking things over the way they were.
Joyce heaved an unsteady sigh as she pulled herself to the corner of the desk and touched her naked toe to the floor, much like a timid swimmer dipping into chilly waters.
She looked down to where her rumpled panties were heaped over her shoes. She didn't even remember the shoes being ripped from her, so great had been her passion. She stepped into the panties, then slowly and thoughtfully she dressed.
Her things were neat enough, thank God.
At last she went to the door and opened the blind, then stepped into the corridor.
There weren't many people about, for the next period was well under way.
In the teachers' lounge, she avoided one or two people she knew. She sat in the corner with a cup of black coffee. The warmth tasted good, and she made herself think hard.
If Walter Bogg couldn't be punished by the school authorities, he could at least catch it from his parents. She got up and headed for the tiny office she shared with two other teachers, each step reminding her that her womb had almost been torn out by a massive prick.
Going through her records, she found the father and the mother listed ... Mason Bogg. She began to pick up the phone, but she paused.
Then she was suddenly gripped by fitful sobs. She snatched the phone from the cradle and dialed three digits. She waited desperately for the answer.
"Mr. Farr here..."
"Mr. Farr, this is Joyce Remington. I ... I'm not well. Suddenly I feel just awful. Would it upset everything too much if I went home for the rest of the day?"
She could hear the principal sucking through his teeth as he shuffled papers.
"You have only one more hour, but go ahead. I'll get somebody in there. Take care of yourself, Miss Remington, and call if you can't make it in the morning."
"I'll be all right by then."
She could almost hear him thinking.
"Can I give you a lift home?" he asked. "Can you drive?"
"I'll be fine."
"You sure? It's no trouble."
Mr. Farr wouldn't perform such a service for anybody less pretty than Joyce, she knew. She'd seen him looking at her; but he was a married man, and he was too cautious to approach her directly. She wasn't up to another assault so soon.
She dropped the phone on its cradle and pulled herself up.
God, she hoped she would be able to drive to the apartment without collapsing at the wheel....
"Joyce baby, you're a fool," Gayle said.
Joyce watched as the chunky redhead sat at the dressing table, putting on the rest of her face. She was a perky little thing, and nobody would ever guess that she was a math teacher at West High.
She had green cat-like eyes, and she was as quick thinking and quick moving as a cat-always bubbling, zipping around, and full of frank ideas.
Gayle picked up the battered cigarette from a tray at her elbow. She sucked the smoke into her lungs and held it there until Joyce feared she would die, then she let it trail out through her nostrils.
The sweet smell sickened Joyce; but Gayle held up the thing, then asked:
"Want a drag? If you're going to be an idiot, you might as well feel good while you're doing it."
Joyce shook her head at the same moment that Donna sauntered into the bedroom. The six-foot Swede dropped her lioness body next to Joyce on the bed, her presence reeking of lazy power. With her taffy hair tumbling over her shoulders, nobody could imagine her standing before a social studies class at West High.
Gayle looked at them in her mirror as she worked on a false eyelash.
"Come on, big Swede," she said. "We've got to haul it out of here. Didn't the freshman from Nebraska give you the word?"
Donna stuck out a generous lower lip as she patted Joyce on the knee, then said:
"Heck, and I wanted just us to be here tonight. It isn't often that Gayle leaves us alone."
Joyce liked Donna. She was like a friendly St. Bernard pup.
"I'm sorry," Joyce said, smiling, "but I do think this is the best time and place to handle it. Go on-see a movie or something, won't you?"
Donna shrugged, her heavy breasts bobbing bralessly inside her tight jersey pullover.
"Well, I'll check below," she said. "Maybe Patsy's free. I think there's a Bogart revival around the corner."
Gayle turned on her stool, her skirt riding up to the bottom of her panties. She had small, short legs; but they were stunningly shaped.
"You're still a fool, Joyce Remington," she commented. "Imagine-inviting the father of a wayward boy to your apartment. And on your own time, mind you. Why can't you see him during office hours?"
Joyce plucked at the seam of her pant suit.
"I want to get it over with," she said.
Donna touched her knee again, then asked:
"Don't you want moral support? What did the boy do that makes it so urgent?"
Joyce shook her head, then told them:
"Nothing, exactly. I mean, no one thing. He's just going in the wrong direction, and it's time to stop it. I've got to talk to his father, here and now-tonight."
The two teachers looked past Joyce and at one another, then shrugged.
The three shared the large apartment, each having her own bedroom, although there was a great deal of visiting back and forth. Gayle and Donna were a godsend for Joyce.
She'd been homesick during her first weeks on the West Coast; and without her new friends, she might've been unable to take it. Now, when they were willing to help, she was sending them away.
"It's my problem. I'm not going to gang up on the boy's father," Joyce murmured, almost to herself.
Gayle bounced to her feet at the sound of the buzzer.
"That's old George," she said. "See you all, gang. Good luck, Joyce."
Snatching up a light jacket, she dashed from the room. The door slammed an instant later.
Donna rubbed her fingers over Joyce's knee.
"Call the father, and tell him you'll see him at school in the morning," she suggested. "You need to calm yourself, and I can help you."
Joyce stared into Donna's light-gray eyes. She was a big woman, well built, powerful, stacked, and totally feminine.
Joyce wondered how the Swede would be with Walter Bogg. Somehow, she couldn't imagine Donna out with a man. She never seemed to date, except with various girls around the large apartment house. Yet she seemed supremely desirable, beautiful, and winsome.
"No. You go see Bogey. I'll take care of it all. You'd better hurry. I expect him soon. He said he's an early riser and an early-to-bed man."
"But not tonight, I hope," Donna said, winking.
Joyce watched her roommate uncoil her body and saunter out to look for a girl friend and Humphrey Bogart.
Then she paced, wringing her hands, pausing now and then to put something back in its place-an ash tray, a vase, anything. Then she checked herself in the full-length hall mirror.
She wore a white pant suit. It fit her well about the bust and the rear as she twisted and turned to see from every angle. She reminded herself that this wasn't a social call, even though it was Friday night.
She'd decided to see Mr. Bogg in the apartment so they could talk over Walter's problem, without being interrupted. The discussion could be on a more friendly, frank level than if they'd met at the school office.
Still, it didn't matter so much how she looked or how spic and span the apartment was-this was still a business meeting, and she wanted to keep it brief and to the point.
When the buzzer sounded, she jumped, whirling, her eyes wide. At once her palms were moist, and she rubbed them on her thighs as she went to the door.
She opened the door, not at all prepared for what met her gaze. It was a carbon copy of Walter Bogg-only it was perhaps twenty years older, with the straight black hair fading away from the high forehead. The eyes had been robbed of their clarity; and, looking at the rest of the figure, Joyce could guess why. There was a beer belly, a flicking tongue that seemed to need a drink, and shabby clothes that told of too much money being spent for other things.
"Mr. Bogg...?" her voice quavered.
He nodded once, looking past her and into the room. He was wiping his hands on his stained pants. He also wore an open-collared shirt that smelled. The acrid scent came in a step ahead of him.
Joyce closed the door and leaned against it, wondering why she'd expected anything more.
He stared at the apartment from the middle of the living room, then he turned toward her. His eyes roamed from head to toe, much as his son's had.
Joyce cleared her throat, then said:
"It was good of you to come. May I get you something?"
"Whisky," he blurted immediately. "Hold the water and other crap."
She blinked, feeling a nerve in her throat throb.
"Of course," she said. "Just a moment."
She hurried into the kitchen, passing close to him again. Along with the sweaty smell, there was a smell of power and of sex.
This man could be as insolent as his son, but Joyce had to gamble that he wasn't. If Walter was to be saved, the father had to be made to understand.
The bottle chattered against the side of the glass as she poured. She filled the water glass a third of the way to the top, then dropped in three ice cubes. The glass rattled as she returned to the living room.
She was determined to have nothing herself. After all, this was business.
She handed him the glass, and he peered into it. At once his finger darted into the glass; and he pulled out the ice, tossing it to the carpet.
"I told you-none of that crap!"
Joyce sniffed, her hands clasped before her in her most professional manner. Her nose went into the air.
"I think we'd better discuss your son and his behavior at school."
Bogg drank away half of the whisky in a few swallows and then his eyes again roamed over her.
"I guess that snot nose was telling me the truth."
Joyce stared, then said:
"He told you what happened?"
The man smiled, showing yellowed teeth that needed a dentist's attention.
"He told me you was the best fuck he's had since he started at that there school, even though you went out like a light before he was hardly finished."
Joyce almost choked as she sucked in her breath.
"Then you know everything." Her cheeks were glowing with shame, but she was determined not to lose the initiative-if she'd ever had it at all. "What punishment have you given him?"
The father drank from the glass until it was empty. He seemed ready to hand it to her for more, but he changed his mind and set it on a coffee table.
"Punishment...?"
"Of course."
"Well, I told him next time to pick a better place. He could've been caught and tossed into the can. Then I'd have to bail him out, and I wouldn't like that."
Joyce shook her head.
"My God, is that all you care about? You can't have your son roaming the city, taking advantage of ... I mean, manhandling anyone he ... well, you know what I mean."
He pointed a finger at her breast; and she saw the cracked, dirty nail of a carpenter.
"Listen to me, you college-bred little pussy," he said, "that boy can have anybody he wants. He's not going to rape, because he'll get his ma and me in trouble; but if the shack doesn't mind, then it's all right."
He suddenly guffawed, then added:
"It's what them doctor types call the permissive society. Everybody doing his own thing. Letting it all hang out ... and old stud Walter has plenty to hang, hasn't he?"
Joyce turned away, her face in her hands.
What a fool she'd been! It was useless. She should've realized what sort of a home could produce a Walter Bogg.
She made herself turn back to him, then said:
"I think that will be all. I'm sorry I wasted your time, Mr. Bogg."
The heavy head was shaking, as he replied:
"I'm not gonna waste any more time. Wally told me you love it. I aim to get myself a piece before we're through."
Joyce retreated until she found she was backing toward the bedrooms. She changed direction.
"Don't be a fool. My ... my boy friend is due any minute."
He laughed again, coming toward her.
"I heard about that punk. Somewhere back east, ain't he? I guess he's the one who gave you the hots in the first place. Well, I thank him for that."
She came up against the kitchen door frame, flattening her bottom against it, her hands gripping the wood.
"My roommates will be back soon. They went out for some pizza."
Mr. Bogg's head was moving from side to side, and his hands continued to wipe on his thighs.
She could see the bulge at the crotch of his old pants. He looked even larger than his son. Something began to ripple deep inside Joyce's groin, and she gritted her teeth.
"Not-likely. You wanted plenty of time and privacy for a big, important meeting. I'm big, and you're gonna find out how important this meeting can be."
"You're as crazy as your son. Get out of here, or I'll call the police!"
His laugh cut into her again as he stopped a foot in front of her quaking body.
"Sure, you will-just like you screamed for help when Walter wanted to play games. Come on, you snatch-admit you want another piece from the same hunk of cheese." "No!"
Then he came against her, his cupped fingers grasping directly at her groin.
She felt the steel talons close over her mound, crushing the hairs and the moist lips inside.
He got a firm grip and pulled, as though he were going to pull the tubes right out of her body.
"Please!"
"Come on-I don't fuck around like that teenage kid did. I want to put my dick into something fast. Where do you want it-against the wall, or someplace where it won't hurt so much?"
Joyce gasped.
"I'll call the..."
"Come on," he interrupted. "You pick the spot, cunt!"
She squinted into his rheumy eyes.
"I'm not going to let any animal soil my bed."
Moving more swiftly than she would've thought possible, he scooped her up like a toy and stalked to an eight-foot couch. He dropped her with a series of heavy bounces.
"Then I'll do it right here, if that's your imagine."
She stared in horror as he pulled at his fly zipper.
CHAPTER FOUR
God, what a fool she was being all over again, Joyce told herself, as her body bounced. She should have known. She should've confronted this man with Gayle and Donna at her side.
But no. She had to be the cool professional, the loner. like father, like son. How many years would she need to learn the ,truth of that saying? This father was every bit as obscene as his son, and he probably was much more experienced in getting what he wanted.
Her cunt still tingled where he'd grabbed at her. He had truly hurt her, and the pain was just now beginning to retreat from her loins. That was warning enough, and she wasn't going to be weak a second time.
"Get away from me!" she hissed, her teeth clenched as she angrily peered up at him. "I really mean it-I'll see you in San Quentin, if it kills me!"
He was hovering over her, almost licking his chops, like a hungry man wondering which part of the chicken he wanted to tear away first.
She was surprised when he straightened, and she was able to sit up without his touching her again. She brushed at her pant suit, smoothing it over her crotch. At least it afforded more protection than a short skirt. He'd need to work harder to get at her.
"You ain't kidding, are you, lady?"
His eyes were almost popping, and he was licking his lips for a different reason. He was nervous, assailed by doubt for the first time since he'd come into the apartment. He didn't seem to be a man who had many doubts in his world.
She shook her head hard until the blonde hair swirled, then said:
"You'd better believe it, Mr. Bogg. I'm not going to let two of your kind take me apart-not without screaming so loudly they'll hear all the way up to L.A."
He shrugged as he backed away, and Joyce quickly got to her feet. She was still on the defense, but she was going to be careful.
He backed toward the door, patting his pockets until he found a package of cigarettes. He pulled one out and poked it into his mouth.
"All right, all right-keep your shirt on," he rasped. "I'm not gonna ruffle your fur, baby. So I pushed a little, and you pushed back harder. Maybe Wally's got your number, but that don't mean I have. So let's talk. You wanted me here to talk, didn't you?"
Joyce nodded quickly, then said:
"That's better, Mr. Bogg. Please sit down."
She waved at the softest chair in the room; and he slouched in front of her, leaving behind a familiar scent as he sank into the chair. She could not place it, but it wasn't good.
She stood in front of him, careful to keep her distance, as she said:
"I've been very worried about your son. What happened to me was the climax, of course."
He guffawed, and she flushed at her unfortunate choice of words.
"You know what I mean," she added.
He nodded, then told her:
"Sure, sure. All right-so the punk has spirit. Christ, where he's being raised, he's got to be tough to survive. You ought to drop by our neighborhood sometime. Bring along a tire iron to keep the animals off your chassis."
Joyce nodded.
"I can understand that. But we're trying at West High to show all the young people that there is a better life. We want him to behave like a gentleman when he's at school. If he only would, he'd come to no harm. As it is, he's been my worst student since opening day. And he's a bad influence on several of the others."
Bogg pulled out a kitchen match, snapping it into flame with his thumbnail. He peered at her over the flame as he lighted the cigarette.
Suddenly, Joyce knew it wasn't a real cigarette at all. It was the same stuff Gayle had been smoking just before she'd gone out.
"I told you, he's got to keep his spirit ... but what's eating you? You don't like my brand?"
She'd wrinkled her nose at the sweet, yet somehow pungent smell that filled the room.
"I wish you wouldn't use that filthy stuff here. Put it out-go flush it down the toilet."
He laughed again.
"Come on-have a little drag."
He shoved the cigarette at her; but she took a step backward, her arms half raised.
"Thank you, no!" she hissed. "Now get out of here."
"It helps settle the nerves," he continued. "I'm not shitting you, lady ... Joyce ... uh, is that the name?"
"Miss Remington to you!"
"Ah, ain't we being cozy. Come on-take a drag. I'll bet you'd love the weed. It doesn't hurt you. The government tried to prove it did, but they came up with zilch. Come on-do you a hell of a lot of good."
The tingling between her legs hadn't disappeared. She assumed it was pain, but it hung on as though something else was causing the tingling.
Perhaps a few puffs on the cigarette would help to deaden her nerves. Her body wouldn't be so sore. She still ached here and there from where Walter Bogg had roughed her up.
No, she decided, that would be a crazy thing to do!
"Come on. I can see from your face that you want to give it a try." He smiled in what, for him, must've been an engaging way. "Don't tell me that none of your teacher friends hits the pot now and then."
"My roommate does now and then," Joyce admitted.
"There, see? I told you ... roommate?" He looked toward the doors to the kitchen and the bedrooms. "She wouldn't be hiding out in the back room, would she?"
"Of course not. I sent them away ... both of my roommates."
She bit her lower lip. Why had she been so quick to tell him everything? She should've said they were right across the hall and that they'd be back within minutes.
Bogg was on his feet, still thrusting the cigarette.
"Here you go. Just puff easy like ... steady. Don't choke on the thing." "No."
"I said yes." He stepped forward swiftly and caught her wrist. She was pulled against him, and their hips collided painfully. "Come on, baby doll. Open those lips."
She tried to jerk her face away, but he was poking the cigarette at her mouth. She was afraid to squirm too much. She might knock it out of his hand and burn herself. She felt the battered cigarette against her mouth, then it was between her lips-just like that.
She found herself taking that first tentative puff. It was just like the first time a boy had talked her into trying a regular cigarette. She'd relented, but she hadn't liked the taste and had grown up as a nonsmoker.
Now she was sucking the air and smoke into her mouth. She blew it out at once as he took the cigarette away.
His other hand still clenched her wrist. She wasn't going anywhere until he gave the okay.
"Hell, you got to inhale," he grumbled, looking longingly at the growing cigarette ash.
"Then I'd cough my head off!" she snapped. "You have my permission to finish that thing ... somewhere else."
"Come on. I want to share, baby."
The cigarette was coming at her again, and this time she turned her head away. He kept on coming, and she squealed at the tingling just under her ear. He'd jabbed the lighted end against her skin.
"Oh, you bastard!"
"Just cooperate. Come on-a little pot in the lungs is better than ugly burn scars on that pretty body."
Joyce sighed; and he let go of her wrists, handing her the cigarette. She held it for the first time, peering at the limp thing. It looked so poor and harmless that she put it to her lips and then sucked.
Then she breathed in, inhaling and fully expecting to be caught in a coughing spasm. But nothing happened. She drew the smoke into her lungs and then at last blew it out again.
"Do it again," he whispered.
Joyce felt nothing. Pot was a myth, as far as she was concerned. Perhaps she was one of those rare people who didn't feel the effects of marijuana.
She inhaled another puff, dragging deeply and holding the smoke inside her body as long as she could. Then she let it out in a slow, curling swirl that rose slowly in the heavy air. Then it hit her.
It came slowly, like a spreading warmth in the pit of her stomach. It radiated out, as though she'd swallowed something very hot and it was trying to singe her organs. It wasn't at all unpleasant.
"So now you're getting the message, eh, baby?"
She squinted at him through the smoke.
"I'm not your baby. No, I don't feel a thing."
"like shit you don't."
He took the cigarette from her fingers, puffed on it until the butt burned his fingers, and then mashed it out in an ash tray. Bogg looked toward the door and then back at Joyce.
"Well, you softened up a little?" he asked. "Do you want to continue the negotiations now?"
"If you want to talk about your son's problems, yes."
She lifted her chin, trying to be calm and in command of the situation; but her knees felt like rubber. And that heat in her belly! It was spreading into her loins, all the way through her crotch.
"Okay," he said, then spread his feet, planting himself in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips. "Suppose you tell me what the boy did."
"You know. He ... he assaulted me."
"He fucked you, all the way?"
Joyce flushed; but whether it was from shame or the pot, she wasn't certain.
"Must you put it that way?"
"Shit, I'm trying to learn the score. So he pronged you. How was it?"
There was a small leer behind his bad teeth. "Ghastly."
"I'll bet. Where did he do it to you?" "In my classroom."
"Yeah, I know that. But I want you to tell me where-up against the blackboard, on the floor in the aisle, in your wastebasket, or where?"
She bit her lower lip, as she replied:
"Across ... my desk."
He nodded, suddenly serious.
"Let's get clinical, as the big shots say. Did it hurt?"
"Yes. He's ... huge."
Bogg pointed at her chest, then asked:
"Did he grab at your boobs?"
She nodded.
"How? like this?" he added.
He placed the flat of his hand on her left breast, pushing gently against the white of the pant suit.
She began to draw away, but he caught her at the back of the neck with his free hand.
"Don't get goosey," he told her. "I want to know what he did. If I don't know all about it, how can I ream the kid? Did he grab at your knockers?"
Again she nodded, letting him hold her. The hand went to her other breast where it pushed.
"This one too?" he asked. "Of course," she replied.
Shame washed again over her, and she slapped at his hands until she was freed.
Retreating across the room, Joyce pointed at the door, then said:
"No more of your filthy excuses. Get out of here, and tell your son I don't want him back in school until he's seen a psychiatrist."
Bogg made a long face, as he said:
"Playtime's over?"
"You bet it is!"
"Okay. Give me my fiver, and I'll be on my way."
"What fiver? For what?"
"The weed, lady. Those things cost five bucks. You're not a charity case. Pay your own way."
He held out his hand, waiting for money to be placed in his palm.
She shook her head, then told him:
"I didn't ask for it. Besides, you had part of it. And I happen to know weeds don't cost that much. Gayle gets hers..."
Then she snapped her mouth shut.
"Gayle? Is that your roomie?"
"One of them."
"One of them that's on pot. Another teacher, I suppose. You're a bunch of sluts, trying to act so high and mighty. If the school board found out about her..."
"They never will. She never uses it outside the apartment."
Joyce knew she was blubbering classified information, but the weed was making her talk. It was too late to pull back words she'd already released.
"So give me the five, anyhow, honey." "No."
"I can make real trouble," he said, taking a step toward her. "You're getting off at a bargain."
What else could she do? He was right. It would be the easiest way to rid herself of this awful man. It wouldn't solve the problem she had with his son Walter, but that was another matter. She didn't really give a damn anymore about Walter.
"All right. Just a minute."
She left the room by way of a short corridor and then opened the door to her bedroom.
She found the light switch and then her purse on the dresser. She rummaged until she opened her coin purse where she knew there were two fives.
She found nothing but thirty-nine cents in coins, except for a note from Gayle:
I.O.U. ten dollars, darling. Pay you back real soon.
Joyce slumped against the dresser. Damn! Why hadn't she realized. Now what would she do with this man...?"Well?"
He was in the doorway, peering in at her and then gazing about the room, sizing it up as though he were about to move in.
"I don't have it," she said. "Go away, and I'll send it to you-I promise."
He guffawed as she backed away.
Then she broke for the window. The apartment was eight floors from the busy city below, but she would make someone hear. She tugged at the sash, but it was stuck.
Then he was grasping her wrists and pinning her arms behind her.
"I'm gonna take it out in trade, sweetheart!" he hissed into her face.
His breath smelled; and when he tried to kiss her, she turned her face away. Then he bit her on the ear.
"Ouch!" she yelled.
"It's up to you."
She struggled until he looked at the window and then at the lighted lamp.
"I guess half the city can see this window if anybody happens to be looking," he rasped. "Let's go where there's more privacy."
He hauled her across the room; and when he let go of her wrist to turn off the lamp switch, Joyce pulled away from him.
She fled back into the living room, then bolted for the door.
Again he caught her just inside and slammed her head against the wall next to the door.
She was dizzy for a moment; and that was long enough for Bogg to plant himself directly in front of her, his knees pressing into her thighs and his arms propped at either side against the wall. She wasn't going anywhere.
Her vision cleared, and she peered up at him. Even though she was tall, she still had to look up into this man's eyes. He was as tall as his son. The difference was that his beer belly pushed sickeningly against her own midsection. It was sickening, all right-she wanted to vomit right into his face.
"You know what?" he rasped, through clenched teeth.
She didn't want to know; but after a moment, still feeling the pot in her guts, she had to respond?
"What?"
"I'm gonna fuck you silly ... so silly you'll think that what Wally boy did was nothing more than a handshake."
CHAPTER FIVE
Joyce's knees trembled, and she squirmed until he rested a forearm against her throat, then shoved. She was nailed to the wall like a chicken hanging in a meat market.
"Get away.. . "
"like shit!"
He was reaching with the other hand, up under the forearm to the neckline of the pant suit. He caught the zipper tab and jerked. It was a heavy industrial zipper, and the hiss was like a motor in the still room. The shiny white material parted so that flesh was exposed.
"By God, Wally was right-you do wear under stuff. Hell, I haven't seen a brassiere in years, except in the Sears catalogue."
He peered at her filled cups as though seeing the eighth wonder of the world.
"Get away," she muttered. "You're not accustomed to being with a lady. I can tell that. Go back to the whores in your neighborhood."
He held fast despite her struggles.
"You bet I will-after I take a souvenir back with me. That souvenir's gonna be a piece of your ass."
Joyce stared as he pulled the zipper again, hard, so that it zipped all the way down to her crotch. If only she'd worn something that gave more protection. She'd figured the pant suit would be unsexy; but it did fit her awfully well, emphasizing the sharp curves of her breasts and the inviting twin swells of her buttocks. Surely, Bogg had seen all of these.
Now the front of her body was open to his gaze; and he parted the material, tucking it to either side of her sharp breasts.
She looked down at herself, remembering all too well what the son had done to her. The father was determined to more than match his son's escapade.
"Please..." she sobbed.
"Up your rectum, lady ... which ain't a bad idea."
He gripped her shoulders and jerked the pant suit down to her elbows, effectively pinning her arms at her sides and completely opening her suit down the front. Her breasts bobbed before him, and the front V of her pants were also exposed to the tops of her thighs.
"Man, oh, man! The boys down at the union hall won't believe me when I tell them how it was."
He grasped at a breast, pinching its tip until Joyce moaned in pain.
"No ... I can't take it again."
He chuckled, licking his lips.
"It sure would be a shame if the school board found out about you using pot. Same goes for that Gayle broad who lives with you."
"She's not a teacher."
He was still smiling.
"I guess that won't be so hard to find out, huh? No matter what she does, it won't sit real well with her boss. Unless..."
She waited, knowing full well his conditions for silence.
"You know, don't you?" he added. "You know what would keep me quiet."
He was still grinning like an evil idiot. Joyce nodded, then said:
"Please ... won't you leave us all alone? What have we done to you?"
"You accused my flesh and blood, that's what," Bogg replied.
"All right, so he has a full pardon. Now, will you go?"
His head turned slowly as he firmly shoved the pant suit more tightly over her forearms. She might've been wearing a strait jacket. She was still pinned to the wall, and he kept his arm hooked under her chin.
Then his other hand was darting over her ribs; and, strangely, she wanted to giggle. It must've been a giggle of terror, for she certainly wasn't enjoying herself.
So it tickled; but it was like a tickle of doom as he wormed around to her back, his hand easing her a few inches from the wall so that he could rip at the strap of her brassiere.
It wouldn't come free; and he gave up with a snort of disgust, withdrawing his hand and again slamming her back, hard.
"Ouch!"
"Shut up!" he hissed, then clawed at her front.
He managed to hook a thumb between the cups of her bra, then he jerked hard. The thing parted with an angry, tearing sound and whipped from her body. He tossed the ruined bra behind him, across the room.
Joyce joined her foe in watching the jiggling of her breasts. They bobbed before their eyes like inviting twin mounds of dessert, each topped by a ripe cherry.
Joyce's breasts weren't terribly large; but they were high and round, very firm, like a high school girl's breasts.
"Glory be..."
"You filthy old man!"
"Man enough for you, cunt!" he snapped, and his hand whipped across her cheek.
like father, like son, she reminded herself again, wondering if the same rule applied to what was between his legs.
He jerked her away from the wall; and she came like a rag doll, loose jointed, her head lolling. She stood, her knees ready to buckle, as he ripped her panties away and then shoved the pant suit down to the floor.
Joyce tripped, trying to pull her legs from the garment; and she fell to the carpet, rolling to her side, her back toward him.
"God, what an ass!"
He was right. Joyce was proud of her buttocks. Every boy friend she'd ever had had been crazy about it, and each had tried to pat her in that spot as much as possible. This was risky, because Joyce got very worked up when a man patted her on the bottom.
She quickly rolled to her back, her knees drawn up, then said:
"Get out of here, Mr. Bogg. If you don't, I'll swear out a rape complaint against you. I really mean it!"
He laughed as he wiped the bristles on his chin, then replied:
"Shit, you're gonna be begging me for my cock before I'm through. No court of law would call that rape, I'm thinking."
As Joyce cowered on the carpet, he knelt at her side, taking her wrists and forcing her arms to the floor. He held them there while he leaned down and kissed her gently on the mouth.
She was surprised, for it was a gentle kiss and not at all unpleasant.
The bristles on his chin scratched but not in a way that she minded. It had a rugged quality that excited her, and she felt the warm glow left by the pot begin to grow larger in the pit of her stomach.
He lifted his face and looked the length of her body, then said:
"God! Mighty white. Because it's so pure?" Joyce said nothing.
He touched her belly, pushing the flat of his hand into the softness.
"I can feel the worming in there. The pot started it all, and now you're really beginning to get hot pants."
"You're insane!" she hissed. "I loathe the very sight of you."
"Then how come you're all wet around your pussy? Them cunt hairs look like they're heavy with morning dew. Except that they're heavy with lubricating oil. Whether you know it or not, that body of yours wants to be fucked right proper."
Again she was silent.
She hated this man, but what he was saying wasn't entirely false. She'd needed servicing for weeks, ever since she and Warren had parted. If only she hadn't let him have that parting piece, she might've been able to go without. Now she was hooked, and she was going to have to have it from time to time. But not at the hands of a monster like this...
She shuddered.
"Take your hands off of me!"
She spat the words at him, spraying his face from her lips as she spoke.
He replied by clearing his throat and spitting back into her face.
The glob of spittle struck Joyce under the eye and rolled across her cheek. With a sob, she turned her face to wipe it on the carpet.
"You behave like a lady, ma'am, or I'll have to quit being a gentleman," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "You ain't seen me when I get steamed up. It can be real scary like."
"I'm not afraid of you," Joyce shot back.
Again he struck her on the face, his palm coming across her mouth.
"You ought to be. I'm a prick when I'm sore ... and you're making me real sore right now."
She tasted blood with the tip of her tongue where he'd split the inside of her lip.
He saw it too, and he leaned closer.
"Ain't that a damned shame? The little pussy's getting cut up. How'd you like to have me do it with a knife?"
Joyce rolled her head back and forth as he lowered his face to her throat. She almost felt, from the way he sucked at her flesh, that he must be a vampire. He'd be leaving red marks here and there that she'd need to hide from Gayle and Donna. Warren had never done that to her; he hadn't been that passionate.
He shoved his nose between her breasts and began snorting like a pig.
It was disgusting, and Joyce raised her knees to try to bump him on the back of the head.
He responded by reaching under her knees and pulling her body up until she was standing upright on her head and shoulders, her neck twisted painfully to one side.
Her breasts rode just under her chin, and her hair streamed in her eyes. She couldn't see. She couldn't breathe. She wanted desperately to be free of this monster.
He released her; and she fell, heaving, to the carpet, flat on her belly, her arms at her side and her face looking straight down into the carpet.
"Do what you want," she groaned, in a muffled voice. "I'm not going to respond to one thing-I promise you that. You'll be having sex with a piece of wood."
"Bet you a second piece of ass that you're a liar," he said, laughing, from above her.
She couldn't see him, but she could feel his knee against her arm as he knelt over her.
"Never! I'm turning to ice right now." She hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt.
"We'll find out, Miss Royal Cunt."
She heard the rustle of clothing for several seconds, then the knee was back against her arm-it was a naked knee. She froze, closing her eyes, keeping her face straight down and her arms rigidly against her sides. Her feet were together, her toes pointed.
"Christ, a marble statue! I'll breathe some life into that fast enough."
"Never!"
"Watch my smoke, baby."
His mouth was on the back of her neck, working against her as he pulled the firm flesh between his teeth and nibbled like a feeding fish.
He worked in a tight circle at her neck, then his hands were on her back. They pushed strongly into the muscles of Joyce's shoulders, and it felt good. Despite her increasing anxiety, her muscles were actually relaxing. The man could've made a living as a masseur.
His mouth and his fingers worked, kneading her like a chunk of dough, breaking down the tension, causing her body to glow where he'd been most active.
His breathing was heavier; and Joyce wondered if hers was too, for she had to pull her face out of the carpet and turn it to one side in order to get enough air.
"You like that, don't you, cunt?"
"I hate it!"
"like shit."
He worked down to the small of her back, the hands always digging into tense muscles and melting them like they were made of butter. Then he was at the very top of her buttocks where he paused. His lips left the back of her neck and trailed down the very center of her spine.
She felt the tingles as he left calling cards of pleasure along the way.
Then his mouth was down by his hands, just above where the twin flare of her buttocks began.
"Don't do any more of that," she pleaded, her voice catching on a sob.
"Relax and enjoy it, kid," he replied, his breathing heavier than ever. "I'm gonna get a big charge out of you, and you can trust me to give you one hell of a charge."
She closed her eyes and waited, trembling, despite the comforting pressure of his hands.
Joyce wasn't used to "going all the way" with men. True, Warren had made love to her, but just that one time. She truly didn't know what to expect from this stud of a man.
Stud ... she wondered what he had. Was he as large as his lout of a son?
Slowly she turned her head until her face was toward him.
If she thought she'd been moving secretly, his words shattered her illusions:
"Ready to see what I got, huh? I don't blame you, lady. It's just like Walter's, if you really want to know."
She blinked up at him, stretching her neck.
The thing hung over her like a chunk of meat in a butcher shop. It was pulsating as it hardened, and already it was terribly long and very big around at the base. The knob was even wider, and the flange was slowly turning blue as his excitement mounted.
"My God!"
"Wally told me that you appreciated the best.
You won't find anything bigger than old Peter here."
She quickly turned her face away again.
It was a thrill, she had to admit to herself, but she could never let him see the excitement in her eyes.
She was in despair too, for she realized she was coming to love being fucked and that she'd need more sex-a steady diet of it-as time went on. When would it end for her?
His hands went to work, aided by his mouth. He was working his way across the cheeks of her ass, kneading both sides at once until the taut muscles broke down and began to glow like steaks over a fire. His mouth stuck to the middle ground, dipping into the top of her crack and kissing its way ever deeper into her canyon.
Joyce was tingling by now, her body beginning to glow from head to toe. Her hands rolled into fists and began to beat softly on the carpet, in a slow rhythm, to emphasize her frustration.
"So you really do like it."
"I hate it!"
"like fuck! You're going crazy. I can smell the sex oozing out of your pussy. Christ, you'll probably be grabbing at me before I'm ready to pour it to you."
"Never!"
He guffawed again, and his hand dipped between her thighs.
Joyce hadn't realized it before, but her thighs were no longer tightly together. During her excitement, her feet had crept several inches apart as her body began to unfold like an evil flower-despite her conscious efforts to keep it closed to this insulting intruder.
She felt his rough hands on her tender white skin. The nerves just under the surface were going crazy, and she had to steel herself to keep from spreading her body widely and reaching for him.
His mouth stopped its kidding, and the hands were taken from Joyce's body.
She lay still for almost a minute before turning her head to look up at him.
He was kneeling back on his haunches, his cock poking toward her, still like a steel bar, but the rest of him seemingly in repose.
He must've read the question in her eyes, and he said:
"It's your turn, sweetheart."
"I'd like you to explain that," she said primly-
"I been doing all the work. It's time for you to give me a little of what I want. Come on-you know you love this dick. Wally told me you wanted his bad enough, and mine's a carbon copy."
"You're mad!" Joyce hissed, but she also knew he was right.
CHAPTER SIX
Her breasts were rising and falling much too fast. She couldn't help it. She was hot. This was it. Just plain hot. God, if only she could turn herself off like some other women she knew. But Joyce wasn't put together that way.
She started to shake her head, but he took her face in his hands and held it still.
"Come on-you know you can't wait. Stop playing games," he said.
He sat on the floor, his legs straight out, as he leaned back on his hands. The cock was larger than ever, straining as it continued to turn a darker color all the while. It waved back and forth, straight up, like a snake coming out of its basket, anxious to strike.
Joyce felt herself going under. The passion, the pot, that ugly, weaving thing-all were combining to weave a spell over her. She was no longer responsible for what was going to happen. The girl was hypnotized.
She rolled over and scrambled to her hands and knees, waiting there like an obedient dog.
He actually leaned forward for an instant and patted her golden head before resuming his position.
"Nice girl ... kiss the master," he directed.
Joyce began to crawl toward him; and if she'd had a tail, it would've wagged. As it was, she was doing well enough with what she had, commanding admiring glances as he looked beyond her shoulders to her loins. She looked back to watch her hips weave. She was sick! Even the sight of her own naked body was turning her on.
He made kissing noises as though he were calling to a pet, then said:
"There's a good girl ... come and get reamed."
She continued until she was by his feet.
He lifted his left foot and wiggled the toes, as he said:
"Come on-kiss it."
The glittering head came down, and her pursed lips found his big toe. It smelled, but there was nothing she could do. Everything was growing dimmer. Her body was almost totally disoriented by now. The heat in her belly had extended itself to every part of her.
She began to peck at the foot, and he shoved a toe into her mouth. She took it, nursing like a child until he jerked it out.
"That's enough. Get going. That jet fuel I fed you ain't gonna last all night."
She kissed her way up his leg, where the stiff hairs tickled her chin. She was still on all fours, her breasts hanging straight down; and he reached under her to fondle them. He pinched a nipple, as his son had done; and she made a soft sound, deep in her throat.
"So you're queer for it, ain't you?" he asked.
When she didn't answer, he grabbed a handful of hair to jerk her head up.
They looked each other in the eye, and he repeated:
"Ain't you, sweetheart?"
She nodded, mute and staring vacantly.
"Say it!" he added.
"I'm queer for it," she repeated, like a martinet.
"So okay-dig in."
She kissed his knees; and, as he spread his legs, her head went between them. She was kissing her way up his thighs as she heard his breathing grow ever faster until he was panting like a male dog after a bitch in heat, and she was conscious enough to realize that this was close to the truth.
She was still going up his thigh, where there were no hairs and where the skin was white and soft. Just a few inches ahead of her was that gigantic pouch. The dangling balls covered with hair as they lay all the way down to the carpet. The cock was still straight up like a flagpole, weaving in the breeze like a victory symbol. This man was all man.
Her forehead brushed the shank of his penis.
It was so hot she drew back with a gasp, but he didn't complain. He merely waited for what he knew would happen; and in a few seconds, she was back touching him again.
It felt so strange. The thing pushed hard against her forehead as she kissed the skin just below his balls.
"Keep going, sister." His voice was a rasp through his panting, and perspiration rolled from his body. "Jesus, I haven't had a piece from a broad like you since Christ knows when. They don't have this kind of class in my neighborhood."
She pushed hard against the cock, bending it out of the way until her mouth was next to his balls. She opened her lips and her jaws, then nipped at a tiny piece of wrinkled red skin, trying not to choke on the hairs.
He leaped as though she'd poured scalding water on his scrotum.
"By Christ, I love it!" he exclaimed.
She opened her mouth wider and sucked in a few ounces of scrotum, working the skin back and forth with her teeth and tongue. Then she got hold of one of the tender marbles and rolled it to and fro.
He was gasping and almost crying out with the joy of it.
She could tell that he had to clench his teeth to resist a victory shout.
He was panting for more, his hands on top of her head, guiding her gently, for he was afraid now of frightening her.
She knew he marveled at her voluntary efforts much more than he would if he'd had to force her to his will.
She sucked at the other little knot inside his balls, feeling the tingling inside the skin grow with every second. He was close to an orgasm, she realized, and she would need to be careful not to trigger him too soon.
Oh, Joyce, some inner voice cried out, how can you do this to yourself? You're a fine, educated young woman, from a good family, and you've been such a good girl up to now. But the beast inside her-the beast unleashed by the weed-merely laughed. What the hell fun is it being a good girl? I want to be serviced, conscience-and right now!
She continued manipulating his balls until strong hands were placed on her head.
"No more there, sex pot, or I'll spill a quart of fresh cream all over your carpet."
She drew back a few inches, took a bead on the head of his cock, and then dropped her face to the stump, where it plunged into his lower gut. It was hot and hard, pulsating like an overworked engine, pounding with his passion. She could almost hear it sizzle.
She pecked all around the base and then began her slow but steady advance up its sides. She worked on all sides at once, shifting her body this way and that, so that no square inch of skin was neglected.
She was somewhat proud of her skill-a talent she'd never known she'd possessed. The pot had really brought out something in Joyce-a different Joyce.
He liked it too, for he'd rolled to his back by now, unable to sit up any longer. He lay spread out, his feet and arms wide, his head rolling from side to side.
His redwood trunk of a tree pointed toward the ceiling, and Joyce would've bet that he had enough power to bounce cum off the very top of the room.
She neared the head and then she was just below the flange. It was the hottest and darkest part of all, vibrating like a bomb about to be set off. She pecked at the broad, tight belt of rubbery skin, and he writhed again.
"Careful, cunt!" he howled.
"Shhh!" she warned.
She worked all around the flange, nibbling carefully to bring him to a peak of pleasure.
When she could feel the deep rumble of the sperm, knowing it would come charging from his balls at any instant, she lifted her face and waited until it settled back. Too soon. Not yet.
His eyes pleaded with her, so she moved her attack to the top of the head and worked all around the purple flesh that was stretched as tightly as an inflated balloon.
She dipped the tip of her tongue into the little slit of a hole once or twice, and that was too much.
"I'm coming!" he yelled.
She sat back and watched him as he rolled to sit up. His cock was pulsating like a living thing having spasms of birth. Then the jizz was pouring forth and-look out!-he'd pointed it right at her.
She tried to get out of the way, but the stuff splattered on her lower throat and then across her left breast. The first heavy shot rolled down into the deep canyon between her mounds and soon appeared on her belly, filling the depression at her navel.
She watched it ooze out of the hole and head down into her pubic hairs. For a crazy instant, she thought of the little wiggling things crawling up her vagina; and she caught the puddle in her hand.
"Glory be!" he breathed, as the last fitful
GO spurts dropped on his thighs. "You can get a load out of a man."
Joyce stared at the puddle in her hand, then she ran the hand up her belly and between her breasts to catch more.
Then she scrambled to her feet to race into the kitchen where she ran water in the sink. She rinsed her hand and then wiped a damp cloth over her breasts and belly.
Still gasping, she leaned over the sink, sure that she would vomit. But she didn't. There were worms crawling around in her belly-worms that hadn't been released by her orgasm. She wasn't certain, but it felt as though she needed release as much as he had wanted it.
What was happening to her? The pot was wearing off, and she could no longer blame her mixed-up insides on that cigarette. Was she turning into a whore? Could any man walk through her front door and seduce her?
True, Mason Bogg hadn't entered her body, but he could have. She admitted that. It was only a fluke that he went off so soon. Besides, kissing the end of his penis wasn't exactly chaste behavior.
She straightened and turned toward the front room.
He was standing in the kitchen doorway, his cock not yet completely soft. It stood out from his body, curving slightly.
She looked into his burning eyes.
"Go away now," she breathed.
"Not yet. It's not clean."
"What?"
"It's not clean. There's cum all over the end of my dick. I want you to get rid of it."
"I'm not going to touch that filthy thing again," she said, then tossed the damp cloth. It hit him in the belly, bouncing to the floor. "Wipe it off yourself."
He shook his head, as he said:
"Nobody's talking about a goddamned cloth. I want you to wipe it off with your mouth. Come on-get back on your knees where you belong."
Joyce sucked in her breath, her breasts trembling in her anger and fear.
She pointed, then said:
"You get out of here. I'll call the police!"
"You do that, honey. They'll take one look at that front room and know what happened. I'll tell them to check the prick cheese on your lips, and they'll know what you did. Nobody can make you eat it. You've got to play ball. Come on-we're wasting time, and I gotta get out of this dump. Got a heavy date back home."
Joyce blubbered in rage and frustration, saying:
"Who do you think you are, ordering me to my knees?"
"I'm the guy what got his cock licked by you, baby. Any more questions?"
She hung her head, defeated, knowing there was only one way to get rid of this man.
Then she felt a hand at the back of her neck. It was pushing hard, and her knees began to buckle. Suddenly her knees thudded onto the kitchen floor; and his cock, rising again, was draped over her shoulder. Soon it was lifting itself to point straight out without aid from her.
"Come on-get that tongue busy," he told her.
"No!"
He grasped a handful of hair and pulled her face up. Then he swerved his hips; and his cock, harder yet, was thudding against the side of her head. He pushed her head back, and the prick raked across her cheek and then her mouth.
He took aim, then pushed the cock directly against her mouth.
She kept her lips firmly closed. He wasn't going to get her to clean him for anything.
"I know you don't want to, baby. I told you that nobody can make a broad suck it if she don't want to, but I'm gonna see it through until you want to. I got time enough for that."
She made her lips like two straight chunks of wood, but the prick stayed where it was-patient, waiting. He moved it slowly back and forth across her mouth, and it occurred to Joyce that she was not doing anything to defend herself. She wasn't using her hands to beat it away.
They lay helplessly at her sides, as though both arms had been broken. He even let go of her hair, but she didn't pull away.
She was going to defeat him simply by non-cooperation. She wasn't going to scream, kick, or fight. She simply was going to turn herself into a piece of cold stone. That would deflate him in a hurry.
It was easier said than done.
He kept it up, all the while uttering a quiet stream of obscenities that drilled into Joyce like a stream of bullets:
"Cunt ... whore ... fuck it ... suck it ... it tastes good..."
She closed her eyes; but, despite her efforts, her lips began to relax. They were growing softer; the two bars of wood were crumbling.
The big purple head was almost as hard as before; and it was covered with a shiny, sticky sheen from his half-dried sperm.
She felt sick, but this only weakened her body. She still was unable to pull away.
"Come on.. . "
She began to cooperate, and he purred encouragement:
"There's my girl ... take it ... like sugar ... sweet. Ahhh.. . "
Joyce's lips parted, and the cock immediately darted against her teeth.
She kept her jaws clenched, but he was ready for more.
She sobbed and drew her head back, looking up into his face, as she said:
"I ... I'll lick it. But no more."
"Anything you want, cupcake."
Joyce poked the tip of her tongue between her teeth and touched the tip of the penis. It was indeed sticky, but her saliva thinned the drying cum. She licked once, and the stuff came off. It tasted musty and somewhat salty. She wondered if what a man ate determined the taste of his jizz.
She licked again and then again. It really wasn't so bad, and surely now he'd...
His hips lurched like an exploding cannon, and the cock was rammed into her face. It shot hard between her teeth and slammed all the way back to her throat.
She wanted to cough, but even that was impossible. She couldn't breathe. She tried to pull away, but he held to clumps of her golden hair as though he were reining a horse.
She swallowed and gagged, and it must have been the rippling pull of her throat muscles that did it. He was ready to come again. She could feel the cock widen and grow still harder, until she feared her face would split open.
Then he was coming with a surge, almost as heavy as his first blast. The milky stuff poured into her throat and all the way down into her belly before she could swallow. She really didn't need to swallow at all-it simply came.
She gagged, and he kept lunging against her until-as she'd done in her classroom-Joyce began to black out. The shadows thickened, then she opened her eyes. She was lying on the kitchen floor, naked and cold, chills rippling her body.
He was leaning over her, his cock still dripping, as he said:
"You never will leave a man with a clean dong, will you? Well, I guess you've had it for tonight. I'll just have to come back again when you're back on your feet."
Then he was gone, leaving her blinking.
She pulled herself up on her elbows and peered into the living room. There was a stain on the carpet where he'd come, and she saw her rumpled pant suit and her torn lingerie.
She staggered to her feet and went into the living room, then picked up the mess. She tore the underwear into tiny strips and shoved them to the bottom of the trash can under the kitchen sink. She tucked the pant suit into the bottom of the laundry bag that she shared with Gayle and Donna.
Back in the living room, she scrubbed the spot away and rubbed the place dry with a bath towel. Then she went into the bathroom and peered at her image in the mirror. There were dark shadows under her eyes, but the eyes were strangely alive and dancing.
The warm glow in the pit of her belly hadn't disappeared, and she wondered about that. After all, the man had been revolting; and they'd had their sex. Or had they?
Not quite. He'd come twice, but Joyce hadn't shared in his orgasm. He'd given her a proper feeling, but something had interrupted him-his own passion-before he'd brought her all the way along the primrose path.
She drew hot water for her bath, sitting quietly on the rim of the tub as it filled.
Yes, there was still something wrong. At that moment, she even pined for Warren-the only man who'd ever fucked her properly. But he was a long way off.
She eased her aching body into the tub, promptly lowering her face into the water and rinsing her mouth for several minutes.
Then she sank back, her knees poking up, the water closing over her floating thatch of blonde pubic hair.
Yes, she needed something. But where would she get it around here? She wasn't going to return to the Bogg family for her servicing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She went to bed before Gayle and Donna returned home.
When her door opened a crack and they peered in on her, she pretended to be asleep. She heard them moving around the apartment for a while until all was quiet, then she knew they'd gone to bed.
She was restless all through the night and for several nights after that.
Her thighs itched at strange times, just as they had the day Walter Bogg assaulted her. During the early morning hours, she would stand at her window, looking down on the city below, out at the bay and the ocean beyond. Then she would remove her nightgown because her skin was so hot.
Finally she would return to her bed and try to sleep, but it usually didn't work out satisfactorily.. . .
"Joyce darling, you look terrible."
Gayle was talking to her, but Joyce didn't hear for a moment.
"Eh? What did you say?" Joyce asked.
"You see? You're hardly awake. What's wrong? I thought I've been hearing sounds from your room at night. Can't you sleep at all?"
Joyce smiled nervously at her friend.
The five-foot-two redhead was indeed a good friend-sometimes too good a friend when they were in the bathroom together. But Joyce always felt Gayle was merely playing harmless games.
It was Donna who didn't seem to care for men at all-or, if she did, she kept them carefully hidden.
"I'll be all right," she said, with a nervous laugh.
She wasn't tired. Her nerves were raw, and that was how her fatigue manifested itself.
"Tonight I'm going to see that you get some pot," Gayle continued. "That'll help you relax, and you'll sleep like a baby for twelve hours."
Joyce moved her head quickly.
"What? ... Oh, no-I'm not having any of that."
Gayle squinted at her, her green eyes twinkling.
"What is it? Already been on a bad trip?"
"I've got to get to my one o'clock class," Joyce replied quickly, getting to her feet. "They'll have the classroom on fire, if I don't hurry."
Gayle got up with her, her hand resting lightly on her friend's arm.
"Please tell me later what's bothering you," she said. "Tell us ... Donna and me. You know we want to help."
"You're a good person, Gayle," Joyce said, then smiled, her eyes filling in an instant.
"Shucks," Gayle chirped, making light of it.
Then she sped off, leaving Joyce standing alone.
Joyce hurried to her class, where she wrote quickly on the blackboard for five minutes while the thirty students squirmed in their seats behind her.
Once she felt a slight sting on her left buttock, and she knew it was a spitball from Freddy Morris in the front row.
She turned, then said:
"All right, class, I want you to take the rest of the hour to write the answers to these grammar questions. You may leave when you are finished-except for you, Freddy. You may leave at once-for Mr. Farr's office. Tell him why I sent you. I think you know what to tell him, but I'll be checking up to make certain you do."
The class glared back at her, and she could read the various messages in their eyes.
Some-the good students-were anxious to get on with the test. Others were sullen because they knew they wouldn't do well. Others-like Freddy, who'd taken aim at her buttock-looked different. Joyce had seen that look in boys' eyes ever since she'd been fourteen. They were lusting for her, even though some of them might not realize it. They knew she had the most exciting body in the class, even though she was up against teen-aged competition.
She glared back at them, then she went to her desk and sat.
Freddy was still looking at her, his eyes dropping to stare at her knees through the bottom of the desk.
She was losing her cool again, just as she'd been losing it ever since that terrible night in the apartment.
"Get going, Freddy!" she snapped.
Freddy sat.
Her palms were wet as she got up and went to his desk. He was a large boy, but she gripped his shoulder and tried to pull him up.
He came easily, pretending to be turned to putty in her hands; and the class laughed at his antics.
She glared again, and they went back to work.
She marched Freddy out into the hall, then told him:
"Come on-I'm taking you to Mr. Farr myself."
He went with her down the hall; and once, when they were out of sight of anyone else, he bumped his hip against her as though by accident. His hand came out at once to touch her hip, then press against her buttock.
"Gee, I'm sorry, Miss Remington," he said.
"I'll bet you are!" she half sobbed. She was falling apart, unable to handle a child. "Come on-let's hurry."
"What's the rush?" Freddy wanted to know. "I'm not gonna run away. I want to talk about my problem, if you want to hear about it."
She sniffed, then said:
"I think I know what your problem is."
"Cool. Lay it on me."
She snapped a chilly glance at him, wrinkling her nose at the acne pimples on his cheeks.
"Your body is too old for your brain, if you ask me."
He giggled like a child, then said:
"If you mean, do I wanna fuck you in the worst way, you're right. I wanna make it with you, Miss Remington. I wanna tuck my little thing right into your..."
"Freddy!" she said sharply. "Come along."
Her cheeks were hot, and she wanted to cry. Was there no way to escape sex?
She kept the silence until they reached the principal's office.
Inside, the clerk nodded; and they went into the inner office where Mr. Farr sat at his desk.
He was a little man-a bantam rooster with salt-and-pepper hair and a moustache.
Joyce had never really liked him or the looks he'd given her.
The man's tongue flicked out like a snake's, as he asked:
"What is it, Miss Remington?"
"It's Freddy again," she snapped, then nodded toward the boy just behind her. "He's been saying things and doing things..."
He glared at the boy, then said:
"Step forward, young man."
Freddy came up next to Joyce.
"Exactly what did you say and do?" Mr. Farr added.
Freddy shrugged, them replied:
"I shot Miss Remington in the ass with a rubber band, then I told her I'd like to pile her. My pa always told me to tell the truth."
Mr. Farr blinked, then he looked at Joyce with a strange look in his eyes.
She knew what he was thinking-he was imagining her being assaulted by Freddy, and he was excited at the prospect.
He pursed his lips as his eyes dropped to her breasts and then to her crotch.
She didn't know what he thought he'd be able to see.
"You're a mean little boy, Freddy," he intoned, looking at Joyce. "Get out of the school right now. You're expelled for a week. You'll need to make up your work when you get back. I'll be sending a letter to your father about this."
Freddy wheeled and darted from the office without a backward look.
Mr. Farr stood and looked up at Joyce. He was a few inches shorter than she. He pulled the jacket of his suit straight, then adjusted his bow tie as he came around the desk.
He stood before her, the look still on his face, as he said:
"He's out of your hair for a week, anyway."
"Thank you," she murmured. "I ... I don't think I could take much more. Between him and that Bogg boy, I'm almost at the end of my rope."
He patted her shoulder, letting his hand rest there.
"Try to relax," he told her. "These are tough kids; but they can bt handled, if you're just as tough."
She slumped against the desk, her head hanging.
"That's the trouble-I'm not as hard as they." His hand was under her chin to lift her face, and he said:
"I know. You're soft, Miss Remington-soft in an appealing way."
He cleared his throat nervously. "Please, Mr. Farr..." "I've been watching you..." "Not you too..."
"I know. I'm married and a father, and I'm a bit older. But I'm a man, Miss Remington. I have feelings."
"What are you trying to say?"
"Let me touch you ... right now ... and it will help me make up my mind about your tenure report at the end of the year," he said, flushing. "It's little enough to ask."
Joyce sobbed, holding her head in her hands as she sat on the corner of the desk.
"My God, everybody's after the same thing!" she said.
"Then it's agreed?"
"No, not on your life!"
He was gripping her shoulders; and, for an instant, she thought Mr. Farr was showing true compassion. She allowed him to hold her while tears rolled down her cheeks.
He patted her gently on the back.
"I ... I've got to go home for the rest of the day," she sobbed.
"Of course, my dear. Stop by Pucci's office on your way out and tell him that I said he should take your class for the afternoon. It's Friday, and you'll have some time to rest before you come back here."
"Thank you."
Before she realized what he was doing, she'd been eased away a few inches and he'd worked a hand between their bodies.
His palm was on her, grasping at her throat and then dropping into her bodice. He was pawing the top of a breast, trying to pull it from its cup when she realized the danger.
"No!" she spat, leaping away.
Her dress was torn as she scrambled for safety, and the ripping sound had filled the room.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, but his moustache twitched as though he were proud of his boldness.
"I'm going home until Monday," she snapped, backing away from him until she'd fumbled for the knob and freed herself from his office.
The girl in the room outside stared as Joyce hurried out to the corridor.
She went to her own tiny office which she shared with another English teacher. It was empty, thank God, so she could wipe her eyes and collect herself in peace.
Then she slipped into her coat, grabbed her purse, and left.
She was in the parking lot, unlocking her Volkswagen, before she remembered Mr. Pucci.
She hurried back into the administration building and went to Mr. Pucci's office.
He was working at his desk, his typewriter clacking. He glanced up as she entered, the smoke curling from his pipe.
"Hi," he said, turning back to his work.
She waited, then said:
"Mr. Pucci.. . "
"I keep telling you-it's Sam."
"All right, Sam. I'm going home. I'm sorry, but Mr. Farr wants you to take my afternoon classes."
He frowned, then asked:
"You sick?"
"In a way," she replied, nodding. He got up and stood closely to her. She took a step backward, her hands coming up defensively.
He frowned again.
"What's wrong? I'm not going to bite you." She half sobbed, as she said:
"Then you'd be the only person who hasn't tried."
He squinted into her face as he touched her arm, then said:
"Has old man Farr been pawing you? I'll knock his teeth out if he laid a hand..."
"Not really," she lied, shaking her head. "I had some trouble with a boy in class. He's been sent home, and. . .well, Mr. Farr was only being friendly.. . "
"Friendly, my ass! He's a creep." He looked her over, seeing the tear at the throat of her dress. "Did he do that?"
"It was an accident," she replied.
He touched her again, and she leaped away.
"God, you are goosey. Maybe a long weekend will do you some good. Do you want me to drive you?"
"No!" she said, her voice sounding too shrill.
"I don't have rape in mind, you understand," he said, in a straight voice.
She shook her head, then said:
"I'll be all right. I just want to be left alone."
"That's okay with me, lady!" he snapped. Then his voice softened as she started to leave. "Take it easy, Joyce. If you have problems, please come to me. I want to be your friend. Agreed?"
She tried to smile, but her chin wasn't strong enough to hold it.
"Agreed," she murmured.
Her heart went out to him for a moment, but it came right back again. He was a man, and men were driving her out of her mind. Boys like Freddy and Walter, dirty old men like Mr. Farr-she wasn't safe with any of them.
She practically ran from Sam Pucci's office and out to the parking lot.
She drove with some difficulty to the apartment, because the tears kept coming. Finally she parked the car under the building and took the elevator to the eighth floor.
She let herself into the apartment, then tossed her coat and bag onto a couch.
She went to a window and stared out at the slanting rays of the sun.
For some reason, she felt a chill; and she went into the kitchen and took down a bottle. Canadian Club ... that was nice and smooth. She poured some into a glass and added water.
Back in the living room, she drank half of it down and started to gag. The gagging brought more tears; and, before she knew it, she was sobbing like a baby.
She wanted something, but it wasn't Warren that she missed. Despite all of the sex she'd been exposed to, she hadn't really had a chance to release her own passion.
Was that why she was so uptight?
She didn't know.
She just kept on crying....
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was late in the afternoon when she opened her eyes. She blinked and tried to focus her eyes on the ceiling, where the shadows from outside played in dark patterns.
It was sounds at the door which had awakened her, and she started to sit up as the door burst open.
Gayle came parading in, her green eyes flashing and her red hair almost as bright as she sailed a notebook across the room.
Right behind her was a man; and behind him came Donna, her cheeks pink, her statuesque body moving with the fluid grace that only a six-foot woman possesses.
"Happy Friday!" Gayle sang out, as she saw Joyce. "Two days and three nights of freedom. Lucky us.
They came into the room and stopped when they got a look at Joyce's face.
Her hair was a mess, she realized, and her face was probably streaked from all the crying.
She made a weak attempt to shove her hair into place.
"Hey, roomie," Gayle said at once, dropping to her knees by the couch and touching Joyce's forehead, "what is it? You sick or something?"
Joyce shook her head, then said:
"Not really. School just got me down today, that's all. One of the boys in class, and then Mr. Farr."
Donna, right behind Gayle, made a face. "Mr. Farr ... ugh! He's all hands. And some of those football players!" Gayle nodded, as she said:
"Try teaching a math class that's almost all boys. Some days they practically tear my clothes off."
Joyce looked down at her torn bodice, and the others followed her glance.
"God, it's literally true in your case," Gayle added.
"I'll be all right," Joyce whimpered.
But she began to cry again, and Gayle held her in her arms while Donna tried to pat her on the head.
"I'm just falling apart, that's all," Joyce continued. "Even the Canadian Club doesn't help. I feel so alone out here. Every man I see wants to ... well, you know."
Gayle looked over her shoulder at the tall young man hovering over the three women.
He looked as though he wanted to help, but there was nothing he could do in a world of women.
"Beast!" Gayle said.
"Hey," he complained, "what did I do? Come on-we're going to be late for the party."
"Screw the party!" Gayle snapped. "Go find somebody else. My roomie needs help, and Donna and I are staying right here this evening. Go on ... scram!"
Donna nodded with pleasure, her eyes bright. "Hey, you said we had a date.. . " he complained.
Gayle cut him off, saying:
"Go ... run along, bastard man. We women hate all men tonight. You're all lechers."
"Well, okay, baby," he grumbled. "You can just shove it. All of you cunts. I'm gonna find my own action."
He fled as Donna started to swing on him, and the door slammed hard.
The three women looked at one another, and Donna and Gayle were able to laugh. Even Joyce managed a smile.
"The three pals," Gayle chirped. "Together through thick and thin. Don't worry-we'll take care of you, honey. Right, big Swede?"
Donna Olson nodded, and her tongue licked her lips.
"We'll take good care of you," Donna promised.
She eased herself to her knees, still towering over the diminutive Gayle.
She was a statuesque beauty, a real Nordic type; and Joyce could imagine men going crazy for her body. She must have a forty-inch bust, but the rest of her was equally proportioned so that she wasn't top heavy.
"Honey," Gayle went on, "we're going to make you forget all the bad things outside our front door. We're going to lock it-it is locked, by the way-and cozy up for the rest of the afternoon and night. You'll feel like a new woman by morning. If you don't, we'll cozy up all day tomorrow and the next day too."
Donna nodded; and in her slow voice with just a hint of Swedish accent, she said:
"My, that social studies class of mine seems a million miles away. Let's forget all about West High School."
"We already have, silly," Gayle chided. "So stop bringing it up again."
Donna glanced down at Joyce, stroking her hot cheeks, as she said:
"Unless you want to tell us all about it. It might help to purge yourself of all the bad things that happened."
Joyce nodded, whimpered, and then told them everything. All about the Boggs-father and son-Freddy, Mr. Farr, and even how Sam Pucci had frightened her.
When she was through, she felt worse than ever and was crying again.
They purred and cooed, trying to comfort her. They brought her another glass of whiskey, but it didn't seem to help.
Finally they looked at one another, and she saw something pass between them.
"Our darling Joyce," Gayle intoned, "is going to need the full treatment, wouldn't you say?"
Donna nodded, then said:
"All the way. Strictly woman to woman. We should've been more firm before this, then she wouldn't be so uptight right now."
"Exactly," replied Gayle, leaning down, kissing Joyce lightly on the lips. "We're going to get out of these awful school clothes and into something comfortable. Meanwhile, I'll start a hot bath for you. That'll help you soak away all your troubles. Would you like that?"
Joyce also got up, following them toward the bedrooms and bath.
She lingered in the corridor until Donna stuck her head out of her bedroom door. She gestured toward the bath as she tied a sash at the waist of her green satin robe.
"Go. Gayle's got the water hot and full of delicious bubble bath. You'll positively melt."
Joyce smiled, then said:
"How can I thank you enough?"
Donna's grin was disarming, as she said:
"We'll think of a way. Just go." She smiled even more broadly. "I'll be in to scrub your back."
Joyce went to her room where she slowly undressed, removing the torn dress.
Lord, I'm going through a lot of clothes! My bra and pants, and now a dress. I won't have anything left if men don't keep their hands off of me.
Naked, except for a pair of filmy pants, she skipped across the hall into the bathroom. The place was filled with sweet-smelling steam, and the heat sank into her chilly body at once.
She slipped out of the pants, then tested the tub. It was filled almost to the brim with hot water and an inch-thick frosting of bubble bath. It was terribly hot, but it felt so good that she stepped right in.
Slowly she eased herself all the way down until she was sitting. The way the water flowed over and into her loins and up into the recesses of her vagina was wonderful. It was stimulating, yet restful and cleansing.
The stimulation was a new sensation, and she remembered once again that it had been a long time since her last orgasm.
Her body was ready...
She eased herself back in the tub until the water was up to her chin, and only her knees showed above the foam below.
Occasionally a white breast bobbed to the surface, its cherry nipple winking like a submarine light. She smiled and snapped at a nipple with her forefinger. Chills went into her breasts and down into her middle.
Joyce knew she'd better be careful or she'd be wanting to play with a candle, like when she was a child.
As she thought about sex-nice sex-all of her thoughts went not to Warren but to Sam Pucci. He could be right for her.
Then she shuddered. Not now-she didn't want any man for a while. She'd start screaming and ruin everything.
No, she needed a change of pace.
The door opened, and Donna poked her head inside.
"How's it going?" she asked. "Heavenly," Joyce drawled. She was relaxing at last. "Back need scrubbing yet?" "Wonderful. You're a pal."
She came all the way in, closing the door behind her.
The green satin robe was tied firmly at her waist, and she looked like a goddess. Her breasts and hips pushed firmly against the clinging material so that the finest parts of her body were emphasized.
She had plenty of everything, all of it beautifully arranged-powerful, yet graceful and totally feminine. A rare combination. But never any boy friends coming to the apartment to see Donna. That was strange...
The big Swede pulled a small stool next to the tub and sat, her knees poking through the green satin as it fell to either side of her legs. She had legs that looked a mile long, with powerful animalistic grace.
Joyce briefly tried to picture them wrapped around a man's waist, then she felt suddenly ashamed. She must have revealed her shame.
"What is it?" Donna asked, poking a finger into the water. "Not too cold?"
"No."
"Then what is it? Your face says something strange."
"I ... I was just admiring your figure, Donna. I've never seen one quite so ... so spectacular."
The Swedish face brightened into a smile of joy, and she said:
"How nice. I was hoping you'd notice. You find me attractive?"
"Well, I was thinking that men must find you very appealing. I can't understand why the phone isn't ringing off the hook every evening."
Donna's face darkened, and she said:
"Men! They are pigs. Look what they did to you. They have done the same to me, until I turned them off. Now I get along without men."
Joyce tilted her golden head, careful to keep her hair out of the suds, then said:
"Get along without men? But how long can you manage that?"
"Indefinitely. Believe me-I lack for nothing. I have other friends who give me just as much love." She licked her lips. "I'd like you to be my friend, Joyce."
"But I am, Donna. Don't you know that?"
"I mean really my friend."
Joyce studied the large girl, wondering exactly what went on inside that body. Was it really so different from other women's?
While she was pondering the hidden meaning of Donna's statements, the door opened again and Gayle skipped inside.
She looked like a doll-a baby doll, to be precise. She wore her black baby doll negligee-the one that tied with a pink bow at the throat, came down just to the tops of her thighs, and was a see-through, so that the fascinating curves of her body weren't completely hidden.
She looked wonderful, and Joyce saw Donna's look of appreciation.
It was a lingering look, and she turned back to Joyce almost with reluctance. She might've even been annoyed that they were no longer alone.
"The gang's all here," Gayle said, laughing. "Did I make the water hot enough?"
"I'm steaming like a New England clam," replied Joyce. "It's thrilling."
"It'll get more thrilling," Gayle said. "Are you relaxing? Are you ready for a normal social life? All the painful memories gone?"
Joyce nodded, then said:
"Just about. I could sleep for a year."
The other two women exchanged glances. "Not just yet," Gayle said. "There's more treatment."
"Starting with the back scrub," Donna murmured.
She touched Joyce's shoulders, then added: "Come on-sit up so I can get at you. This will do the job."
She reached for a white brush with soft bristles that knew how to caress the skin.
Joyce eased herself up in the tub, and the water level dropped to her ribs. She looked down, and her breasts were thick with white suds.
Laughing, Gayle ran her hand over the suds to make them into different shapes, then said:
"See? I can make animals. It's just like modeling clay."
"Gayle!" Donna said, in a stern voice. "I'm going to work on her back.
"So there's plenty for all," Gayle shot back.
Joyce could hear the half-hidden anger in their voices. What could they possibly be fighting about?
Donna went to work with the brush, making circles on Joyce's back.
It felt good to Joyce as she threw her shoulders back to arch her body, her breasts coming sharply forward. The suds were disappearing from her bosom, and first one and then the other nipple popped into view. They looked startlingly red in the whiteness of the tub.
The other two women paused to observe, then Donna was working again with the brush. Her sweeping circles moved here and there, all the way down to under the water and the very top of Joyce's buttocks.
As Gayle fingered a washcloth, she asked:
"Can't I help with this?"
"Why not?" Joyce chirped. "Many hands, and all that sort of thing."
Donna didn't seem too happy about it, but she went on with her brushing in silence as Gayle ran the hot cloth over Joyce's throat.
It felt good to Joyce when the water ran over her breasts and into the crack.
Gayle soaked up more water and squeezed the cloth over her mounds again.
Giggling, she said:
"Gee, a cataract! You have such wonderful bumps for the water to flow over."
Joyce nodded her head in mock seriousness.
"Thank you, Miss," she said, then eyed the small but stacked body under the black baby doll negligee. "From what I can see, you also have nice bumps."
Gayle was delighted; and she preened, thrusting her high, hard breasts toward Joyce. The nipples glowed from inside the sheer black negligee, and below the red thatch at Gayle's crotch looked like a low flame that could be turned on high.
Donna worked harder than ever with the brush; and Gayle went back to work, massaging Joyce's throat and then working down to her breasts.
Joyce reacted at once. She felt that now familiar tingle of warning, and she placed her hand over Gayle's.
"What is it, sweetie?" Gayle asked.
"Please don't," Joyce said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't touch me there. It ... it does things to me ... things that I want to forget."
The other two again exchanged glances.
"But we're all girls together," Gayle said. "We just want to help you. If you're going to keep holding back, we can't deliver the kind of therapy you seem to need."
Donna picked up the cloth and applied it to Joyce's back, as she said:
"This is what she needs for now. You mustn't play too roughly, darling. Ease into things. You know the rules."
"I'm sorry," Joyce murmured, and the others smiled in sympathy.
Donna was working with the cloth, going all over Joyce's back. Then she was working at her ribs from behind, reaching deeply under Joyce's arms. Soon she was almost around to the front, so far did she reach.
Joyce looked down and saw the large hand shoving the hot cloth across her belly. The heat felt so good that she closed her eyes, her head tilting back.
"Ah," said Donna.
"Ah, yes," said Gayle. "It's working. The patient is responding to treatment."
"Then it's time to increase the dosage, doctor."
"I agree," Gayle said. "Joyce...?" "Huh...?"
"Now is it all right if I soap your breasts?"
Somehow it was all right. The water seemed hotter than before, but Joyce knew it had to be her skin. She was becoming hot herself. . .and for no apparent reason.
CHAPTER NINE
"I don't mind," Joyce replied. "I feel so groovy about everything."
The other women gurgled their pleasure, then Gayle began rubbing soap on Joyce's breasts.
Donna quickly pulled the plug at the foot of the tub; and, as the water ran out, she dipped the washcloth lower and lower on Joyce's belly and down the small of her back, toward her flaring hips.
Joyce was tingling. She marveled that a bath could give her so much pleasure, and she said as much.
"You'll get even more pleasure if you relax and let the doctors do their work," Gayle replied.
"With pleasure," Joyce said.
She leaned back in the tub, forcing Donna to give up her work behind her.
The big Swede didn't seem to mind; instead, she directed all her efforts to the front.
The water was all drained away and most of the soap bubbles had burst, leaving Joyce naked and exposed; but she was still comfortable in the steamy room.
Gayle had put the soap aside, and now she merely ran her hands over Joyce's breasts. She worked very gently, not at all in the rough way of a man.
Joyce was loving it. The fingers pushed easily into the soft tissue, dipped under each breast to lift them, drew tiny circles around each nipple, and then cupped her breasts totally-yet still gently-to spread more heat through Joyce's body.
"Ahhh.. . " she moaned.
Donna massaged Joyce's ribs and belly in the same way, the washcloth discarded; and her fingers-although larger-were just as gentle as the little redhead's. She counted Joyce's ribs, then she pushed into the yielding softness of her stomach, dropping to her navel where her forefinger drilled into the hole like a gentle, squirming worm.
Joyce gradually slid lower in the tub, and she began to bend her knees as her buttocks went ever lower. She was flat on her back, and only her head was raised at an angle.
"There's a good girl," Donna murmured, as she pushed her hands below Joyce's belly button and touched the incredibly tender skin just above her pubic region.
Joyce blinked. An alarm bell was sounding somewhere, but she didn't want to hear it. She was feeling so good, so relaxed. And, after all, she was with her friends-other women-so what could possibly happen?
The hands kept working, and Joyce kept hearing that bell of alarm.
"Don't you hear it?" she asked.
"Hear what?" Gayle replied.
"That tingling. It's in my body. I can feel it from head to toe. Is it all right? What's happening to me?"
"It's wonderful," Donna assured her. "You're supposed to tingle. That means the treatment is working. You're going to be all well before you know it."
As Joyce watched, Donna reached over and pushed her hand into Gayle's breast, right through the sleek black negligee.
"You see? When we picked our roommate, I told you that there would be good times," Donna said.
"like three-way fun," Gayle said. "Exactly," Donna replied.
Joyce frowned, and at last she was listening to that bell.
Just at the instant that Donna playfully plucked at one of Joyce's blonde pubic hairs, the girl in the tub sat up abruptly. She pushed all of the hands away, frowning, cocking her head.
"Now what?" Gayle asked.
"That bell. It's a warning," Joyce said.
"Nonsense. Don't disappoint us now," Gayle chided. "We're trying to help you, dear heart. I didn't figure you for a spoiled brat."
"I'm not spoiled."
"Then show your appreciation."
"What do you mean?"
"Cooperate. Let us get on with the treatment." Joyce hugged her breasts, then said: "It's getting cold in here."
The other two were on their feet at once, holding large towels for their patient.
Gratefully, Joyce stepped from the tub and stood like a limp statue as they rubbed her briskly from head to toe.
She felt the glow increase in her body, and she knew everything was going to be all right. These girls were her friends, fellow teachers, her own kind.
Donna was spreading Joyce's feet, then rubbing a large towel between her legs. The tender skin was pulled back and forth, then the towel was blotting the hairs around her vagina.
"I think that's enough," Joyce blurted, wondering if they could feel the heat radiating from her inflamed body.
They looked at one another as they dropped the towels.
"Let's go to the living room. We've got a fire going," Gayle said.
"Wonderful," Joyce replied, "but first I'll slip into something."
"Nonsense. You'll want the heat directly on your skin. The glow from a wood fire is very healthy. In fact, Donna and I will probably join you in nude city; and we'll play wood nymph, all right?"
"Why now?" Joyce replied. "I'm warm enough inside for all of us."
"We were counting on that," Donna muttered.
Joyce let them march her down the corridor and into the living room.
It was lovely. Night had come, and the city below cast its glow through the windows. The room was almost dark, except for the flickering orange light from the fireplace in the north wall.
A tray of chips and dip was on the coffee table; and there was also a bottle, glasses, and a bucket of ice.
Joyce looked at the others, then asked:
"You're certain you don't have dates coming?"
"You're our date!" Gayle said, laughing, then leaned forward impulsively to kiss the tip of Joyce's right breast.
The touch of her lips left behind a burning that Joyce was to feel for several minutes.
Quickly the other two slipped out of their robes. Gayle pulled the pink bow at her throat, and her negligee slipped away as though it had never existed. Donna moved more deliberately, opening the sash at her waist slowly and then parting her robe.
As it fell away from her breasts, Joyce and Gayle gasped in unison. Those hills of beauty were sights that were rare.
Surely forty inches, Joyce thought again. At least forty inches.
Gayle's arm came around Joyce's waist, pulling the larger girl against her.
"All right, who do you like best?" she asked.
"That's a crazy question," Joyce replied. "You know I love you both."
Gayle giggled with delight, then said:
"And we're both going to love you!"
"Huh?" Joyce said.
The doubts swimming around in her head were growing stronger. But she couldn't get too worried. Her body wanted something, and it didn't seem to matter from where or from whom it came.
On the thick red fuck rug directly in front of the flickering fire, they took Joyce's arms and urged her to her knees.
She looked up at them. Their bodies looked like those of Indian warriors as the light danced on tawny skin. There was no other light in the room now, and they might have been at a camp site somewhere in the forest.
Gayle stepped forward, her red hair looking like fire; and her arms went around Joyce's neck as the taller girl remained on her knees. Gayle pressed Joyce's face into her softness as she murmured words of love.
Joyce gasped and blinked as her face went directly between the smaller girl's breasts. They were riding high, pointed with tips of fire; and they were warmed by some inner heat in the redhead's body that was hotter than the wood fire.
Joyce had trouble breathing until she turned her face to one side, her cheek resting against a soft, warm hill of pleasure.
"Don't fight it, darling," Gayle said. "It's for your own good. We'll fix it so you don't need to mess with any dirty old men." She patted the back of Joyce's neck. "Isn't that what you really want us to do?"
Joyce felt her head nodding, even though she hadn't willed it to do so. "Then be a good girl."
That was Donna speaking; and her voice was stern, as though Joyce were a little girl who wouldn't behave.
"We're giving you everything we have to offer," she continued. "All you've got to do is relax and be a lady."
"Joyce...?" Gayle said, as she lowered her face to the top of the kneeling girl's blonde head.
Her voice was muffled in the hair, just as Joyce's voice was muffled between the redhead's breasts, as she said:
"Yes...?"
"Don't be afraid of touching me. We love you. My boobs love you. Go ahead and kiss them." "Huh?"
"You heard me-show some love. Show some appreciation, as Donna said."
Joyce sniffed, and the scent of the redhead came into her nostrils. She smelled good-gentle and feminine, like something clean and good.
Joyce turned her head and, pursing her lips, kissed the side of Gayle's right breast.
"Wonderful," Gayle said. "Now keep going-there's a lot more."
Joyce was now inclined to follow orders, for the sex partners had combined to assail her with their lips, their hands, their breasts, their scents, and their words. They'd brought pressure to bear, and she couldn't fight it any longer. She didn't want to, for that elusive orgasm she needed so badly was a long time coming.
She lifted her face and brought her head back so that she could kiss the side of the other breast.
"Keep it up!" Gayle squealed.
The redhead wiggled her torso, twisting so that she finally got what she wanted. A nipple popped against Joyce's lips; and she pursed them, kissing the cherry bud. She could feel the pointed thing sizzle like an electric current as Gayle cried out again.
The way her body was quaking against Joyce's, Joyce wondered if her roommate wasn't already experiencing an orgasm. If only she could!
She kissed the nipple again, then she parted her lips so the tip could pop inside. She sucked it hard, as if it were the nipple on a bottle; and the hard knob came between her teeth so that she could really feed on the thing.
"Glory be," Gayle crooned. "Don't stop. You're a super partner. Isn't she, Donna?"
"I wouldn't know," the big Swede's dry voice intoned.
Joyce switched to the other nipple and started her sucking all over again.
As she worked, she felt something behind her. There was a tickling sensation at her buttocks, and she realized that Donna had also gotten on her knees and stood with her loins close against Joyce's backside. It was the six-footer's vaginal hairs she felt tickling her buttocks.
So suddenly she was in the middle of a sandwich, where she suspected her two roommates had wanted her all afternoon.
She eased her seat back; and it went smack into Donna's crotch, the heat of the larger woman's thighs practically melting her cooler cheeks.
She glanced briefly over her shoulder; and Donna smiled into her face, kissing her quickly on the lips.
"Don't mind me, honey. I'm moral support,"
Donna said.
"Hey, don't take my breast-feeder away from her work," Gayle complained. "I'm about to go off again."
Joyce picked a breast and began feeding on it again.
The redhead stroked her hair and kept murmuring into her ear.
Behind Joyce, Donna was moving her pussy slowly back and forth across her buttocks.
Joyce was beginning to like it, and she expected the first move toward hard-core action would come from the rear.
In front, Gayle finally lifted Joyce's face from her bosom and kissed her on the mouth. The redhead's tongue came out, shooting into Joyce's throat as deeply as she could thrust.
Joyce sucked it even deeper; and as they kissed, Gayle took her arms from around Joyce's neck. She put them on Joyce's breasts, fondling them as they continued their kiss, while Donna wiggled back and forth behind. It felt like the big Swede's cunt hairs would catch on fire.
Joyce loved having her breasts handled. She'd always been proud of them-not only because of their size and beauty, but also because of their extreme sensitivity. Many young men had been thrilled by her gasps of pleasure when they'd touched her on the breasts.
Gayle was thrilling her now, but Joyce was even more thrilled when the redhead leaned back and then lowered her face to Joyce's breasts. She was returning the feeding. Now it was her turn to be hungry, and she'd chosen Joyce's breasts on which to dine.
The smaller girl's lips came to her left breast, and she pecked at the nipple.
A jolt ripped through Joyce's body-not an orgasm, but close. It felt delicious.
Then the nipple was taken into the mouth, and tiny teeth nibbled on its most sensitive area.
Joyce almost fainted from the joy, but still the orgasm did not come.
Gayle began working on the other breast, which Joyce loved; but it was from behind her that the real action was starting, just as she'd suspected.
Donna had ceased the swishing of her crotch across Joyce's buttocks. Now hands were on her rump, and it was a rump that held much of Joyce's passion. It was as tender as her breasts, the tight skin creamy and crowded with nerves that were aching to explode in that orgasm.
The hands dipped around the twin curves, heading toward Joyce's crotch-the ultimate seat of passion, that furry treasure house where so many had wanted to enter in the past half-dozen years.
Joyce closed her eyes, and her arms went around Gayle's head as the redhead continued her feeding. She was licking Joyce's breasts now, the quiet slurping the only sound in the room-except for the breaths of passion and the occasional gasp.
The big Swede was moving toward her target, her hands pressing gently, occasionally pausing to pinch as they moved along the curves. Soon they were on the underslung side of Joyce's ass.
Joyce gasped, feeling the first rumblings of an orgasm deep inside her guts. It was a wonderful feeling of yearning, and she begged the thing inside her to come out. She needed relief before she exploded.
Now Gayle paused in her dining, and her head came up to look over Donna's shoulder. The green eyes glittered with envy as she realized she'd been outwitted.
Then she must've thought of something, for she smiled and her hands dipped. The hands went directly to Joyce's crotch at the front, and fingers pawed the golden fur.
Joyce almost passed out, but her two companions held her up.
"You're going too fast!" Donna snapped at the redhead.
"Well, you were leaving without me, bitch!" Gayle replied.
Together they pushed their hands into Joyce's crotch, those in front slipping through her pubic hairs and into the top opening of her puffy, dripping lips-lips that begged for a thorough servicing.
From behind, the hands reached directly for the opening as Joyce's knees were pushed farther apart on the fuck rug.
A finger-she thought it belonged to Donna-popped inside her cunt and wiggled.
That was all it took. Joyce felt the rumbling increase, and she knew she was about to have that orgasm. She hoped she survived it.
CHAPTER TEN
Joyce screamed. It was wonderful!
She tried to muffle her cries so that the neighbors wouldn't come pounding on the door and ruin everything.
She grabbed handfuls of her golden hair, turned her face toward heaven, squeezed her eyes shut, and let it all come. Her flow came pouring from or, her like an erotic waterfall.
"My hands are all wet," Donna murmured, from half an inch behind her ear.
"Mine too," Gayle said, giggling.
Joyce felt her guts convulse, then the moistness was flooding down her tube in even greater quantities.
If only there were a king-sized dick stuck in her-something to make the whole thing worthwhile. Still, it was so beautiful to be able to release all the frustration that had been piling up for so many days.
Her nerves sang like the rigging in a ship during a force-ten wind. She was in perfect tune. She could hear every sound-the ticking of the clock on the mantel was like Big Ben-and could smell every odor, like the kitchen oven where they'd broiled steaks the night before.
It went on like that for what seemed like minutes-not just seconds, like when Warren had given her an orgasm. This was much more-this was a symphony of sex, and every instrument her roommates possessed was in perfect harmony. She was carried away by the lovely music, and she wasn't certain of how long it was before she returned from orbit.
Gradually the convulsions in her crotch decreased, then her knees lost their strength. She wobbled and would've fallen had the others not held on.
As it was, they eased her to the fuck rug and let her lie on her back before the warming heat of the fire.
The snap of the wood was like firecrackers in Joyce's head.
She gasped for several minutes more, sucking air into her lungs, her breasts rising and falling like a violent surf.
Her eyelids fluttered, and she opened them. It was all so dark. Then she saw the flickering on the ceiling and the two white faces peering down at her.
"Darling.. . " Gayle murmured, lowering her face briefly to kiss Joyce's hot and dry lips. "Donna, wasn't she just wonderful through it all?"
"I hope she can give as much as she got," the six-footer replied, in her sultry voice. "I had to work awfully hard, and I want to be paid."
"In time, sweetie," Gayle replied. "She's got to get her health back."
"But she hasn't laid a hand on me," Donna said. "You got yours when she went into that breast-feeding act. All I've done is put out, with nothing coming my way."
"I said to be patient," Gayle said, then giggled. "If necessary, I'll service you myself; but I think our new teammate will cooperate."
"Cooperate, yes..." Joyce murmured, in a drowsy voice.
She didn't know why she'd said it, but she knew it was what they wanted to hear.
What they wanted to hear? Perhaps that was so; but now that the waves of pleasure had passed through her body and moved away, Joyce thought about the consequences of what she'd done-what she'd allowed them to do.
It wasn't right at all. It was unnatural. Just because they thought all men were beasts, that didn't mean they had the right to go against nature and take their pleasure with other women.
Joyce didn't want to use the word, but it was obvious-lesbians. That was what they were, queer women who got their sex from each other instead of dating normal men.
"What is it, darling?" somebody asked. Joyce listened, realizing she was whimpering, as she said:
"I ... I feel so ashamed. I should never have allowed you.. . "
"You see?" That was Donna snapping out her words in her sultry, yet angry voice. "She's just like all those other mothers. She wants to come in the worst way; and after she's had her jollies, she gives a lecture on sin. I can tell you, Gayle, I'm fed up to here with these goody two-shoes broads who think it's better to receive than to give."
"Oh, she'll come around. After all, she's still in shock," Gayle said. She was patting Joyce's head. "Aren't you, darling? You're going to be all right."
"I ... I guess so," Joyce replied.
"There," Gayle said. "You see?"
"Shit!" Donna spat. "I say let's nail her to the mast and give all the orders. We've got it coming."
"No need to get rough," Gayle told her. "After all, we have each other; and, like I said, I won't let you down."
"But I was counting on fresh meat. I've had my eye on this pigeon ever since the semester started, and I don't want to let her fly the coop now."
"Relax. Be gentle, and you'll be surprised at the results."
Joyce blinked and sat up, feeling stronger than she had a few minutes before.
Her body was still shining with perspiration, but it was drying fast in the wood heat. And it was drying completely so that she didn't feel dirty. It was as though she'd taken a sweat bath in a sauna and the dryness had removed all grime from her pores.
"What are you saying?" she asked.
"Did you love it?" Gayle wanted to know.
She peered at the little redhead and then at the giant of a woman.
Each knelt at either side of her, sitting back on their haunches with their knees jutting forward. Their thighs were beautiful and white, one pair short and the other long.
"It was effective, I'll say that much," Joyce said.
"Bully!" Donna snapped. "What?"
"Admit you wanted it so bad you were ready to eat the carpet. Admit you loved it when it came and that you'd stand still for another dose, as long as Gayle and I did all the work. Go ahead-admit it, Joyce."
Joyce swallowed.
"You're going too fast. I do know this-it isn't right. It was so ... unnatural. I wouldn't want to get into the habit, you know?"
Now Gayle stuck out her pretty lower lip in a pout.
"But you'd come back when you wanted more, wouldn't you?" she asked. "You'd be glad to have us fuss over you the next time you're all hot and frustrated."
"Well.. . "
"You bet she would," Donna complained. "What do you think keeps us going, sweetheart? We don't get our relief by sitting in Sunday school and singing hymns. We've got to have our sexual relief too; and if we don't want it from men, that means there's only one other sex left. You dig?"
Joyce swallowed again.
"I assumed you're good friends," she said.
"Sure, but we don't go steady all the time. We like to make new friends," Donna said.
"Aren't there some ... on the outside? Out there in the city somewhere?" Joyce asked.
"Sure, somewhere ... but they're as hard to find as gold nuggets. Where would you look if you were in the market for a lesbian? Huh? You tell me!" She snorted.-"They aren't listed in the yellow pages."
Joyce shook her head, then said:
"I never realized until tonight how you were. I mean, I realize you don't run around with boys; but I thought you were waiting for Mr. Right."
"Mr. Right!" Donna snapped. "Mrs. Right, you mean. He's got to have a cunt, just like me. I'm not ashamed of it. Every life style has equality these days, or didn't they teach you that in Nebraska?"
Joyce shook her head, as she said:
"It wasn't on the curriculum."
"You know what I mean," Donna said. "Middle America is still thinking in the Dark Ages. Out here and on the East Coast, they know about these things. Men and women can be as queer as a three-legged stork, and it doesn't matter. They keep their jobs, have public dates, and everything. Hell, half of West High knows about Gayle and me, but nobody worries about it. You're probably the last teacher to get the word, and you've been living right here with us."
Joyce blinked, and Gayle went on with the story, saying:
"Actually, Donna's the only real card carrier in the apartment. I can swing either way. AC/DC, you know? I can get my rocks with boys or girls; and the girls have to be pretty spectacular-big ones like you and Donna. I love you both, but there are times when a football player ... well.. . " "Bitch!" Donna muttered.
Gayle touched Donna on the thigh, shoving her hand lazily toward the giant Amazon's crotch.
"Don't be jealous," she said. "You know how it is, and we have an agreement. I can go out with anybody I choose, and there are no strings between you and me."
Joyce's head was buzzing at the weird conversation.
Never before had she known a lesbian, and now to hear two of them discussing their love life as though they were talking about a history lesson-well, it was incredible.
It really was worlds apart from life in Nebraska. Of course, there were lesbians back home too, but they were skulking creatures-just like the queer boys-who lived in the shadows of normal society, never revealing their true feelings except to their loves.
The women were now staring at her, and Joyce tried to smile.
"I get the feeling that you want something from me," she said. "I tried to show my appreciation when it was going on, and I know you both enjoyed it. Gayle, I even suspect that you had an orgasm. What more is there to be done?"
Donna was muttering darkly again:
"Shit, Gayle has orgasms like some people have bunches of grapes in their lunch. She's been known to have them at the rate of a dozen an hour. One or two, and she's hardly warmed up. Me, I haven't had one yet. You owe me an orgasm, Joyce. You really do."
Joyce shrugged, then asked:
"What am I supposed to do?"
"You saw what I did. You might try a copying job."
A chill ripped through Joyce's body, and she hugged her breasts in the sudden cold.
"I ... I don't know if I'm ready for something like that," she said.
"See?" Donna went on, turning to Gayle. "Just like I told you-she's a tease. Take it all, then it's time to say good night."
"Wait a minute," Joyce protested. "You both know how fond I am of you. I don't want to be unfair."
Donna rolled to her side on the rug, leaning on an elbow as a hip jutted in the air. She was a reclining Venus with supple arms.
"All right, I'm available," she said. "Help yourself to anything that looks good. Browse. If you need any help, I'll be glad to help you select something tasty."
Joyce licked her lips and looked at Gayle.
"Go ahead," the redhead urged, waving her hand toward the Amazon. "Donna's got a lot to offer. I love big girls like her. There's a senior in my math class-she's six-two and so heavenly.. . "
"Gayle!" Donna barked. "Stop wandering. Don't interrupt our new friend in her concentration."
Joyce rubbed her hands together. They were cold, even though the palms were sweating.
Inside, she was still tingling from the fantastic orgasm, and the tingling was no longer decreasing. It was holding its own and perhaps increasing. Was this because of the prospect of more sex?
"Look at her!" Gayle blurted suddenly. "She's scared to death, Donna. This isn't the right way to go about it. She needs comfort before she'll be any good. It's got to come from love and passion, not from a sense of obligation."
"Fuck.. . " Donna breathed, just loudly enough for them to hear.
"Now you just hush and be patient," Gayle told her. "I'll talk to Joyce, and you'll be pleased with the results."
Gayle slid her body against Joyce's hip. The two were sitting, their legs outstretched, while Donna reclined before them like a giant statue toppled on its side.
Joyce permitted the redhead to put her arm around her shoulders, then her blonde head was urged down on the small shoulder.
"There, isn't that comfortable?" Gayle asked.
"Yes," Joyce replied.
Casually, Gayle stroked Joyce's cheek as she murmured low words to her:
"We loved you-we really did-and we'd love you even if you hadn't wanted to play with us. We need you, and you need us-as human beings, you understand? Sex has nothing to do with it. When a friend wants you, you come-that's all. I'd do anything you asked. Go ahead-ask me something."
"Oh, Gayle..." Joyce said, and her eyes filled.
"Come on-anything."
Impulsively, Joyce put her arms around the redhead's waist, twisted her body toward her, and kissed her full on the lips. It was a moist smack.
"You are a dear," she told Gayle.
"Me too," Donna complained.
"You too," Joyce said, but she didn't quite mean it.
As they had admitted, Donna was a lesbian all the way-a serious lesbian-while Gayle would play games with anybody, just for fun. There was something sinister about Donna.
Still, if they were all going to be real friends, she'd need to perform like a friend.
They'd do anything for her. Indeed, they already had. They'd comforted her and relieved her need when her body was ready to jump out of its skin.
They were waiting; and so, moving without thinking, Joyce tumbled to her belly by Donna's side.
They were almost the same height. Donna was a couple of inches taller and quite a bit larger in the breasts, hips, and thighs; but one would be hard put to choose the more attractive figure.
Donna smiled, lowering her head to the rug, her arm outstretched with the other arm behind her.
That body was fully exposed. The breasts were like pillows but were tipped with points of fire the size of silver dollars. The brown thatch at her crotch was only half hidden by those husky thighs; and Joyce knew that if she touched the upper leg, it would obligingly spread itself immediately.
Joyce smiled back.
"Where did you get that body?" she asked. My God, she thought, was she really trying to seduce another woman?
Donna raised her eyebrows, as she asked: "You like it?"
"I love it," Joyce said. Her lips trembled. "Really I do."
"Anything that pleases you. like Gayle said, don't do anything you don't want to do. Love is everything."
She lowered her face, and Donna turned her face toward the ceiling as their mouths met.
It was a long, lingering kiss; and Donna's tongue came through parted lips to explore along the rim of Joyce's mouth until she coaxed it open.
The big Swede's tongue came up against her teeth; and it counted them nervously, back and forth, until Joyce opened her jaws. Then it eased inside like a snake entering its den. Joyce hesitated.
A snake ... that was the wrong symbol. Her mouth tensed, and she spat out the intruding tongue.
The big Swede lifted herself to an elbow, then asked:
"What's wrong now?"
"I ... I think this is dirty," Joyce replied.
"What? Christ, I know your kind. You've gotten your gun off, and that's all you wanted. To hell with anybody else."
Gayle slid to Joyce's other side, her arm going around her ribs to cup a breast.
She pumped gently as she talked:
"You remember what I said about love and friendship? We did something you needed. You can't be selfish."
"I suppose not," Joyce admitted.
"But you must do it through love and not a sense of obligation, not like you owe it to anybody."
Her breast was still being pumped; and Joyce looked down at the small, thin fingers as they sank into her flesh, released it and then sank in again. They were getting the job done, and the tingling in her belly was getting louder.
Yes, she could love these girls. They were teachers, just like her, trying to make a go of it in a tough world. All they had was each other.
Donna smiled and cupped Joyce's chin in her hand. She pulled her face up and kissed her on the lips again. Her tongue was right back where it had been, pushing between Joyce's teeth and then playing little games with the tip of her own tongue.
This time, Joyce didn't think about snakes.
Then the tongue went deeper, plunging far into Joyce's throat until she felt full of that tongue. It was very effective, almost like a man's penis; and Joyce was breathing hard by the time the tongue was taken away.
"That was nice," Joyce said.
"Thank you," Donna murmured, her eyes warm but then turning cold again. "Again we did something for you. Do you really hate us so much that you can't stand to love us at all?"
Joyce's heart did a flip-flop. She threw herself on Donna, shoving her body against the larger woman as her arms snaked around that husky set of shoulders.
She kissed the Swede and then kissed her again, peppering her lips, cheeks, and throat with kisses. Then she kissed her breasts while the larger woman breathed ever more deeply, until she was gasping.
She hadn't had her orgasm yet, and she must've been operating on a hair trigger. Joyce lifted her face, then said: "Donna...?" "Yes...?"
"I do love you," Joyce told her.
"And you'll do anything for me, right?"
"Yes ... anything."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Joyce knew she was promising too much ... much too much. She was being a wanton fool, but she couldn't help herself.
Along with her sex drive, there was a sense of duty. She owed her partners something. They'd given her the relief she'd so desperately needed.
"Yes ... anything," she repeated.
"Then it would be nice if you blew me," Donna snapped at once, rolling to her back, with Joyce still half across her shining goddess-like body.
"What?"
"You heard me, and don't pretend you don't know what it means. I'd like you to eat my pussy. Go ahead-get your mouth down there," Donna urged.
She spread her knees, and Joyce recoiled in horror.
"My God, no!"
"Why not? You told me you were doing it with old man Bogg. My crotch is a hell of a lot cleaner than his."
Joyce kept shaking her head.
"I've never done things like that with other girls," she said, "and I don't intend to start now."
"You don't understand Donna, darling," Gayle murmured, from just behind herself and Joyce. "Donna isn't asking. She's boss. Go ahead-eat her."
"Never!" Joyce said.
The other two women looked at each other, and Donna hissed:
"Well, shall we do it the easy way or the hard way? We've got plenty of time. Until Monday morning, if we need it."
Gayle nibbled her lower lip in thought, then said:
"The easy way. We'll make her want to do it. Go ahead and take her."
"Plan B?" "Yes. Execute."
Donna executed. She sat up quickly, reaching for Joyce and pinning her arms at her sides. She was sitting right behind Joyce, her arms wrapped around her so that Joyce was held in a trap. Her legs shot out at either side, paralleling Joyce's so that Joyce's buttocks were tightly against the larger girl's cunt.
She was trapped, but at least she could snap her legs together; and she did so, her knees making a dull sound in the stillness.
"Let me go!" she hissed. "This is nothing more than rape."
Donna held on with apparent ease, her strong arms around Joyce's waist so that her wrists were trapped at her sides.
Gayle knelt right in front of Joyce.
"We're going to make you love us even more, darling. You should be thankful that we decided on the easy way," Gayle said.
Joyce made a wry face.
"Now spread your legs again, like a good girl," Donna said. "No."
"Come on!" Donna snapped, her mouth in the blonde hair. "We told you-the easy way."
The big Swede wiggled her hips back and forth so that her crotch grated across Joyce's buttocks, tickling her. The hairs were sharp, and they stuck out like a stiff brush.
Joyce still kept her knees clamped together, so Gayle pressed her fingers between them and pulled toward each side.
"Come on, honey. Please be nice," Gayle said. "All right, Donna, turn it on."
One of Donna's large hands slid up the front of
Joyce's body to clutch a breast. The fingers fastened on as though they were lobster claws, and they dug into the skin.
Joyce twisted her face, because it hurt; but she said nothing ... nothing until it hurt too much.
"Ouch! No more ... you'll mark me," she said.
"That would be a pity, wouldn't it, Donna?" Gayle said, as she continued to try to pry the knees apart.
"A bloody shame," Donna agreed. "But we'll mark you if we have to. Don't think you'd be the first." N
"All right!" Joyce gasped. "Just don't hurt me."
She'd given up squirming because she was trapped in a human vise.
"We keep telling you," Gayle said patiently. "The easy way."
Slowly, Joyce allowed the little redhead with the glittering green eyes to open her knees. Inch by inch, they went in two directions until there was more than a foot of space between them.
Gayle kept right on pushing until they were spread widely. Then she pushed the knees down to the carpet so that Joyce's legs were once again straight out, flung to either side, right up against Donna's spread limbs.
"My, look at that box!" Gayle said.
Donna craned her neck over Joyce's shoulder, her grip on the blonde's belly and breast as firm as ever.
"Let me see," she said. "Oh, yes ... that's choice. Look at the gold-the same color as her head. Nothing phony about this playmate."
Gayle ran her hands along Joyce's thighs, shoving them slowly toward her crotch.
She took her time, letting her fingers play games as they moved up. Up they kept going until they were just inches on either side of her vagina.
Gayle looked into Joyce's face, then said: "You're getting hot all over again, aren't you?" "Never!"
"like hell. I can see your twat dripping. You may not know what's coming, but your pussy's excited as the devil."
"I can't help that," Joyce said. "I loathe you. I loathe you both. We started by playing, but now the fun's over."
"It's just starting, honey," Donna purred into her hair at the back of her head.
She squeezed a breast right at the nipple to emphasize her point.
Gayle moved her hands until they were placed lightly on Joyce's golden fur. Then, green eyes locked on blue eyes, the redhead pushed her fingers in until she was massaging long, puffy lips that were almost as eager as they'd been earlier.
Joyce tried to move her hips out of range, but she was stuck fast. The worming in her belly was starting again, coming on very rapidly; and, before any of them knew what was happening, Joyce had her second orgasm. It was a small one, but big enough to send a shock wave through her trembling body.
She moaned and licked her lips.
"God, she's turned on!" Donna whispered.
"All burners going strong," Gayle agreed.
"So what do we do with her?" Donna asked.
"like I said-the easy way. She gets hers, then we get ours."
"But she's already had hers," Donna complained. "It's our turn."
"She's got to be taught how, silly. Remember how I was when I met you? You had to show me how to do everything."
Donna smiled an evil smile, then said:
"I remember."
Gayle wiggled her fingers in Joyce's fur and wormed her hands through the hair until she'd parted it to reveal the dripping inner lips.
"Just look at that!" Gayle said.
"I can't see," Donna complained. "But I can feel."
She slid a hand down Joyce's belly and into the bush, where she pushed Gayle's hands aside. She pawed Joyce's vagina, the fingers .exploring inside.
Joyce was still heating up, and she could feel the inner canal of her vagina convulsing with pleasure. Another orgasm.
She was loving it, and she didn't realize that Donna was no longer holding her prisoner. She was sitting, her legs flung widely; and she could have closed them again to protect herself. But she was carried away on the wings of ecstasy all over again.
Gayle fixed a stern look on Donna, then said: "Don't spoil it, big mitts. Get your paws off so I can get down to business."
Donna reluctantly withdrew her hand and leaned back, her hips still jammed against Joyce's backside.
Gayle's head came down, and she kissed Joyce on the knees. Then, whispering words of love and passion and sex, she began to kiss her way up the insides of Joyce's thighs.
She pecked at every inch of tender white flesh until Joyce wanted to scream. She was going crazy; and, when she started to writhe, Donna held her fast once again.
"Steady, honey," the six-footer murmured into her ear.
Joyce tried to sit still, staring down transfixed at that red head which moved to and fro over her upper thighs.
Soon she could feel the warm breath stirring her pubic hairs, then there were sharp tingles of pleasure as Gayle caught hairs between her teeth and pulled playfully.
Joyce cried out in a soft voice, but it wasn't from the pain. It was so wonderful.
The other women understood, and Joyce watched Gayle proceed with her task.
The small woman nibbled her way more deeply into Joyce's bush, shoving the hairs this way and that until her mouth brushed across the rubbery, hot, sticky flesh on one of Joyce's vaginal lips.
Joyce shuddered and felt another orgasm radiate from her loins to flood her body with heat. She was dripping with sweat.
"God!" Joyce sobbed.
"Relax and enjoy it," Gayle said.
Joyce let her head roll as her body went limp, and that triggered Gayle's full effort as her face buried itself in the blonde crotch.
Joyce felt the teeth nibbling, the nose swishing back and forth, the lips kissing, and the nostrils snorting with passion.
Donna lifted her hands to Joyce's breasts, and she massaged them as Gayle continued her eating.
Between them, they triggered orgasm after orgasm from Joyce's nubile body, coaxing out almost a dozen before Joyce finally went limp from head to toe, the sweat still pouring from her pores.
They placed her flat on her back and brought heavy towels, with which they dried her body. Then they set her up and fed her a strong shot of whiskey, then another.
"We're ready now," Donna said, sitting cross legged on the floor with her arms folded.
She looked like an Indian, except that she was much too fair.
"Ready?" Joyce asked, still weak.
"For this," the big Swede snapped, reaching for her and catching a handful of hair, then pulling hard.
Joyce was rocked forward, hard, plunging on her face, her head striking Donna's husky thigh.
The bigger woman wormed her hips under Joyce's body and wiggled until Joyce was looking directly into her crotch.
"No!" Joyce said.
"Yes, damn it!" Donna replied.
Her heavy hands grasped Joyce's ears and steered her face straight into her V as her knees went wide.
Joyce felt her nose poke into the brown thatch, those same stiff hairs that had tickled her buttocks.
She opened her mouth to scream, and that proved to be a mistake.
Donna did a fast bump with her hips and shoved her pussy straight into Joyce's mouth.
Joyce couldn't close her mouth, so she stuck out her tongue. It bored into Donna's passage, working up and down until it found that little button of pleasure, up high. "Jesus!" Donna muttered.
She was immediately stiffening like a board, as Joyce strummed her tongue over the button. It grew hard and stuck out like a tiny penis as she massaged the thing.
Joyce could feel the trembling of its owner, and it was like an electrical contact point itself.
Donna gripped Joyce's ears so hard that Joyce was afraid she'd tear them off.
Then Donna was jolting her crotch up like a pounding hammer, giving forth with a series of orgasms that were telling proof of her impressive power. She jolted for almost five minutes, the orgasms coming every thirty seconds or so, and then she rolled to her back, spent.
Joyce bounced free of her dripping body and lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling.
Just as she was collecting her wits, thinking about the bizarre scene and vowing never to get trapped this way again, Gayle was wiggling to her side.
"Not you too!" Joyce said.
"Sure, but you don't need to do anything," Gayle replied.
With that, Gayle wiggled her small body astride Joyce, riding her like a horse.
Joyce looked up at those trembling breasts, that flat belly, and that strange crop of red hair which circled the vagina. Through it, she could see the pink lips that ached for personal service.
Gayle began to worm her way up Joyce's body, first sitting on her belly, then on her ribs, and finally easing herself up and onto her still-hot breasts.
Then she paused, and Joyce could feel the hairs tickling her tender nipples. It wasn't an unpleasant situation.
"I think I know what you're going to do," Joyce said.
"Fine. I wouldn't want to shock you at this point," Gayle chirped, like a passionate bird.
She wiggled on until she had her knees on either side of Joyce's ears. She'd lifted her body to clear the chin, and the dripping vagina was directly over Joyce's face.
Joyce didn't try to turn her head away. She simply tried to relax and wait for what was coming next.
Then Gayle sat down, and the pussy went totally over Joyce's mouth. She'd opened it to be ready, and the musky odor flooded her senses. She wondered if she'd be able to breathe. The only way to be certain of survival was to act fast, so she clamped her jaws on the distended lips of Gayle's snatch.
"Glory, glory!" Gayle moaned.
Joyce ate quickly, like a starving workman, munching through the hairs, between the lips, and sticking her tongue into the passage, which convulsed on it and tried to pull it deeper into Gayle's body.
Then Gayle was erupting, flooding Joyce's face with her sticky sex juices. She began to cough and choke as Gayle hit peak after peak before losing her strength and rolling off of Joyce's crushed body.
Joyce didn't pass out, but she wished she could have.
The other girls were sleeping deeply, their every sense fulfilled by Joyce's lush promise.
As for Joyce ... well, she wanted to kill herself.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Joyce managed to survive the night, although later she wasn't certain how.
It was a fact that Donna and Gayle were so satiated and exhausted from their play that they fell into deep sleep in front of the fireplace. Later, in the early hours, they roused themselves and dragged their weary bodies into their respective bedrooms.
Joyce opened her eyes in the morning to find herself draped across her bed, her body still naked on top of the coverlet. She was cold, and her skin felt like that of a dead chicken.
She hugged her breasts as she tried to stand. Her knees were weak, and there was an awful taste in her mouth, but she was alive-although she wasn't certain that last fact was good news or not.
She moved slowly, because she wanted to be quiet and because she was incapable of moving fast. She crept into her bath where she took a long, hot shower.
Joyce felt better when she stepped out and began drying her aching body. It was a somehow pleasant ache, but that didn't make her shame any the less.
She'd never have anything to do with sex again, and that was that. Her resolve firmed as she returned to her bedroom and slipped into a pair of corduroy hip-huggers and an old sweatshirt. She was going to turn off permanently. If she'd had any religion, she might've considered becoming a nun. She almost laughed aloud. With her credentials!
She slipped on a pair of loafers and crept into the living room.
The evidence of their carnage was all over the place-a bottle, a cigarette burned out and leaving a scar on the coffee table, bits of feminine clothing, a smell she refused to ponder for fear she'd identify it.
Joyce thought about making coffee, but there would be too much noise. She didn't want to be rattling a pot and wake the others. Much as she wanted coffee, she went to the window and looked out at the city instead.
The sun was quite high. It must have been late. A glance at the mantel clock told her it was almost ten.
Saturday morning. Usually a joyful time-a time to plan a trip to the beach or to the Lagunas.
She sighed, and an answering sigh came from directly behind her. She whirled.
It was Donna, looking as rested as though she'd slept a beauty sleep of fourteen hours. She was stark naked; but her body was beautiful and fresh, as though it had never been touched by human hands.
"Good morning," the deep voice intoned. "Another lovely day."
Joyce swallowed.
"No coffee yet?" Donna added.
"I ... I didn't want to wake anybody," Joyce replied.
The Swedish lips curved in a smile, as Donna said: x
"Afraid you'd have too much company too soon, Joyce?"
"Something like that."
Joyce decided there was no use trying to fool anybody.
Donna wasn't much of a talker; and, without any more chatter, she stepped against Joyce, wrapping her arms around her and kissing her on the lips before Joyce could react. It was a fierce, hard kiss; and the big woman held it for almost a minute, her tongue pushing in vain against Joyce's clenched teeth, before she gave it up.
"What's wrong? You weren't so prudish last night," Donna said.
"Please ... I want to forget about last night," Joyce replied. '
"I don't," Donna continued, staring at the cords and sweatshirt. "Anything in there?"
She lifted Joyce's hem and exposed her breasts, holding the sweatshirt high, then added:
"Ah ha, no bra. Now you're becoming liberated like the rest of us. Sexual liberation, that's our game. Swing with anybody you wish."
"I hadn't planned to go out like this," Joyce blurted, trying to pull away. "Please!"
But Donna held on, stretching the shirt.
A seam parted at the shoulder before Donna let go, and Joyce tried to hold the sagging garment in place. Donna came close again, clutching as Joyce tried to beat off her hands. Then she used her superior speed to dart around the big Swede and back into the room.
Donna at once blocked the entrance to the bedrooms, so Joyce darted toward the front door.
"Don't be silly-come back here," Donna said, and her effort at girlish charm sounded grotesque.
Joyce said nothing as she opened the door behind her and slipped into the hall.
She ran to the elevator and hopped in the cage as the doors were hissing shut. As she sped downward, she wondered what she was going to do.
In the lobby, a man she'd seen once or twice in the building stood aside as she hurried out. His eyes bugged, but he said nothing as the elevator took him out of sight.
In the lobby, she held her slit shoulder seam in place as she went down to the garage.
She went to her Volkswagen and looked inside, her fingers crossed. Thank God! She'd left her keys in the ignition the afternoon before.
She drove out into the city, blinking in the sunshine. It was a beautiful day, warm enough for some sunbathing; but she wouldn't be doing any of that today.
At last, she parked outside a drug store and turned off the engine, her fingers tapping on the steering wheel.
What would she do? She had no place to go, no purse with her, and she knew no one. No one? Well, a few teachers; but she somehow didn't want to visit another, woman teacher. She'd seen quite enough of two women from West High School.
Didn't she know anybody she could trust?
Sam Pucci's name popped into her head.
He was her English department chairman and one of the few men she respected at West High. He was competent in his work, and he didn't try to corner her every time she visited his office.
But she couldn't go to him-not like this, with her clothing half falling off.
Well, she could call and warn him.
She patted her pockets-no purse, no dime. Then she remembered and rummaged in the glove compartment until she found the tiny coin purse she used for parking meters. Ah, a dime!
She exited from the bug and closed the door of a phone booth behind her. His number? His address?
She searched through the book. There was an S.A. Pucci and an S.T. Pucci. She crossed her fingers and dropped in her dime, putting her money on S.A. Pucci.
Then the phone was ringing at the other end.
"Hello...?"
"Mr. Pucci? ... Sam...?" she blurted. "Yes...?"
His voice sounded different.
"Mr. Pucci from West High?" she asked.
Annoyance crept into his voice:
"Look, if you have a problem, can't it wait until Monday morning? I'm halfway to the beach for the rest of the day."
"I'm not a student. This is Miss Remington ... Joyce Remington."
For a crazy instant, she was afraid he wouldn't remember her.
"Joyce Remington..." The annoyance had been replaced by interest. "Of course. What can I do for you? Maybe you'd like to go to the beach with me. I'm all alone today."
Joyce was flooded with relief, and she laughed like a drunken fool until she caught herself.
"What's the 'A' stand for?" she asked.
"Angelo. My dad was Italian all the way, and my Irish mother couldn't stop him. Why?"
"Oh, I'll tell you someday. Please, Mr. Pucci, may I come to see you? I have a problem."
She could hear him checking off his day at the beach.
"If it's serious, yes, I can see you." He sounded disappointed, and she wasn't certain whether it was because of his missed beach date or because her call wasn't social.
She realized she was flattering herself. He surely wasn't interested in her.
"I'll come right over," she said.
"How long will you be?"
Her lip quivered, and she replied:
"I'll try not to take too much of your time."
"I mean how much time do you have?"
She made a strange face, before saying:
"I'm not sure. My time seems rather indefinite at the moment."
"Swell. We'll go to the beach, anyhow; and I can listen to your problem there."
"My problem's private."
"I have a private place-a secret place."
"I don't have a suit."
"So we don't have to go into the water. Say, you're not afraid of the ocean, are you?" "I'll be over in ten minutes, Mr. Pucci." "Sam..."
"All right. And thanks, Sam."
His address wasn't too many blocks away. She arrived outside his apartment house in five minutes, so she spent the time checking herself in the car mirror.
She was a mess. She hadn't combed her hair enough, she wore no makeup, and her clothes were like rags-especially the torn sweatshirt. Damn that Donna!
Then she was at his door, pushing the bell to have him open the door an instant later.
He smiled; and if he was surprised at her costume, he said nothing.
"Hi. Come on in," he told her.
"I hope I'm not spoiling your day."
"Not if you'll settle for the beach," he replied.
She shrugged, and his eyes dropped. Uh-oh! No bra, and she was shaking. "No suit," she said.
He went to a chair and picked something up. "Voila!"
"What is it?" she asked.
He looked handsome in bathing trunks and a bright-red T-shirt. His hair was tousled.
He spread the material. It was a bikini, complete in two tiny sections.
"If you're really not afraid of the ocean..."
He handed Joyce the lime-green suit, and she spread the two parts on a coffee table.
"There isn't much to it, and she's at least a size smaller than I. By the way..."
"I borrowed it just now from the dame next door. She was as close to your size as anyone I knew in the building. Most of them are too old and fat."
Joyce shrugged, and again his eyes dropped. She'd need to remember not to do that.
He led her to the bathroom door, ushering her inside with great formality, then he left her.
She removed her clothes and began to zigzag into the bikini. It was almost impossible. The bottom hardly covered her buttocks and it was tight across her crotch. On top, she had to stuff her breasts into the bra; but they kept oozing over the top.
She gave up and put her old clothes on over the suit, then returned to the living room.
He gave her an appraising glance, then said:
"All set?"
"I ... I guess so."
He collected two large towels, oil, and a bag to stuff them into, then he took her elbow as they went to the door.
"I'm glad you called," he said, peering into her'face. "But it must be serious. You look like hell."
She was stung, but she knew he was right. She looked like hell because she'd been through hell.
"I don't have any makeup, and I left the apartment in a hurry," she said.
He looked at the torn shoulder, then said:
"So I gathered. You aren't a fugitive, are you?"
She said nothing as they got into his middle-aged Ford, then he drove them across town.
He skipped the crowded part of the beach, parking at the far end.
They got out, then he took her hand and led her over some sharp rocks that jutted into the sea. They effectively kept others out, but he knew the safe path to the other side where there was no one.
He spread the towels side by side against the rocks, out of the wind and thirty feet from the fringe of surf that crashed softly to the West.
He jerked off his T-shirt, and she watched his slabs of muscle move in the sunshine. She hadn't realized that he was such a big man. He was about six feet, with brown eyes and rather short hair; and his skin was dark enough to reveal his half-Italian ancestry.
"Take off your things and sit," he said, then gestured.
She sat without removing anything, and he sat at her side, grinning.
"Typical Midwestern modesty, hey?" he added.
"How did you know about Nebraska?"
"I'm not flattering you. I went over your application and talked old man Farr into hiring you. I liked what I saw on the scholastic side."
"Hey, thanks."
"No thanks necessary," he told her. "I was just reading figures. I didn't know that you had a pretty swell figure of your own."
She flushed, but then she remembered why she had come to him and why she looked sad.
She wanted to explain, but she didn't know where to start. It all seemed so foolish here-in the middle of the afternoon on a bright beach.
Her mouth began to crumple.
"Hey, take it easy," he said, then touched her forearm. "Don't start talking until you feel like it. If you want to cry ... well, that's all right too."
Joyce heard the words that triggered her; and, twisting her body, she lay face down on a towel and let the tears come. Her shoulders shook and her belly heaved, then terrible sounds issued from her throat.
He let her cry for several minutes before he touched the small of her back. Then he was touching her shoulders, and she rolled over to peer up at him.
The sweatshirt was pulling away from her body, and a breast-fortunately still in its bikini cup-was exposed. She didn't care.
She sniffed once more, then said:
"I'm such a dope."
"Feeling better?" he asked.
She nodded; and, as he sat patiently, she began to talk.
She told him all about Gayle and Donna, naming them-which she hadn't intended to do-and listing the progressive steps from Warren back in Nebraska, to the Bogg son and father, and to the terrible events of the night before.
He was wide eyed, his jaw slack as she spoke.
When she was finished, he shook his head.
"Incredible," he said. "I didn't know they made such naive women anymore."
Joyce winced as though he'd struck her. Her face must've mirrored her shock, because he touched her again with a hand of comfort.
"I'm not blaming you," he told her. "It must have been terrible. But I just don't know any woman who wouldn't have been able to handle Walter Bogg in her own classroom, or old man Bogg. Or who could live with two lesbians for a couple of months without finding out. It's incredible."
"You said that already."
"Look, I'm terribly sorry. What can I do?" , She was annoyed, and she said:
"I'd hoped you could comfort me. When that big Swedish bitch came after me before breakfast this morning, that was all I could take. I had to see somebody who was sane. Your name came to my mind. I ... I guess I was wrong to bother you."
He looked ashamed.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's just so..."
"I know-incredible," she interrupted.
With him, it didn't seem nearly so serious. She felt better. By God, it was incredible and almost silly. It wasn't nearly so sinister, not now that she was safe with him.
She told him as much, and he grinned.
"Nothing like sunshine to heal scars," he told her. "By tonight, you'll be back to normal."
"Golly, I feel normal already."
She really did-her skin tingling, her body feeling young and alive.
"Okay, so get out of those emergency rags and let's get wet."
She thought about the inadequate bikini, and her heart trembled.
She explained the situation, but he insisted.
She sighed and removed the sweatshirt and cord pants, working quickly and in silence.
Now it was his turn to gasp.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Jesus!"
"Terrible, isn't it?"
"Sure, like Venus de Milo is terrible. like San Francisco's Twin Peaks are terrible. like the Grand Tetons..."
"All right!" she snapped, then looked down at herself. "Oh, God!"
Her breasts were still covered, but just barely. The nipples were inside the thin band, but their deep color was partly exposed at the top edge of the green cloth.
"Don't be foolish. You look terrific."
She sighed, not too deeply.
"All right, let's take a chance on the water."
He got up and lifted her to her feet.
She stuffed her breasts back into place, then followed him to the surf.
There, holding hands, they walked in until the foam was washing over their thighs. She loved the fresh, salty feel of the ocean.
They played a splashing game for several minutes, then she began to feel the cold. He took her hand and led her back to the beach.
They dried themselves, working on one another's back before they settled down again.
He'd been right about the privacy. Except for a sail out on the horizon, there was no other sign of life. It was the first time she'd been alone in a public place since she'd come to Southern California.
"Thoughts?" he asked, touching his shoulder against hers. She told him:
"So private ... nobody around."
"I planned it that way," he said, putting his fingers on her forearm. "For weeks, I've been wanting to bring you here."
She pulled away, and he peered at her.
"I'm sorry," she said, her eyes on the sand and their bare toes stretched out before them.
"What's wrong? I'm not one of those Bogg creeps, and I'm sure as hell not as queer as your girl friends."
"I know. I'm kind of washed out, that's all."
He narrowed his eyes, then said:
"You invite yourself over to my place, come to a private beach with me, and willingly show me everything you've got in that handkerchief of a bathing suit; but you don't want me to lay a glove on you. Some sort of passionate woman you are!"
She touched his shoulder, then slowly she lowered her head to it.
He didn't move, and she was grateful.
"It's true that I need your comfort-but not sex. No, not for a while, at least."
"Then what is my role, your servant? Good old Sam who will listen to your troubles, do anything you ask, but expect nothing but a friendly handshake?"
Tears filled her eyes, and she said: "I'm not much of a woman, but I thought you were my friend."
"All right," he snapped, "I'm your friend. What's your next move, friend? You can't go back to that pair of creeps in your apartment."
"No, I can't. I was wondering how expensive a motel would be-something small, maybe with a kitchen."
He said nothing for several minutes, and she kept her eyes turned out to sea.
Finally he snapped:
"Let's get out of here!"
"We just got here. Where are we going?"
"Never mind. Get your clothes on before somebody calls the cops."
Joyce did as she was told, remaining silent while they bundled up their things.
Then she followed him over the rock trail and across the crowded beach to the parking area.
In the car, she turned to him again, then asked:
"You know of a motel? I really don't have much money."
He turned to her, as he said:
"I suppose you've paid your share of the apartment rent for the rest of the month."
She nodded.
"That's still only a fraction of a motel by the day," he continued, "and there's a chance you could move back with them."
"I ... I don't know."
"So, whatever happens, you'll be in limbo for a few days."
She nodded, more certain now.
He drove straight to his apartment, pushing her inside ahead of him.
Then he pointed toward the bedroom, as he said:
"Get out of that wet suit and put your clothes back on. Wait for me here. I'll be back in twenty minutes. While I'm on my way, call your lesbian pals and tell them to pack what you need for a few days. I'm going after it." "All right."
Then he was gone, and she went to the phone. She didn't want to talk to them, but he was doing a great deal more than she.
She talked to Gayle for a few minutes, very cool about it all and turning down their invitation to come back.
Gayle sounded friendly enough, but she always had.
She squeezed out of the tight bathing suit, then put on her pink pants and her cords. She pulled the torn sweatshirt over her head.
He was back very soon, and she met him at the door. He carried a suitcase into the bedroom and dropped it onto a chair.
She followed, saying from the doorway:
"I'm staying here?"
"Don't wet your pants. This is your bedroom. Your private room. I'll take the couch." "I couldn't. . . "
"Don't play games," he said. "There isn't any other answer-at least not until payday. I'm hungry."
"Show me the kitchen."
He did, and she prepared a meal he admitted was the best he'd had in weeks.
They went to bed early, for she was still exhausted from the long night with Gayle and Donna.
On Sunday morning, he showed her a sunny place next to the pool where she spent most of the day, cleansing herself and trying to get some color back.
He went out for fried chicken that night, then lighted a fire, and they ate in the flickering light.
She saw him looking at her a few times, but he never tried to touch her.
Again they went to sleep, and she cried herself to sleep. She knew she was only half a woman-unfit for the company of either sex.
Monday morning came much too soon, but he prodded Joyce out of bed and made breakfast while she fixed her face.
He took her to school, and they parted in the parking lot.
"Don't fall apart on me," he commanded, looking her up and down. "At least you look as good as ever."
"Thanks. I'll be all right."
"Okay. See you out here at three-thirty."
She watched him hurry toward the administration building, then she hurried to her first class.
Nothing happened, except that she caught Mr. Frankel, the school janitor, peering in the window from the corridor. He was looking at her knees under the desk, until she slid them out of view. Then he frowned into her eyes and the face disappeared.
Even the class with Walter Bogg in the back row went well enough. The boy was busily trying to seduce a buxom girl in the next row, and he paid Joyce scant attention.
Everything was fine until the final hour of the afternoon, when she had a free period in her tiny office.
She was behind her desk, correcting papers and trying to keep her mind on her work. It wasn't easy, for her thoughts whirled.
She was trying hard to straighten out, and she really thought she was succeeding. She told herself that she wasn't the first woman to be seduced by people of both sexes, and there was no reason to make a big psychological deal out of it. She smiled firmly and promised herself she'd be normal.
She'd be normal with Sam after school too. She wasn't going to offer herself to him; but he'd been kind, and if he approached her ... well, she could not turn off. After all, he was the most cherished friend she had.
The door opened, and she looked up.
It was Mr. Frankel, and he seemed genuinely surprised to see her. His myopic eyes widened, and he wiped his drooping moustache with the back of his hand.
He straightened, leaning his middle-aged body on a push broom, then said:
"Say, I thought you'd went home, Miss Remington."
His eyes twinkled.
"I'm behind in my work," she replied. He nodded, then said:
"I heard you ducked out early the other day, after that fracas with the Bogg kid. Punk. Somebody ought to poke him one."
Joyce gasped, and her hand went to her lips.
"Who have you been talking to?" she asked.
"Don't worry-there's nobody knows about it but me and Mr. Farr. I heard him talking in the office about it ... on the phone to the people over to the education center across town." He licked his lips. "I guess the lad really fucked you good, huh?"
Joyce made another small sound. "Stop that filthy language," she said. "Get out of here, and keep the gossip to yourself!"
Frankel broke wind with a noisy, tearing sound.
"How's that grab you, lady?" he asked.
He laughed, then leaned his broom against the wall and bent over Joyce's desk.
"And you don't give me no orders," he added, "or I'll start spilling my guts. You know I got the story straight, and there's plenty of folks would want to know all the details."
"You bastard!"
He made a face as he strolled around to her side of the desk.
"There's them that would agree with you, but it might be closer to the truth if you called me a blackmailer."
Joyce placed her hands on her shoulders, her arms crossed over her breasts.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
"It means that you'd better be nice to old man Frankel, or he'll spill his guts all over the school yard. Why, in a half hour, you'd be out of a job. They wouldn't have no use for a teacher who couldn't stop from getting raped." He leered. "Or is it a fact that he didn't need to rape you at all?"
"You're a filthy person!" Joyce snapped, her eyes blazing. "Get out of here, or I'll call Mr. Farr. It won't matter what you tell him. He knows everything, remember?"
"It's not Farr you got to worry about. It's everybody finding out. Then Farr would need to send you home. You wouldn't be worth a lick as a teacher." He giggled. "But you'd be worth a lick to me ... right now."
"No! Get out, I said."
He cupped her chin in his strong fingers before she had a chance to move her head out of range, then told her:
"Don't you talk sassy to me, cunt. It's been Miss Remington this and Miss Remington that and yes, Miss Remington, up to now. But all that's changed. Now I call the turns."
She sat staring like a statue.
He was right, of course. She couldn't scream, or he'd tell everyone. And without witnesses, they couldn't fire him-not if he denied everything. God, she never should've reported Walter Bogg in the first place.
He looked the length of her body, admiring with his eyes the white linen dress with the scoop neck.
She wished she'd worn a turtleneck pant suit-something that wouldn't seem so inviting. But she'd wanted to look nice for Sam....
He pawed at her throat; and, in seconds, his fingers were inside her strapless bra, fumbling for her breasts. He seized one, hurting her as he pulled it from its cup and out of the top of the dress.
She looked down at it, feeling deformed with the single breast and nipple staring back at her.
He pinched the tip; and she cried out, but she dared not lift her arms to defend herself. He was crazy enough to be telling the truth. He would tell everybody who would listen about everything he'd heard, then it would be all over for Joyce at West High School.
"Please..."
"Stop your whining!" he hissed. "I know your kind. All of you stuck-up college-type teachers think you got gold-plated pussies and that you're too good for the-likes of me. Just because I sweep out the joint, you think I'm dirt too."
She shook her head, and he added:
"Don't lie! I seen the look on your face every time I look you in the eye. You're just like all the others, except that they aren't as good looking. That's why I picked you. A man wants the best looker if he's gonna get revenge."
Joyce's eyes filled as he pinched harder on the nipple.
"Revenge? For what?" she asked.
"I just told you, cunt. I'm gonna show you I can do anything your imagine college boy friends can do. I got a cock and balls like anybody else."
Her eyes widened, and she said:
"You wouldn't dare go that far!"
"Why the fuck not? The kid got away with it, and so did the old man at your place."
She stared.
"You know everything, don't you?"
He grinned, and she smelled his stale breath.
"Sure. I get around in the corners of this place, and I got big ears. I hear what goes on in the teachers' lounge and in all of the offices."
She shuddered as he reached into her dress to free the other breast.
He had them both in the palms of his hands now, looking at them as though they were rare jewels. They looked so white and his hands looked so filthy.
She recoiled; but again he hurt her when he held on, so she came back and forced herself to sit quietly.
His hands went to her skirt, but she still dared not cry out or try to run.
He was right. He had plenty of blackmail ammunition to fire, if he chose.
He was snaking up her thighs, and she clamped her knees together until he waved his finger under her nose, saying:
"None of that, missy. I don't wanna play rough-not unless I have to."
"Oh, Mr. Frankel.. . "
"Shut your mouth, lady. Keep it shut, hear?" He pushed at her knees until they separated.
Then he dropped to the floor before her, shoving her skirt halfway to her crotch. He sat on the floor and peered up her dress, squinting to see how far his gaze would penetrate.
Before Joyce realized what he was doing, she heard the hiss of a zipper and his fly was open.
He fumbled inside, then presently a small, brown, dried-up penis came out in his hand. He looked sadly at it, stroking it gently.
Then he looked up at her, as he said:
"It ain't much, but it's all I got."
She didn't know what to say in reply.
He shoved at her skirt, pushing it up to her crotch. Then he placed her knees a few inches apart. He kept squinting between them up into the shadows of her loins.
"Yeah, that's about right," he said.
Then he began to stroke his penis, working swiftly in the silence of the office.
She stared.
"What on earth..."
"What do you think, cunt? You don't think I'm gonna climb your frame, do you? A man my age has got to get his kicks any way he can. You're a damn sight better than the Playboy center fold. That's what I usually use to get my gun."
She stared as his cock grew in his hand. Soon it was several inches long-nothing to compare with others she'd seen, but effective enough to get the job done.
He seemed to be nearing a climax. He moaned, and sweat stood out on his forehead.
Then there was a rattling of the lock, and the door burst open.
"Frankel!..."
It was Mr. Farr, and he held a key in his hand. "I saw you come in here," he continued, "and
I figured you'd be up to another of your perverted tricks. Zip that fly and get out-at once!"
Frankel shuffled to his feet, his cock slipping into his pants. He closed himself, snatched up his broom, and shuffled out in a hurry.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mr. Farr stood, hands on hips, staring at the door.
Then he turned to Joyce, saying:
"What was that all about? Don't tell me you enjoyed having that worm paw you."
She shook her head, then said:
"He knows everything, Mr. Farr. I ... I guess he's a snooper. He threatened to tell everybody about what's been happening to me, unless I. . . "
"I see. You do have a talent for getting yourself backed into corners, Miss Remington. What is West High School going to do with you?"
Joyce hung her head, at that moment seeing her exposed thighs. She flipped her skirt down as her eyes again filled with tears.
"I don't know. I'm such a fool. Men seem to sense my vulnerability. They come around like vultures to pick at my bones."
"Precisely." He sniffed distastefully. "Well, come along to my office, and we'll make out a report."
She stared.
"On this? No, I don't want to get Mr. Frankel in trouble. Besides, he said he'd.. . "
"He'll do no such thing, or I'll have him dismissed. Besides, your job is secure here, if you will cooperate with me. That means he has no way to blackmail you, no matter what he knows. You keep forgetting, Miss Remington, that it's me you must please to keep your job, not Mr. Frankel."
Joyce nodded, then said:
"Whatever you say."
"Then come along."
She got to her feet; and he opened the door, standing aside for her.
They went down the hall, and she glanced at her watch. It was getting late, and Sam would be wondering where she'd gone. No matter-he'd dismiss it as another of her quirks and go to his apartment.
She could catch a bus or walk the long walk to his place. She certainly wasn't returning to be with Gayle and Donna for a long time.
They went into Mr. Farr's office, and he paused before the girl by the outside counter.
"You may go home now," he told her.
She frowned at the clock, then said:
"But it's early, Mr. Farr."
"Go home, anyhow!" he snapped. "Work's over for the day. Go on-get out."
"Yes, sir," she murmured, staring, then she was slipping out the door to close it soundlessly.
He went to the door and locked it.
"Oh, no..." Joyce moaned, staring at him.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're just like Mr. Frankel, aren't you? Except that you're wearing a clean shirt and your hands are clean. My God, what am I-a punch-board?"
He let his mouth drop open.
"Lord, how you jump to conclusions! You think I.. . " He gestured toward the door, then barked a harsh laugh. "What nonsense. I told you, we must fill out a report on what happened. We can't let Frankel go on ravaging our naive young teachers, can we? Please have a chair." Joyce sat.
He got behind the desk, rummaging in a drawer until he found a personnel fitness form.
"Ah, here we are. Remington, Joyce, Miss."
"Please ... I wish you'd tear that up. I don't want any more trouble."
"Precisely, and neither does anybody else. Why do you think I'm going to be firm about this? And now ... your age?"
"Twenty-one."
"Ah, yes, I can fill in those details later, can't I? Well, suppose you tell me exactly what he did to you, Miss Remington."
Joyce shrugged, and he dropped his eyes to her breasts.
She looked too, half afraid that she'd allowed her bosom to hang outside where Mr. Frankel had left it. Everything looked secure enough. It wasn't her fault if she shook every time she moved her shoulders a certain way:
"Really ... he didn't do anything."
"Nonsense. What happened before he started flogging his ... I mean before he went down on his knees?"
"Well, he touched me in a few places."
"Ah..." He squirmed behind the desk, and his collar looked a little tight. "Do proceed."
"What do you want to know?"
Joyce was squirming too. God, she was so embarrassed, so uncomfortable.
"For God's sake, where did he touch you?" he shouted.
She was stunned.
"Well, on the breasts first.. . "
"Ah, your breasts. Such magnificent. . .I mean, did he feel of you through your dress? This is an important point."
She shook her head.
"He ... reached inside my bodice and ... well, pulled them outside. I felt awful about it. . . "
"Of course you did, my dear." He patted her hand. "Do tell me more. What did he do with your ... breasts?"
"He fondled them and pinched and pulled. It hurt, of course, but he warned me not to make a scene."
"That devil! What else?"
"Well, then he sat on the floor and lifted my dress. He pushed it all the way up to my ... well, all the way up. Then he opened himself and began to ... well, you saw that part."
"He began to fondle his penis? How terrible for you."
He was shining with sweat that was staining his collar. He kept licking his lips and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. Mr. Farr was very upset about something.
"He really didn't hurt me, Mr. Farr. I do wish you wouldn't.. . "
He lifted a trembling hand, then said:
"No. Who knows what he'll do next time? No, indeed. He might decide to rape someone and then he'd wind up in prison. This way, he'll merely be looking for a new job."
Joyce swallowed and started to get up.
"Well, then is that all? It's getting late..."
He shook his head, then said:
"Not quite. We must determine if there's physical evidence. Suppose you remove your clothing for me."
"What?"
"That's routine procedure in cases of this type, Miss Remington." He tried a weak smile. "I must see where he hurt you."
"But he didn't hurt me."
"Ah, but if there are any bruises at all, it will help, in the event the case goes before the school board. My testimony would back you up."
"But I don't want backing up!" Joyce sobbed.
"Come along now-off with your clothes. Or do I need to call for help? This is official school business ... therefore, you must do as I say."
Joyce was less naive than she'd been a week earlier. She knew what he was up to.
Mr. Farr was slobbering already in his anticipation. Perhaps this was necessary, and perhaps it wasn't; but he was going to make her do it all the same ... unless she wanted to lose her job.
If she lost her job, she'd need to leave town. No other school would hire her here. That would mean she wouldn't be seeing Sam Pucci again, and somehow that notion didn't appeal to her at all.
"Mr. Farr..."
"All right, just the top. Come on ... ease it over your shoulders."
He was still licking his lips.
Joyce pulled at a shoulder, then the dress slipped down over her upper arm. The top of her brassiere cup came into view and, with it, the top of the deep cleavage between her heavy breasts. Then she eased the other side down, and the dress clung to the tips of her bra.
"I don't see any bruises yet," he mused, leaning forward like some obscene physician examining a patient with lust uppermost in his mind. "Ah, but you said they were farther down, on your bosom, where he grasped at you."
"Yes..."
"All right, remove that thing."
Joyce reached behind her, high up between her shoulder blades. The movement made her breasts shoot far out in front of her body.
Mr. Farr was wiping his hands on his thighs, leaving damp stains on his pants.
She finally mastered the clasp-usually there was someone to help her-and she slowly took the bra away from the front of her body.
His gasp was like a sighing of the wind through a loose window:
"Goodness!..."
"What?"
"Ah, I see a red mark here and there." He leaned forward as he pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "Yes, I can see something. Good ... that will help if we have to go before the board."
He put his hand on her, then added:
"Does that hurt?"
"No."
"Miss Remington, I think it would be wise if I could see the other places where he touched you." Joyce bit her lip, frowning.
Lord, there was nothing she could do. If only Sam were here ... but Sam wasn't here, and she had to look out for herself.
Better to play along with him. Mr. Farr really seemed quite harmless after the Bogg family and her two tigress roommates.
Reluctantly, she stood. The dress fell to her waist. She pulled gently at either side, and it slipped over her hips until it fell in a small pile on the floor.
She was clad only in pink pants of sheer satin. She was glad she was a blonde, or he'd have been able to see hairs through it.
"Ah ... so."
"Please, Mr. Farr..."
"No, this won't take long," he said.
He knelt much as Mr. Frankel had done and peered at her thighs.
"I can'-t see any bruises there,-Miss Remington," he continued, "but I-must say you seem to be in excellent physical condition. Have you ever considered part-time coaching for West High? The girls-' gym classes could use a good example of physical fitness."
Joyce swallowed noisily.
At that' moment, there was a rattling at the door.
Mr. Farr got up at once and went to the door. . As he walked, Joyce could see the heavy bulge at his crotch. He was ready for some kind of sex. "What is it?" he called.
"It's me, Mr. Farr. I forgot my sweater." It was the senior girl who was one of the part-time helpers in the principal's office-the same girl he'd sent home early. "Can I get in to pick it up?"
He grinned over his shoulder at Joyce, then said:
"Lord, here's a fine piece of luck!"
He opened the door, then reached for the girl and pulled her in by the upper arm.
She almost fell down as he slammed the door behind her.
"You're just in time, Gloria. Quick-lift up your dress," he told her.
The girl was a dark little thing with a pinched face and a heavy body. She looked pained.
"Golly, Mr. Farr, again?" she asked. "This is the third time this month."
"Shut up, bitch! You want to get into college, don't you? You know you can't if I don't repair your grade book. Come on, now-isn't an A in algebra worth fifteen minutes of your time? It'll save you an entire evening of study."
Gloria sighed and rolled her eyes at Joyce, as she said:
"He gets his kicks in funny ways, Miss Remington. I don't know about men like him. My boy friend-likes to undress me and fuck me, but Mr. Farr-likes to undress somebody else and then fuck me. I wonder if Mr. Trainer in the psychology department would know how to explain it."
"I doubt it," the principal muttered.
He'd abandoned his act of playing executive. Now he was a strange man in heat, and that was the only thing Joyce was certain of.
"I'm different from other people," he added.
Joyce wanted to say something sarcastic, but she was afraid she'd annoy him. So far, no one had been hurt; but she was going to scream if the proper time came.
He knelt before them both.
Now Gloria was staring at Joyce, and she said:
"Golly, you got a pretty body, Miss Remington. I never thought it was so nice, even though I noticed you in the hall a few times."
God, Joyce thought, another one! Is she going to come after me too?
Mr. Farr cleared his throat.
"Come along, dear!" he snapped, speaking to the young girl. "Up with your skirt. Get yourself against the edge of the desk. You know very well what's expected of you."
Gloria nodded, and her dark curls whispered across her forehead.
She looked toward Joyce with an apology in her eyes, as though it might have been her fault. Then she marched to the desk and pulled up her dress.
She was wearing white panties that showed her dark thatch through the thin material. She tucked her hem into the belt around her waist, then she lowered the panties to her knees.
She paused, looking at Mr. Farr.
"One leg out, just like always," he commanded.
The girl lifted a leg from the panties so that the forlorn garment hung on a single ankle.
Joyce stared into the dark crotch, seeing a surprising amount of thick hair and plump thighs that were milk white. There was a scar on her lower belly where they'd gone in after her appendix.
Again she waited for her master's command.
He stood and planted himself before her. Instead of watching Gloria, he turned his head and stared at Joyce's not-quite-naked body.
Joyce could see his excitement increase when he shifted his attention.
He seemed to be concentrating; and, very slowly, his small penis pushed against his trousers. He opened the fly at once, and a small thing came out. It was semi-rigid, but he seemed to be able to get it no further.
"All right, Gloria, you may proceed," he said.
Gloria proceeded to grasp him by the penis, then began a rapid, strong stroking. She worked for perhaps a minute, with only mild results, before she switched to a fresh hand.
She increased the tempo, and shortly thereafter he seemed to be fully hard.
"You're getting it," he said, then chuckled. "And soon I'll be getting it. Spread your knees a few inches, Miss Remington."
Joyce did as she was told.
"God, how I love it when you do that! You make me want to pour it into Gloria this very instant," he gasped.
"Into Gloria?"
"Stop asking questions. If I'm weird, I'm the one who must live with it. Just keep those lovely knees separated."
She froze, and he seemed close to orgasm as he slapped the young girl's hands away from his crotch.
"All right, Gloria, put it in for me-just the right way."
Gloria eased her buttocks halfway up on the edge of the desk, and her knees came far apart.
Joyce saw the angry pink hole between her legs, looking like lips surrounded by a beard. In a sense, they were.
Then Gloria took his penis and pushed the hard, small head into herself. He came against her, and she began flexing the tight muscles of her buttocks.
"That's a good child," he said. "Keep at it!"
Gloria kept it up until he was rolling his eyes at Joyce, his gaze still traveling from her panties to her breasts. Then he puffed out his cheeks, and his moustache bristled.
"This is it!" he said.
As his spurting started, there was a rattling at the door.
Someone called ... a familiar voice.
Joyce, horrified by the milky stream, recognized the voice; and she called out:
"Sam! For God's sake, break down the door!"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Joyce was "uncomfortable in" the room, even though the public had been barred and there were only-the five board members, two or three lawyers, arid the school superintendent present.
Sam was also there, seated in the first row behind Joyce's table.-
His nearness "comforted her-somewhat comforted her, but not enough. She hated to tell her story; but she'd-given her word, and they were all counting on her-except for Mr. Farr and Mr. Frankel.
They sat at the opposite table, glaring and wishing she were dead.
Gloria stepped down from the chair on the raised platform before the board members.
It wasn't really a witness stand, and this wasn't really a court of law; but Joyce thought of it that way, and the results wouldn't be much different from courtroom results.
The high school student dropped into the chair next to Joyce, with a sigh.
Joyce patted her hand. She'd told the truth, and she'd told everything that she knew.
"Now..." said the board chairman from Olympus, rattling a sheaf of papers, "Miss Joyce Remington, please."
Joyce walked to the chair and sat, facing the board, arranging her skirt carefully over her knees. She half smiled at that, feeling even more like a witness in a criminal case. She waited.
The board members muttered about her; and she knew they were being briefed about her school records, length of employment, and the like.
Then they sat back, and the chairman waved his hand.
"You may proceed, Mr. Harrington," he said. The lawyer at her table rose and came to her, then said:
"All right, Miss Remington, do you agree that those portions of Gloria Munoz' story that you also experienced firsthand are essentially true?"
She nodded.
"Perfectly true," she said.
"And you disrobed at his urging ... indeed, because of his threats?" "Yes."
The board chairman cleared his throat, before saying:
"I don't think we need to hear any more about the antics of Mr. Farr. You may get on with it." The lawyer nodded.
"Now, Miss Remington, did anyone else at West High School try to molest you sexually in any way?" he asked.
"Yes ... Mr. Frankel."
She felt the custodian's eyes burning a hole in the side of her head.
"Tell us about it," Mr. Harrington prompted. She swallowed, then said:
"Well, he came into my office-to clean it, I suppose-and we encountered one another. Since we were alone-and, I imagine, he believed no one would hear-he pawed me, fondling my..."
"Yes, tell it all. Your what?"
"My ... breasts. Then he got my clothes off, and he ... he masturbated before me." She covered her face with her hands. "It was awful.. . "
"That will be enough," the board chairman said. "This testimony backs up that of another female teacher who came to us last semester. We couldn't take the word of one person, but two just about wraps it up. Thank you, Miss Remington. You may return to your chair."
As she stepped down, Joyce felt relieved. They hadn't asked her to go into the case of the Boggs.
It really hadn't been necessary, she supposed, because both father and son were already in jail for rape. They'd attacked a young girl in their neighborhood once too often, and she'd called the police.
Joyce had also managed to avoid any mention of Donna and Gayle-not that she was fond of them again. But she didn't think they were dangerous enough to lose their jobs because of what they'd done. The two women had promised her they'd start seeing psychiatrists if she wouldn't blow the whistle on them, so everything had a good chance of working out.
As she sat, she was exhausted.
She hardly heard the board vote unanimously to fire Mr. Farr and Mr. Frankel. It was decided not to bring criminal charges against them, on the condition that they leave the school district and never return.
Then a gavel was pounding, and it was all over.
People hovered over her with words of comfort. Slowly, the room emptied until she was alone.
Not quite alone. Sam dropped into the chair at her side, taking her hand.
"Come on-I'm taking you home," he said. "No," she said, shaking her head. "What?"
"The board gave me a month's leave, didn't they?"
"Sure ... and with pay. You can rest at my place."
"No, Sam. I'm sorry, but I want to be alone ... all alone. I'm so mixed up, and I feel so ... so vulnerable. I've got to think things out. All right? Can you understand that?"
He shrugged, then said:
"Yes, I suppose so. Will you come back to the city? To West High? And do you want me to keep your things?"
"To all of your questions, I can answer, 'I don't know,' " she murmured, smiling into his face. "If I don't come back, I'll write about my things. If I do come back ... well, then there won't be any problem. All right?"
"I don't like the idea," he muttered, getting up and pulling her to her feet. "Where will you go?"
"Anywhere the Volkswagen will take me."
"But you might get into trouble all over again."
"Not on your life. I've changed. I'm not a naive Nebraskan anymore. I'm tough now."
He looked sad, as he said:
"Not too tough, I hope."
"We'll see. Good-bye, Sam ... and thanks for saving my life. I couldn't have stayed sane if you hadn't answered your phone at the right time."
She was gone for three weeks.
When it was over, Joyce wasn't certain where she'd been. She remembered the long, straight desert highways and the snow in the Sierras and the rush of the ocean on the Northern California Coast.
She'd gotten along fine, sleeping late every morning, driving leisurely ... and nobody'd bothered her. It was as though she'd become a saint, and evil kept its distance.
When she drove back into the city, she felt cleansed.
She was smiling as she worked her way through the downtown traffic to the apartment house district.
She thought about the place she'd shared with Gayle and Donna, and she felt no revulsion-only forgiveness.
Sam would be pleased that she hadn't become too hardened in the loss of her naivete.
She came to the right street and pulled her car into a space out front. She sat for a moment, fixing her face and then brushing the crisp new dress.
She went up the walk and tapped on the door. Sam opened it and stood back, pleasure washing over his face. "Joyce!"
"Anybody here got a bikini three sizes too small he can loan me for the beach?" she asked, laughing.
He took her hand and pulled her inside, holding her at arm's length to look at her.
"From head to toe, you look completely cured of what ailed you, Miss Remington."
"I hope so. I ... I suppose I came straight back here to find out."
He frowned, then said:
"So you're still not sure-about sex, I mean. I'm flattered that you came to me."
"Because I want your company more than anyone else's."
He tried to smile, as he said:
"I'm good company today and a good lover tomorrow."
"Let's hope so." She took back her hand. "I really don't know how I am deep inside, Sam. I've got to find out-and in a clinical way, if necessary. Do I still have a capacity for sex, or did they tear it out of my body? Can I still love-really love-or have they made me hate all men, and women too? Do you understand ... really?"
"Sure," he said, then closed the door. "You don't really want to go to the beach. It's cooled off around these parts since you headed-for the boondocks. Where did you go?"
"Everywhere ... nowhere. Who cares?"
"I'll get your case from the car."
"Later," she said. "I'm hungry, and I've come to cook your dinner-and mine. Come into the kitchen."
Sam followed her, and she began to work as though she'd been in his kitchen for years.
He marveled as he watched her from his place at the oilcloth-covered table.
"I learned something in Nebraska," she said.
They ate in the kitchen, saying very little except when he'd ask her about some little thing or she'd wonder if he wanted more potatoes.
When it was over, they did the dishes together, working slowly; and she felt herself relax even more than she had on her journey.
Then she removed the apron, took him by the hand, and led him into the living room.
There she looked around, trying to make up her mind about the right place.
"What is it?" he asked. "Want a drink?"
"No, I want my head to be perfectly clear-no pot, no alcohol. I want to know exactly what's going on, and I want to know my reactions to the letter." Then she made up her mind. "Let's go into the bedroom."
She led the way; and when they reached the side of his bed, she turned.
It was a nice room-a man's room, with a rack of pipes on the table, a rifle hung on a wood-paneled wall, and a bedspread of leather colors.
"like it?" he asked.
She nodded, then said:
"And I think I like you."
"Ah, progress! I'm more than a companion, but less than a lover at this point."
"Sam, try being my lover, will you please ... right now?"
He looked embarrassed.
"It's kind of deliberate, isn't it? I mean, I'm not a stud horse in a pasture and ready to be put in with a filly any time the rancher says."
She smiled, looking at his old pullover sweater and comfortable slacks.
"So you think I'm a hussy. All right, let's pull a switch. I'll see if I want to seduce you."
"Look, it's not that I don't want.. . "
"Please shut up."
She stepped against him, her breasts stabbing him directly on the chest like two boxing gloves. Then she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth.
He tasted good; and she kissed him again, her lips open this time so that her tongue could play across his teeth.
"Hmm ... I like it," she said.
"We aim to please," he said gently, and she could tell that he was already warming to the challenge.
She buried her face in his neck, still holding him tightly as a wave of shivers ripped through her body. Then she lifted her face and nibbled the lobe of his ear.
He tried to pull away, but she held on until his breathing changed.
After that, she knew there was no doubt that he was anxious to seduce her as completely as possible.
She giggled as he tried to peel her arms from his neck, but he succeeded.-He pushed her backward until she bounced down ontothe side of the bed, her feet still on the floor.
He knelt before her, removing her shoes. Then he told her to stand again, and she did.
He turned her around and pulled at the back of her neck until the zipper hissed all the way down to her buttocks.
He eased the dress over her shoulders, and it dropped to her hips. He helped it along, and she leaned on his shoulder as she lifted one foot and then the other. He was careful about placing the dress on a hanger.
"Aren't we fussy?" she chided, as he came back to her from the closet door.
"Not fussy," he countered. "That is a new dress; and if you're going to move in with me, you may not be able to afford very many. I have expensive tastes."
"Who said I'm moving in with you?" she replied.
"I know it," he said, tapping his chest, "and you know it. Let's quit playing games." "What games?"
He unsnapped her bra at the front catch, in the center between the cups. It came apart easily, and her breasts surged forward into his hands.
He massaged them gently, like a surgeon handling a tender new child.
Joyce moaned. His fingers were so delicate, so calming. Then she was no longer calm. The tingling started, and her eyes popped open.
"So you're coming around."
She smiled like a cat.
"Just like you did," she said. "You're right, lover-we're both switching on full power. And I will be living here with you ... until you get tired of me."
"If you don't quit talking..."
She kissed him again, and her hands darted to his waist where she fumbled while getting his belt and trousers open.
The fly zipper slid obligingly, and immediately his hardened penis thrust itself toward her, exposed in all its glory.
She looked down to smile at it, as she said:
"Hello, friend."
"It's not doing any more talking," he rasped, and there was sweat on his upper lip.
She grasped it in both hands like it was a baseball bat.
She pumped it several times, and he made her stop so that he could remove her panties and then run his hands into and over all of her secret places.
Her skin glowed, and her nerves jumped like things gone mad.
Quickly she stripped away his clothing.
They rolled back on the bed, where he at once coaxed her thighs widely and shoved his penis deeply into her body.
Their union was complete and total, and she knew it would always be thus. He was loving her and needing her as much as she did him-and that was what a perfect partnership was all about.
As they slid into the motion-in perfect rhythm, of course-he whispered into her ear: "Do you still like boys?" She stuck out her tongue, before replying:
"Not boys-just one boy-and I love him. I always will."
