It is a long way-indeed, it is a trip from one world to another-from hymn-singing, morale-crusading Ferguson Barnes Christian College to the grimy back room of Mugsy's place in Jersey, where a lust-crazed gang leader used his freak-sized genitals as a weapon of sadistic murder. Wiffie and Hamp made that trip. It began with seduction in a railroad compartment, and took them through Peter Frenum's body-painting studio, the erotica files of the New York Anti-Smut Society ... through abortion and dirty-movie mills, gay theater society, hippie pot parties, rape, and three's-a-couple games...
They say, however, that love will find away.
INTRODUCTION by Del Grayson, Ph.D.
God is dead!
This is a cry we often hear today, and is the underlying theme of The Inner Depths, by Israel Krupp. But just what does it mean? The obvious reference, of course, is to the diminishing force of the religious ethic in our society. Certainly the image of God that the Pilgrims carried with them when they landed in Massachusetts almost 250 years ago is not the same that inspires people today to go around saving "Peace". How and where did this image begin to change?
Over the past 25 decades the American public has lived under a kind of superficial positive moderatism which has been characterized by many writers and philosophers as the Protestant Ethic. This was a concept of life that stressed somber virtues. Human beings enjoyed the quiet sense of a hard day's work well done, and were comfortable in the belief that a good man always earned more than his pay. Mixed in with this a kind of fierce pragmatism in which the hard and fast, here and now, seeable, touchable, aspects of reality were the only things given the name of reality.
Moderation seeped into almost every aspect of life. Even in religion, anything too mystical was suspect. The human being simply didn't stray too far from his somber dignity, and if he did he was immediately put down. Western man neglected what other times and places made a good deal of-the positive aspects which an exceptional person might contribute to society.
This adherence to moderation certainly permeated the realm of sexual behavior. The asexual teachings of the apostle Paul were deeply-ingrained in the Protestant Ethic, and sex was viewed from its procreative aspect only. The thought that a human being might receive pleasure from the sex act was in a way heretical. In a very real sense, sex was used as a means of barter, too. Young brides exchanged their romantic inclinations for husbands, and young men supported their wives in return for sex privileges and the bearing of children to continue their names and hence assure their immortality. There were exceptions, of course, but despite the hungry romanticism, characterized in early American literature and art, most of our marriages and sexual liaisons were made largely by arrangement.
Religion had lost ground, been ruled out of the state, but it still held a powerful grip on the mind of man. The earlier ethics, The Christian Ethic and The Catholic Ethic, had been all-powerful, ruling economies and political states with an iron fist. Those who believed, were in; those who did not, were out. And to be out under the Christian or
Catholic Ethics was to be virtually a dead man. Heretics were jailed or burned at the stake, so one had to believe to be comfortable in life.
As the industrial, technological twentieth century dawned, America began a gradual process of secularization which involved not only a diminishing of the force of religion, but also a dwindling of the force of the work ethic and the rather stiff personal code which surrounded it. Urbanization grew in our country, and with it came a new ethic which philosopher William F. Whyte called "the Social Ethic."
The shift from the Protestant to the Social Ethic was not as dramatic as some would like us to believe. It was rather a gradual erosion of values; both ethics had much in common, one spilling over into the other. The "organization" man was in; so were work and play, family and politics, each of these considered to be a good thing, a fun thing, a comfortable thing.
From the philosophical view, the Social Ethic was merely an extension of the Protestant Ethic combined with a certain feeling of comfort and good will which is easy to generate in an affluent society. There was, however-and this is important-a great deal more individual freedom. Under the Social Ethic, less was expected of people than under the stern Protestant Ethic, and people began acting and reacting more freely to the stimulants of life.
But now the Social Ethic is giving way as well. Dr. J.I. Simmons and Barry Winograd, in their excellent portrait of the modern scene, It's Happening, call the newly ascendant ethic the "Hang-Loose Ethic."
"The new ethic is hang-loose in a number of senses," they write, "but, its deep-running feature is that things once taken for granted as God-given or American Constitution-given-those basic premises about the world and the way it works-are no longer taken for granted or given automatic allegiance. In other words, many Americans are hanging a bit loose from traditional Americana."
This new ethic, whatever one chooses to call it, is irreverent. It challenges such cornerstones of conventional society as Christianity, "my country right or wrong," traditional moral codes, civil obedience, material wealth, the rights of society as a whole as characterized by parents, schools and governments to make decisions for everyone.
One of the strongest beliefs of this new ethic falls in the area of tolerance. This is a quality lacking in those who subscribe to traditionalism, but the modern generation is above all tolerant. "Do whatever you want," they say, "as long as you don't step on others while you're doing it." They believe in pursuing an experience both as a thing in itself and as a means of learning and growing, their idea being that a great variety and depth of experience is beneficial and not at all harmful as long as you can handle it. Some can, and some can't!
And the, "Some can, and some can't" realization is the source of conflict and action in . Within the book are three central characters, Peter Frenum, Wiffie, and Hamp. Each of the three has been brought up according to the harsh Protestant Ethic, believing in it thoroughly. However, they progress to the Social Ethic, and then rapidly to the Hang-Loose Ethic, each step of the way hastened by events that lead them to the, "You can't trust anyone over 30" belief.
In science there is a maxim that is commonly referred to as the Law of the Pendulum. This law simply means that anything suspended from a fixed point moves to and fro by the action of gravity and acquired momentum; thus, if an item suspended at center moves 90 degrees to the right, it will then swing 90 degrees to the left. If there is no increase in momentum, then each swing will reduce the degree of the arc until the swing covers less than I degree. A standstill will never be reached, but the swing can become infinitesimal. However, at any time that additional momentum is applied, the swing can increase.
Thus we have our characters on their swing of the pendulum of life. Considering the Social Ethic as the "norm" or center, they begin the book in the extremism of the Protestant Ethic and subsequently travel the pendulum's course to the opposite extreme, the Hang-Loose Ethic. pulls few punches as he exposes the hypocrisies of the Protestant extremists and shines the spotlight on some of the intolerances of the so-called tolerant generation. All in all, the author is quite fair, and is to be commended for maintaining an objective view of his characters and of society in general. is a highly erotic story, as it must be since so much of the philosophy of the Hang-Loose Ethic involves sex and sexual attitudes. However, the story is executed in the style of sharp parody or spoof; the sort of intellectual farce which guarantees every reader, regardless of taste, great fun.
Del Grayson, Ph.D.
CHAPTER ONE
He came home one night, laden with cans of paint that he had purchased downtown, to find a startlingly sensual Negress lying on the bed in the sleeping alcove of his tiny flat, a cigarette in one corner of her mouth.
"Are you sure you're in the right apartment?" A silly question, perhaps, but he asked it just the same.
She ignored the question; she just lay there, staring at him, her eyes boring directly into his until at last she spoke. "I hear that you paint," she said, twisting her lips into a mocking smile.
"Yes. I do some painting, sometimes. How did you know?"
"My little sister told me," she said with a grin as she ground her cigarette out against the wall. "My sister's seven years old, mister. Don't you think that's a bit young to start out as an artist's model?"
Peter Frenum had really never thought of himself as being an artist, but it was always fun to pretend. He felt more secure, somehow, when he told himself that he was a priest of the palette. After all, he was a man with little else to do, now that he was no longer an Army chaplain's assistant. With his V.A. check-the fringe benefit of a medical discharge-and his simple tastes, he had little need of a full-time job.
Frenum painted anything, and indeed, it sometimes seemed that he painted everything. He painted on canvas, of course, but on occasion he would also venture forth from his poorly furnished East Village New York apartment to paint breasts on sidewalks in front of churches, or phalluses on the sides of mailboxes, or perhaps an occasional cunt, in full close-up beauty, on the rear windshield of an automobile. He had to carry out most of these projects at night, when there were few if any observers about, but he didn't mind the inconvenience; in fact, he found the hours complementary to his insomnia.
And then there was the time he'd painted the little girl.
She was six or so, very small and light-boned, with dark hair and a delicious olive complexion. He had beckoned to her one evening as she played hopscotch by herself in front of her building; when she came over to him, he asked if she'd like some chocolate candy. She came with him to his apartment, where he stuffed her with Hershey bars, and painted her.
Ah, how he had painted her! He painted breasts where as yet she had no breasts; he painted pubic hair where as yet there was not the tiniest hint of fuzz. He painted snakes which curled around her calves and crawled up between her thighs, and he painted spiders which crept about her shoulders and down to her undeveloped nipples. Ah, how he had painted! She was Life, and as he painted her, he was painting Life itself. And when he bathed the child later on, washing the still-wet poster paints from her tender skin, he had marveled at the wonder of actually illustrating Life; he had vowed to devote more of his future time to this new art form, this kind of painting so often practiced by hippies and others who regarded it as a game, and not as a way of improving on that which God had so graciously placed on Earth.
And so it was that Peter had embarked on his life's most ambitious venture. He began to spend his food budget on Negro and Puerto Rican prostitutes, asking them for nothing but the canvases of their skins, which he would paint with organs and animals and sexual scenes of every imaginable sort. He would go into alleys at night and capture cats, which he would bring to his apartment and silence with chloroform, then cover with blobs and stripes of bright paint before releasing them with the dried paints still matting their fur and making stiff sculptures of their tails.
Painting was all he lived for; for months, his money had gone for his work. He became undernourished, to be sure; but could man live on bread alone? There was no real outside world to intrude on his happiness; he cared little and read little, and spoke little to others in his self-imposed isolation.
He caught himself musing. The Negress' question still hung in the air. Then a reassuring thought came into his head.
"No, I don't think she's too young." He hesitated for a second, then went on. "Look at all the Madonnas one sees in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Haven't you seen them, with the naked babies and cherubs sitting in the Virgin Mary's lap or flying around?"
"Yes. But the children are in the pictures; the pictures aren't on the children."
"That's true."
The girl smiled and sat up on his bed, then reached out and patted him on the leg. "That's all right," she said. "As long as it's strictly cultural. I inspected my little sister fairly carefully, and she seems to be intact." A chuckle.
He said nothing, but fidgeted with embarrassment.
"You can paint me if you want," she said. "That is, if you'll let me tell the girls at NYU about it. I won't give them your name, of course."
It was quite an opportunity, needless to say. She was offering him the canvas of her flesh at no cost, and she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. And yet it seemed odd that she should have been waiting for him this way when he got home. Maybe she was some kind of cop.
"I don't know. I'll have to think about it." He was cautious.
"Oh, for Christ's sake! Look, man, you don't have to play games with me. I'm a professional model. Got that? An artist's model, baby. Four hours a day I sit naked in Alphonse du Buque's studio and show my tits and backside to pimply queers and silly middle-aged women who want to be artists. I sit on a stool, and I don't really do anything, I just sit there getting a sore ass and trying to keep a piece of purple cloth from slipping off my crotch so old Alphonse's middle-aged dykes don't get shocked-or aroused. It gets boring, you know? I never feel like a true participant. So come on, for God's sake! Paint me. Make me feel alive. Is it every day that a professional model offers to sit for you free of charge?"
"Well ... Get ready, then," he told her, almost shyly; and he turned his back to her so she could undress in privacy.
"Get your paints," she commanded. "And watch me undress; I'm not modest. Besides, it turns me on to have people watch me taking my clothes off. You don't mind, do you?"
He got his paints and mixed the poster paints as he watched her disrobe. He mixed the blue as she removed the dress; as she loosened her Afro-style headband, he prepared a little pink. As she slowly and provocatively lifted her slip from her body, he mixed a generous quantity of white, and when she took off her garter belt and stockings, he added black to his palette.
Then came the brassiere, and as he watched her unhook and remove the garment, he prepared a mixture of green, with trembling hands. As she turned away from him to remove her panties, he almost dropped the mixing container, barely managing to avoid spilling scarlet on the worn carpet beneath his feet.
"I'm ready," she said, facing him.
She was astoundingly female, with conical, upturned breasts-breasts tipped with nipples that somehow reminded him of sausage ends, and made him wonder how it would feel to touch them with the tip of his tongue and hold them gently between the outer edges of his lips, centering them in his mouth one at a time, as though to suckle like a timid child. As he stood staring at her, he felt a lightness in his belly, and a hardness not far below. Then he began to paint.
And how he painted! She was the most glorious human canvas ever to grace his humble studio. He covered his hands with scarlet paint, smearing it over her body as she pressed hard against him. He let his fingertips dip into different colors of paint and swirl down her back, smearing circles and spirals over her skin. He pushed her away for a moment to take a brush in one hand and paint bright scarlet rings around her nipples.
"Below," she breathed, her tone urgent. And with hands equally urgent, he lowered the brush to her navel, where he painted a snake swallowing a prick-a prick nine inches long.
"Go on," she said, digging her fingernails into his arms, and he moved his brush lower, now painting a deep blue triangle on the stubbly field of her close-shaven pubic mound.
"Below," she demanded again, breathing heavily. He placed the tip f the brush in the opening between her thighs, trying to put a dab of red on her clitoris as she went back and spread her legs for him; he followed it up with labial stripes of white and blue.
As she clung to him happily and hungrily, he put the brush on the table and placed his hands between her legs; when he drew it back it was covered with pigment, which he wiped off on her buttocks as she pressed her hips against his. He pushed her away then, and smeared his face with paint; kneeling before her, he covered her lower abdomen with green.
"Stop painting, for Christ's sake!" she murmured in a voice trembling with sexual need.
Obeying her command, he removed his clothing as he watched her pick up one of the paint brushes and wiggle it between her thighs. He stood there a moment later, completely bare, his eyes following the curves of her lovely body as if lay staining the sheets of his bed. He felt an even greater hardness at his loins.
"Cunt," he muttered, saying the word softly and with warmth.
"Mother fucker," she responded. It was the sweetest compliment a Negress could give.
He threw himself on the bed beside her; she reached out and grasped his cock. "It's a big one," she said. Her lips tickled the underside of the glans as she explored the head of it. Soon her tongue darted out and tickled the moat-like depression circling its knobby end. The cock grew stiffer then; stiffer and bigger than he had ever known it to grow, swelling till it stood eight and a half inches tall, throbbing in excitement and just beginning to dribble at the tip.
The girl pulled away from it and moved her head back up to his face, where she kissed his lips and drew him into an embrace. Their legs entwined, and they rolled together till both of them were smeared with a Pollock-like abstraction of colored paint. They fucked, then; like a palette knife dipping into a thick-mixed oil, his prick split her paint-slathered cunt until it was as far in as it could go. He kept pushing; pushed as hard as he could; pushed until she cried out with pain and begged him to take it easy. He pulled back then, following up with another forward thrust, but this time a gentle one, slow enough so that he could feel his prick being grasped again and again by her trembling cunt muscles. They fucked that way for several minutes, and then his hips began to fight with her, thrashing his body against and into her with furious strokes till she cried, at last, "Finish me!" and he bit down on her right nipple as he splashed her cervix with ivory-colored seed.
It was over, and he withdrew. He looked at her, and saw that she, too, was satisfied, and with his lips he began to lick off the paint surrounding her nipples and the perfectly formed navel which crowned her chestnut belly. He had painted her, painted Life; he had fucked her, and in a symbolic manner, created more Life. Gently, now, he licked off every smear of paint that he could remove with his tongue, spitting every so often onto the bedsheet and rinsing his tongue in the warm receptacle of her mouth.
Afterward, when he had recovered his strength, he went to the bathroom and returned with a wet washcloth. When he had finished cleaning her body with the cloth, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked into her eyes as he casually inserted three fingers in her cunt.
Then he noticed something. He bent over and kissed the thin black hairs growing along the edge of her upper lip.
"You've got a mustache," he whispered, with a chuckle.
She smiled. "That's because I used to be a man."
"What?" Surely she was kidding.
"Yes. I was born a hermaphrodite. I didn't have a cunt; just a scrotum with ovaries instead of testicles. They had to throw away the ovaries when they took off the rest of it to make me a cunt. They left the clit, though. I don't know how I'd ever have gotten along without the clit." She laughed, and guided his hand to the bud which topped the groove of her inner lips.
He still didn't believe her. "When did all this happen?" he asked, knowing she'd laugh and tell him it was all a joke. But she didn't.
"A little over a year ago," she explained. "Boy, did I look forward to that pussy! You can't imagine how bad it is to be stuck with neither a prick nor a cunt."
Suddenly he felt a surge of heavy fluid in his belly; he tried to hold it back, but he couldn't stop it when he retched, and it came up through his esophagus into his mouth. He tried to hold it there, but it began to dribble out at the corners, and he retched again, letting the vomit fall onto her belly and he heard her say, "Oh, God." He slapped her, suddenly; in a burst of anger, he slapped her hard, even as he was trying to control the spasms in his belly.
"I was only kidding," he heard her say.
He put his hand in the vomit then, and angrily smeared it down onto her pubic mound, taking some of it on the tips of his fingers and trying to paint the insides of her swollen labia with it. She let out a frightened gasp and struck his hand away with her fist. She grabbed him by the testicles before he could stop her, and she yanked. "Bastard!" she cried, pulling hard.
He bellowed with pain.
"You're some kind of deviate or something," she shouted. Then she spat in his face and pulled on his balls once more, and tried to jump off the bed as his hand came down on her face, striking blindly but nevertheless hitting her hard across the mouth. He attempted to tackle her as she dodged him and threw an easel in his path, and managed to grab her dress and escape out the door into the hall. "There's a pervert in there!" she sobbed as the young hippies and little old Social Security people cowered behind their doors, and she headed for the stairs.
Peter stopped just short of going out the door after her. He shut the door, and after a moment of cursing, he went into the bathroom. He ran water in the tub, meanwhile holding his scrotum in one hand.
He began to feel ashamed of himself after a while; he had treated the girl rather badly; his temper, like his sexual passions, had gotten out of control. Ex-hermaphrodite or not, she had been a good canvas, and his first real fuck.
A few minutes later, he felt his cock growing ramrod-straight as he sat in the bathtub, thinking of the chick and soaking his aching balls.
CHAPTER TWO
It was very quiet on the cool October day in Barnes Crossing, Missouri. It was particularly quiet on the campus of Ferguson Barnes Christian College. Only one sound interrupted the silence of FBCC; it was the sound of singing, and of a piano accompanying the voice of a young girl.
The girl, a freshman, was practicing hymns in the lounge of the women's dormitory. She was the only student present on campus; the others had gone home for the weekend. There were not many free weekends at FBCC. It was a college run by strict discipline, and there were many rules; one of the rules was that only three weekends out of each semester could be spent off campus, not including the Thanksgiving and Christmas holiday breaks. Two of the weekends could be scheduled according to the desires of the student (or of his parents, since written permission from the student's father or mother had to be secured prior to any overnight absence from the FBCC grounds). The third weekend was one which all students took simultaneously. It was in mid-October, when the faculty attended a Christian Colleges Association convention and retreat in Nashville. But because Wiffie Candace Gilford's parents were on a church speaking tour-her father was a minister-she had to stay on campus.
Oh, she wasn't entirely alone; though none of the other girls were there, Mrs. Ardsley, the aging housemother of the dormitory, was very much in evidence. Her fifty-eight years and two hundred-odd pounds now occupied a small suite in which she sat darning the girls' socks (they were not permitted to wear nylon stockings) and humming country hymns to herself while rocking back and forth in her Lincoln rocker in front of the fireplace.
Perhaps Wiffie should have felt honored to be there with the woman. After all, she had the privilege of helping Mrs. Ardsley prepare a bland dinner (Mrs. Ardsley was, alas, on a very restricted diet), and the honor of joining Mrs. Ardsley in carrying on the tradition of dormitory devotions. The two of them would spend a half-hour together before their ten o'clock bedtime, singing hymns and reading from the Bible. (Not that Mrs. Ardsley actually read from the Good Book; she was able to recite from memory, having absorbed large portions of it, including the inspiring begats and more begats from I and II Kings and I and II Chronicles, all of which were quite sexy in a way, if you stopped to think of all the begetting, which Mrs. Ardsley did not. She did enjoy these chapters in another respect; her ancestors had come over shortly after the Pilgrims, and she was inordinately fond of genaeologies.)
Wiffie and Mrs. Ardsley would also spend a little time sitting together in silence, mentally thanking God for the bountiful blessings which had been showered upon the students and faculty of Ferguson Barnes Christian College, and then the young girl and the woman would pray together aloud, reciting familiar words about the beauty of the blood of the lamb, until at last Mrs. Ardsley accompanied Wiffie to her room, where she would tuck the girl into bed, turn off the light, and go back to her suite, after having made certain that all the dormitory exits were firmly locked not only from the inside, but-except for the private exterior door to her own suite-from the outside of the building as well.
Was Wiffie Gilford happy? It was hard to say. She was not the kind of girl who often revealed her happinesses, nor was she the sort who often revealed her bursts of sadness, when she was struck by feelings not in keeping with the Spirit of Joy with which every Christian is Blessed. Oh, she was moody at times, and at times she also laughed and smiled and looked almost radiant. But the moments of frowning were invariably limited in frequency and duration, and so were the times during which she smiled. Whatever her expression, whatever her mood, it would cease to be public after a short time, and would be replaced by a noncommittal expression which betrayed little or no emotion. This state of facial musculature would persist until her next brief show of feeling, which would take place hours-occasionally even days-later.
On this particular chilly autumn afternoon, Wiffie sat in the lounge of the girls' dormitory playing scales on the piano as she sang to herself softly. After she had played up the scale and down the scale, and up and down the scale, and down and up the scale, and a number of other variations on the keys ranging from middle C to high C, she began to sing hymns such as "Trust and Obey."
"How Great Thou Art."
"Blessed Assurance," and other songs, some slow in tempo, others practically rollicking in tempo, but all of which she rendered in the same calm, controlled voice.
"Sing, Wiffie, sing!" Mrs. Ardsley, who fancied herself a faded Southern beauty of sorts, had waddled into the room and now plopped herself down on a nearby divan. Wiffie stopped momentarily, then resumed singing in the same expressionless voice, and Mrs. Ardsley joined in:
Mighty Jesus, Savior Jesus, Stand guard o'er all our land; Drive out the pagan guardsmen, Send in our warrior bands!
For we are on your side, O Lord, And we know you're on ours; Help us emerge victorious In weeks or days or hours.
It was a touching, patriotic, Christian sort of song, and Mrs. Ardsley rendered it in a suitably dramatic and affirmative manner. The third verse, which discussed Christ's ability to crush a Communist uprising in the manner of an exterminator squashing a mosquito, was a verse of which Mrs. Ardsley was particularly fond, and she rendered it with gusto.
When the song was over, Mrs. Ardsley stood, and she was beaming with pleasure. She strolled over to Wiffie and placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "We have much to be thankful for," she whispered softly as she put her face next to Wiffie's cheek.
Wiffie dutifully murmured her thanks to the Lord for the various blessings involved, and tried to move away from Mrs. Ardsley.
Presently, the two of them went to Mrs. Ardsley's small suite to prepare dinner, and after some three hours of knitting and small talk, it was time for devotions, and then for bed.
While Mrs. Ardsley puttered about her sitting room, Wiffie went into the communal bathroom at the end of the dormitory corridor to wash up. She decided to have a shower. It was nice washing when there were no other girls around; she didn't have to wait till she was in the shower stall to remove her bathrobe, but could take it off in the main part of the room and examine her ever-maturing young body in the mirror. She left her bra and panties on as she washed her face, but when she was ready for the shower, she removed the undergarments and admired her figure in the glass above the sink. Almost unconsciously, her hands wandered to her breasts and cupped the generous hillocks of tissue, her fingers touching the nipples until those soft pink buds turned red and hard.
She felt a little odd as she stood there, watching herself hold her breasts and noting the unfamiliar sensations that tingled through her body. She was so innocent; there was so much that she needed to know.
A moment later, Wiffie stepped into a shower stall, where she let the warm water spray onto her shoulders and run down over her breasts to her belly, and below to where it glistened like dew as it accumulated in her bronze pubic hair. She soaped herself, doing a leisurely job of it and enjoying the freedom of not having to rush through the shower to let the next girl take the stall.
Suddenly, Wiffie heard a noise behind her. Whirling around, she saw Mrs. Ardsley standing there, the shower curtain pushed to one side.
"I thought you might like a clean towel, dear," the woman said. Her voice was softer than usual, and had a strange quality to it. It filled Wiffie with an unfamiliar fear. Wiffie's hands rushed to cover her breasts and bush as best they could, and she bent over slightly in an effort to render her body less visible to the staring woman.
"Please, Mrs. Ardsley!" she exclaimed in embarrassment. Her voice was almost a squeak.
"Would you like me to dry your back?"
"No, thank you. You can just leave the towel on the floor outside, if it's all right."
"Very well, dear." The woman smiled, still staring at Wiffie's nude body, and then she bent to place the towel on the floor next to the entrance to the stall. She turned to leave, and then, halfway out of the bathroom, she stopped and looked around. "Oh, Wiffie...."
"Yes?"
"I just wanted to say that you're a very pretty girl. You should thank God for being so good to you."
"I will, Mrs. Ardsley."
Still frightened, Wiffie pushed the shower curtain closed and rinsed off as quickly as she could. When she was dry, she put on her bathrobe and slippers, then snapped off the bathroom light and walked back down the corridor to her room, where Mrs. Ardsley waited as she changed from her robe to pajamas. Then the old woman insisted on kissing Wiffie good night before tucking the covers around her.
Monday was better. Her fellow students were back on campus, and once again Wiffie could take part in the routine activities which, while they deprived her of some essential privacy, blessed her with an anonymity which came quite naturally to her in a crowd. And it was good not to have to worry about Mrs. Ardsley.
Wiffie began the day with an hour-long session in Old Testament class; this was followed by Freshman Civics, an essentially right-wing course which explained the relationship of the Bible to everyday American life. Civics was followed by Choir three days a week, and on those Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays Wiffie really enjoyed being a student at Ferguson Barnes Christian College. For an hour and a half, she and her fellow choristers would sing songs of faith and joy and salvation; the songs would range from old Negro gospel numbers to Bach chorales and Handel's Messiah, and as she sang, Wiffie could truly let go and make all the noise she wanted to, without losing the anonymity that came of being but one soprano in a section of twenty.
On this particular Monday, the director was in bed with a virus, and the choir was being led by Hampton Budd, a young man more commonly known as Hamp. He was a clean-cut sort of fellow; or so he appeared; fairly tall, unusually outgoing, and with a self-confident air about him which reminded many of Christ's disciple Peter. Indeed, his bearing occasionally reminded some of Christ himself, or-when his voice boomed out arias from Handel's Messiah-the prophet Isaiah, or perhaps Moses, carrying the stone tablets down the mountainside after a summit meeting with God. Hamp was a big man on campus; he represented the FBCC ideal of an enthusiastic joiner who spread the Good News with an air of good fellowship and genuine joy.
Wiffie had never really paid much attention to him; she hadn't, up till now, had much time for or interest in boys. She had her music, and she had her daydreams, and she had her mother and father and her childhood teddy bear (not that she really used it any more) back home to occupy her thoughts. It wasn't so much that she was a good girl, nor was it any inherent lack of interest in the male gender. It was simply that she had always felt more or less self-sufficient as far as emotions were concerned. Perhaps time and hormones would change her attitudes; she hadn't thought about it to any great degree.
But now, to her slight surprise, she found herself paying unusually close attention to Hampton Budd. As he raised his left palm to indicate a crescendo, her voice swelled in volume and a thrill coursed through her body; when he put his palm up and made hushing gestures with his mouth, she joined her fellow singers in the pianissimo passage, and felt her cheeks grow happily warm as she did so.
It was a nice rehearsal, all in all, and Wiffie was sorry when it was over.
It had been an extraordinarily boring day, Hampton Budd told himself. Classes, Choir, poor meals, a few laps around the track in Sophomore Phys Ed, prayers, a session of study in the library, a songfest in the dormitory before devotions ... A typical day, true enough, and a good one; and yet for some reason it had nonetheless seemed like a boring day-an extremely tiresome, unbelievably boring day; quite unexciting, in any case. It was dreadful, having to be bored like this. Living with other Christians might be good for the soul, he mused, but it certainly wasn't very stimulating. What Hamp needed was excitement.
Hampton Budd had done very little sinning, except for an occasional fit of masturbation, which he did for health reasons anyway; it kept the testicles from bursting due to excess seminal pressure.
He had come close to scoring a few sin points during his brief postadolescent years. There had been the time when the other second-string backs on the football team had discovered that he was a virgin and done the appropriate thing: They had taken him to the whorehouse in the next town, in accordance with local custom. But alas, the girls had priced themselves too high for Hamp-ten dollars for a quickie behind the curtain separating the two beds in the large back room-so he'd had to pass up the opportunity. Had he paid the ten dollars, he would have been unable to meet his tithe on the following Sunday. Then too, he had found himself emotionally unprepared to go through with it in any case. Perhaps it had been fear of failure; the girls weren't much older than he was, but they were obviously blessed with considerable sexual experience. When one of them had put her arms around him, he shrank back. And worse still, he found that when the young woman attempted to entice him into the other room by letting her dressing gown fall open a little way, he lost what had been only a partial erection in the first place. The journey had ended in fiasco; the other fellows had good-naturedly taunted him when they emerged from the building to find him waiting on the front steps, and his ears had burned throughout the twenty-minute journey from the whorehouse back to the boys' own town.
And there had been Margaret, the girl from the Baptist Church, whom he had taken for a drive after the church-sponsored high school graduation party for the Christian youth of the town. Hamp and Margaret had parked on a private road, despite her misgivings. Hidden from prying eyes on the back forty of the Budd family farm, they had sat and talked over their plans for the future. It was understood that she would go to nursing school and he to college, and after he'd graduated from college and had spent some more time in a theological seminary, he would be ordained as a minister, whereupon the two of them would marry and become missionaries in Afghanistan. As it turned out, she had become engaged to a medical student eight months after she and Hamp went their separate ways the following September. Nevertheless, they had crammed a little sin into those two hours they spent together in the car. They had held hands, and kissed a little, and he had held her in his arms, and as she became enthusiastic in her responses to his soul kisses (which she had permitted only with considerable reluctance in the first place), he had shoved his trembling hand up under her skirt and between her thighs.
She had jerked back, gasping, and opened her eyes in an expression of shock that bordered on terror, but he had ripped her panties far enough down to get his hand into them. With his middle finger inserted in her private region, he had told her that he was doing it because he didn't want her to forget how close they'd been during their senior year of high school. "It's a symbol, Margaret," he told her.
She had called him an animal then, and in surprise he had removed his hand from her crotch, wiped it on his trouser leg, and begged her forgiveness. She loved him, as it happened, and so she had forgiven him on the condition that he would watch his conduct in future. Since he was going away to college in the next few months and could no doubt keep his desires under control via prayer or self-abuse in the meantime, he promised that he would be more careful.
They had dated regularly for the remainder of the summer, and when they kissed now and then-being sure to keep their tongues in their respective mouths-she had been as tense as she had at first on that evening in the car, and on no occasion did her tension give way to sexual response.
But it would be different next time. And there would be a next time; indeed, Hampton was confident that it would come soon. Before long, his arms would welcome a new girl-a girl who would appreciate his special virtues and who would let him educate her-for that matter, educate both of them in the physical, sinful aspects of love.
Perhaps Wiffie Gilford was such a girl. (He hadn't known her name when he first saw her, but she had impressed him as no other girl ever had so he had inquired.) What a creature she was! She was beautiful, with a body that any prophetess or angel would envy. She was perhaps five and a half feet tall, with a bone structure gently outlined by layer upon layer of soft, utterly delectable flesh. Her skin was pure and unflawed, the color of un-thinned cream. Her breasts were twin mounds of seductive softness which nestled in the bosom of her cotton Empire dress, and the curve of her hips was matched by those of her ungirdled buttocks and her sweet, cloth-draped thighs.
As for her head, it was crowned with straw-blonde hair which reached to her shoulders in a single broad, rope-like braid; her face was innocence personified, with its lightly freckled nose and puppy-like blue eyes.
And yet, beneath all the innocence there was a hint of something else-something hard to define, but something unquestionably there. It was a look of uncertainty, of questioning, of sensual curiosity stirring beneath the shroud-like chastity blanket of Christian faith. It was a look of warmth not often seen in a girl of Wiffie's background; it was an air of physical awareness waiting to be freed.
Would she be Hampton's Chosen One? Would she be the first girl to enjoy an orgasm at his hands; would she be the one to surrender her virginity to him as she ended his own by taking his penis into her warm vaginal sheath?
He could envision it now. He could see the two of them joined as though in some gentle erotic ballet, their naked bodies, half-hidden in a morning fog, dancing on dew-wet grass before falling to the ground in slow motion, their hands reaching out for one another's body and their legs becoming entwined as their torsos rolled together on the grass. He could imagine kissing her lips, then her shoulders, then the tips of her breasts; he could imagine his prick growing hard and strong and reaching out toward her while she watched, with a happy titter coming from her throat and a sensual flush appearing on her face.
And he could imagine going into her. It would be so simple, so easy, so beautiful; he would roll her onto her back, then kneel between her upraised knees, and at last let his organ slip past the love-lips and into her wet vestibule, where it would throb against the slick tissues until at last his hand would move down and guide it into her vagina in one slow, ever-so-loving stroke. She would raise her hips to receive him; his arms would tighten about his neck as she felt his member deep inside her, and soon they would be rocking to the rhythm of some heavenly chorus. When at last he came, he would fill her with semen by the cupful, and she would welcome his ejaculation with a burst of her own fluids, so that their essences-his semen and her liquid perfume-would anoint their organs in the great baptism of mutual satisfaction.
Afterward they would lie in each other's arms. They would listen to the birds and feel the dew on their skin, and kiss each other tenderly until their bodies cried out to make love again.
As Hamp emerged from his thoughts and guiltily noticed the stickiness in his pajama pants, he realized that Wiffie had seemed this real to him despite the fact that they had never really met. Was it a sign of some sort, this feeling that Wiffie Gilford, despite being a virtual stranger, was already his conception of the one and only girl? Perhaps. It seemed that way, in any case, and he hoped that his wishful thinking would be replaced by something more real as time went by.
At the beginning of November it was decided by the administration of Ferguson Barnes Christian College that the United States was in a grave state of spiritual deterioration, moral decline and political decay. The citizenry suffered from poor bowel habits-or so one could assume from watching the innumerable television commercials on the subject-and it was a well-known fact that the majority of American men had long since abandoned the hygienic habit of washing their generative organs in cold water on a regular twice-daily basis. And what with Negro riots, pacifists, beatniks, creeping socialism, and everything else that had become everyday in America, it was obvious that the country was in trouble. Secularism had seeped into every corner (indeed, every nook and cranny) of what had once been an American way of life.
Perhaps nothing could be done about the situation, but the trustees, president and faculty of Ferguson Barnes Christian College were not the kind of men and women who would give up their country without a fight. And so it was that the powers-that-were at FBCC voted unanimously to institute the Ferguson Barnes Memorial Anti-Communism Put God First Drive.
It was also unanimously decided that the young person most capable of handling the undergraduate end of the drive (with the assistance and guidance of a trusted faculty advisor) was none other than Hampton Budd.
The drive was launched with a rally. A Campus-
Wide Kick-Off Rec Night was held in the Thelma Barnes Memorial Gymnasium and Auditorium. Hampton Budd was there, and after the school officials had made their speeches, he took the rostrum to lead the call for student volunteers. He began by leading a cheer for Miss Agatha Bells Barnes, the late Ferguson Barnes' senile but much-loved sister, and then he exhorted his fellow students to join the drive and help bring publicity to God and FBCC. When the pep talk was over, the students went forth to.. .well, to drink Hawaiian Punch and eat chocolate chip cookies. But when the food was in their bellies, most of them did what was expected of them; they signed the volunteer sheets, committing themselves to performing the various chores that were involved in a drive of this kind.
Wiffie, not being much of a joiner, stood off by herself while the other students pushed and shoved to be high on the lists for jobs such as Bible Reader, Tract Distributor, Convert Counselor, Tactical Organizer, Smelling Salts Administrator and so on. Wiffie was, after all, a reticent sort of girl; she wasn't cut out for approaching strangers and slapping them on the back and looking them in the eye and asking why in the name of John 3:16 they weren't members of God's team.
"Why aren't you over there putting your name down?"
Wiffie turned abruptly when she heard the voice, and was startled to find herself facing Hampton Budd.
"I was waiting for the other people to get out of the way," she told him, unconvincingly.
"And what are you planning to sign up for?" he asked. "How about Button Pinner? You're the kind of pretty girl that people would like to have come up and stick a pin in their lapels, you know."
"Oh, I wouldn't have the nerve to do something like that!" she said.
"Well, what are you going to do?"
"I don't know yet."
"You're going to do something, I hope. You're expected to. Everyone else is going to be doing something, after all."
"Oh, I'll do something," she hastened to assure him. "But ... Well, I just don't know what it is that I should volunteer for. I'm not much good at anything, I'm afraid."
"I've seen you in Choir." He smiled. "You can sing, can't you? Why don't you sign up as a Street Corner Song Witness? It would be right up your alley. Or on your corner, rather." He chuckled. She did not.
"Well," he asked after a pause, "can you do anything else?"
"I can take shorthand. Not too well, though."
"That's all."
"Well, I can type."
"Great! I'll tell you what: I'm going to be busy in this job, since this is probably the biggest thing to hit FBCC in fifty years, and I'm going to need someone to help me out with press releases, handouts, programs, and everything else that goes into running a drive like this one. How would you like to be my secretary? I don't know any other girls who can take shorthand, and you have to volunteer for something, after all."
"I'd love to," she said softly, suddenly feeling happier than she'd been in months. "I'm not very good, really, but I'll do my best."
"That's all I ask." He put a hand on her shoulder.
At that moment his name was called by Miss Agatha Befle Barnes, and he started to move away. "I'll see you," he said with a wave.
For Wiffie, the evening was over.
CHAPTER THREE
Their friendship progressed quickly and smoothly. At first it was kept in the guise of a business relationship; Hamp would dictate a publicity release, and Wiffie would do her best to take down his words accurately as he spoke in half-sentences and two-or three-word phrases. It wasn't as easy as he had expected, for he was given to throat-clearings, mutterings of "um" and "uh", and sudden changes of mind (" 'Dear Friends in Christ,-uh, make that 'Dear Fellow Disciples', Wiffie..."). But she bore the burden well, and with happiness, for she was working with Hampton Budd, who was more than a B.M.O.C.; he was a good young man, as well. He treated her nicely, usually in his somewhat phonily hearty manner, but with occasional-and, of late, increasing in number-lapses during which he spoke less as a personality and more as a person. At these times he would become quieter, less overtly self-confident, and more concerned with Wiffie's feelings. "Are you tired?" he would ask her after a spell of dictation, and when she would say she wasn't, he would repeat the question several more times, until at last, she would admit that she was. Then he would tell her to put away her dictation and come with him to the campus snack bar, where they could sit for a while over Cokes.
Two weeks went by, and then on Friday evening Hampton appeared at the dormitory and asked the girl on switchboard duty to fetch Wiffie for him. The girl smiled so broadly that it made Hamp blush; she then turned away from him and whispered something into the phone, after fiddling with the various plugs and cords. Several minutes later, Wiffie appeared in the lobby, and the two of them walked over to a worn sofa well away from the switchboard.
"Are you doing anything this weekend, Wiffie?" ("Let me make love to you," he wanted to say.)
"No." Of course she wasn't.
"There's a Youth Fellowship party at the Baptist Church. I thought maybe you'd like to go."
"I only I could take her someplace else!
"It's off-campus," Wiffie replied.
"No sweat. The church has it all set up with the housemothers; the college is even providing a bus." Maybe it'll be dark in the bus. Would she let me kiss her on the way back? Would I have the nerve to try?
Wiffie didn't know quite what to say. It would be her first date. And not just her first date at FBCC but the first of her life. Parsons' daughters did not swing.
"Do you want to go, Wiffie?" His penis was beginning to swell.
"I'd love to." She smiled.
Hamp exhaled heavily and sat with his legs crossed until at last the erection went down.
And on Sunday night, they had their first-and kissless-date.
It was but the first of many dates. Each weekend, some on-campus or approved off-campus activity was scheduled, and before each one, Hamp would ask Wiffie if she would accompany him. Each time, she would answer yes. Soon it became obvious that they were steadies; nothing was official, but the other students began to notice that they always traveled as a couple, and before long Wiffie found herself blessed with a plethora of new friends. "Hi, Wiffie," some young crew-cut from the men's dormitory would say as they passed on the sidewalk; "How goes it?" another would ask with a wink as they ran into each other in the library. It was an exhilarating thing, this realization that she was being recognized by her fellow students; and it made her feel even closer to Hamp. He had not only given her the feeling of being wanted by him, but had given her a sense of belonging on the campus, as well.
It was late in November when the first kiss happened. The two of them had been discussing the revival drive with Mr. Deidrick, Hamp's faculty advisor on the project, when a messenger from the administrative office had come to the door and breathlessly informed them that Mrs. Deidrick, who had been pregnant for approximately nine and a half months, was at long last laboring to divest herself of her firstborn. And so Mr. Deidrick, not thinking about the impropriety of leaving his two charges alone in an otherwise deserted classroom building, hastily excused himself and departed for the hospital.
"It looks like we'll have to carry on by ourselves," Hamp remarked. He eyed Wiffie's sweater-encased breasts.
"I guess so." She looked at Hamp's strong, hair-strewn hands.
"Want to knock off for a while, Wiffie? You work too hard."
"Oh, I don't mind. I...." Wiffie shrugged.
"Don't tell me you want to stay."
"It's just that I hate going back to the dorm right now. Mrs. Ardsley won't let anybody play the piano while she's taking her nap, and I kind of hate the thought of just sitting in my room."
"We could go to the snack bar."
"I know. But don't you ever get tired of going to the same old places."
"I suppose I do."
"We could stay here," Wiffie said.
"Without Mr. Deidrick?" His penis twitched thoughtfully.
"Why not?" she asked. "We won't do anything wrong."
"I guess not." But he wished they would.
They sat for a while, not saying anything; Wiffie doodled on her notepad, and Hamp tugged at a shoelace which he had inadvertently allowed to tie itself into a knot. Finally, he spoke. "You're a nice girl; you know?"
Wiffie said nothing.
"I've known a lot of girls, but I've never met anyone as nice as you. You're so, so...."
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know how to say it. You just make me react so strongly."
"What do you mean?" Her voice registered a touch of alarm.
"I mean that you make feel emotionally nice." (Crossed fingers; forehead sweating. "And physically, too," he wanted to add.) A moment later, he moved his chair closer to hers and put his arm across the back of her chair. Instinctively, Wiffie leaned away from the seatback, drawing her shoulders up in a manner which suggested that she didn't know quite what to feel or, more importantly, what to do.
Hamp reached up with his left hand and placed his fingers gently on Wiffie's shoulder. "Relax," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Wiffie started to bite a fingernail, then realized what she was doing and removed the offending digit from her mouth.
"Look, Wiffie...." He put his left foot on the rung of her chair, raising one thigh higher than the other to conceal the erection which was now forming a noticeable lump slightly to the left of his fly. "Wiffie, stop acting so afraid of me."
"I'm sorry." Her eyes moistened. She lowered her face as though about to cry.
He looked at her; looked at the face turned away from him, at the breasts pushing gently against the green wooliness of her sweater, at the softly curved belly and thighs showing themselves beneath the fabric of her pleated skirt. His organ grew harder; his thigh twitched involuntarily.
"Wiffie, may I give you my ring?" There was a tremor in his voice as he popped the question.
"Yes," she answered softly. She looked up and tried to smile as he took off his high school class ring and pressed it into the palm of her hand.
"Wiffie?"
"Yes?"
"I'm going to kiss you, Wiffie."
Before she could recover from the surprise of his words, she felt his mouth against hers, his tongue darting into the space between her slightly parted lips, and his hand resting on her shoulders. When he sat back and looked at her as if to gauge her re action, she stared back with glazed eyes and hoped he couldn't hear the sudden thumping of her heart.
"We'd better go now," he told her a moment later, his voice quiet. "It's getting late."
They left the room together; Hampton flipped off the lights as he walked out behind her. He hoped she didn't see the stiff bulge of his erection and the odd limp with which he walked to the hooks in the corridor which held her wool jacket and his long, mercifully crotch-concealing surcoat.
It was a Wednesday afternoon in late December. In three hours, the students of FBCC would depart for their Christmas holiday. Hampton Budd, sitting in the campus library with a copy of The Physiology of Erotic Response on the desk of the small carrel in which he had secreted himself, thought of the journey that lay before him, and of Wiffie, who would be with him for part of the trip.
Both Hamp and Wiffie took the overnight train to reach their home towns; Wiffie was to get off at eight the next morning, and Hamp would reach home at eleven-thirty or so. In any case, the evening hours would not be spent idly, Hampton had decided; he had booked a roomette, and with a little luck he would be able to smuggle Wiffie from the coaches and fondle his beloved in the privacy of their little Pullman paradise.
Wiffie. How unfortunate that she was so shy about surrendering to her natural passions. How sad that such an innately warm and sensual creature should be restrained by the chastity belt of Baptist morality which forced her lips to say no when her cunt, if it had the chance, would cry yes.
He thought of her so often; he daydreamed almost constantly, it seemed, and most of the time the dreams would center on a certain part of her body-her lips, for example; her lips after she had kissed him and been kissed by him until she became afraid that someone would discover them behind the hedge of the chapel compound. Ah, those lips! So soft and warm and wet and responsive, with the little smacking sounds they would make as Hamp and Wiffie kissed, sharing their saliva as though taking Holy Communion from a common cup. Take, eat, drink, suck. This is my blood given unto you ... The whole sacrament condensed into a single, tonguing kiss.
And then he would think of her breasts-breasts he had never seen, but which he had felt once, through her bra, when she had allowed him to let his hand slip up under her sweater. Tender breasts. He thought of what they must look like, and visualized rich mounds of white-skinned flesh capped by stiff, pink-red nipples. ". . .Late in the excitement phase, the breasts often increased in size, reflecting the emotional and physiological desire created by the outside stimuli," he had read somewhere; and he envisioned her glorious hillocks increasing by a cup-size, growing outward like his expanding penis, swelling in testimony to the sexuality which lay within.
And her genitals. Oh, Christ! he wanted to say, not caring if he took the Lord's name in vain (for his Christian faith had weakened as his sexual daydreams had increased in frequency and intensity). His right hand slid off the book on the desk as he grew excited in the privacy of his carrel, and he let his fingers rest on the bulge in his trousers, after a while permitting them to knead his swelling cock through the cloth, till soon it was firm, hard, standing as erect as it could within its prison of jockey shorts and chino trousers, trying to burst through the material and into his gently squeezing hand.
Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus God! He wanted her now; wanted her so very badly; and as he felt the pressure building in his penis, he pulled his zipper open in one fast motion, then pushed aside the fly of his undershorts, letting his prick pop forth to assume a tower-like stance of desire.
His hands momentarily returned to the book on the desk, flipping to page 238 and the color illustration of the female vaginal opening. Grasping the volume in both hands, he placed it in his lap, and then-holding the book so it just tickled the hair on his balls-he wrapped the dribbling organ in his handkerchief-lined hand and stared at the illustration as he squeezed and rubbed, over and over, till at last there was a stiffening in the base of his spine and a sensation of joyous burning in his cock, and finally, with his body going rigid, a sudden squirting forth of creamy liquid. Oh, Wiffie! he wanted to cry.
Afterward, with a decided sense of shame, he closed the book, put it back on the table and wiped his cock clean with a dry portion of the handkerchief. He put the now-flaccid organ back in his trousers and looked to make certain that no remnants of the ejaculation had landed on the front of his pants.
Tonight, he told himself. Tonight he would hold Wiffie in his arms. He would make love to her if she would let him; he would cuddle her if she would not. One way or another, he would give her some physical evidence of his love. He was more than willing to give; would she be willing to receive?
They were in his roomette. He was kissing her. He was kissing her mouth, her shoulders, her breasts, and even the white, closely-shaven skin under her arms. His hands moved lightly under the open front of her dress.
She seemed to be enjoying it.
"You're beautiful," he said, and she did not reply. He nibbled at her breast, noting the way the networks of tiny blue veins spread out from her nipples like a finely-wrought spider web.
Wiffie squirmed happily. So did he.
His hand slid down to her hip, and for a moment he let it rest on the sharp hipbone which he could feel through the fabric of her slip. He pressed on it, but got no response. He moved his hand to her calf, where he proceeded to stroke her lightly.
"Your leg feels so soft," he told her, and indeed it did, except for a delightful prickliness where the light, whisker-like hairs had grown out far to give a delicious tickling sensation to the palm of his hand.
Then he touched her knee. Such a lovely knee, really; not large and rough and hairy like his own. And then.. .her thigh. It had a different texture, he noted-not prickly, like the calf, but softly fuzzy.
Higher up, now he moved his fingers in little circles over the delicious flesh. Wiffie pressed her legs together around his hand. My God, she's really responding! he thought.
He tried to move his fingers a little further up, but he couldn't because her legs had the hand in such a tight grip, and he didn't want to just pull it out and offend her, or maybe even cause her tc want to give up the game.. .
He put his mouth against hers. Her lips were so soft, so yielding, so loose and slickly wet on the in-sides toward the gums ... An image of her labia came to his mind as he pressed forward with his tongue and felt her mouth open wider. His tongue went in, sliding past her teeth, searching for the roof of her mouth. He found it-God, this was great-and lost it again, his tongue pushed aside and back by hers as she fought back, caressing, lashing, entering his mouth, going around and around and in and out, trying to push her tongue in as far as she could make it go, scraping over his molars, almost making him gag as she searched for the back of his throat. Jesus, it was so great and wild and wonderful!
He tried again to move his hand higher on her thigh, and she opened her legs for him. He let his fingers slide around to the back of her leg, where he pushed them gently up underneath the elastic of her panties, up and over a smooth, soft, firm and lovely buttock. Then he let them slip down between her legs from behind, just touching the skin which lined the juncture of her thighs. She gasped, spasmodically pushing her hips against his, arching her back and clamping her arms around him as though she had no intention of ever letting go.
My penis! he thought. She'll feel it! He stopped for a moment, embarrassed, then pulled her to him, pressing her buttocks with both hands to hold her against him. He let her feel it through his trousers. He wanted her to know that he was excited and aroused and full of pain and desire and that he wanted her to be aware of it.
They were lying on their sides. He pushed her down into the roomette seat and raised himself ever so slightly so that they were just far enough apart for him to get his hands between their bodies again. He reached for her soft belly and touched it through her panties; then he slid his hand under the waistband, pausing for a moment to linger at her lovely bellybutton.
God, what a navel! he thought, picking out the lint and then discarding it as he spread his hand out and around and down to where the roundness gave way to hair-to the soft, curly and now moist swatch of femininity. He fondled it, and started to move his hand down further, and heard her speak.
"No."
It was all she said. No.
He made his hand stop its southward progress, then moved it upward in temporary retreat. She seemed to relax slightly, so he let the finger slide back to the border of her luxuriant crop of pubic hair, where he fondled a few of the curls as he kissed her along the collarbone.
"Why not, Wiffie?" he whispered.
"No!" she repeated.
It was maddening, this sudden change of attitude. It was maddening, maddening, maddening ... He felt something then; he felt it happening in his shorts, hot and sticky, and he knew he had to do something; that he couldn't stop.
He put his hand in her fur once more. She tried to push it away, and anger stiffened his face into a frustrated frown.
"I love you, damn it!" he muttered in her ear, and he stabbed two fingers into the vestibule of her cunt.
"Stop!" she whimpered. "Please, please stop!" Her tone was almost hysterical, but her voice was still soft enough that Hamp had no fear of its being overheard in the corridor of the car.
"I love you," he repeated, using the two fingers to caress one of the swollen inner lips.
"Oh, God, please!" she whimpered.
He stuck his middle finger in her then; stuck it in as deep as he could reach, ignoring the way her thighs stiffened with the hurt and the shock of it all. He moved the finger around, then pulled it out and balled his hand into a fist, which he moved roughly back and forth outside her cunt.
"Kiss me," he commanded with an angry tremor in his voice, and to his surprise she kissed him even more passionately than before. And as their tongues lashed like fighting snakes, he rubbed her crotch, unballing his fist and using his fingers to fondle her clitoris, and occasionally to slide down and strum her love lips back and forth. With each squeeze, with each caress, she squeezed him back, now pressing her teeth into his shoulder through the cloth of his shirt as her fingers made rapid movements up and down his spine.
He reveled in it. Manipulation, clitoris.. .all the knowledge gleaned from the "Foreplay" chapter of a friend's paperback sex manual came to his aid as he caressed her. Then he remembered something, suddenly; he thought of the hymen, and of how tight Wiffie was down there, and he realized that she was a virgin. Oh, he had known it all along, of course, of the fact, and to know that no other man had ever entered her; that, indeed, it was highly un-likely that any other man had ever fondled her as he was doing now. At that moment Hampton felt a tenderness toward Wiffie; his anger disappeared, and his voice took on a kind and loving tone. "I love you," he told her, this time in a soft whisper. She squeezed him, then moved her lips from his shoulder to his ear, and nibbled the lobe in reply.
A moment later, contractions. Her bottom was bouncing as her crotch pressed itself against his moving fingers, and her upper thighs seemed to crush his hand rhythmically as her breath came in gasps. "Oh, Hamp," he heard her say.
In a few seconds it was over, and she groaned happily, keeping her thighs squeezed tightly about his hand as if her organs didn't want to say goodbye.
Finally, she pushed his arm away and sat up. She kept her face turned away, declining to meet his gaze as she picked up her discarded clothing and began to put on her brassiere.
CHAPTER FOUR
Peter Frenum found his mind wandering to the Negress and her cock-swelling hermaphroditic beauty. He discovered himself dreaming of her shaven cunt; he saw the smooth mound with its sprinkle of short black stubble, and he dreamed of letting his eyes follow that dark mound's curve to the indentation of her rich outer lips.
But those lips were more than an indentation; between her thighs they hung like loosely drawn velvet drapes, heavy and full, curtains which, when her legs were spread, failed to conceal the delights that lay within. He could imagine her inner labia, and above them the sheath of her clitoris, which swelled as he gave it a mental caress.
Could this beauty have been a hermaphrodite? He began to wonder. Surely the scar tissue of surgery couldn't display such delightful prickles of pubic whiskers; certainly no physician could duplicate nature in creating vaginal lips where a scrotum had existed previously. And he couldn't imagine such a voluptuous vagina being the product of a surgeon's scalpel, gynecological dilators or a bandage full of grafted skin.
Surely she'd been putting him on. Indeed, she had said so herself, in the end. And yet it was almost fun to wonder; he found himself intrigued by the possibilities of hermaphroditism. What if she had been born not with a clit and scrotum, but rather with a vagina and cock? He could visualize it easily, and it excited him to think of what such a defect could mean. He could see himself fucking her, wallowing in the juices of her vagina with his cock battering against her cervix while her own cock slid back and forth against his lower belly, dribbling and finally ejaculating on his abdomen and, on his withdrawal, leaving a syrupy trail in his pubic hair. He could see the two of them performing fellatio; her mouth sucking his prick while his lips grasped her member, his fingers all the while buried in the moist cave of her cunt. He could imagine crying, Go fuck yourself! in a moment of anger, and then watching her try to do just that. He could imagine fucking her in the vagina, then rolling over and feeling her prick stabbing into his ass-hole.
It was exciting; deeply so, in fact, and it prompted him to scrape up his week's saving for a pair of new models.
New York, a summer festival, Peter Frenum told himself. It hardly mattered that it was still spring. In his apartment there existed an artistic festival; a carnival of cavorting models, of the slapdash application of paint, of the thrilling madness of turning human bodies into living Sistine Chapels which would change back to normal, Cinderella-style, with the first strokes of a bar of soap.
Peter was, in his way, a liberal; he believed in equal rights for all, and in integration, and in the necessity for people to love one another and treat each other in the kindest possible way. And so, liberal that he was, he would often pose pairs of children, with each child of a different race and often of a different sex as well. Today he had chosen as King and Queen of his festival two youngsters in the third grade-a flabby-fat Puerto Rican boy of nine, and a pretty little black girl who was eight. He gave each of them a dollar and told them that if they would continue to visit him and reap such benefits, it would be necessary for them to keep their mouths shut. The children, dollars clenched in their little fists, were not inclined to argue with him, so Peter proceeded to undress them.
First he undressed the girl, working from the feet up. He took off her shoes, and pullover dress. She wore nothing else but panties. "Keep them on," he told her, and then he proceeded to work on the embarrassed and blushing boy.
He did the job slowly. Again, he starting by removing shoes and socks; this time, however, he tarried before moving to the next item of clothing, spending a few minutes caressing the boy's feet. "Jesus washed the feet of his disciples," Peter said. "I'm going to paint yours, but the effect will be the same."
He patted the boy's right ankle, then reached up to unbutton the child's shirt. Next came the tattered jeans, and soon the boy, like the girl, was clad in nothing but underpants. Peter stared at the shorts for a moment, noting the small bulge of the genitals, and the damp spot where a dribble of urine had worked its way out of the boy's bladder and through the penis onto the cotton cloth. "Don't be afraid," he said in a kind voice. "I'm not going to hurt you."
At this point he took the two children in his arms and pressed each of them to his hips. "I'm going to paint you," he said. "I'm going to show you how art is an expression and an extension of human emotions."
He then instructed the children to face one another and remove their underpants; they did so, and Peter smiled as he watched the Negro girl, without a trace of self-consciousness at her nakedness, beginning to tickle the flabby body of the blushing, giggling boy.
Peter spotted a slight swelling of the boy's minuscule cock. In a nine-year-old child, no less! "Come here," he said, and the boy broke away from the girl and did as he was told. Peter knelt before the child and gently, almost shyly, placed three fingers of his right hand beneath the boy's undeveloped scrotum and his thumb against the top of the small penis. The prick swelled slightly more, and stood halferect against his thumb.
"That's very good," he told the boy. "You're growing up into a little man."
Then he began to paint the children. On the fat boy he painted a phallus twelve inches long and four inches wide; it was topped by a machine-gun flash-deflector, and next to it Peter painted a daffodil, and the legend, FLOWER POWER, NOT BULLETS IN VIETNAM. The boy thought it funny, but Peter stopped his giggling with an icy stare; art was meant to be appreciated, not ridiculed
-especially when the art had such a serious message.
"It's like a gun," the boy said.
"It's a social commentary painting," Peter explained as he painted a hand grenade on the boy's lower abdomen. "Politics is a part of Life, so politics must be incorporated into art which intends to accurately portray Life."
'Oh." The boy's incomprehension was obvious.
"Forget it." Perhaps as the boy grew older, he would come to understand; in the meantime, his belly would serve as a useful canvas, even if his mind didn't make him a particularly appreciative audience. Peter turned away from the boy, and sighed.
On the girl, he painted breasts, each one was a spiral of black and white, and he told her that she could pride herself on being the first eight-year old girl with op mammaries. She didn't understand him any better than the boy had, so Peter just smiled wanly and tickled her vulva, and didn't bother explaining the thought behind the painting-the idea of black and white being brought together, drawn out of the swirling forces of a mad society and forced into union, feeding together on the spiritual nipples of Life, and ... Well, the metaphor was a bit extreme, perhaps, but the idea was a clever one.
Tears began to fill Peter's eyes as he surveyed his creations; he faced the girl to the boy and thought of how the gun on the one could destroy the good on the other, of how bullets aimed at yellow foreigners could easily ricochet and kill black-white understanding, and ... Yes, the metaphor was a bit much, all right, but the tears continued to come into Peter's eyes, and he wished for a gallery, for a place to display the kind of living art which, with luck, would affect mankind far more than the fad-and-fashion stuff which was made, sold and bought by craze-crazy socialites and tax-deducting businessmen and faggy interior decorators and ... well, by all the people who claimed to love art but who seemed to avoid looking at or sharing in the blood-guts, machine-gun-cock paintings which characterized the art of Life.
"You're beautiful," Peter told the children, a sob in his voice. "You're lovely. You're real. You're ... You're Life." Suddenly he knelt and drew them to him, pressing their bellies against his cheeks and kissing them, one at a time, on their tiny genitalia. He first took the boy's penis in his mouth, ignoring the urine that dribbled onto his tongue, and then he parted the girl's thighs slightly, sliding the tip of his tongue between them and onto her hairless outer lips.
The children were frightened by this, and by Peter's sudden tearful intensity.
"I want to go home," the Negro girl said, bursting into tears.
"Me, too!" The Puerto Rican boy tried to escape from Peter's grasp, but was held by the artist's grip his arm.
There were sounds in the hallway, and Peter grew cautious. "Keep your mouths shut," he whispered nervously, the tears easing and presence of mind returning as he found himself forced to cope with the possibility of an unexpected situation.
"Open up!" came a Negro-accented woman's voice from the corridor.
"Mom-" The girl tried to call out, but Peter pressed his hand over her mouth to shut her up.
"You better open this door," the woman called from the hallway. "You open this damn door or so help me God I'm going to call the cops!"
Peter had no choice; he whispered to the children that if they didn't want to get in trouble they would have to keep quiet, and then he went over to the door, which he stood behind as he opened it several inches.
"My daughter's in there," the woman said in an accusing tone.
"There's no one in here," Peter countered. "Except me, of course."
"My little girl's friend said she saw Pearlie Mae come in here," the woman insisted.
"Well, your daughter's friend was wrong." He tried to close the door, but the woman had her foot in the jamb.
"I've heard about you," she said angrily. "I know about the kinds of things you do with innocent babies. I don't know why they didn't take you away yet, you.. .you white trash!"
"Oh, come on now!" Peter forced a laugh. "Let's watch the name-calling, all right?"
"Pearlie Mae! Are you in there, Pearlie Mae? Call out to me, honey! It's okay. I'm here to take you away from this bad man who wants to hurt you."
"Mommy!" The little girl's voice rang out loud and clear.
"You no-good bastard!" the woman hissed, pushing the door open with all her strength and running across the room to her child. "I'm here, Pearlie Mae. What did the man do to you, child?" She snatched up a palette knife with which she could defend them if the necessity arose.
"He painted me," Pearlie Mae told her mother. "And Paco, too," she added, pointing to where the naked boy cowered behind a low cabinet, his face crimson with shame.
"That's right," Peter said, his voice trembling. "I painted them. Two little babes, threatened by bombs not of their making, misled by a society which says that love and sex are evil ... I painted them, trying to draw on their innocence to create a new artistic experience, to-"
Peter found his momentary eloquence interrupted by the Negro woman. "Artistic experience! What kind of imagine talk's that? You go around smearin' paint on kids when they're naked as jaybirds and you call it art?"
"Jaybirds aren't naked," Peter protested. "They have feathers. And if you want I'll take your little girl and some blue paint and I'll show you how I can make her look just like a jaybird, if you like jaybirds. And-"
"You just shut up." The woman faced Peter and waved the palette knife menacingly as the two children dressed behind her. "You think I don't know nothin' about art? I read an article on it in Ebony magazine. There wasn't no painting naked children mentioned, either. Now you get out of the way or I'm going to cut you wide open!"
"That knife's not very sharp, I'm afraid. It's for spreading paint, not for cutting people up."
"Well, you just keep away from my child. And other people's kids, too, even if some of them are spicks. I've got a brother in the Panthers. We stick together, Mister. Us black folks stick together." She grabbed a child with each hand, and the three of them rushed out the door, Peter hesitated for a moment, then went to the doorway and called out after them, his voice somewhat choked, his emotions out of control as he shouted at the departing woman. "But I like black people!" he cried. "And I want you to like white people! And I want all of us to be brothers and sisters, and...."
But she didn't hear him, or if she did, she didn't answer. "You're not a liberal!" he finally shouted at the stairwell. Then, more softly, once again, "You're not a liberal!"
He closed the door and went into the sleeping alcove. Weeping now, he lay down on his bed and almost unconsciously began to jerk off. He held his pillow against his loins, pressing the feather-filled bag around his cock and rubbing it up and down till he could feel an erection swelling to full size. He thought of little boys and little girls, of tiny penises and hairless scrotums resting in his mouth; he imagined sucking them, sucking till piss flowed from the several organs and ran down his throat, and as he visualized this he moved the pillow faster and faster, and the semen began to dribble from the knob of his prick. And as the mini-cocks and scrotums disappeared, to be replaced in his mind by ten pink child-cunts moving up and down his fingers, the fantasy got lost in the burst of sexual heat which flowed through his body. His penis jerked and twitched and spewed semen onto the pillow, and as he squeezed the prick-tip to get the last of it out, on his fingertips as well.
Peter Frenum carefully removed the pillowcase and buried his face in it, anointing his cheeks and forehead with his come, and wishing he could share it with a friend.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was amazing how much a girl could learn in so short a time. Christian morals, chastity, all the other trappings of the faith became meaningless once a girl was away from her parents' supervision. Well, maybe not meaningless, but at least a whole lot less important.
It was only February now, little more than a month since Hampton Budd had first fondled Wiffie's organs February, the beginning of the semester break, and once again she and Hamp were going home on the same train.
It was Hamp's fault that she was now in his roomette. He had talked her into coming with him, and she had been embarrassed and worried as they walked together through the coaches. Did anyone guess what they were up to? Were there students who suspected that Hamp and Wiffie weren't going to the buffet car for a snack, but to Hamp's roomette and into one another's arms?
And now, here they were. Her dress was off, hanging on the coat hook, and her slip was bunched around her waist, leaving her now-naked breasts open to Hamp's lips and gaze. She almost wanted to reach for her bra, to get dressed and go back to her coach seat and fall asleep with the knowledge that no one could accuse her of really doing anything wrong. And yet she wanted to stay, too; she wanted to feel his hands on her breasts and thighs and elsewhere; she wanted to feel his hard penis pressing against her through his trousers. For their activities, wrong or not, never failed to excite her. His hand would slip up her leg to touch her parts through her panties, fumbling through the thin cloth until he could feel her begin to respond. And then, every time, it was fingers inside; fingers tickling the richly-haired lips and stroking the clitoris and bringing her to orgasm, almost against her will, but somehow with her cooperation, too.
Oh, yes, it was wrong; all of it was completely wrong by the standards her family had so clearly set down for her. Still, she loved it. Her better judgment might tell her no, but her instincts told her yes. And Wiffie had become a creature of instinct. Hamp knew it, and he made sure that she realized it too.
In a matter of minutes, her fears and second thoughts began to fade from Wiffie's mind as Hamp's fingers tiptoed through the tulip stems of her fur, and the fluids of passion began to moisten the jungle of hair. Hamp's hand moved onward and inward, and before long, Wiffie was quivering in the agonizing but lovely quest for sexual release.
She felt her panties being pulled down. "Leave them there," she mumbled, but it was as though Hamp had not heard. He touched her clit again, then let his hand go underneath to the perineum, then back and forth between the close-lying cheeks of her behind. She didn't fight back when his wrist pushed on her panties so that the thin silken garment slid down further on her thighs; and seconds later, when she arched her hips in search of greater pressure from his fingers, his hand left her clitoris just long enough to pull the panties past her knees and off her ankles before her bottom could settle on the seat.
But the panties didn't matter to her now; she sought only his fingers, and she let him pull her closer to him, her knees forced to open themselves across his thighs until she was straddling his lap and tightening her leg with passion as his fingers probed to the fleshy mass of wetness which, jelly-like, now quivered more than ever with desire.
And then, without her knowing it, Hamp unzipped his pants and freed his stiffened penis. A moment later, she felt it pressing against her clit,. then sliding between the swollen lips and resting in the vestibule, with his right hand moving it around and around till it made her gasp with need.
It was too much for her, this prick at the entrance to her cunt, swirling about as the organs of both Hamp and Wiffie bounced against each other to the rocking, jarring rhythm of the train. Suddenly she felt it go deeper in her, and she forced herself down on it, virtually swallowing the prick in one fast and painful move, sucking it into her and squeezing her cunt walls about it.
In an instant she was moving up and down on him, sucking his hardness with her quivering cunt, entirely unaware of the blood that mingled with her juices and ran down her thighs. Then, hardly seconds after he had entered her, Hamp came. As she held his penis fast with her vaginal muscles, the semen burst forth inside her, lubricating her cervix in a fountain-like frenzy before falling back on the rapidly shrinking head of his prick. She tried to keep him locked in her, but her efforts were in vain. In a moment he was out, his prick hanging worm-like through the opening of his pants as his hand moved quickly to dry it with a handkerchief, and then to staunch the flow of blood and semen from Wiffie's aching cunt.
Barely conscious of her actions, she grabbed his prick and fondled it; she squeezed its tip and fondled its underside and tried to make it big again, so that it could force its way back inside her and give her the satisfaction she needed so desperately. But her caresses were of no avail.
"I'll cuddle you," Hamp told her, his hand moving to tickle her heartbroken clit.
"No," she said, pushing the hand away. "Come back inside me," she whispered with passion and a touch of shame. "Please!"
He couldn't, of course. Not yet, anyway. And so he did what seemed the next best thing. Holding her tight against his torso with one arm, he reached out with the other and grabbed his open overnight bag. He rummaged for several seconds, then drew forth the object he sought. It was a candy bar.
He ripped off the red and white wrapper. It was an ugly thing, consisting of chocolate-covered nuts with a chewy center; it looked remarkably like a hard piece of shit.
Wiffie didn't see it, but she felt it soon enough. She felt it being pushed into her; felt its hardness lacerating the walls of her cunt. She tried to cry out with pain, but the sound wouldn't come; her chest held itself in a tight knot as the candy violated her sopping crotch.
But it wasn't long before the intruder was lubricated, and Wiffie let her vagina close about it, the muscles caressing the candy bar as her hands tightened around the back of Hamp's neck. As he moved the bar, so she moved her cunt, and with each thrust, the pleasure was greater. At last there was a bursting of sensation within her; a climax of such intensity that it left her on the verge of fainting.
Wiffie collapsed against Hamp's chest and gasped for breath. "Lie back," he commanded, a tremor of renewed excitement creeping into his voice. She obeyed, rolling off his lap as he moved from the seat. She let him spread her thighs as she lay back on the small sofa, and it was with warm contentment that she allowed her fingers to play in his hair while he brushed his lips along the insides of her opened legs.
"I love you," she heard him say before his mouth moved to the chocolate stump extending from her cunt and then she felt a pleasant tickling sensation as his teeth began to nibble on the candy bar's tip.
When he sank his incisors into the bar and pulled it back an inch or so, she felt a tiny twinge of pain; but when his mouth pushed it in again, the pain gave way to a tentative tingle of pleasure and before long her knees were firmly pressed against the sides of Hamp's head as he ate the candy, at the same time moving its remnant in and out of Wiffie's ever-tightening cunt.
The spasms came, after a while; spasms of pleasure, ending only when the last of the candy was pulled from her thrashing crotch.
When it was over, Wiffie's emotions were tainted suddenly by shame. But her remorse was cut short when she felt the hardness of Hamp's penis pressing into the palm of her hand. She strove to suppress the tears which had formed in her eyes as he lifted her hips from the seat and prepared to mount her. She did her best not to cry out as she felt the prick slide into her aching cunt.
May third-three months later. It was clear that Wiffie was no longer a virgin. Fourteen fucks had made that pretty obvious. Fucks on the train. In the hedges near the chapel, in a motel on the several occasions when they had managed to sneak off campus by crawling through a cyclone fence-a hole thoughtfully created by Hamp and another male student whose libido required regular doses of gratification.
Fourteen fucks. Her love-hole had been tight at first, but with each meeting of prick and cunt it had widened its horizons, until now she could accept his penis as painlessly as a child's mouth sucking in the shaft of a peppermint stick.
The early love sessions had been a mixture of shame and passion, but after the fifth she had thrown away her guilt for the most part, trading it for the touching and heart-warming oneness of physical and spiritual union. They had performed their own marriage ceremony, using his prick as a finger and her vagina as a wedding band. They needed no minister to bless the union in the eyes of God; the Lord knew of their love, and of their sincerity, and they felt that to His way of thinking, as to theirs, the union of Hampton and Wiffie was as binding as any sanctified in the candle-lit sanctuary of a church.
How Wiffie loved Hampton! Wonderful Hamp. His prick was like a gift each time he pushed it in. Each time they made love, he brought her to readiness with the glorious tickling of his finger on her clitoris, and then came the standard missionary fuck, with him on top; or occasionally a fuck from behind, both of them lying on their sides. Or they would do it like dogs, or sitting, or standing, or with Wiffie kneeling over him as he lay on his back. Unfortunately, there were problems. She had missed a period. Twenty-six days had passed since the first stain was to have appeared, and not a dribble or a trickle had made its way onto the napkin which, with crossed fingers and hope, she had kept strapped to her crotch almost constantly for three weeks.
She lay on her dormitory bed now, unpinning the napkin and removing it, baring the furry entrance to her cunt. Holding a mirror between them, spreading the love lips and examining the tissues inside to see if anything seemed different.
She didn't know what to look for, of course. Indeed, she didn't know if there should be anything to see. Could pregnancy change the appearance of her outer organs? She had no way of knowing. But she examined herself anyway, figuring that if there were any differences, she would see them.
She moved the mirror to her left hand and put two fingers of her right inside her cunt. Nothing seemed particularly different. The dry fingers irritated the sensitive tissues, however, so she withdrew them, lubricated them with a generous quantity of saliva, then put them back and pushed them in a bit deeper. Again, nothing different, though she absent-mindedly began to think of Hamp and his six-inch prick. Her index finger moved out and up to her clitoris, which swelled to meet the searching whorls of the fingertips.
As the tingling grew, with Wiffie watching each fondling and swelling in the mirror, someone knocked on the door.
"Wiffie?" The voice was Mrs. Ardsley's.
Wiffie threw down the mirror and stood up, grabbing her panties and pulling them on in one fast jerk. "Come in," she called, in what she hoped was a normal voice. She sat demurely, hands folded in her lap, as Mrs. Ardsley inserted her master key in the door, opened it, and strolled in to sit on the room's only chair.
Mrs. Ardsley stared at Wiffie for a moment, her eyes boring into the girl's, her face bearing an expression which Wiffie couldn't fathom. Finally she spoke.
"There's been ugly gossip about you, honey."
"What do you mean?" Fear. A tightening in the bowels.
"Some of the girls have seen you vomiting lately."
"Oh, for Pete's sake! I can't help it if I get sick now and then."
"You were seen vomiting on three different occasions, Wiffie, over a period of a week. And Phys Ed tells me that you didn't miss your usual three or four days of gym."
"Well, I was sick three different times. Too many candy bars, I guess. And I didn't miss gym last month because my period wasn't as serious as usual. I took some Midol for my cramps."
"Of course."
Mrs. Ardsley sat silently for a moment, then shook her head and muttered a tsk-tsk-tsk. "But that doesn't stop the gossip. The last time you went home, you were seen going into the Pullman section with Hampton Budd."
"That's a lie," Wiffie protested. She regretted the denial immediately upon uttering it; there was no use quarreling with what obviously was the truth.
"Don't lie to me, honey. I have it on good authority that you did."
"All right." Her mind sought frantically for an excuse. A moment later, she had one. "I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to get the wrong idea. We were just going to the observation car; that's all. Hamp wanted me to see what the first-class lounge car was like."
"Four hours is a long time to spend in an observation car, dear. Particularly when there isn't one on the train."
Wiffie didn't know what to say, so she simply sat with her head bowed in shame while Mrs. Ardsley told her of the consequences of her behavior. Suspicion of illicit sexual behavior brought automatic expulsion from FBCC, and lying to a campus official-such as Mrs. Ardsley-earned the same punishment.
"You're in trouble either way you look at it," the woman warned finally.
Wiffie was on the verge of tears. "Please, Mrs. Ardsley, don't let them expel me. What would my parents say?"
"You should have thought of that before you started.. .messing around, darling." The woman's voice was firm.
"Isn't there anything I can do to make up for it, Mrs. Ardsley?"
"There's one way, Wiffie," the woman told her in a soft tone of voice. "Come to my room, and we'll talk about it."
"Can't we talk here?"
Mrs. Ardsley shook her head. "In my room."
Wiffie followed her down the corridor, her stomach aching with butterflies as her eyes wandered to Mrs. Ardsley's enormous ass.
"Take your clothes off," the woman ordered as she locked the door of her suite.
"What?" Wiffie wasn't sure she'd heard right.
"I want you to take everything off," Mrs. Ardsley commanded.
"Not everything, please!"
"Well, you may leave your panties on for the time being, I suppose. Undress in the bathroom if you wish."
Wiffie was reluctant at first, but when the woman reminded her of possible expulsion, she went into the bathroom and did as she was told. Five minutes later, she emerged naked except for her panties, clutching a towel to her chest.
"Drop the towel," the housemother said.
Wiffie hesitated, but did as she was told.
Mrs. Ardsley's eyes scanned the youthful body, resting first on the bud-tipped breasts, then gliding down to the belly with its pert navel, and settling finally on the lace bikini panties with the wisps of pubic hair peeping through the leg openings, to lie dark against the creamy skin of the girl's thighs.
"You wear rather revealing underwear," the woman said softly. Wiffie merely blushed.
Mrs. Ardsley, too, was undressed. Her enormous, blubbery body bounced with each step she took, and Wiffie could hardly bear to look at the pendulous breasts, the Santa Claus belly, the vast black menopausal patch of pubic hair. When the woman walked to the closet, Wiffie felt sick, staring at the fleshy buttocks and the backs of the varicose thighs; her stomach went weak as she watched the woman open her legs slightly and stand on tiptoe to reach the top shelf of the closet; it was disgusting, seeing the hint of vaginal hair from behind.
When Mrs. Ardsley turned, she was holding a plain cardboard dress box, which she carried to the bed and opened as carefully as one would open a case bearing precious stones. She put her hands in the box, then withdrew a black corset which hung stiff with wire and whalebone. Slowly, face flushed and lungs wheezing, she slipped the corset around her torso, then turned her back to Wiffie and with both hands grasped a post of the old-fashioned brass bed.
"Come here, Wiffie," she commanded in a voice heavy with sexual excitement.
Wiffie obeyed, and stood directly behind her.
"Wiffie, I want you to lace this up for me. Lace it as tightly as you can."
Wiffie did so, taking several minutes to get the laces through all the holes. Mrs. Ardsley stood gripping the brass bedpost, trying to be patient but breathing more erratically with each passing moment. "For heaven's sake, hurry up!"
Finally, when the laces were in place, Wiffie began to tighten them. With the first tug, Mrs. Ardsley's body stiffened; Wiffie heard a sudden gasp from the woman, and stood back, afraid that she had hurt her housemother in some way.
"Keep tightening, please!" Mrs. Ardsley said with a slight shudder.
Wiffie stepped forward and resumed her labors, pulling the laces tight until she feared that the woman was on the verge of nervous collapse.
She need not have worried. As the corset was drawn tighter, Mrs. Ardsley seemed to grow stronger in body as well as in passion; again she urged Wiffie to pull harder, and she continued to show greater excitement as Wiffie yanked on the strings until red marks appeared where the top of the corset cut into the housemother's Jello-like flesh. "Tighter," Mrs. Ardsley hissed once more; and Wiffie, bracing a foot against the frame of the bed, leaned back and pulled with all her weight and strength.
Mrs. Ardsley arched her back, then fell shuddering against the bedpost, pressing her crotch against the metal and, in a moment, going limp and almost falling to the floor.
'"Are you all right, Mrs. Ardsley?" Wiffie poked at the woman, fearing that the housemother had suffered a heart attack.
"I feel wonderful, dear," the woman said in a soft, kindly voice. A minute or two later, she regained her strength and composure and stood up, taking Wiffie into her arms. "Thank you so much."
"You're welcome," Wiffie replied. It seemed the appropriate thing to say.
"Let me do something for you now," Mrs. Ardsley offered.
"That's all right."
"Please." The woman's tone was pleading. 'That's okay. You don't have to. It was nice just seeing you happy." Wiffie didn't want any more of this, of course, though she felt a twinge of excitement in her loins. She just wanted to go back to her room.
"I want to," Mrs. Ardsley insisted, her voice losing some of the grandmotherly quality now, and becoming more firm.
Wiffie sighed and shrugged her shoulders.
"Lie down on the bed," Mrs. Ardsley commanded. Wiffie did as she was told, and then the woman grabbed Wiffie's panties in both hands and pulled. Wiffie blushed as her pubic thicket sprung into view.
Mrs. Ardsley patted her thigh. "Just relax, dear." She tried, but without much success.
In a moment the woman had Wiffie's thighs spread and was moving her lips up one leg to Wiffie's well.
"Please," the girl whispered.
Mrs. Ardsley misunderstood. "Of course," she said, and with a plunge, buried her tongue in Wiffie's sweet young cunt.
A short time later, the girl's fears had begun to subside. Perhaps it wasn't so bad after all; she was helping to make an old woman happy, was she not? Kindness was the golden rule.
She lay there, thighs open and hands gripping the sheets, her nipples hard and her body tingling as Mrs. Ardsley's tongue ran up and down her slit. At last Wiffie's climax came, and her hole was like a waterfall as she pressed her crotch against Mrs. Ardsley's face and tightened her legs around the fat, gray-haired neck.
Somehow Wiffie found herself thinking of Hampton Budd's prick, and with that image to spur her on, she came, and came, and came again.
CHAPTER SIX
Hardly more than a week after the strange confrontation with Mrs. Ardsley, both Wiffie and Hamp left FBCC for good. Wiffie was, in a way, the cause of it all; she had refused to go to bed with Mrs. Ardsley for a second time, having little desire to spend the next three and a half years of college as a sex partner to her housemother.
"I'll have you expelled," Mrs. Ardsley warned. Wiffie countered that she could report Mrs. Ards-ley's erotic tastes to the administration, but the housemother made the point-and it was a valid one-that at FBCC the word of a campus official was always taken over that of a student. "I've been here for twenty-three years," she told Wiffie calmly. "You've been here since September."
Mrs. Ardsley reported Wiffie and Hamp to the proper campus authorities, and a special meeting was scheduled to consider the charges. Wiffie did not plan on reporting Mrs. Ardslev's Lesbian habits; obviously, to do so would be as damaging to herself as to the housemother, and there seemed no point in making herself worse than she did already.
The meeting was to take place on Tuesday morning. On Monday night the housemother in the men's dormitory noticed that Hampton Budd was missing from devotions, and so she checked his room. His effects were gone; all that remained was a note reading, "I hereby announce my resignation from Ferguson Barnes Christian College. Give Wiffie my love. (Signed) Hampton Budd." As it turned out, then, only Wiffie was formally expelled; she stood before the conference table in the administration building and heard the charges which had been placed against her, and the verdict which the special committee had rendered. "Guilty," the president announced, adding that it was shameful that a minister's daughter could stoop so low.
It was home, then; home to hostile parents and the uncertainty of what would come next. Hampton had run out on her, that was the only real certainty. Without him, there was little to care about or live for. Oh, she would go on, but she wasn't sure why.
Her father picked her up at the railroad station. As he loaded her bags into the trunk of the car, he gestured toward the train and shook his head.
"That's the cause of it all, isn't it?" he said sarcastically. "I thought my daughter knew better. How could you have lost every trace of Christian morals!"
It was a very bad scene. Her mother cried a lot; her father, after the one outburst, just treated her the way he treated Negroes who tried to sit in his church-that is, unctuously and badly. "Sex is sinful," he told her. "You knew that. How could you let yourself? And pregnant! May the Lord forgive you. I'm not sure your mother or I can."
They put her in the guest bedroom that night; "You're not our daughter any more," her father said to her. "You won't sleep in your old room until you've proven that you're worthy of the family name again." And so she slept in a strange bed that night, yet in a room next to her parents-so close that she felt they were keeping her there just so she'd feel more imprisoned than she would have otherwise.
At midnight, still unable to go to sleep, Wiffie began to hear noises from her parents' room. It was the sound of talking, interspersed footsteps and the opening and closing of drawers. As silently as she could, the tiptoed into the hall, where she knelt before her parents' door and peeped through the keyhole.
The room was well-lit, and her father's ass was the first thing she saw. It was bare, a pallid double hump of flesh that almost hid her view of the bed. Yet he was wearing his black clerical vest and round collar, and as he turned sideways toward the mirror above the low dresser, she could see that his penis was erect.
"I'll bet they did it like this," her father said. "In front of the roomette mirror." He put his right hand on his rod-like member and waved it at the mirror.
"Don't be silly, Jacob," her mother said quietly.
"All right, then how did they do it?" her father countered with an evil laugh.
"Just like everybody else," her mother replied in an impatient tone.
"Show me how everybody does it," Wiffie's father said. He walked toward the bed.
"You know how it's done."
"You bet I know how it's done!" he said, laughing again, and with a sudden lunge he grabbed the sheet and blankets and pulled them to the foot of the bed. He grabbed his wife then, turning her onto her belly and forcing her flannel nightgown up around her waist. He slapped her on the buttocks again and again, until at last she begged him to stop.
"Show me how it's done," he commanded once more.
"All right," Mrs. Gilford said with a sigh. She rolled onto her back and raised her knees, spreading them apart.
"Not so fast. I'll bet that's not the only thing they did.
A look of suspicion crossed the woman's face. "What do you mean."
"I'll bet she sucked him off first," he said. "That's a perversion.
"Sure, it's a perversion. But show me how she did it."
"I won't, Jacob."
"Damn it, woman show me how she did it!" He climbed onto the bed and knelt beside her, then grabbed her head in both hands and pulled it forward until her lips were in front of his swollen prick. "Show me," he commanded, his voice hard and trembling.
Silently, Wiffie's mother took the prick's head between her lips and held it tentatively.
"Deeper," Jacob ordered.
The woman obeyed, closing her eyes and forcing her mouth to slide several inches up on the penis. He then grabbed her head once more and, in his excitement, forced it all the way up, until her nose was buried in his pubic hair. The woman gagged and grasped her throat, trying to stop the choking.
"Then they did it like this," Wiffie's father said, withdrawing his prick from his wife's mouth and forcing her down against the mattress, pushing her knees apart and forcing his hard-on into her dry cunt. She gasped with the pain of it, and her legs stiffened.
A few moments later, after a series of vicious pumping motions, Wiffie's father began to breathe more heavily. "And then they came like this," he growled, his throat constricting on the last word as his legs stiffened and his ass tightened with the effort of bringing forth seed.
Afterward, he wiped his soggy prick on the sheet, got up and turned off the ceiling light, then switched off the lamp on the night table on his side of the bed. Wiffie heard the squeak of springs, and her father's exhausted breathing as he lay beside her mother. There were no further sounds except her mother's quiet sobs, the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway, and Wiffie's footpads as she tiptoed back to the guest room and got into bed.
In the morning, she was almost glad to hear her father say that she would have to go away. "We're sending you to New York," he told her. "You'll live in the Wayward Women's Home, a house that the church runs for unwed mothers. There you'll be taken care of and taught the importance of Christian morals until you have the child. You'll be expected to work to help pay your way, of course; I believe the home publishes tracts for distribution to guidance. Perhaps you'll want to read a few of your fellow unfortunates and others in need of those tracts yourself."
Both parents took her down to the train. She changed trains in Chicago and rode a Penn Central coach to New York City, where an ancient woman was waiting for her at the station. The woman patted Wiffie on the shoulder and kissed her cheek. Oh, no! Not another Mrs. Ardsley! Wiffie found herself thinking. The woman made no further overtures, however, and they rode in silence to the Wayward Women's Home in the East 20's.
Immediately on arriving at the home, Wiffie was given a physical examination. The doctor was a palsied man in his seventies or eighties who pawed her breasts almost absent-mindedly, presumably in a vain effort to find cancerous lumps. He saved the pelvic examination for last, and when the time came, seemed barely able to find her cunt. Bending over and peering at her crotch, he put a finger forward and felt around. The finger ended up pressing jerkily against her rectum.
"Ow!" Wiffie said as he tried to push the rubber-glove digit into her anus.
"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head as though to clear the cobwebs. He bent closer then-so close that his nose was almost tickled by the hair of Wiffie's outer lips. "That's it," he said with a friendly chuckle. Then he inserted his finger in the opening and felt around. "Very nice," he told her kindly. "Firm. You should be happy that you're young."
When he'd finished, he patted her on the belly and wandered out of the examining room, forgetting to remove his gloves."
"He's something, isn't he?" the nurse said, shrugging her shoulders.
"Yes, he is," Wiffie replied.
She tried not to jerk back in embarrassment when the nurse suddenly bent over and stared into her cunt. "Don't mind me," the woman said, poking a finger inside. "The doctor's pretty forgetful. Once he left a cotton swab in a girl, and somehow it got wedged so it wouldn't fall out. The poor kid couldn't figure out what was poking her in there until it was time for her next examination."
With that, the nurse stood back and told Wiffie she could remove her feet from the stirrups. She stayed in the room while Wiffie dressed, rinsing the doctor's examination instruments and putting them into a sterilizer.
"Tell me something," the nurse asked as Wiffie pulled on her stockings. "What's it like, doing it for the first time?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know: Doing it with a guy for the first time. Does it hurt much."
"A little."
"I've heard that it can hurt a lot. My sister was raped in the basement when she was twelve. A couple of the neighborhood toughs did it. When she came upstairs afterward, she was crying and her legs were coyered with blood."
"It must have been horrible." Wiffie felt a genuine sympathy for the girl.
"It was. My mother beat her. She just couldn't believe that my sister hadn't encouraged the boys.
Then she made Alice lie down on the kitchen table. While my mother filled an enema syringe with soapy water, I had to wash Alice off. Every time I touched her there with the washcloth, she'd cry out and beg me to be more careful. Then my mother came over with the syringe and stuck it inside her to kill the sperm. Alice was so nervous and tense for months after that, that it made me resolve never to do it with a man."
"Not even if you got married?"
"Me? You must be kidding." The nurse twisted her mouth into a bitter smirk, then unbuttoned the front of her uniform. Her chest was almost flat-she didn't even wear a bra-but on it there were four nipples. "My mother used to call me the bitch," the young woman said. "She told me I should have puppies, if I didn't mind doing it with dogs." The nurse buttoned up her uniform.
"I'm sorry," Wiffie said, stunned and full of compassion. "I'm really sorry."
"Wiffie ... You don't mind if I call you by your first name, do you?"
"Oh, no."
"Great. You can call me Susan." She bowed her head, then looked ;. . her gaze boring into Wiffie's eyes. "I'd like to ask you a favor, Wiffie."
"Yes?"
"Wiffie.. .do you think you could ever bring your self to play with my breasts?"
"I don't know what to say," Wiffie replied, reacting more from sorrow for the girl than from shock.
"Just say that you will."
"All right; I'll try."
"Thank you, Wiffie." Tears filling her eyes, Susan came over to Wiffie and pulled her against her flat chest, kissing her on the lips. 'You're so kind."
Susan's hand moved underneath Wiffie's blouse and up to unhook her bra. Wiffie tried not to shrink away when the hands moved over her breasts, one at a time. Soon she felt her nipples hardening under the roving fingers. "I think you'd better stop," she said.
But the nurse ignored her plea, and Wiffie felt herself breathing more heavily as the hands continued to cup and fondle her breasts. She barely noticed Susan's other girl's knee pushing its way between hers, and against her better judgment she bit her Up and kept her mouth shut when the woman's other hand slipped down and lifted Wiffie's skirt.
The poor thing has been through so much! Wiffie thought as the hand moved up between her thighs. Her trepidation dissolved into responsiveness as the fingers reached her panties and stroked her organs through the thin cotton cloth.
Life in the home wasn't as bad as Wiffie had expected. Most of the girls were friendly; all of them had the same sense of shame and fear that Wiffie felt, and their common predicament gave them the kind of esprit dc corps that one finds among elite soldiers and prisoners of war. They meditated together, not many of them taking their devotions too seriously. They worked together, taking turns with washing dishes, doing laundry, and performing the other chores which they were required to do if they were to stay in the home.
Several weeks after her arrival, Wiffie was sent on her first tract-distributing mission on the Lower
East Side. "Wear this cross," her supervisor said, handing her a cheap tin crucifix some four inches in length and three wide. "Keep it around your neck and outside your clothes at all times, and people will know you're a servant of Christ. Most of the Puerto Ricans are Christian and won't hurt you if you're wearing this, and the Jews are all too old and sick to bother you anyway."
Wiffie was put on a bus and told to get off at Seventh Street; she would then work her way eastward until she reached Avenue C, where she would walk back toward Tomkins Square and distribute the remaining tracts to anyone she might see in the park.
The work was difficult at first; Wiffie wasn't used to dealing with strangers, especially strangers who spoke with foreign accents, if they knew English at all, and who left garbage in hallways and whose apartments reeked of unwashed bodies and closed-in cooking odors.
"I'm a Christian witness and I'd like to give you something that may help you," she was supposed to say. But most of the people looked at her oddly when she did so, and after a half-hour of distributing tracts in the officially prescribed manner, she simply began sticking them under doors hoping that no one would ask her what she was doing.
Alas, she had no such luck. "What do you think you're doing?" a young hippie type asked as she stuffed a handful of tracks into a mailbox.
"Passing out tracts," she told him.
"Groovy. Say, do you want to try a joint?"
"No, thank you."
"Come on. It'll make you see God, man."
"No thank you." She smiled at the oddly clad young man and walked on.
On east Seventh near First Avenue she almost fell against a man who opened his apartment door just as she was slipping a tract beneath it.
"What's that?" he asked, bending to pick up the-pamphlet. "Hey, a tract! Come on in. I used to be a Chaplain's assistant in the service; you know that?"
"I'm not supposed to go into the apartments of single men," Wiffie told him. "Is your wife at home."
"I haven't got a wife. But come inside anyway."
"I'm afraid I can't."
"Come in, for Christ's sake!" he commanded, and Wiffie-not wanting to incur his anger-did as she was told.
"What's your name?" he asked as she sat down. He seemed awfully nervous, Wiffie noted; as nervous as she was, if not more so.
"Wiffie Gilford," she said.
"Really. I'm Peter Frenum. I'm an artist. But I guess you can see that." He waved a hand in the direction of the paints and easels at one end of the room. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.
"No, thank you. I can only stay a minute."
"Don't be silly," he told her. "Look: I need help as much as anyone. You have no idea what a fix I'm in. I used to paint kids, but I'm afraid to now. This lady said she'd call the police if she caught me at it again. I can't afford to hire models more than once every week or ten days, and I'm almost going out of my mind with frustration. You have no idea how bad it's been." He bit at a fingernail, then looked up and smiled. "Hey, I've got an idea. You let me paint you, and I'll let you preach to me. How's that for a fair offer?"
"You mean you want to paint my portrait?"
"Sort of."
"Well, all right."
"Take off your clothes, then," he suggested. "What?"
"I said to take off your clothes. That's how I paint, you see. I paint bodies. Breasts, bottoms, backs, thighs.. .you name it. It's a new art form. I call it painting Life."
Wiffie tried to get up and leave, but Peter motioned her to sit down. "Look," he said, "you don't know your way around very well, do you?"
"No. I'm new to New York."
"I thought so. Well, pretty soon you'll begin to realize how badly you need a friend-a real friend. I'm willing to be that friend, if you'll let me paint you. I promise not to take advantage of you in any way."
After thinking over and discussing it for a while longer, Wiffie agreed to a sitting. "But only on my thighs," she insisted.
"That'll do for the time being," Peter told her, standing up and pointing to the bathroom. "You can take your dress off in there. You wouldn't want to get paint on it."
A short while later, Wiffie was sitting on a hard-backed chair and blushing as she held her slip around her hips, watching Peter Frenum paint winged penises and toothsome vaginas from her panties to just above her knees.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hampton Budd reached New York just three days after Wiffie did. As he carried his two suitcases through the crowded main concourse of the Port Authority Bus Terminal, his feelings were mixed; he rejoiced in the freedom he now enjoyed, but in the back of his mind there lurked a trace of fear. This was a world new to him-a world of millions of people packed into concrete canyons and subterranean catacombs of commuters and subway trains; it was a city not known for kindness to strangers, and newcomers, and Hampton couldn't help but wonder if he had been wise to leave home in the middle of the night in an effort to break the chains of fundamentalist morality and to find a new and more exciting way of life.
And perhaps he could find Wiffie. He had called her parents, disguising his youthful voice in an effort to get past her mother to Wiffie herself.
"Hello. I'd like to speak to Wiffie Gilford, please," he had said. "I'm doing a survey on girls who have been expelled unfairly from schools and colleges."
Her mother had replied, somewhat crisply, that her daughter was no longer living at home, but had gone to New York. New York! He had started to ask for Wiffie's current address, but Mrs. Gilford had hung up on him before he could finish the question.
God, he felt ashamed of himself for the way he'd treated Wiffie! But at the time, it had seemed the most sensible thing to do. If he wasn't there to testify at the committee hearing, they couldn't force him to say anything incriminating about her, could they? Of course, his departure had been incriminating in itself; what an emotional and thoughtless dummy he'd been not to realize that! In any case, it probably wouldn't have mattered either way. And now, perhaps he could find her somehow, and explain that it had all been a mistake.
Before he could do anything, he had to find a place to live; and so he got into a taxicab and asked the driver to take him to a cheap hotel. "In Greenwich Village," he added. The driver, a former would-be bohemian poet who had married a nice girl from Flatbush and traded his Village pad for a flat in Brooklyn and three ornery kids, winked into the rear-view mirror and did as he was told. "I know a place just west of Washington Square," he said. "It's a real dump, but you can get a single for seventeen a week, and I've heard the place swings."
The hotel-The Armitage Arms, it was called-was indeed a dump; paint was peeling from the walls of the entrance foyer, and the proprietor was a shifty-eyed little man with garlic on his breath. "Seventeen dollars in advance," he said. Plus eighty-five cents city hotel tax." When the man had stuffed the seventeen eighty-five in his pocket and watched Hamp fill out the registration form, he took the lad up to room 304. "The bath's down the hall," he said after depositing Hamp in the room. "When you flush in the toilet, don't pull too hard on the chain. The lever came loose last week. And try not to piss on the floor. Also, I don't care what you do in your room as long as you pay the rent, but don't make too much noise." The room was depressing. Its linoleum floor was dirty and cracked in several places, and when Hamp opened the built-in wardrobe he saw a roach scurry into a pile of old newspapers. The chest of drawers was painted a sickly light green, and the desk was small and rickety and held a dirty glass. The bedsprings squeaked. Still, it was home, and it was nice to know that he had a place to stay. Now there was only one thing to worry about-a job.
He took off his shoes and lay down on the bed. Worrying could wait; right now he needed a nap.
Hamp's first job was that of a theater usher. The Regency, a musical house on West 44th, was in need of someone to fill in for an usher who had been busted on a pot charge. After four fruitless days of trying to get a job in an advertising agency, Hamp heard about the opening from the hotel proprietor, whose brother worked in the theater's box office. "You need a job, right? Look, this is the world's greatest opportunity. This is how a lot of guys break into show business. Who knows? You could become a playwright, an actor, a producer ... And in the meantime you'll make enough to pay next week's rent."
And so Hamp took the subway uptown to Times Square, where he located the stage entrance and wandered up and down dusty staircases till at last a man in janitor's coveralls asked him what he was doing and directed him to a dressing room. There Hamp found the head usher, a kid of twenty-three or so with the muscles of a discus thrower (you could see through his T-shirt) and the poise of a ballet dancer. His name was Ernie, and he looked Hamp over carefully, arching his eyebrows and finally shrugging his shoulders and rendering his verdict. "You'll do fine. Have you ever ushered?"
"No." Hamp tried to keep his eyes off the young man's tight jeans, where a prominent bulge revealed a more than adequate endowment of masculine equipage.
"No sweat. I'll personally keep an eye on you till you learn the ropes." Ernie placed a warm hand on Hamp's left shoulder and guided him into a larger dressing room next door, where Hamp saw a half-dozen young men-all of them slim, and most with carefully tended hair-standing about in various stages of undress. One was wearing Jockey shorts and a T-shirt; another wore nothing but tight stretch bikini briefs in red and white stripes. A third was bare from the waist up and was busy stuffing a handkerchief into the fly of his excessively tight uniform pants.
"Welcome to the Latin Quarter," one of the boys said. "Or are you dressing with the fellows down the hall?"
"I thought we'd keep him here with us." Ernie smiled, and several of the boys laughed. Turning to a rack of uniforms, he studied Hamp carefully and pursed his lips. "We'll find you something to wear," he said. "I'll bet I can guess your exact size."
Hamp jumped when, after the performance, a hand slapped his underwear-clad buttocks as he was taking off his uniform in the dressing room.
"Cut it out," he said.
"Not another bore!" the young man who had accosted him pouted.
"Leave him alone, for Christ's sake," Ernie said. "He's only here till Sammy gets out of jail."
"If Sammy gets out of jail."
"Sammy'll get off; just wait and see. I heard they only found the stuff on his body. He'll get off somehow."
Hamp was almost dressed, and as he tied his shoelaces he looked up and asked Ernie how much longer the job would last.
"A couple weeks, maybe. I don't know. But don't worry about it. You ought to be able to find something else before Sammy gets back. Wednesday and Saturday are the only matinee days, so you can go job-hunting the rest of the time."
When Hamp got up to put his coat on, Ernie grasped him by the arm. "Stick around a while," the young man told him, nodding to another of the ushers who immediately went over and shut the door.
Hamp looked puzzled, so Ernie smiled at him and explained. "You're straight, aren't you?"
"You mean.. .not a queer?"
"Gay, baby," another usher insisted.
"I'm sorry. Yes, I'm straight. And if you don't mind, I think I'd better get home."
"Oh, hang around for a few minutes," Ernie argued. "Nobody's going to force you to do anything. We just thought you should see how the other half lives." He chuckled, and was joined in his laughter by the two other ushers who were still in the room.
One of the young men was standing in front of the dressing table studying his eyebrows in the mirror and plucking stray hairs out with tweezers. Now he turned around and smiled at Hamp, puffing up his bare, well-muscled chest and putting his arms behind his head in Mr. Universe style. "You like?"
"I'm sorry," Hamp answered. "That's not my thing."
The queen shrieked with laughter. "That's beautiful!" he said. "What a really sweet double entendre!"
He turned back to the mirror, admired himself for a moment, then stripped completely, to reveal an uncircumcised member surrounded by wiry black hair. He let his right hand move down to his prick and almost absent-mindedly began to massage its underside. The organ began to expand, and Hamp couldn't help noticing how the knob-like tip swelled forth from its sheath. The youth stroked it more purposefully now, and drew back the foreskin to reveal the ruddy head.
Jim, a well-built Negro of at least six-four, dropped his uniform trousers and drew them off. He hung them carefully over the back of a chair, and removed his T-shirt and Jockey shorts. "You just stand right there, Bill baby," he drawled softly to the nude queen as he straightened up and turned around so Hamp could see his massive purple-black cock.
"You sure you don't want to join the action, fella?" he asked, his eyes boring into Hamp's.
Hamp only shook his head. He knew he should leave, but curiosity and an odd sense of courtesy made it impossible.
While Hamp was busy trying to keep his gaze from settling too obviously on the Negro's swollen, stallion-like prick, Ernie was undressing behind him, and before long Hamp was the only one of the four with clothes on. The others were now passing a tube of K-Y jelly back and forth as they lubricated their organs and took turns bending over to have the jelly rubbed into their asses.
Hamp's penis was hard, and he surreptitiously reached down to adjust the trousers so the erection would be less obvious. Fortunately, the others were busy touching each other tentatively and trying to settle on a course of action for the coming orgy.
They ended up with the Negro in the middle, Bill in front and Ernie behind. The Negro made the first move.
"Scream, baby," he snarled, throwing Bill against the dressing table and stabbing his enormous cock between the boy's willingly spread thighs. Bill stiffened and let out a shriek as the black cock was thrust into his anus.
"I'm going to fuck the shit out of you, you white mother-lickin' bastard," the big black snarled as he rammed his rod all the way into Bill's smooth-fleshed ass. Bill's eyes closed and his lips tightened in an ecstatic smile as Jim reached around with one arm and let his hand wrap around Bill's waiting cock. The two of them moved excitedly, Jim thrusting forward again and again as Bill responded with a rhythmic, slightly rotating motion accompanied by the steady squeezing and loosening of his fingers on Jim's fondling hand.
Ernie moved toward the two now, smearing another gob of K-Y on his hardened cock and gauging the angle of the hole between the black man's buttocks. Gently, he placed a hand on Jim's right hip; the Negro responded by bending slightly and opening his thighs. Ernie reached between the spread legs and felt around for a second, then put his penis in position and eased the slick member into the cavity. When he had buried the full length of it, he sighed happily, and Jim responded with an extended grunt of appreciation.
The three moved together, a well-disciplined team; Bill would push back as Jim thrust forward, and as the Negro backed off from Bill's ass-hole, Ernie would drive his organ more deeply into Jim. It was like some strangely obscene ballet, and Hamp could not help being aroused. Guiltily, he let a hand slip into his pocket, where he pressed the head of his penis with his fingertips.
The combination of his fingers' pressure and the texture of his underpants was almost too much. Unable to restrain himself, Hamp pushed his stiffened finger hard against the bottom of the pants pocket. Innumerable washings in the FBCC laundry had made the material weak, and it took relatively little effort for the fingers to break through the cloth, whence they could find the opening of his undershorts and touch the swollen penis inside. He let his index finger smear a dribble from the prick's tip down to its underside, where there was the greatest sensitivity; in a moment, semen began to pour from his penis, not in orgasmic twitching but in a steady stream, as though there had been an overflow from his glans, and his cock were" a safety valve to relieve the pressure. Hamp hurriedly withdrew his hand from the pocket, but it was too late; the stuff had made a sticky puddle in his shorts, and in a moment it would soak through the cotton and into the fabric of his trousers.
His eyes still on the three queers, Hamp walked to the clothes rack and took his knee-length surcoat from its hangers. Thank God it was long enough to cover the inevitable stain.
The fags were on the verge of climax now. Jim smashed Bill's torso against the dressing table and stabbed into his ass-hole as deep as possible; Ernie followed, embracing the Negro's torso and tightening his ass as he shoved his organ in to its full length. In a moment, Hamp witnessed a three-way orgasm accompanied by noisy gasps and groans, and when the three had finished their spasms of mutual delight, they slid into a heap on the floor, snuggling against each other and breathing heavily with exhaustion.
Ernie looked up lazily and saw Hamp fiddling with the lock of the dressing room door.
"You're coming back tomorrow night, aren't you?" he asked.
"I don't know," Hamp replied. He felt ashamed now; ashamed of watching, and ashamed of the semen which soaked the front of his pants.
"Look, come on back. You need the six bucks."
And indeed Hamp did. For an evening's work, it wasn't much, but it helped pay the rent. He would be back, embarrassing though it might be. But next time he would wear two pairs of undershorts-for greater protection and absorbency-just in case.
"Good night," he said, opening the door.
Ernie smiled and blew him a kiss.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wiffie was lying on the bed in Peter Frenum's apartment. Each time she moved, there was a slight rustling of the waxed paper that had been placed beneath her body to protect the sheets from paint. Happily, she stretched and sighed as she watched Peter mixing his poster paints on the far side of the room. She felt no embarrassment in the fact that she wore only bra and panties. She was, after all, an artist's model, and artists were accustomed to such sights. Indeed, a good many painters were used to completely nude models. An intriguing thought, she mused.
Wiffie could safely pose nude for Peter if she wished; she was sure of that. She could be mother-naked, stripped to the buff, and have nothing to fear, Peter was so trustworthy and kind. He had painted only her thighs that first day and had done nothing but paint and occasionally touch her with reverent fingers to position her legs or to keep her from putting her knees together and smearing the work. And when he had painted her back, on another day, it had been the same: his brush playing on the vertebrae, making a mural of her sweet young flesh; his hands occasionally taking her by the shoulders to move her torso forward or back as was required. And when he had painted her belly, that had been sweet too. He had tickled her with his brushes, but he hadn't tried to molest her in any way; indeed, when she had pushed her panties down so he could do her lower abdomen, he had warned her to pull them up a bit to cover a stray wisp of pubic hair.
What would it be today? He had painted all the rest of her by now. Why not ... Why not her breasts, or her fine pretty buttocks? She wasn't embarrassed by her body any more, nor was she ashamed as long as her nudity was witnessed by someone she trusted. It seemed time to prove her faith in this man who had been so sweet and kind.
"Peter?" she called softly.
"Yes?"
"How come you've never asked me again to pose nude?"
He put his paints down and came over to the bed. He sat on the edge and held Wiffie's hand. "I don't know. I guess I thought you'd be afraid."
"I'm not afraid any more." She squeezed his hand, and felt him return the gentle pressure.
"Let's do it, then. You can undress in the bathroom if you like."
"That's all right. I don't mind doing it here." She sat up and swung her legs off the bed. "Would you undo my bra?"
Peter took the back strap in both hands and fumbled with the closure. It came unhooked, and Wiffie scrunched up her shoulders as the harness slid off. She was a tiny bit-embarrassed, but the feeling passed quickly, and she lay back down, feeling her nipples tingle slightly as they began to harden in the cool air of the room.
"Do you want to do my breasts first?" she asked.
"Why don't we try a full body mural, all at once?"
"Help me with my panties, then." Wiffie placed her fingers in the waistband and slid them down. She blushed as she saw Peter's eyes fix quickly on her bronze patch of pubic hair, then shift away.
Without asking, Peter reached up and pulled the panties down to her knees; Wiffie raised her hips to make the job easier. Then Peter paused a moment and touched Wiffie's bush with gentle fingers. He smiled. "Don't be afraid of anything," he told her.
"I'm not. I'm placing myself in your hands." She smiled back at him.
He pulled the thin underpants down to her ankles and held them there while she drew her feet from the garment, one at a time.
Peter tossed the panties to a nightstand and stood up. "I'll get the paints."
Wiffie knew she should feel a bit strange, lying there naked-not necessarily embarrassed, but perhaps a wee bit goosebumpy or uncomfortable. But after those fleeting moments of shyness while Peter had helped her undress, she felt nothing but pride; pride at pleasing a fine person like Peter, and pride at somehow proving to herself (and, were they here, to Mrs. Ardsley and her suspicious parents) that the human body was not necessarily a vessel of filth.
Now Peter began painting her, and Wiffie lay back and sighed happily as the brushes laid curlicues of color on her shoulders and spiraled down to her collarbone and the tops of her breasts. When they simultaneously encircled and dabbed at the tips of her nipples, a shiver coursed through her body; it was a delightful shiver, and Wiffie giggled and beamed up at Peter, who smiled back.
One brush gradually made its way to her navel and then tickled her lower belly as Frenum painted seraphim on the abdomen, topping things off with a line of yellow paint which traced the trail of light hair-sprouts between her bellybutton and pubic triangle. Then, without a word, Peter moved to a position closer to the foot of the bed and pushed Wiffie's legs apart, at the same time lifting her knees. "Hold it right there," he said quietly. (Wiffie failed to notice the tension in his voice.)
At first it was like being examined in a gynecologist's office, but the discomfiture passed soon enough, and she closed her eyes and relaxed as Peter's brush dabbed paint in her bush and made tiny fleurs-de-lis high on the insides of her thighs. She felt a warmth in her loins, and spread her legs slightly wider, unconsciously letting her hands tense slightly and grip the edges of the bed.
When the tip of Peter's brush touched her clitoris, Wiffie tightened up all over, and her legs opened even farther. She relaxed slightly when he pulled the brush away, but in a moment it was back again, tracing her clit from where the bud was buried in flesh to its sublimely sensitive tip. Wiffie strained against the searching fibers, and an involuntary gasp burst from her lips.
"This will be beautiful," Peter whispered softly.
Now he let the brush stroke the insides of her outer lips; it touched the edges of her labia minora as it did so, and once again Wiffie's body responded with a stiffening and an outburst of pent-up breath. When the brush moved inside, to bury its tip in her vaginal opening, Wiffie rotated her hips slightly and began to breathe more deeply.
Peter withdrew the brush and tickled Wiffie's clitoris with it, then slid it back down and in suddenly. Wiffie's hand found his wrist and held it tightly, not in an effort to prevent his movement , but rather to encourage them. Soon she heard Peter breathing hard too, and in a moment she felt his lips touch each of her nipples in turn, and then move down to the gentle roundness of her belly.
She was quivering with excitement when his tongue replaced the brush at her vulva, and as it painted a line of saliva from her clitoris to the interior surfaces of her labia minora, she moaned and let her fingers entwine themselves in Peter's hair.
She did not object when he pulled his head away and got up on the bed, taking his fingers from her opening and pressing on the vestibule with the head of his swollen prick. The gigantic bulb of his penis lay still for a moment in the sweet, hot bath of her love juices, then slid into her, followed by the almost wrist-thick shaft.
It hurt her at first; Hamp's organ had been nowhere near this big, and she felt her female pocket being stretched, almost rent by the enormous cylinder of hardened flesh. But the pain passed quickly, to be replaced by an even greater excitement and the desire to hold, to grasp, to rhythmically caress the member in her tight, slick hole.
Her spasms were completely spontaneous, entirely beyond her control; she gripped his cock in an involuntary tightening of her cunt and held it fast a moment, finally releasing it, then squeezing it once, twice, three times, four times, again and again until the twitching, sucking motions gave way to a surge of gentle warmth and pleasure at finding Peter still bucking above her, pushing in and out in a furious effort to bring himself to climax. Wiffie tightened her arms around his back and kissed his neck as he gasped out his thanks and squirted his seed into the sweet, warm recesses of her cunt.
"Thank you!" he gaped again when it was over. She just patted him on the back and held him close as he lay exhausted on top of her. It had been good for both of them, and in her generosity there had been virtue; she had no cause for guilt.
She heard him singing while she was in the shower, and as she rubbed the soap under her arms and down over her breasts, she closed her eyes and put her face in the stream of water and hummed along with him.
Hampton Budd's job at the Regency lasted only a week and a half, but by the end of that time, he had acquired two things: considerable knowledge of how homosexual theater ushers amuse themselves, and a new job. The job didn't pay a great deal, sixty-five dollars a week, plus occasional overtimebut it was interesting. He was a clerk for the New York Anti-Smut Society, a private non-profit organization devoted to stamping out obscene literature, movies, works of art and other threats to the city's sexual morality.
Hamp's job involved filing, for the most part; "shoppers" for the society-mostly unpaid volunteers-would scour the city's bookstores, newsstands and the like in a never-ending search for erotically stimulating materials. They would bring the offending items to the Society's headquarters, for distribution to the permanent staff and Society officials. When the senior staff members and Board of Trustees had studied the material, they would decide whether legal action was in order. In most cases, they considered that it was. For example, the Society was involved in a particularly important case when Hamp began work in its offices. It seemed that a large midtown bookstore, usually considered a thoroughly respectable establishment, had stocked copies of a marriage manual which contained actual photographs of unusual coital positions, cunnilingus, fellatio and the like. The Society considered it obscene, and had immediately purchased several copies of the book, sending one to the District Attorney's office and keeping the others for its various files and speakers displays. Hamp spent considerable time filing such books in the Society's library, and he found the material very educational, though he had to be careful not to peruse the books' contents when his superiors were around.
Not long after Hamp had started work for the Society, one of the paid shoppers, an elderly Presbyterian minister, suffered a heart attack.
"Shit," Hamp's boss muttered. "How the fuck am I going to complete the file on our action against Biceptual Publications, Inc.? " He lit a cigarette and pondered his predicament for a few moments, then buzzed Hamp on the intercom. "Come in here," he commanded. "I've got an emergency on my hands."
Hamp stuck a collection of "artistic" color slides back on the library shelf and went into his superior's office. He was told that due to the minister's severe illness, the organization needed a fill-in shopper, and that he was it. "Want you to scan all the 42nd Street bookstores and see if you can find a magazine called 'Muscle Pix & Poses', " the boss said. He explained that it was a homosexual publication devoted to the glorification of the male physique.
Hamp felt rather uneasy when he entered the first store; it was filled with sailors and young male office workers and the like, and when he asked for the homosexual section, the clerk winked and pointed to an aisle in the back. Hamp walked toward the rear, his cheeks burning, and suddenly stopped in his tracks when he saw an elderly priest standing in front of one of the racks, his fly open and one hand caressing a leathery brown prick surrounded by a thicket of white hairs. Hamp tried to pretend that he hadn't seen anything, and left the store. But before leaving, he debated whether to tell the clerk of his customer's transgression. The hell with it, he decided. He'd hate to give the impression that he had anything against the Catholic Church. After all, he was no longer at FBCC. And anyway, you had to feel sorry for any normal male who couldn't get married.
The second store was less crowded, and Hamp found the magazine he was looking for after a minute or two of searching. He took three copies off the rack and took them to the front, where he paid for them and watched the clerk count out his change.
Suddenly, as his eyes absent-mindedly gazed out the front window of the store, he saw a sight that made him blink in disbelief. Wiffie! He grabbed the magazines from the clerk, who had by now placed them in a bag, and without so much as a thank you, he headed for the door and out onto the street.
"Wiffie!" he shouted, and saw the girl stop, stiffen arid turn around.
"Hamp." She said his name softly, without expression, as though she didn't know quite how to react.
He took her shopping bag from her and placed a hand on her waist. They walked along together, toward Sixth Avenue and a bright afternoon sun.
CHAPTER NINE
At first Wiffie didn't fully trust Hamp and his declarations of never-ending love. His reasoning about resigning from FBCC and leaving her in such an embarrassing predicament seemed less than logical; his leaving her in the lurch while she was pregnant (though he hadn't known of her delicate state at the time; it hadn't been confirmed by a physician until the morning of her expulsion) seemed, at best, unkind.
Yet there was something so sincere about Hamp that his continued protestations of love touched her, inspiring trust and forgiveness. She knew that he made little money; he had told her so himself. And yet he had taken her to a fairly expensive Italian restaurant for dinner, though she had insisted that Check Full O' Nuts would be just fine. And he had seemed genuinely concerned when she told him of her pregnancy. "Let's get married," he said immediately.
Marriage was unthinkable at the present time, of course. But it was kind of Hamp to be so gentlemanly and proper about the whole thing.
"I'll have the baby and give it up for adoption," she told him as they dawdled over their veal scaloppini. "I can't keep it; it would be unfair to the child."
"Why not get married?" he insisted for the umpteenth time.
"We're just too young. You know that. Even if we could afford it, it wouldn't be right. I'm not ready to be a mother."
"Are you ready to give your baby-our baby-to some stranger? Not knowing what kind of life the kid's going to live?"
It was a good point. And finally, after much discussion, they settled on the only practical solution; abortion.
Wiffie cried when they talked about it. Oh, the baby didn't seem real to her yet-not human; not really-but there was something so revolting, so cold about the idea of an abortion. Not murder, perhaps, but something almost as bad. In the end, however, she agreed that it was the only reasonable course of action, and Hamp promised to set things up for the operation.
"There's a cop who moonlights as a shopper for the Anti-Smut Society," he explained. "I've heard him talking about getting an abortion for his daughter, who was running around with a Negro. I'll tell him you were raped by a black nationalist or something; that ought to get him to part with some advice."
Sure enough, the cop came through; he gave Hamp a phone number. When Hamp called, a male voice answered, and Hamp was told that Wiffie would have to wait at the corner of Eighth Avenue and 23rd Street at eleven a.m. on the following Tuesday. "She's got to be alone," the man said.
"But I'm the fa-her fianc�. I mean. I want to go along and make sure she's safe."
"Look, fella, we know what we're doing. And we always insist on the girl being alone. Take it or leave it."
After a moment of thought, Hamp took it.
When asked about payment, he explained that Wiffie had several hundred dollars in savings bonds that had been given to her by an elderly aunt some years before. "Well, tell her to bring whatever she can with her-in cash. It's got to be at least four hundred bucks," the man said. Hamp agreed, and that was that.
The two men had picked her up in a Ford van. "In the back," one of them had told her, and Wiffie had sat on the floor of the truck as ordered. She had been unable to see where the van was going, so when they arrived at a nondescript brownstone in a run-down neighborhood, she had no idea where it was that she'd been taken. Indeed, she was too nervous to care.
They took her upstairs and into a small apartment. One of the men-the older one, apparently the abortionist-took her four hundred dollars in twenties, then told her to go into the back room and strip. A few moments later, he came into the room and instructed her to lie down. "Over there," he said, pointing to a battered leather psychiatrist's couch next to a window covered by Venetian blinds. With a certain amount of fear and a greater amount of embarrassment, Wiffie did as she was told. It seemed like a less than ideal setting for an operation; hardly sanitary, and certainly un-like any doctor's office she had ever seen.
The abortionist went out of the room and returned a few moments later bearing a tray of medical instruments. He walked over to a washbasin in one corner and washed his hands carefully, then negated the effort by wiping them on a dirty towel.
"My assistant will give you something to put you under," the man said curtly. He then sat down on a stool at the end of the couch and directed Wiffie to raise and spread her knees. "Slide your ass down toward me," he said, and Wiffie did so with trepidation. The man stared at her cunt for a moment, then proceeded to stroke her clitoris.
Wiffie was startled, and tried to pull away from the offending hand. "Relax," he told her. "Just take it easy. It makes for an easier job if you're lubricated."
She tried to relax, but the feel of the rough fingers caressing her organs, and the sight of the bald head with its rim of unkempt gray hair circling the skull, was too much for her. She heard the man's deep breathing, and detected a sniff when he leaned close to her opening, and was almost thankful when the assistant-a twentish man, rather effeminate-pricked her arm with a hypodermic needle and sent her off to sleep.
When she woke up, Wiffie noticed first that the room was darker than before. There was no light coming through the Venetian blinds; night had fallen, and the only illumination in the room came from a bare fifty-watt bulb over the washbasin.
She lay still for a few minutes, conscious of a slight ache in her loins. She looked down; she was still nude, and there was blood-some of it dried, some fresh-on the towel that lay beneath her buttocks. She felt a momentary need to vomit, but it passed quickly, and she put her head back down on the couch and groaned.
At the sound of her voice, the abortionist entered and flipped on the overhead light. He came over to her and bent down, inspecting her crotch and smiling as he noted the only moderate amount of blood on the towel. "Well, you're not bleeding to death; that ought to cheer you up." There was an edge of contempt in his voice.
Wiffie lifted her head from the couch, but felt dizziness come over her and lay back once more. "Do you think you could cover me with something?" she asked. "I don't feel very comfortable, being naked like this."
The abortionist smiled; it was an ugly smile, and it frightened her. Then he chuckled, and there was cruelty in his tone. "You came for an abortion, not for comfort, you little whore."
"I don't understand." Wiffie's voice betrayed her fear. "Look, I paid you four hundred dollars. Why can't I have a sheet or a blanket or something? And when can I go home?"
"Oh, all right, you can have a sheet." The abortionist turned his head and shouted toward the door. "Harry, get us a sheet." Then he resumed talking to Wiffie in a normal tone:
"You can go home when I say you can," he said. "You're not ready yet. Anyway, we have to get the rest of your payment before you can leave."
"But I gave you four hundred dollars!" Wiffie cried in disbelief.
"Yes, but our normal fee is a thousand. We did the job for four hundred because you seemed young and in trouble, and we didn't want to deprive you of the chance to enjoy a decent life. However, we do expect a little something extra to make things worthwhile for us."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll see." The man laughed harshly again. "Just take it easy. You'll find out soon enough."
The assistant came in with a sheet, and the abortionist told him to wrap it completely around Wiffie. Then the older man went to a cabinet and took out a roll of heavy nylon cord. While his assistant held Wiffie down, they tied her arms to her sides and her feet together, then strung the remainder of the cord around the wooden legs of the couch. Wiffie tried to scream, but the younger man's hand covered her mouth just in time. And when they finished tying her to the couch, she was gagged. "Take it easy, now," the abortionist told her. "You're not going anywhere, so you might as well get some more sleep."
She lay like that for almost eighteen hours. She wasn't allowed to get up to wash or defecate; by the time the men united her, she had urinated twice (involuntarily; she had kept her bladder full till the last possible moment each time) and, in one attack of fear, she had soiled the sheet with a sudden spasmodic outburst from her aching bowels. When evening came on the second day of her confinement, the two men untied her and took her into the bathroom. The younger one held an open switchblade knife in his hand, and warned that a scream would cost Wiffie her life.
They watched while she showered. She kept her back to them, wishing there were some way she could hide her buttocks as she was attempting to hide her breasts and pubic fur. There was something so degrading about washing this way; it was awful, rubbing her vaginal opening with a soapy hand to wash away the dried blood and urine, and knowing that they watched as she reached around to soap her anus with its dried excrement, feeling their gaze on her back as she soaped each breast in turn and raised her arms to lather and then rinse her underarms.
As she dried her body with a harsh towel, she felt a hand reach around her and grab a breast; she pulled away and heard a contemptuous laugh. She tried to feign indifference when strange fingers reached between her thighs and touched her vulva from behind, and she did her best to stifle a sob when one of the fingers pushed inside her, causing a twinge of pain.
When she was dry, she scrunched up her shoulders and walked with knees together as they accompanied her back to the room; she begged for her clothes, but the two men only laughed again.
"You won't be needing them for a while," the abortionist told her. He took a length of cord and stepped behind her, pulling her arms toward him and tying her wrists behind her back. When he was finished, he led her to the couch and made her lie down on her back. He pulled her legs open and forced her feet over the sides, tying each ankle to a couch leg with the sturdy cord. "Now you'll pay the rest of that fee," he muttered. Wiffie watched in terror as he unzipped his fly.
She struggled to break her bonds as she saw the man advancing toward her, his penis hanging limp through the open fly. He slapped her across the face and shoved her back down on the couch, then straddled her waist and pulled her torso up.
"Give it a good hard suck now," he told her, pure cruelty in his tone.
Wiffie whimpered in protest.
"Suck it!" the man demanded. He slugged her, and blood began to run from the left corner of her mouth. Stunned, she did as she was told, placing her lips around the knob of the now semi-erect organ.
He made her lick it, and each time she was slow in following his instructions, he would hit her. Soon she was obeying every command as soon as it was given, in an effort to avoid being beaten to a bloody pulp. She let her tongue slide over and around the cock's head, her saliva mingling with dribbles of semen from the organ's tip. When the man pushed forward, shoving the organ deeper into Wiffie's mouth, she sucked on it as hard as she could, thankful that his excitement was momentarily sufficient to protect her from another punch in the face.
Suddenly, out of the corner of one eye, Wiffie saw the young assistant kneeling behind some kind of tripod. When the first burst of a flashbulb blinded her, she pulled back from the abortionist's groin in shock and incomprehension.
His mood broken, the man slapped her across the face, bloodying her nose. At the same time, he moved his knees from either side of her waist and shifted down between her legs. He hit her again, this time stunning her, and as she lay there only half-conscious of what was happening, she felt the hard, saliva-drenched prick push into her, tearing her young insides and filling the void of her recently aborted womb with searing, almost unbearable pain.
The fucking went on forever, it seemed. She wished he would have his climax and pull the monstrous thing out of her; that he would drag his unwelcome shaft from her aching cunt and leave her alone to sob out her revulsion and pain. But the minutes went by, and the pain increased with each savage thrust of the still firm prick. He fucked her, fucked her, fucked the very shit out of her until finally she screamed with the unbearable horror of it all. Her scream was cut off by a vicious clout and the stabbing of the man's penis even deeper into her pain-racked hole.
He came, a while after that, but he was not the last. There were a number of other men when the abortionist had finished with his pleasure; five or six, perhaps-Wiffie was so stricken with pain and fear that she didn't know for sure. They came in from the front room one at a time, handing money to the abortionist's assistant, then stripping off their pants and plunging their organs into the frightened, bloodied girl. Some weren't satisfied with a mere fuck. They insisted on beating her, with hands or belts or canes or folded lengths of heavy wire. One even turned her over and screwed her from behind, using some chilly paste from a dark brown bottle to lubricate his condom-encased member so he could penetrate her virgin rectum. The substance burned, and the dreadful scorching, coupled with the pain of anal defloration, caused Wiffie to black out.
From then on, she was conscious only half the time. She would come to, feel herself being ravished, then surrender mind and body to the welcome escape of unconsciousness again, grateful to escape the reality of the innumerable fists and pricks.
When the last man finally came and withdrew, Wiffie just lay whimpering and wishing she were dead. She didn't protest when the abortionist's helper moved in with his camera and began to photograph her bloodied vulva; when he dilated her vagina with a transparent plastic tube and attached a special camera to it, she just closed her eyes, winced as the object grated against the tortured membranes, and began to weep in long, almost panting sobs. She was thankful when, eventually, she was untied and allowed to get into her clothes, then leave the apartment for the Ford van. The men hit her on the back of the head just before they let her go, and when she came to she found herself lying in a vacant lot on the familiar Lower East Side, not far from third Street and Avenue C.
She made her way to Peter Frenum's apartment, hoping he would be there to comfort her. He was home, and as he undressed her and put her into a bathtub filled with hot water she thanked him half-coherently. She passed out with her head resting against the hard ceramic of the tub.
Afterward, Peter dried her with a soft Turkish towel, being careful not to touch her bruised and aching vulva. He carried her to the sleeping alcove, where he dressed her in a pair of his pajamas and put her to bed.
CHAPTER TEN
For almost three days, Hamp wondered where Wiffie was. Twice he called the telephone number of the abortionist; there was no answer either time. The bastard probably rented or borrowed apartments by the day or week, and changed quarters after every job. He was on the verge of going to the police and telling all, in the hope that she could be found by the missing persons division. But he ended up deciding against it; there were too many risks involved, and the embarrassment would be awfully hard on Wiffie.
Finally, thank God, she called.
"Where are you?" he asked anxiously. He was worried about her, though at the time he felt relief at hearing her voice at last.
"I'm staying with a friend," Wiffie answered. She sounded weary.
"Where? Give me the address and I'll come over and get you."
"No. I'll meet you. At the Forty-second Street Library at five o'clock, if that's all right with you."
"I'll leave work early. And Wiffie...."
"Yes?"
"Are you all right?"
"We'll talk about it later." she told him goodbye, and hung up, and Hamp was left with two and a half hours to spend in worrying and wondering where she'd had been for the past two and a half days.
They talked over supper, in a cafeteria several blocks west of the library. Wiffie described her experience briefly, shuddering as she came to the worst parts of her ordeal. Hamp had to pump her for some of the details, and at one point, when she was describing the anal attack, she broke down and cried.
An hour and a half later, she said that she felt tired and wanted to return to her friend's apartment. Hamp offered to accompany her, but she shook her head. "I'd rather go alone," she told him flatly, and she got up to leave. They kissed goodbye, perfunctorily; it was as though Wiffie was still afraid of physical contact, thanks to the horror of her experience. Could it be that she felt Hamp was somehow to blame?
When Wiffie caught the eastbound bus on 42nd Street, Hamp hailed a taxi and instructed the driver to follow. At Lexington Avenue, she got off the bus and descended the subway stairs. Hamp waited a few moments and followed, careful not to let her see that he was tailing her. He waited in the shadows at the far end of the platform; when the train came, he got on and walked up through the cars, peering through the window before entering each car, until he located Wiffie's
They got off at 14th Street, and Hamp continued to follow Wiffie as she walked south until she reached Seventh, where she turned and headed east, with Hamp not far behind. He saw her enter a tenement; he double-timed it to the entrance and went up the stairs one flight behind her so she'd think that it was one of the other tenants entering the building. He saw her knock, then enter an apartment on the third floor.
When Hamp knocked on the door of the apartment, he found himself confronted by a sensitive-looking man in his mid-twenties who was garbed in a sweatshirt stained with dirt and paint.
"Who the hell are you?" Hamp asked in a suspicious tone.
"I could ask you the same thing," the man replied. "Do I know you?"
"Apparently not." Abruptly, Hamp pushed the door open the rest of the way and stared inside. Wiffie wasn't in sight.
"Look, I don't know who you're looking for, but you've come to the wrong place. I think you'd better scoot along." The painter's tone was threatening, and Hamp felt an angry thumping in his temples as the man tried to close the door on him.
Suddenly there was the sound of an old-fashioned toilet being flushed; a moment later, Wiffie walked into Hamp's field of vision.
"Wiffie!"
"Hamp!"
"Do you two know each other?" The painter looked at each in turn, and smiled uncomfortably. "Hey, why didn't you say you were a friend? Come on in." He beckoned Hamp inside and closed the door, and Hamp let himself be ushered to a camp stool, where he sat down.
Peter and Wiffie sat on the floor, and Wiffie handled the introductions. She explained to Peter that Hamp was her boy friend from FBCC, and was still a dear and trusted friend. Then she told Hamp how Peter had befriended her and cared for her during the period of shock and pain that followed her ordeal at the hands of the abortionist. "I don't know what would have happened to me if Peter hadn't been so close by and ready to help." she said. "I was so frightened and stunned by it all-"
"And she was bleeding, too," Peter broke in, "All over. From her mouth.. .even from her cunt!"
"How do you know?" Hamp stiffened.
"Don't be silly, Hamp," Wiffie said. "He took care of me. I couldn't eat or take a bath on my own until just before I called you."
The conversation was cordially grim after that, and at eleven o'clock Hamp suggested to Wiffie that he'd better take her home.
"This is where I live now," she said as gently as she could. "I.. .I can't go back to the Home. I'm not pregnant any more, and anyway they'd want to know where I've been."
"You could tell them and let them call the police."
"I don't want to get the police involved," Wiffie insisted, shaking her head. "It would be too embarrassing. Besides, I just want to forget it all. Please let me forget, Hamp." She looked at him with pleading eyes.
In due time it was agreed that Hamp would move in with Peter and Wiffie, since he couldn't bear the thought of the artist and Wiffie being alone together in the same apartment night after night. While Hamp took a cab to his apartment to gather up his things, Peter visited the crash pad upstairs to borrow a pair of sleeping bags. At twelve-thirty in the morning, Wiffie went to sleep on the apartment's only bed, while Hamp and Peter lay uncomfortably in the thin bags on the hard, cold floor.
While Hamp was at work the next day, Peter asked Wiffie if he could do a painting.
"I don't know if I should," she answered. "You know; with Hamp living here now...."
"He's at the office all day," Peter countered. "Come on, let me paint you."
"Well, all right." She undressed quickly, except for her panties, and sat on a stool. Peter suggested that she remove the underpants to avoid getting paint on them, and Wiffie took them off. "But please don't paint me there," she reminded him. "It still hurts a little. Maybe you should stay above my waist."
"Sure, if that's the way you want it." He mixed his paints, and after a few minutes he began to daub Wiffie's shoulders with washable Day-Glo green. He painted silently for a while, and Wiffie was equally quiet, slumping forward slightly and closing her eyes. When she opened them several minutes later, her gaze fell on the fly of Peter's trousers and she saw the huge bulge there.
"Peter...."
"Yes?"
"You're stiff, aren't you?"
He didn't answer for a moment, then sighed and replied in the affirmative. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that you're so lovely and I get so excited when I paint you."
"It's all right." Wiffie closed her eyes again, and when she opened the bulge was still there. She reached out and touched it lightly; Peter gasped, and almost dropped his brush.
"You'd better be careful," he warned her. "You get me so turned on when you do that. And you don't want me to get too fired up, do you? Not with your being all sore down there."
"I don't know." She smiled and touched his cloth-covered penis once more. "You've been so good to me that I ought to do something for you in return."
Peter was breathing deeply, but did not reply. He continued to paint her, while Wiffie gazed at and occasionally caressed the bulge. Finally she grasped the zipper tab and pulled it down an inch.
Peter's legs stiffened. His breathing stopped for a moment, then resumed a shaky exhalation of air. "Be careful, Wiffie," he warned softly.
Slowly, she drew the zipper tab down the rest of the way. When the fly was completely open, she let her fingers move inside and slide through the opening in front of his boxer shorts. Her hand moved slightly to the right and settled on the quivering shaft of his tumescent, wood-like prick.
"Does it help when I do this?" Wiffie asked, moving a finger up and pressing the organ's underside just beneath the head.
"It...." Peter didn't finish; he merely gulped and drew in a deep breath.
"I mean, is it nice?" She continued to toy with the organ, letting her index and middle fingers curl around it while her thumb began to spread the prick's slimy secretions down from the tip to the sensitive area just below the rim. Peter's hips swayed toward her. He let his paints and brush drop to the floor, and with both hands free, he gripped her on either side of her skull. Wiffie pressed her face against the front of his trousers, then moved it to the open fly and buried her nose in his sweaty pubic hair. She took a deep whiff of his musky loins, then withdrew her face and gazed up at his smiling lips and closed eyes.
"You've been kind to me, Peter," she said softly.
She pulled his penis to the opening in the shorts and let it spring free. The cock stared her in the face, erect and swollen to its full eight and a half inches of length.
Wiffie continued her caresses with her right hand, she smeared its secretions all along the underside and sought out its areas of greatest sensitivity, while with the finger of her left she felt his testicles, and marveled at their size. like small hen's eggs, they were; large and full, and willing to be gently squeezed through the hair-strewn, leathery, wrinkled skin of his now-tightening scrotum. Her fingers let go of his balls and drifted back between his legs, playing on the perineal ridge behind the sac, then sliding farther back until they reached the junction of his buttocks. There were little curly hairs all along the path her fingers took. She stroked him gently there, tickling the perineal area with her left hand while squeezing and caressing his mighty prick with the right. Peter tightened the muscles of his buttocks and leaned toward her, gripping her head tightly, his fingers entwined in her hair.
Wiffie let the fingers of her left hand push back and inward till they reached the tight-muscled opening of Peter's ass. He spread his legs slightly, and she let her middle finger press in as far as it could, till it was on the verge of squeezing through the hole.
Suddenly, she remembered her recent rectal rape, and the memory caused her body to stiffen with revulsion. She withdrew her finger from Peter's anus and apologized softly, her face burning with guilt and shame.
"It's all right," Peter croaked, opening his legs still wider. "Put your hand back. Please."
Wiffie moved to obey, relieved by his interest and apparent pleasure. In a spurt of inspiration, she applied saliva to her finger before she put it back, then pushed it past the perineum to the anal cavity, and in one fast motion, all the way up. Peter rose on tiptoe and moaned deeply, then let his heels settle back to the floor and began to tighten his rectal muscles in a steady, unrelenting rhythm.
Wiffie's mouth drifted to Peter's penis and took it in, sucking with a fast, wet motion, letting her tongue lather it with saliva. She pressed her teeth ever so gently into the hardened spongy flesh of the shaft.
Peter groaned; he thrust his cock deeper into her mouth, as deep as he could make it go, and Wiffie responded by pulling back, at the same time sucking even harder, so that she was squeezing the cock tightly with her teeth and tongue when her lips reached the ridge beneath the knobby head. She pushed forward again just as he shoved forward a second time, and as she felt his hot, creamy liquid spurt into her throat, she moved her finger around in his anus. His muscles tightened around the finger, gripping it firmly, then relaxed as his ejaculation passed its peak and his penis began to lose rigidity.
Wiffie removed her finger and patted his behind. She let his cock fall from her mouth; it dribbled saliva and semen onto her thighs as she pressed her face to his groin. She sighed with the pleasure of giving him pleasure, and smiled as she felt his fingers begin to stroke the back of her neck.
She let him lift her from the stool and carry her to the bed. She lay relaxed, with a smile on her face, as he opened her legs and began, cautiously, to lick and caress her clitoris and inner lips, which swelled and opened to welcome his tongue while her love juices filled the air with sweet perfume.
In time she felt the tingling of her cunt give way to throbs of passion, and she shook with the sweet waves of pleasure which began to sweep over her, radiating from the whirlpool of her contracting vagina and suffusing her body with an excitement of such intensity that she could hardly stand it.
Afterward, she lay close to Peter, her hand resting lightly on his penis and her face snuggled into his neck. Later he scrubbed the paint from her body and together they changed the sheets.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It soon became obvious that the new living arrangements had benefits for everyone. Wiffie found that she could now spend all her waking hours with one or both of the men who meant most to her-Peter, who was like a kindly big brother in some ways and a beautifully tender lover in others, and Hamp, whose burning adolescent love touched her deeply, and who, if his abilities as a lover were not quite on a par with Peter's, made up in enthusiasm for his lack of finesse and penis size.
For Peter and Hamp, the new arrangement meant a cut in rent. They split the cost of the apartment down the middle, and now each had more money to spend on the finer things in life-paints, paperback sex manuals, flowers for Wiffie, and so forth. And the young men chipped in to buy a pair of surplus Army cots to make their nights more comfortable. In short, it wasn't long before the tangible benefits of threesome living had made Peter and Hamp quite happy with one another; and Wiffie, who cared so very much for both men, was happiest of all.
The lack of privacy was irritating only in the evenings, when all three were usually at home. During the week, Hampton worked; this gave Peter and Wiffie opportunities to be together so that Peter could paint his epidermal masterpieces and share physical communion with his beloved canvas. And three days a week-Monday, Wednesday and Friday for three hours in the morning-Peter went to the Upper West Side Institute of Art; he had decided to spend some of his rent savings on a traditional art course, so he would be able to incorporate classical techniques of painting. Sometimes when Peter was off at school. Hamp would go to work a few hours late, using a dental or doctor's appointment, or oversleeping, as an excuse, or would call in sick and spend the whole morning with Wiffie, leaving a few minutes before Peter was due to return. Hamp did this fairly often; Wiffie's body had more attraction for him than a morning spent at the office.
Neither man knew of the other's intimate activities with Wiffie, of course. Hamp had no knowledge of the artist's painting and pronging habits, and Peter didn't know that Hamp was remaining in the apartment all those mornings. It was a delightful arrangement or Wiffie, who found herself being stimulated and satisfied more times than she could count, and who found herself excited by the little secret she kept from her two lovers. And, thanks to a prescription for birth control pills that she had obtained at a public clinic, she had no worries about pregnancy to cast a pall over her sexual paradise.
On one typical Wednesday morning, Hamp called the Anti-Smut Society's offices and told his boss that his ulcer was acting up again, and that he had to see his doctor. "For Christ's sake!" the man muttered. But he refrained from saying anything more; the Society could hardly expect time-clock punctuality for sixty-five dollars a week, and Hamp was the best clerk they'd ever employed; he took an unusual interest in his work.
Hamp waited in a luncheonette on the corner until he saw Peter walk toward the subway stop a block away. He then gulped his coffee and returned to the apartment, where Wiffie greeted him with a hug and took his jacket.
"Kiss me," she said unashamedly. She opened her lips and waited for him to part them further with his tongue. He pressed his mouth to hers, and in a moment his hands were under her blouse, un-snapping her bra and moving around to cup her breasts. As he squeezed the nipples between his fingers, she arched her back and pressed her hips to his groin. Seconds later, he was unbuttoning his shirt with one hand and unbuckling his belt with the other, then yanking off his tie, undoing the collar button and flinging the shirt onto a chair as he let his pants drop to the floor and stepped out of them. Kicking off his loafers, he stood in T-shirt, shorts and socks as he watched Wiffie slip her clothes off. He was pleased to see that she wore bikini panties, they excited him. It always made him feel particularly loved when she wore something that turned him on.
They went to her bed together, Hamp shedding his T-shirt on the way and tossing it onto one of the cots across the room. Wiffie sat on the edge of the bed and took the elastic of his shorts in both hands, then pulled downward until his penis popped forth and stood twitching.
Hamp climbed onto the bed and lay on his back, looking past his prick to Wiffie's head as she bent over his feet, removing his briefs, then his socks, rolling them neatly and passing the bundle to him to place on the nightstand. He closed his eyes as he felt her lips kissing their way up his hairy legs. When she reached his groin, she circumvented his penis and moved to kiss his belly, at the same time bringing her arms close together to clasp his prick between her breasts.
Hamp reached down and tickled her behind one ear. He sighed softly as he felt her lips moving down his abdomen, burying themselves in his pubic hair and then settling on the end of his cock. He felt her tongue dart lightly over the sensitive glans; she then flicked the prick's underside gently with the moist end of her tongue and sent shivers of excitement up and down his body.
"Wiffie," he whispered. She responded by sliding her tongue along the underside of his penis, moistening the entire length of the organ with her saliva and making it grow even more swollen and hard.
She removed her mouth from his prick at last, and moved up on his body, kissing him and letting her tongue dart deep into his mouth. He responded in kind, his tongue brushing across her teeth and meeting hers in the wet cavern. He shuddered with ecstasy when he felt her move her hips toward his and press her slick vulva to his throbbing prick. He pushed up slightly, and she did not resist.
"Put it in me," she whispered and he let the head of his penis slip a tiny way into her waiting cunt, then fall out.
A moment later, Wiffie moved into a squatting position. She reached down and took the shaft of his organ in her hand, guided it to her crotch and lowered her body slightly till it was once more resting in the proper place. "Put it in," she told Hamp. But she giggled and pulled back slightly when he tried to raise his hips and shove the organ home.
She tormented him that way for a while, but the torment was filled with pleasure. He didn't protest when she surrounded the prick's head with her wet love lips, then moved upward once more, and down again, all the while touching and letting go of his organ and tickling him beneath the balls, occasionally running her fingers through the curls of his pubic hair and on up his body to rest on his nipples and tickle them to hardness.
At last the excitement became unbearable for Hamp. He grabbed her hips in both hands and shoved her down on his penis, simultaneously lifting his buttocks off the bed and pressing his organ as deep into her as he could make it go. A gasp escaped his lungs and burst from his lips, and in a moment it was replaced by a shuddering groan. Wiffie curled her torso forward and plunged her tongue into his open, gasping mouth, and Hamp grunted as he sucked it and plunged his prick up, then down and back up again in the sweet, gentle grip of her vagina.
When Hamp began to shudder uncontrollably, Wiffie's body started to stiffen and quiver too. She leaned back and grasped the base of Hamp's penis with her fingers, at the same time begging him to hold her breasts. He obeyed, grasping the hard-tipped mounds with both hands and squeezing the nipples between his shaking fingers. And with that, Hamp and Wiffie began to come.
Wiffie's contractions came first. An involuntary squeezing spasm seized her cunt, and held Hamp's prick tight. Soon the squeezing gave way to powerful writhing of pleasure, and Hamp responded by leaking a small quantity of semen into her hole.
"Rotate," he managed to gasp. Wiffie immediately lifted her hips higher and brought her butt down again in a curving, twisting thrust. Hamp shuddered, and Wiffie shuddered even more; she continued to rotate her hips as both she and Hamp moved up and down in rhythm.
Wiffie cried out her joy, and Hamp suddenly dropped his hands from her breasts and seized her thighs, holding them just below the buttocks and lifting Wiffie's ass and crotch up and down as he fucked her in a rhythm of uncontrollable lust.
The bulk of Hamp's fluid began to squirt forth in a fountain of ecstasy, the pressure of it forcing the sticky mass up through Wiffie's cervix and into her spasm-racked womb. She threw her torso forward, flinging herself flat on Hamp's body and sinking her teeth into his shoulder, pulling her thighs tight around his in an effort to keep his shrinking organ in her cunt.
They lay there breathing heavily, kissing and stroking one another, telling each other how nice it had been. Then they slipped off to sleep together, thoroughly satisfied, but knowing that they would want to do it again when they awoke.
It was almost eleven when Hamp woke up. He shook Wiffie's shoulders and tickled the hairs of her cunt. "Wake up!" he told her. "We've only got a half-hour."
"Peter won't be back till almost noon," Wiffie said sleepily. "Can't we make it forty-five minutes?"
"We can't take any chances," Hamp insisted.
"Oh, don't be silly. Peter's never on time anyway."
The argument soon gave way to mutual excitement, as Hamp's fingers entangled themselves in Wiffie's love-fur, and Wiffie's responded with a gentle caressing of his cock. Soon Hamp was hard and ready; Wiffie too was moist and perfumey with readiness, and after an extended bout of fellatio and cunnilingus, they moved from the sixty-nine position and lay side by side, breast to chest, pressing eagerly against each other. Wiffie raised her left leg slightly, and Hamp slipped his stiffened member into her waiting vagina, with Wiffie moving partway over him to make the job easier. When he was in, she brought her legs together and held his cock and balls in the darkened chapel of her cunt and thighs.
They fucked the way for a long while; it was a leisurely screw, with neither in a hurry to bring on the final climax, preferring instead to draw out the pleasure as much as possible. They lay with eyes closed, hearing nothing but the sound of each other's breathing, smelling only the sweet secretions of physical love.
Neither noticed when Peter quietly opened the door of the apartment and stepped inside.
Peter's first impulse, when he heard the creak of bedsprings and saw Hamp's clothes scattered all over the apartment, was to slam the door and shock them out of their passionate embrace. But on second thought, what was the point? Instead, he closed the door slowly, as silently as he could. He removed his shoes and tiptoed to where he could peek into the living alcove.
What he saw did not please him. He saw Wiffie's buttocks, slightly spread and moving sinuously; lying against her was Hamp, his arms wrapped about the girl, rhythmically stroking the cheeks of her ass.
Peter didn't know what to do. Should he interrupt them after all, or should he just steal quietly from the apartment, or ... No, he had no idea what to do. He sat down on a camp stool, where Wiffie and Hamp couldn't see him even if they stirred from their leisurely passion. He put his head in his hands and tried to keep the tears from flooding his eyes.
To think that Wiffie was balling with Hamp! Still, it wasn't altogether surprising. After all, it was Hamp who had made her pregnant, and she loved him as much as she did Peter. Perhaps in some ways she loved Hamp more.
Peter was annoyed at first by the gentle creaking of springs from the sleeping alcove. But before long he found himself becoming aroused; his prick was swelling fast, pressing painfully against his thigh in the prison of his too-tight Levis. When the discomfort became acute, he let his hand move down to his fly. He opened the zipper and pulled the penis toward the front of his undershorts, keeping it inside the thin cotton. Slowly, almost with shame, he began to caress the prick through the shorts, pressing and stroking it in rhythm to the creaking from the next room.
When the sound grew faster and louder, Peter tried to bring himself to climax, but found that the semen simply would not come forth. Frustrated, he leapt from the camp stool and went toward the alcove, leaning against the wall and peering around it, at the same time pressing harder on his penis and jerking it more rapidly, in an effort to combine visual and physical stimuli to make the fluid flow.
Again, he found himself coming almost to the point of climax but no further. Damn it! It was like being impotent, almost; and it was the fault of Hampton and Wiffie, fucking on the creaking bed, that he felt this way. It seemed so childish and inadequate, engaging in self-abuse when his darling Wiffie was screwing with another man just a few feet away.
Suddenly the anger and frustration were more than he could bear. He moved from the wall and into the alcove. Hamp's eyes widened when he saw Peter, but he and Wiffie were too far gone to break off.
Peter moved close to the bed and aimed his swollen prick at Wiffie's head. He gritted his teeth and squeezed the muscles of his bladder, forcing a trickle of urine into the urethra. And then the piss broke loose.
He let the yellow liquid spray onto Wiffie's hair, then down her back to her buttocks, where it beat noisily against the twin globes. He stepped closer then, and aimed his prick like a fire hose nozzle, shooting at Hamp this time. He directed the golden stream on Hamp's hips and shoulders and face, causing Hamp to shut his eyes and open his mouth in protest, then close the mouth abruptly when the piss hit his tongue.
Wiffie let loose a cry then, and Hamp plunged his cock deeper into her cunt; and as the two of them reached the height of mutual climax, Peter's hot urine fell fountain-like on them, raining down until it subsided, as they subsided, to a dribble of pungent, staining piss.
When the three of them were finished, Hamp opened his eyes and stared at Peter. Peter stared back. Wiffie sighed and snuggled closer to Hamp's chest, then turned over and smiled at the artist.
"Thank you," she said to Peter. Then she turned back to Hamp and kissed him on the lips. "And thank you.
Peter went into the bathroom, and as Wiffie lay beside him, Hamp mentally shrugged his shoulders. He wondered why he was filled more with surprise than with disgust.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was two evenings later that the hippies from upstairs invited Wiffie, Hamp and Peter to their pad. It was a going away party. Several of the transients were leaving the apartment to set up a crash pad of their own, and the two hippies who had been acting as their hosts thought it would be groovy to send them off in style.
It was the first time that Wiffie, Hamp or Peter had tried grass. Oh, Peter had come close in the Army; lots of the guys had smoked the stuff, but somehow he'd never gotten around to it. He supposed it was because no one had ever come right out and invited him to try it; he had been a chaplain's assistant, after all. As for Hamp and Wiffie, neither had come near the weed in their Christ-centered lives; they knew next to nothing about marijuana.
Peter and Hamp were eager to try grass, but
Wiffie was slightly reluctant. "What happens when you smoke it?" she asked nervously. "I mean, you don't lose all control of yourself and behave like some drunken maniac, do you?"
"Hell, no," said one of the hippies, who was called Jerk because he had a tendency to masturbate when high. "You just become more aware of everything around you. Booze lowers your awareness, but grass heightens it."
And so, finally, everyone smoked it. One of the hippies lit several joints and passed them out, and they shared them in pairs. The host hippies, Jerk and Mabel, shared one joint, two homosexuals named Sam and Gus shared another, Peter and a rather ugly girl with blackheads smoked a third, while Hamp and Wiffie shared a fourth.
Wiffie seemed to be affected the fastest. After several deep drags, she felt herself floating off, kind of like being woozy, but-as Jerk had said-more aware of her surroundings than not. And yet she didn't feel as though she were in complete control of herself; she was thoroughly aware of what was happening, but there were so many curious distractions. She did find that her inhibitions were beginning to vanish, and that she felt freer than usual. She was willing to let Hamp fondle her in public-something she would never have allowed had she been in complete control of her faculties.
Hamp too was soon feeling the effects of the grass. He found himself wanting to touch Wiffie, and that was precisely what he did. He let his hand creep up beneath her skirt to stroke her thigh. In a moment he was touching the crotch of her panties, tickling the curly hairs that crept out at the leg openings of the skimpy briefs. He noticed that she wasn't trying to discourage him, and this spurred him on. He let one finger drift past one of the leg elastics, pushing the material aside and beginning to fondle her hair-strewn outer lips.
No one else seemed aware of what Hamp and Wiffie were up to. They were too involved with their own preoccupations; Jerk sat with his fly open, contemplating his stiffened penis and stroking it slowly while Mabel played with his balls. The fags were lying side by side, passing a fresh joint back and forth and giggling as they prodded each other with fluttery hands. Peter was watching intently as the ugly chick removed her sweater and revealed braless, pendulous breasts; at her behest, he reached out and caressed her nipples, following up with suckling of each tit. But he seemed less than engrossed by this action, though he was obviously interested in the girl somehow, staring at her as though considering a potential canvas.
Hamp looked at Jerk and Mabel again. Jerk had stopped masturbating and was sitting in lotus position while Mabel sucked his cock. At first she merely held the head between her lips and caressed it gently with her tongue, but as Jerk began to groan softly, she took him deeper in her mouth and sucked harder, at the same time pushing her hands under his buckskin shirt and locking them behind his back.
The fags were now engaged in similar activity. They were in sixty-nine position, each playing with the cock of the other; one sucked his companion's prick while the other was licking his friend's penis in a dog-like manner, seeming to savor each seminal dribble that emanated from the organ's tip.
Peter was still staring at the ugly girl, who by now was completely nude and standing in front of him, her hand at her crotch, slowly caressing her clit and squeezing her fingers between tightly closed, flabby thighs. Peter didn't touch her; he merely watched. His penis was still in his trousers, but revealed its excited state in a highly noticeable bulge.
By now, Hamp and Wiffie were completely stoned. Wiffie was lying down and did not protest when Hamp pushed her skirt up around her waist and pulled her panties down to her ankles, then yanked them off and pushed her legs apart so he could suck and tongue her loins. After a few minutes of this, he knelt in front of Wiffie, pulling her to a sitting position and removing her blouse. Finally he removed her bra.
Wiffie seemed unaware of his actions, or at least unconcerned. She let him do as he wished, behaving like an automaton, thoroughly caught up in whatever it was that the marijuana had brought to her mind.
After a few minutes of kissing her breasts, Hamp pushed her back down and unzipped her skirt, then pulled the garment off so that she wore nothing but her half slip. He returned to her crotch, parting the lips with his fingers and tonguing the clit carefully, sending shivers of response through Wiffie's body. She stiffened and grasped his head in her hands, pulling his face harder against her crotch as he continued to lick her labia and clit in a slow, and rhythmic manner.
A few minutes later, Hamp unzipped his fly and let his cock stand free. He slipped his pants off, then moved up on Wiffie's body and guided his penis into her vestibule, where it rested for a moment in the slick bath of her love juices. Then he pushed it in, slowly, and Wiffie swallowed it up until the full length of the shaft was buried in the sweet cave of her cunt. She seemed unaware of any pain or discomfort as Hamp pressed it in until his pubic hair was buried in the moisture of her quivering love lips.
They began to fuck in a leisurely manner; slowly at first, but gradually building to a faster pace, moving their hips back and forth to the rhythm of Jerk's mounting sighs. As their ardor increased, Wiffie wrapped her legs around Hamp's back, just above the buttocks, and slowly worked them upward on his back, bringing the angle of her cunt more and more to the vertical, with Hamp adjusting the angle of his strokes accordingly. In due course his hips were well above the floor, his legs were slightly spread to give a firmer base to his steady fucking.
Suddenly Hamp felt spit-laden fingers part his buttocks and lather his anal opening. He started at first, but then heard Wiffie moan with excitement, and began to fuck her faster, trying to concentrate on the tightening grasp of her cunt. A moment later, he felt excruciating pain as a penis was forced into his ass, distending his virgin anus and filling his rectal cavity with its swollen shaft.
Hamp shoved his cock deeper into Wiffie's cunt and froze for a moment, crying out in pain. But the alien prick only pushed deeper as Hamp involuntarily spread his thighs; and as he loosened his anal sphincter in an instinctive effort to ease the pain, the member moved still deeper, then stopped and lay still, as though waiting for Hamp to make the next move.
Hamp felt Wiffie pull back slightly, then push her cunt forward once more on his still-hard prick. Aroused, he resumed his fucking, half aware of Wiffie's cunt and half concentrating on the foreign flesh buried in the depths of his ass. He tried to take his mind off the offending member, but without success. However, as the pain seemed to lessen with each additional stroke, he grew somewhat resigned to its presence and let it move in and out of his anal depths as he moved his own member in Wiffie's quivering cunt. After a while the rhythm of the moles tor's prick became almost pleasant; Hamp found that his ass was accomodating the organ with less reluctance, and that his sphincter muscles had managed to relax thoroughly, causing less resistance. He found himself warming to the movement of the penis which was steadily reaming with his rectum, and he established a compatible rhythm in Wiffie's vagina. There was something charmingly communal about the sandwich-like situation; he felt oddly secure, with a body beneath him and another above him, both moving against him. It made him feel more wanted than ever before.
A few minutes later, Hamp's anus tightened on the other man's cock and shuddered in a series of orgasmic spasms; at the same time, his penis reached a peak of sensation in Wiffie's cunt and began to spurt seed to the depths of her womb. Wiffie responded with a series of uncontrollable contractions; her vagina twitched about Hamp's prick in a seemingly endless climax, and when her movements finally subsided, he felt the organ in his ass-hole pouring its hoard of creamy liquid into him.
When the man had finished, Hamp felt the organ slipping out, leaving a sticky trail in the vestibule of his anal opening. Hamp moved off Wiffie and turned halfway around, to find himself staring at Peter.
He was stunned.
Peter seemed almost equally confused, but patted Hamp's hip affectionately and opened his mouth to speak.
"Love," he said "I.. .I love you, man. I love you for what you do to Wiffie, and for everything else." Peter's mouth widened in a silly grin.
Hamp didn't speak. He just looked from Peter to Wiffie, and back to Peter again. Wiffie was thoroughly pleased with the result of their fucking; with one hand she stroked Hamp's thigh.
A moment later, Jerk came over with a freshly lit joint, and handed it to Hamp, who inhaled the dry smoke and passed the cigarette to Wiffie. She puffed lightly and handed it back; Peter reached out, and Hamp found himself giving him the joint.
"Love," Peter said again, squeezing Hamp's arm lightly.
"Yeah." Hamp was still confused. He looked at Wiffie, and noticed that her crotch was still exposed. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her sticky bush with it, then pulled her half slip down and covered her breasts with her skirt, which lay nearby.
The three of them rested there for a while without conversation. They passed the joint back and forth till Hamp at last had to throw it down to keep the glowing butt from burning his fingers.
Later that night, the three new potheads went to bed in a solemn mood; there was little talk, only the necessary good-nights, and Hamp's kissing Wiffie lightly on the lips. None of them knew quite what to make of the activities of the evening, but each knew instinctively that the best course was to simply go to sleep, and if necessary talk things out in the morning.
Wiffie was least concerned of the three. She had no worries about sodomy or homosexuality; what the men did was their own affair, really; as long as both were potent with her, she considered them masculine enough. She knew the strength of their pricks well enough to have no fears.
Peter was in between. He was perhaps the most broad minded where sex was concerned; he had painted children of both sexes, and was something of a bohemian in any case. To him, morality had little to do with sex: the important thing was love, and to avoid prejudice and violence. As long as Wiffie seemed to have no qualms about his activities with Hamp, Peter wasn't particularly worried. His main fear was that Hamp would hold a grudge against him, resulting in unpleasantness all around. Hamp was seriously worried. He had been raised in a strictly traditional Christian environment where one did not even think about homosexuality. To fuck or not to fuck was the big question; homosexual activities were something engaged in only by secular, totally lost perverts. Hamp couldn't help feeling guilty about what had happened.
And yet he could console himself with the knowledge that Peter had initiated the activity with his forcible anal penetration. Hamp had been busy with Wiffie; he could hardly have been expected to be on guard against a homosexual attack. Furthermore, he had brought Wiffie to orgasm, had he not? Regardless of Peter's act and Hamp's involuntary enjoyment of it, Hamp was essentially heterosexual.
Furthermore, he had read that most young males-a good many, anyhow-had one or two homosexual experiences before reaching full adulthood. It was right there in Kinsey's report on the human male, which Hamp had read in the Anti-Smut Society's library. Also, even the heterosexually oriented books in the society's library contained elements of homosexuality, as well as just about everything else that one could imagine. This was not the result of perversion on the part of the authors; such books reflected society more than it influenced it. Human beings had elements of sadism, masochism, incest-longing and so on. And all men had elements of homosexuality in their personalities, just as they had both male and female hormones in their bodies. It wasn't unreasonable to expect that a practicing heterosexual might enjoy a bit of variety now and then.
In short, Hamp felt guilty, but not guilty enough to move out of the apartment or automatically rule out similar activities in the future. If this was what marijuana brought out, so be it; if the erasing of inhibitions and the accentuation of natural tendencies led to an occasional bisexual experience, Hamp wouldn't condemn himself for the effects of the grass he had smoked. He might feel ashamed of himself on a purely emotional level, but in more rational moments he would know that there was no real cause for guilt.
Hamp and Peter didn't talk to each other the next morning; it was as though Peter was waiting for Hamp to make up his mind on how to resolve the situation. Hamp decided to let things ride; soon enough they would find out if such activities would occur a second time.
It was Peter who finally broke the ice. That evening, he asked if Hamp would mind his using Wiffie for a body painting.
"Do you want to?" Hamp asked Wiffie, trying to be open minded.
"Yes." Wiffie took his hand and squeezed it, then kissed him lightly on the lips as if to show her loyalty.
"All right, then. I guess it's okay with me."
Peter thanked him, and crossed the room to mix his paints. He discreetly kept his back to Hamp and Wiffie as the girl removed her clothing.
And when he set to work, he was careful not to paint Wiffie's nipples or genitalia, not wanting to upset Hamp any more than necessary. Hamp seemed to realize this, and he paid Peter a compliment to show his appreciation.
"That's a nice job," he said as he viewed the back.
"Thank you." Peter was genuinely pleased. After a while, Peter turned to Hamp. "What would you think if I asked you to pose?" he asked.
"It's for the sake of art," Peter explained. "And friendship. I'll stop, if you change your mind halfway through."
"Well, all right." Slowly and self-consciously, Hamp removed his clothes. Then he stood next to Wiffie, who reached out and squeezed his hand. He tried not to jump when Peter touched the brush to his back and smeared paint over his shoulders and down to the cleft of his buttocks.
Involuntarily, and to his great embarrassment, Hamp felt his penis growing hard. He shifted position and straightened up slightly, hoping somehow to get the partial erection to subside.
"It's all right," Wiffie said softly, smiling and reaching out to touch the expanding organ. "There's nothing wrong with reacting physically. It's normal, Hamp."
"I suppose so." He blushed and looked down to watch as Wiffie caressed his organ.
After a while, Wiffie beckoned to Peter and took the brush from him. Kneeling, she began to paint the knob of Hamp's penis, eventually adding a stripe from the cleft of the head to the base of the shaft. Hamp shuddered as the brush tickled the sensitive underside of his cock.
Then Wiffie handed the brush to Hamp and lay down on the floor, lifting and parting her thighs. "Paint me down there," she commanded in a soft voice.
Hamp obeyed, kneeling between her legs and applying the brush to her. labia and clit. When she moaned and pulled him down on top of her, he obliged her bv slipping his penis into her juice filled hole, and after a moments hesitation he parted his thighs and raised his buttocks slightly, so that Peter, who was now kneeling behind him, could place his saliva-lubed prick against Hamp's anus and ease it in.
The three of them moved together excitedly, and when they came it was a tremendous three-way climax.
Afterward, they lay on the floor with Wiffie in the middle, each man embracing her loosely and sharing in the communal spiritual bliss.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hamp, Wiffie and Peter were upstairs again; it was the second time the threesome had been invited up by Jerk and Mabel. "It's going to be a groovy, swinging party," Jerk had told Peter on the phone. "We're havin' a special guest, and mean, you can't miss this one!"
And so they had come. They were sitting on the floor, trying to make themselves comfortable on the surplus army mattresses spread about the room. They were waiting for the special guest, whoever he was; Jerk and Mabel weren't saying, preferring to maintain an air of suspense. They killed time by listening to the latest rock records on Jerk's stereo set. (like so many hippies, Jerk and Mable made up in hi-fi equipment what they lacked in furniture.)
At ten p.m., the doorbell rang. Jerk jumped up and pushed the buzzer button that opened the downstairs door. Everyone heard a heavy tromping in the stairwell, and a few minutes later Jerk opened the door and admitted the fattest man any of them had ever seen.
Indeed, fat was hardly a sufficient word for the creature. Jelly-like, obese, pudding-like, rotund, balloonesque.. .There was no word or phrase which could adequately describe this man's fatness. He was middle-aged, and only a few inches over five feet tall. In circumference, however, he was huge. His trousers were a good size seventy (specially made, needless to say), and still his belly hung over his belt. His jowls were like those of a St. Bernard, but were full, as if the dog had been partially inflated. His multiple chin was so pronounced that it appeared that he had no chin at all.
"Meet Zonk," Jerk said to his guests. "Zonk is only the world's greatest authority on love. I've asked him here to teach all of us the secret of coming closer together."
"Thank you, dear ones," Zonk wheezed in reply to the muttered greetings of the group. His voice was high and almost girlish, except for the old-man's shortness of breath. "I hope tonight to bring everyone to new heights of love and human understanding. I shall employ a variety of methods, including verbal communications, sex and drugs. But before we start, could someone turn out the lights? I think that candles and glowing incense will be more conducive to a suitable mood."
Jerk turned off all but one of the lights, and helped dig a quantity of half burnt candles and incense from Zonk's duffel bag. While Jerk lit the candles and placed them about the room, Zonk put pieces of incense into homemade tin holders and waddled about, placing them around the perimeter.
Finally, Zonk took a small sack from his coat pocket and beckoned to Jerk, who brought over a packet of cigarette papers. He and Jerk began to roll joints. They passed these to Mabel and another girl, who lit them and distributed them to the half dozen or so guests.
"Let us meditate for a moment," Zonk said when everyone had a joint. "Let us allow our minds to wander free among the infinite galaxies of consciousness until we are ready to receive the wisdom granted to us by the great Guru up above."
A few minutes later, when everyone had begun to feel the effects of the Marijuana, Zonk-accompanied by Jerk and Mabel, who appeared to be familiar with his routine-began to remove his clothes. "Nudity is essential to our activities here tonight," he explained as he revealed a bloaty belly topped by two breast-like bags of fat. He dropped his trousers and slipped off a pair of enormous boxer shorts, to reveal a drooping lower belly fold and a miniscule prick and balls, entirely free of pubic hair.
"I see that we're ready," he announced with a smile when all the guests had removed all their clothes. (Wiffie had undressed with a certain amount of embarrassment, but Hamp had made her take another deep drag on her joint, and her inhibitions had begun to vanish.) "And now, let's get underway."
"The first stage of our prospect is to communicate verbally." he told the group. "We must try to reveal our innermost secrets and desires, not our personal hang-ups, our embarrassing and humiliating experiences. By exposing our weaknesses we open ourselves more completely to an influx of understanding and love. Now, all of this is strictly voluntary. I cannot make you tell such things to the others and myself if you are not willing. I can only hope that you will cooperate, and that you will remember one important thing-I am here to help you, not to hear you entertain me. Jerk, would you like to begin?"
The young hippie nodded. He took a drag on his joint and, with his free hand, began to fondle his prick. He looked down at the fingers on his organ and laughed slightly, then took the hand away and looked around at the group.
"Okay," he said. "I guess everyone knows what my hang-up is. I can't help masturbating. I do it all the time. I do it right out in the open if I'm high, and when I'm not high I do it in private. Sometimes I even do it in bed, with Mabel watching. She wants me to stick it in her, but I'm too busy jerking myself off. So she has to help me, either by taking my hand in hers and squeezing with me, or by bending over and licking or sucking my cock. You see, masturbation excites me more than fucking. In fact, sometimes I go for weeks without a lay. It's pretty hard on Mabel, isn't it, babe?"
Mabel reached out to pat his cock and smiled wanly. "Yeah, I guess it is. But I love you, Jerk, and somehow that makes it easier to take. Hear that, everyone? I love him, even if he is a Jerk." She laughed self-consciously at her pun, and everyone else joined in with a certain amount of embarrassment. Mabel went on. "So I guess you're wondering how I get my satisfaction. Well, it's simple. Watch."
She got up and went to a cabinet in one corner. Opening its door, she withdrew an enormous rubber dildo. It was bright red, a good two inches thick and nine long. At one end there was a rubber bulb with a plastic screw cap. Mabel unscrewed this, then took a bottle from the cabinet and poured part of its contents into the syringe-like dildo, finally giving the rubber bulb a slight squeeze and nodding with satisfaction when a small amount of glue-like liquid emerged from the rubber organ's tip. Mabel replaced the bottle in the cabinet, then walked back to where Jerk sat and showed the device to the group.
"This is what I use when Jerk can't bring himself to screw me," she explained. "It cost us thirty-five bucks, but it's worth it. It's bigger than Jerk's cock-sorry, Jerk-and it doesn't go down halfway through the act. It comes when I want it to; all I have to do is squeeze, or have Jerk squeeze, the rubber bulb. It used to hurt a lot. My snatch wasn't big enough, you know. But now I'm used to it, and it's just great. I have Jerk tongue it up to get it wet, then in it goes. Watch."
Mabel knelt, resting her weight on knees and elbows, her butt well off the floor. Jerk picked up the dildo and slathered it with saliva, then took two fingers and applied more spit to them. He reached between Mabel's buttocks and smeared the saliva onto the girl's vaginal opening.
"Jerk warms me up a little first," Mabel told the group, her voice softer than before. "We've got it down to a science now, so it doesn't take too long." She stopped speaking for a moment to sigh with pleasure. "He just works his fingers around, like if he was masturbating himself. And then-" She cut off her words with a groan, and finally grunted out a command to Jerk. "Now, Jerk! Now!" she begged. Jerk responded by grabbing the rubber prick in both hands and pointing it in the direction of her cunt. Mabel reached back with one hand to guide it into the waiting cavity.
While Jerk moved the dildo forward and back, Mabel breathed slowly and raspingly, at the same time rocking her hips back and forth to meet the rubber organ each time Jerk shoved it in. "A little faster," she managed to tell him, and Jerk responded by speeding up the rhythm, letting go of the dildo with one hand and pushing harder and faster with the other. With his free hand, he began to caress his swollen penis again.
"See how she humiliates herself," Zonk interrupted in a soft voice. "See how she reveals her every shameful hang-up and desire. Look at her-being fucked by an inanimate object in front of her friends and acquaintances. Mabel has no pride."
Zonk's words seemed to increase Mabel's excitement. As he continued talking, his voice taking on a tone of contempt, she increased the tempo of her movements. Jerk responded by speeding up the motion of the rubber dildo and his own masturbating hand.
"Look at her!" Zonk hissed loudly. "What a strange, sick, masochistic bitch!" Mabel responded with a moan which ended in a gasp as she suddenly hailed her movements and squeezed the dildo with her vaginal sphincter, her buttocks quivering, her thighs stiffening with the approach of climax.
"Sock it to me, Jerk!" she whispered. Then she let out a cry as Jerk shoved the organ full-force into her vagina. Mabel shuddered with excitement and pain, and threw her body down on the floor so that the dildo, tightly clenched in her cunt, was almost pulled from Jerk's grasp. As she lay there quivering, he pushed it in again, starting the movement slowly and ending with a savage thrust, and squeezing the bulb when the rubber prick was all the way in.
Mabel shuddered several times, the muscles of her buttocks stiffening and loosening in rhythm with the contractions of her vagina. When she was finished, she moaned softly and rolled over, then pulled the dildo from her cunt and tossed it aside. She took Jerk's right hand in hers, and together the two of them squeezed and stroked his penis till he came.
After that, the rest of the confessions seemed almost anticlimactic. No one seemed too interested when a fag stammered his way through a heavily censored account of his first homosexual experience at age twelve, and similarly, there was little attention given to the girl who explained how she had spent half her childhood in an incestuous relationship with a deformed older brother, who would kiss her breasts and fondle her cunt while she played with his penis and clubfoot. And when Wiffie haltingly told how she used to feel guilty about sex but had learned to accept it as a natural and wonderful part of human existence, no one paid any attention at all. When it came time for Peter to confess, he briefly mentioned his experiences with the alleged hermaphrodite, but gave up when he saw that no one was listening.
Hamp was entirely free of nervousness when his turn came, for it had become obvious that he didn't have to say anything at all.
Things perked up a little when Zonk picked up his duffel bag and began to rummage through it. After a short search, he brought out a small bottle of gelatin capsules. He counted out nine, and walked around the room distributing them to his pupils. Mabel managed to lift her exhausted body from the floor and go to the kitchen, returning with a large bottle of ice water. She took it from guest to guest and waited as they placed the capsules in their mouths and swallowed enough water to wash them down. When everyone had swallowed a capsule, Zonk gave a brief explanation of what they were taking and what was about to occur.
"You have just swallowed a new and experimental drug known as HMH-one," he told them. "Un-like LSD, it does not pose the threat of a bad trip, nor is it a hallucinogenic drug in the usual sense. It does not bring on visions of spiders or colored lights, or strange sensations outside the realm of normal human experience. Rather, it stimulates a certain element of the human psyche and body by working on that portion of the brain which is concerned with sex.
"In a few minutes, you will begin to feel aroused. Your arousal will be such that you will feel an immediate need to fuck. Unless, of course, you are a homosexual, in which case other activities will suffice." Zonk nodded to the one fag in the group. "John, I will help you in your experience with the drug."
Presently, both Hamp and Peter noticed that their cocks were swelling involuntarily, accompanied by powerful throbbing sensations and an intense desire to feel the slick grasp of a cunt. Both looked at Wiffie, and then at each other. Who would get to fuck her? Hamp found that his hands were tightening into fists, and he noticed that Peter was reacting the same way. Would they have to fight for her? It looked like it was going to be a bad scene.
Fortunately, a girl intervened. She had come to the party alone, and had no one to screw. "I'm Elvira," she said softly to Hamp as she knelt before him and pushed his shoulders down on the thin Army mattress. "Relax."
He felt his cock throbbing with greater excitement than it had ever exhibited before; it seemed bigger, longer, thicker than ever before, and on the verge of bursting with its load of semen. He grasped Elvira's hips in both hands and tried to guide her crotch down on his prick.
"Not yet," she told him with a laugh. "Let's play a little, first." She walked forward on her knees, thighs straddling his body, until her furry cunt was above his face. "All right?" She lowered her cunt till the hairs of the outer lips were tickling Hamp's nose. He smelled the perfume of excitement coming from within her, and he pressed his nose up against the cunt. Suddenly, liquid began to flow from the opening, dousing his face. He would have thought it impossible for a girl to react so violently to his physical proximity or his touch; it must be the drug, he told himself. Then he lifted his face slightly and parted her labia minora with his tongue.
Elvira reacted by stiffening her thighs and gasping. She pressed her loins down on his face until his nose was completely buried in the vastness of her swollen inner lips. What a big, juicy cunt she had! Hamp found himself hoping that it wouldn't be so large as to deprive him of satisfaction once his throbbing penis was buried in it.
He licked and kissed her there for a while, letting his tongue play over her labia and occasionally sucking on her oversized clitoris with puckered lips. He felt her shudder each time he pulled the enormous clit head into his mouth, and as his tongue pushed its way into her vaginal opening again and again, he heard her groan repeatedly. Finally he forced her cunt away from his mouth and gave her a shove in the direction of his penis. She took the hint immediately, and in a moment she was kneeling above him and reaching down with one hand to guide his organ in.
On entry it was as though Hump had been swallowed by a vast mountain of juice-soaked flesh. For a moment he felt little stimulation to his penis; there was the sensation of being enveloped, but it was nowhere near sufficient to quell his need. Then the girl started to tighten the muscles of her vagina. She held his cock in her grip, squeezing it in rhythm with the motions of their rocking hips. Hamp felt as if his penis were swelling even more; it was as though the organ were trying to fill the vastness of Elvira's pulsating cunt. He felt incredibly excited, unbelievably in need of satisfaction, yet it seemingly took him forever to come.
When he did, it was in a geyser of hot creamy fluid. Elvira responded with contractions so violent that he was afraid, for a moment, that she could crush his organ in her twitching grasp. He felt as if his penis were being sucked up inside her, swallowed completely by a vacuum created by her violently pumping muscles. He burst out with a pleasure-filled groan that ended in a gurgling in his throat as the last of the passion left him. '
When it was over, he let the girl he limp on top of him. His penis, only partially flaccid despite the intense orgasm, continued to bathe in the warm, semen-flooded entrance to her cunt. He turned his head slightly and watched Peter fucking Wiffie; both of them were moaning softly.
Curiously, the momentary pang of jealousy passed as Hamp saw Wiffie come excitedly in Peter's embrace. Why shouldn't she enjoy herself? he thought. And then he smiled as he realized that Zonk's drug was, indeed, filling him with greater love and understanding.
Hamp and Elvira fucked three times more before the drug wore off, and ended the night with a switch of partners so that Peter was with Elvira and Hamp was plunging away in the cunt of his darling Wiffie, who seemed to come more powerfully in his embrace than she had in Peter's.
When the party was over, everyone was exhausted. When they went downstairs to their own apartment, the happy foursome-Hamp, Peter, Wiffie and Elvira, whom they had invited to stay the night with them-had to admit that they felt more like a family than they ever could have imagined.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They slept well that night, with the girls sharing the bed and the men sleeping on their respective cots. When morning came, Hamp got up and went into the bathroom, where he showered and shaved as quietly as he could. When he was dressed, he kissed Wiffie on the lips, and as an afterthought, leaned over and kissed Elvira's cheek. He was about to leave when Peter woke up, and looked over to see what was going on. Hamp gave him a brotherly pat on the shoulder as a gesture of communal friendship, and left the apartment, heading for work.
Peter and the girls got up not long afterward, and spent the morning talking. Elvira discussed her past life, and the illegitimate pregnancy that had brought her, at age twenty-three, to New York. Wiffie surprised, told Elvira how she had come to the city for the same reason, and with that the two of them were friends. Later in the day, Peter got out his paints and proposed a mural; the two girls quickly undressed and let him paint them.
Elvira thought being painted was great fun, and asked if she could try it again sometime.
"Stick around," Peter told her. "Why not live with us for a while?"
"Oh, I couldn't!" the girl replied, though she was obviously pleased by the invitation. "I wouldn't think of imposing. There just isn't enough room in the apartment for a fourth."
"Where there's friendship, there's always room," Peter insisted. "Isn't that right, Wiffie?"
Wiffie, who was becoming enthusiastic about the idea of having a friend of her own sex around, agreed.
At three-thirty, Peter announced that he was going uptown to buy art supplies. "A fellow in one of my classes told me about a place on Third Avenue that has some great bargains in paints," he explained. "I figure I might as well stock up, and maybe I'll look around at the galleries while I'm up there." He kissed the girls good-bye and departed, leaving Wiffie and Elvira nude and covered with paint, to clean his brushes and their bodies.
While Wiffie began to wash Peter's brushes, Elvira dug into her large shoulder bag and came up with a small vial of grass. "Want some?" she asked, holding the bottle up so Wiffie could see it.
"I don't know. I mean don't you usually save it for special occasions?"
"Don't be silly," the girl answered. "Besides, this is a special occasion. After all it's not every day that I move into a new apartment with three groovy people."
Elvira rolled a joint and lit it, then handed it to Wiffie. Wiffie smiled self-consciously and took a deep drag then passed it back. They sat on the floor, handing the joint back and forth and rapidly getting high on the marijuana.
Soon Wiffie lay back, and failed to protest when Elvira began to play with her pubic curls.
"Have you ever thought of shaving your pussy, Wiffie?" Elvira asked.
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. I guess it's just that you're so young and pretty that you'd kind of look cute with a bare snatch."
"Why don't you shave yours?" Wiffie asked, hearing her own voice filtered through the sweet reverie of the pot.
"I just wouldn't look right. I had the baby, you know, and it stretched hell out of my cunt. I don't want to advertise the baby to every guy I meet the minute he sees my crotch. It turns some guys off. They're afraid you've got the baby hidden somewhere and are just waiting to pounce on them and get married so you can make the kid legit."
"Well, they find out once they start playing with you down there, don't they?"
"Yes, but most of the time they're too far gone by then. I just don't want them to notice my droopy flaps the minute I undress."
Wiffie lay quiet for a while, puffing on the joint each time Elvira handed it to her, not seeming to mind that her friend's fingers had moved farther down the mons and were now resting just above the hidden bud of her clitoris. She tensed slightly when Elvira let the middle finger move below, but the sensation of pleasure was greater than her inhibitions, and with another drag of grass smoke, Wiffie simply sighed and let the girl have her way.
Soon Elvira shifted position so that she was lying with her head near Wiffie's pubic patch. She pulled one of Wiffie's legs toward her slightly, pushing the other back and revealing the vaginal lips. She moved her own pussy close to Wiffie's mouth, and hoped that her genital perfume would inspire the younger girl to take a more active interest in the proceedings. Elvira's index finger prodded Wiffie's clitoris, followed up by a quick darting caress with her tongue. Wiffie stirred slightly, and exhaled deeply with pleasure.
Elvira's tongue was expert, and as it moved up and down Wiffie's love lips, occasionally settling on her clit for a moment before dashing back to the hole between the inner labia, Wiffie began to respond with gentle stirrings and secretions and sighs of pleasure. Soon she had her own face buried in Elvira's pubic hair, and was breathing deeply of the heavy odor from Elvira's crotch.
When Elvira thrust a finger into Wiffie's vagina, Wiffie hunched closer so that the older girl could suck full-force in and out. Wiffie, meanwhile, was using her mouth, too; her tongue was exploring Elvira's voluminous vestibule, caressing the organs of another female for the first time.
Wiffie pulled her face away for a moment and exhaled with tension, then asked Elvira if she was doing all right. "I've never tried this before," she explained.
"You're doing fine," Elvira replied. She returned her tongue and lips to Wiffie's crotch, and parted her legs more. Finally she rolled over so that she was straddling Wiffie, her cunt hanging over Wiffie's face. She began to move her hips back and forth excitedly as Wiffie tongued her swollen clitoris, and Wiffie responded by bringing her knees up and opening them wider, pressing her genitals up against Elvira's mouth and enjoying the passionate work of the older girl's tongue.
They heard the door open, and looked up. It was Hamp, returning from work.
"Hi." He seemed slightly puzzled by their embrace.
Wiffie blushed and looked straight up at Elvira's bush, keeping her eyes where Hamp couldn't see them, and refraining from touching her lips to Elvira's cunt again. Elvira, on the other hand, merely nodded a greeting and resumed licking Wiffie's clitoris, seemingly unperturbed by the intrusion. Wiffie tried to bring her legs together, but Elvira forced them open all the way, and continued her licking.
Hamp came closer, to sit on the edge of the bed. He saw the look of embarrassment and fear on Wiffie's face, and smiled. "Don't worry," he said. "I understand. You just go ahead and enjoy it."
"That's all right," Wiffie replied, hoping to make him think that she was participating solely for Elvira's benefit. "Elvira's had her fun. Haven't you, Elvira?"
Elvira replied with an extended no, the word coming from her throat, since her mouth was busy on Wiffie's clit.
"Go ahead. Let yourself go," Hamp urged, patting Wiffie on the thigh. He leaned over and squeezed her leg affectionately, then let his hand drift down to the edge of her fur, so that his fingers were almost touching Elvira's mouth. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. After all, you know what
Peter and I have done with you watching, or at least with you.. .around."
The caress of Hamp's fingers on her fur and the touch of Elvira's tongue on her organs was enough to make Wiffie force aside her embarrassment and give way to desire. She reached up with one hand and squeezed Hamp's knee as he sat on the bed, then resumed kissing Elvira's cunt in a tentative manner. Finally, as Elvira's tongue started her crotch to quivering, Wiffie sank her own tongue deep into Elvira's opening and felt her friend perform a similar motion in Wiffie's smaller but equally eager hole.
Shortly afterward, they came, with hips thrashing and mouths pressed to one another's organs, their vaginas contracting around inserted fingers and tongue-tips, and their lungs bursting forth with uncontrollable gasps.
In a moment, Elvira rolled off Wiffie and sat up at Hamp's feet.
"Let's do something together," she said, winking at Wiffie and slipping a hand onto Hamp's zipper. She pulled his fly open and pushed her fingers aside. His cock was already swollen, and wet at the tip.
Wiffie sat up and helped Elvira remove Hamp's shoes, shirt and trousers. Then Elvira pulled off his T-shirt while Wiffie slipped off his shorts. Elvira kissed his chest and stomach, running her tongue over his nipples and through the hair on his belly until it settled in his navel, then drifted to the abdomen below. Wiffie already had his penis in her mouth, stroking it rapidly with the tip of her tongue and smiling within as she felt him lift his hips with a passionate arching of his back.
"Go ahead," Elvira whispered. "What?" Wiffie answered in confusion, pulling her mouth from Hamp's penis.. "Get on him," Elvira commanded. "What? By myself?"
"He's only got one cock," Elvira said with a chuckle. She prodded Wiffie with a fingertip, and Wiffie obeyed. Squatting over Hamp's organ, she let Elvira reach down and guide it. Elvira's hand then drifted about, tickling Hamp's balls and fondling Wiffie's clit, and with that Wiffie proceeded to move her hips up and down, gradually slipping into the twisting pattern that she knew Hamp loved.
In the meantime, Elvira had squatted over Hamp's face, her back to Wiffie. She held his head in her hands and stroked his hair as he cooperated by tickling her clit with his tongue.
When he and Wiffie reached their climax together, he sucked the whole of Elvira's inner lips into his mouth, bringing her to a state of shuddering contractions until, at last, she got off him and flopped down. Soon Wiffie was sprawled across the two of them, groggy and utterly satisfied.
Peter returned to the apartment not long afterward, and Elvira immediately pounced on him like a bitch in heat. She undid his fly before he could hang up his coat, and proceeded to lick his penis until it swelled to its full eight and a half inches of length.
She made him fuck her from behind; lying on her side on the bed, she masturbated her clitoris while Peter lay behind her and moved his prick in and out in a fast, furious rhythm. His hands squeezed her breasts, his fingertips pinching her hardened nipples, and in less than two minutes, with Hamp and Wiffie looking on, both Peter and Elvira came, in a wild climax of groans and shudders, and heavy ejaculations of semen and love juice.
After that, the four of them had a light supper and sat around smoking pot and drinking cheap Chianti. When they'd become thoroughly stoned, Elvira made a suggestion.
"Hey," she said, "do you know the Hell's Angels?"
"Not personally," Hamp replied, his voice slurred.
"They're in California, man," Peter said. "There's no Hell's Angels in New York."
Elvira nodded. "Right. But there's a new group in Jersey City called the Horse's Balls. They're real tough, and they ride motorcycles, and they.. .well, groovy. I know; I've ridden with them a few times. What do you say? Why don't we go over and groove with them tonight? They hang around in Mugsy's Bar, and we can get there on the Hudson Tubes."
Hamp was only half interested, but Peter thought it sounded like an interesting idea. Wiffie was only half-conscious; The wine had affected her more than the pot. She didn't have any opinion at all. Finally they decided that the matter warranted more discussion, and that while they wouldn't go that night, they might go over a day or two later if the idea seemed good at the time.
"It's going to be really groovy," Elvira kept insisting. "You just don't know what it's like. These guys are really wild, and their chicks are pretty far out too. It turns me on just thinking about it."
Suddenly Elvira grabbed Hamp's hand and placed it on her cunt. "Finger-fuck me, man," she told him as she pressed his hand against her swollen love lip. "Make me think of those cycles and those wild, wild rides."
Hamp let two fingers slide into her vaginal opening, which was still slick with the semen Peter had pumped into her a few minutes earlier. "Come on; your whole hand," she insisted, and Hamp responded by bringing his four fingers and thumb together and shoving them in up to the last knuckles.
"Deeper, for Christ's sake!" Elvira loosened the muscles surrounding her vaginal entrance and pushed her crotch down on Hamp's hand, which she held in place by tightly grasping his wrist with both her hands. His hand sank halfway into the gaping hole, and finally, with a great sucking plop, she drew the whole hand into her cunt, clear to the wrist.
"Horsepower!" Elvira said between gritted teeth. "Cylinders, Hamp! And pistons!" She grasped his arm and pushed it even deeper into her quivering vagina. The heavy odor of her juice filled the air as she squeezed her organs about his hand.
"Rev that engine, baby!" she shouted, and began to rotate her hips, at the same time thrashing her crotch up and down on Hamp's juice-covered hand. She pulled his face to her bosom and held it tightly as he let his mouth open and surround the end of her right breast. "Bite me," she said softly. When he didn't respond, she shouted it. "Bite me!"
Hamp obeyed, sinking his teeth into the swollen corona of her nipple until blood began to trickle forth. As he bit harder and harder, a series of spasms took hold of Elvira's cunt, causing it to close about Hamp's hand and wrist again and again, gripping so tightly that he actually felt pain at the peak of each pulsation.
When her orgasm had subsided, she fondled Hamp's now-erect penis until it, too, discharged its energy in an excited climax of seminal squirts.
"That was nice," she whispered when both of them were completely finished. "I'm a nympho, you know. I'm absolutely insatiable. You're good to me, Hamp, and I won't forget it. Just wait till we get to Jersey City, and I'll show you a real wild time."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They took the path train to Jersey City, going under the river in what had once been called the Hudson Tubes. Mugsy's bar was three blocks from the end of the line; it was a grubby-looking establishment with a dirty front window and a large cluster of high-powered motorcycles parked along the curb and on the sidewalk.
A juke box was playing when Elvira led Peter, Hamp and Wiffie inside. "Hey, gang!" she called out to the motley crew assembled in the dingy room.
"Elvira! You horny chick!" The source of the bellow came toward them; it was a gangling, greasy-haired man of twenty-eight or thirty, on the lean side but with wiry muscles in the bare arms that extended from his sleeveless denim jacket. "You old cunt, you!" he said as he tickled Elvira's crotch through her tight-fitting jeans.
"Horse, I want you to meet Peter, Hamp and
Wiffie," Elvira said. She waved back and forth from the cyclist to her friends. "Kids, this is Horse, leader of the gang. He's got the biggest rocks in Jersey City. That's why they call his gang Horse's Balls."
"I got the biggest cock, too, baby," the leader said, pressing his bulging groin against the girl. "Don't forget to tell 'em that."
Elvira laughed. "I'll bet they'll be seeing that soon enough."
Horse led them all to the bar and waved to the bartender, who immediately poured five beers. "Drink," Horse told them as he handed a stein to each of his guests. "It's on the house. Right, Mugsy?"
The bartender frowned, but then nodded affirmatively, shrugging his shoulders.
Horse told a group of grimy cyclists around a table to make room, and they did so, some girls sitting in the men's laps to free three chairs. Wiffie sat on Hamp's lap and Elvira on the knees of Horse; Peter was saddled with a heavy-bosomed chick in faded denim coveralls who had shit embroidered across her chest. She was half-drunk and apparently high on some drug as well, and paid little attention to Peter once she had plopped down on his skinny thighs.
Elvira chatted with the Horse for a while, gossiping about old friends. Peter, Hamp and Wiffie looked on, feeling a mixture of uneasiness and boredom. Then their eyes widened as they watched Elvira unzip Horse's dungarees and draw forth what must indeed have been the world's most gigantic cock.
It was absolutely stupendous in size. It was at least nine inches long in its flaccid state, with a thickness of perhaps one and a half inches. It seemed to be jointed in two places, as though three normal pricks had somehow grown-together to make one giant-sized model. And as Elvira caressed its baseball-like tip, the super prick began to swell even larger, finally reaching out a good twelve inches, and achieving in diameter at its thickest point.
"I don't believe it!" Hamp's jaw hung open in amazement.
"Christ!" Peter breathed, unable to tear his eyes from the monstrous organ.
Wiffie said nothing, merely staring at the prick in hypnotic fright. There was something radiantly evil about a tool of such great size; it was as if Horse had acquired the penis of Satan himself.
"Let's show 'em how it works, Horse," Elvira said with a chuckle as she got off his knees. She headed for a door leading to the back of the building, and Horse, his prick bobbing before him, walked along behind her.
Peter boosted the glaze-eyed girl off his lap and followed eagerly, and Hamp and Wiffie, after a questioning look passed between them, rose and went along. They had come this far with Elvira; somehow it would seem rude to turn away from their new friend-and from Peter-now. They both felt certain, however, that whatever was about to happen in the backroom of Mugsy's bar would be thoroughly distasteful. Without words, they shared-and knew they shared-an awareness that Elvira, Peter and the freakish Horse were leading them into a new phase of their life together.
The backroom contained an ancient, battered pool table and a shielded bare bulb suspended from the ceiling; nothing more. There was an open door leading outside, and Elvira, saying curtly, "Wait here," went through it and disappeared.
Horse leaned against the pool table, his organ extending stiffly from his fly, and a slow grin spread over his lean, rat-like face. Peter, Hamp and Wiffie waited in silence, looking uneasily at one another and out into the darkness where Elvira had gone.
She returned only moments later, and she was leading a huge and very bedraggled looking St. Bernard dog, grasping the thick ruff about its neck and coaxing it softly. "It's a female," she said as she closed the door. "Hangs around here all the time, and Horse keeps saying he's going to screw it someday. Now's your chance, Horse. I promised my friends I'd show them a wild time today, so how's this for starters?"
"Sure, baby. Why not? You want to call the crowd?"
Elvira opened the door to the barroom and called out, "Dog show, gang!"
"Dog show!" the words swept around the room and everyone smiled and stood up eagerly. It was something familiar but unusual, apparently; a very special occasion. The cyclists and their girls picked up their beers and crowded toward the backroom.
Soon the room was packed, and befogged with the heavy smoke of pot and tobacco. Elvira locked both doors, and with the help of two of Horse's cronies, hoisted the bewildered St. Bernard onto the pool table. The dog stood quivering, turning her head in all directions to eye this rabble of humans who were suddenly so attentive to her.
Horse, meanwhile, had shed his boots and trousers. Wearing only the sleeveless denim jackets with the swastika on its back, he now leapt onto the table beside the dog, clasping his hands above his head boxer style as the crowd cheered and whistled.
Elvira produced a tube of lubricant from somewhere, and passed it up to Horse, who squeezed a gob onto his fingers; he bent and gripped the dog's broad haunches between his left thigh and upper arm, and began to smear the jelly onto the flaccid cunt lips of the massive bitch. When she struggled forward out of his grasp, whining in perplexed discomfort, he gestured to the closest cyclists, and they grabbed the dog by all four legs, holding her in place. Another whipped off a wide, metal-studded leather belt and looped it about the dog's muzzle.
Horse finished his preparations on the quivering St. Bernard, who could now only switch her hips nervously. Her tail tried to curl between her legs, but Horse held it aside. Wiffie and Hamp watched a dribble of urine fall from the frightened beast's genitals.
Now the grinning Horse spread lubricant on his monstrous phallic knob and along the vast length of the organ's shaft. The crowd was hushed as he went to his knees behind the helpless animal, grasped his shiny prick in both hands and angled it toward the dog's vagina. He drew his hips back and hobbled closer, then thrust forward abruptly. The bulbous cock head struck and stuck at the opening, and when he tried to plunge it in, grabbing handfuls of hair on the dog's flanks and jerking her torso back against him, it was in vain.
The St. Bernard whimpered and writhed, but was held fast, and Horse continued to strain forward, his organ reddening, sweat breaking out on his brow.
At last he gave up. "The fuckin' dog's too small," he muttered, clouting the animal across the hindquarters.
"They're always too small," one of the cyclists called out. "What you need is a cow!"
The crowd laughed, but the laughter died rapidly when it became obvious that Horse was about to try again.
Picking up the tube of lubricant, he slathered his fingers again, and coated his cock more heavily. But when he applied a gob to the trembling bitch, his target was higher-the puckered ring directly below her tail. He plunged two fingers in, causing a violent shudder and a squeal of pain.
Horse smiled grimly, his lips drawn back from yellowed teeth. He stood up now, and bent over the dog's broad back, positioning his prick's head against her anus. Sinking his hands into her ruff for a firm grip, he pushed forward slowly and steadily.
The dog's tissues resisted at first, but finally gave way to the pressure. The head and perhaps three inches of shaft sank out of sight.
The dog's front legs gave way, her chest and head thudding to the felt of the table, and the motion pulled Horse off balance. But he responded with a new thrust of his hips, his bent legs straining, and the huge organ was driven in another six inches.
Blood began to seep from the raw-looking ring of flesh that gripped Horse's cock. The dog's quivering had stopped, and its eyes were closed. Horse lunged again, gaining another two inches depth and perhaps an inch of circumference, as the fullest thickness of the shaft began to enter.
"Fuck it to death, baby!" one of the girls called, and with that the gang began a rhythmic clapping.
All their eyes were fixed on the grisly point of contact between their leader's gigantic tool and the St. Bernard's torn, tortured anus. Their faces were twisted by leering, insane grins.
Hamp's expression could only be described as stunned, but his eyes too were fastened on the gory spectacle. Wiffie was covering her eyes and pressing her face to Hamp's shoulder. Her body shook with heavy sobs. "The poor dog!" she whispered. Hamp heard, and slid his arm around her waist, but still seemed compelled to watch.
Horse plugged away at the half-conscious animal beneath him with powerful strokes, his penis now moving in and out of her bowel to the extent of several inches, gradually gaining new depth on the forward lunges. Blood flowed more heavily now, smearing his abdomen and matting his pubic hair. From behind him, one could see between his thighs to where the red fluid dripped from his bulky, low-slung balls, to puddle on the worn felt of the table.
Suddenly a new spasm shook the dog, and its hind legs collapsed. Horse fell with it, still embedded, and jabbed his prick forward in a series of rapid lunges, his face contorting with climax.
As he pulled out, the St. Bernard's body twitched once, eerily, and a strangled growl came from its throat. Then her whole form seemed to slump and shrink a little, and the onlookers knew she was dead.
Horse wiped his flaccid organ with a T-shirt which one of the cyclists proffered. He tossed this bloody trophy to a chick near the table, and in return, tore off her blouse and used it to mop up the blood that covered the front of his lower body. Then he took his trousers from another cyclist and sat on the table's edge to put them on. Two of the girls worshipfully put his boots on his feet.
"Let's go ridin'! " Horse bellowed as he stood up. A roar of agreement went up, and the gang surged through the door to the barroom, heading outside.
Peter, Hamp and Wiffie hung back. "Pretty grim, huh?" said Peter; but there was a glint of excitement in his eyes.
"Revolting," Hamp muttered. He turned away from Peter to embrace Wiffie, who was still sobbing.
Elvira stuck her head in then, and called, "Come on, dammit! We're goin' for a ride!" Peter followed her immediately.
"Wiffie.. . ? " Hamp said. But she could not or would not answer; she stood trembling in his arms, her hands pressed to her face.
She let Hamp guide her through the empty barroom and outside, where four of the cyclists waited, their bikes rumbling in readiness. Peter was mounted behind one of them.
When Elvira grabbed Wiffie's arm and began to pull her toward the closest motorcycle, Hamp tried to protest. But his words were drowned by the roar of the machines, and Wiffie seemed willing to be led, and to be pushed onto the seat of the bike, behind its long-haired, bare-to-the-waist driver.
Resigned, Hamp straddled the bike next to her, and when Elvira had climbed on behind the fourth cyclist, they roared off into the night.
The careening, deafening ride was merely frightening to Hamp, and his worry was increased as he looked ahead at Wiffie, who still appeared numbed by shock and was only holding on loosely to the belt of the cyclist before her. At every turn, he expected to see her thrown from the speeding bike.
Elvira rode closest to Hamp, and she appeared to be building to an orgasm as she clung to her driver, her thighs grasping the seat tightly, her eyes closed, her hips grinding slightly to rub her crotch into the leather saddle.
Perhaps twenty minutes later, the cycles swung off the highway onto a dirt road. Here all four moved side by side, as clouds of dust billowed behind them. They came soon to a battered shack in a grove of trees. The other cycles were parked in deep grass beside it, and flickering dim light shone through the open door and a single glassless window.
Hamp put his arm about Wiffie as she dismounted, and she looked into his eyes with an expression of mournful resignation as they followed the others inside, to be greeted once more by the smells of dirty bodies and burning pot.
Most of the men were in various stages of undress. Some had stripped completely, while others had merely taken off their trousers or let their cocks pop out of their open flies. The girls had stripped from waist to ankles, for the most part, and were either being fucked or working up to it.
Horse was kneeling in front of a tall, long-haired girl, his face buried in her crotch. He was licking and sucking furiously, and his right hand gripped a soggy tampon which he had apparently pulled from the girl's cunt.
Elvira immediately shed her sweater and jeans and went into a corner with the cyclist who had brought her to the shack. She put her arms around his neck as he literally tore her bra from her body and unzipped his fly, poking his penis past the sagging leg band of her worn panties and into her juice-filled cunt.
Hamp and Wiffie looked on, struck dumb by the immensity of the orgy which surrounded them. Then Hamp whispered, "Come on. Let's stay outside."
As they turned back toward the door, Horse looked up from his girl friend's bloody cunt and called out to them. "Hey, where are you two goin'? Come join the fun."
"No thanks," Hamp called back. "I'm afraid this is a bit too wild for us."
"Your friend seems to be enjoying it," Horse retorted, waving toward Peter, who was being blown by a dark-haired girl dressed in black vinyl. Peter's eyes were closed, and his hands were clasped beneath his balls as he pressed his loins against the face of the gurgling, prick-swallowing girl.
Hamp and Wiffie didn't reply. They went outside and walked around to the rear of the shack, where Wiffie collapsed against Hamp's chest and began to sob again as Hamp gently stroked her hair.
"It's so horrible!" she moaned. "Especially what they did to that poor dog!"
"I know." He took her face in his hands and lifted it so he could kiss her lightly on the lips. "I wish I knew where we were, so we could get a bus or a cab or something and try to get home."
Suddenly they were interrupted by a wild-eyed cyclist who was obviously high on some drug. "Come on inside, man," he slurred, grabbing Hamp's arm. "You take my chick and I'll borrow yours."
"No thanks." Hamp pulled away.
"Look, man, I said I want to trade chicks. Now don't tell me you don't want to fuck my chick."
"I said no thanks."
"That's not nice, fella." The cyclist's eyes had taken on an evil glint, and he now spoke softly and distinctly, spitting out each word in a vicious tone. "We're all friends here, buddy. We share and share alike. You should have figured on that when you came along."
"I guess we didn't know what we were getting into," Hamp said politely, hoping the hophead would give up and go away.
"like shit, you didn't!" In one motion, the cyclist yanked a motorcycle drive chain from the belt loops of his trousers and whipped Hamp across the face with it. Hamp lurched back, his face bleeding profusely, and Wiffie tried to grab him as he tripped and fell to the ground.
"Leave him alone!" Wiffie cried. The cyclist was now swinging the chain lariat-like above his head. "Out of the way, bitch," he hissed.
Wiffie didn't move; she was rooted to the ground with fear. The cyclist stared at her for a moment, then reached out and grabbed her arm before she could draw it away. He squeezed it till Wiffie cried out in pain. Then he threw her to the ground and moved in on Hamp, who was groggily trying to wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve.
The cyclist kicked him in the stomach, and Hamp curled up in agony. Then the maniac kicked him again, and this time the tip of his boot slid between Hamp's thighs and hit his balls. Hamp cried out, but his scream subsided to a moan as the cyclist kicked him in the head, knocking him unconscious.
"Sorry about your boy friend, baby," the man muttered as he stalked toward Wiffie, who was back on her feet a few feet away, her eyes wide with fright, her feet still unable to transport her from the horrible scene. "I'm going to fuck you, kid. I'm going to put my big greasy cock in your tight little cunt and fuck you till your juice turns to motorcycle oil and your tits swell up like tires."
He unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock, then cast off his denim jacket to reveal a sweaty chest, hairless, with a tattoo reading God Sucks. He made a lunge for Wiffie and forced her to the ground, pushing her skirt up and trying to wrench her panties down her legs. Wiffie held her knees together and screamed.
The madman drew a knife from the pocket of his jeans. He pressed a button on its side and a blade snapped out from the case. Slowly and carefully, he slipped the tip of the blade beneath one of the leg-bands of her panties.
"Lie still," he told her. "You take it real easy, or you'll get your clit cut off. Do you hear me?" Wiffie obeyed, trying to keep her body from shaking with fright. She wept in tiny, almost inaudible sobs as she felt the blade sever the crotch of her panties and then move away from her organs and up to her throat.
"Hold still, now," he said again. "Just relax and enjoy it. You look like the kind of chick that could use a good screwing."
He spread her legs with one hand and knelt between her thighs, then fell forward to ram his prick into her vagina in a single rending stroke. He fucked hard, fucked her so that she cried out in pain again and again. He forced her lips down on hers and pushed his tongue into her mouth. He tasted of garlic and cigarettes, and Wiffie almost retched as his tongue raped its way past her teeth.
Finally he grunted and stopped his fucking motions, apparently having reached a feeble climax. "Wasn't much of a fuck, was it?" he said as he pulled his soggy organ from Wiffie's vagina. "It wasn't much of a fuck at all. Well, what can a guy expect from an uptight chick like you?" The cyclist got up and pushed his penis back into his trousers, zipped his fly and spat on the ground. "So long, baby," he said as he walked off.
Wiffie lay still, sobbing, then rolled over so that she could bury her face in the grass as she wept. After a while she felt a hand on her buttocks. She looked up and saw Hamp, his face disfigured by a long gash which was coated with congealed blood and dirt.
"Are you all right, Wiffie?" he asked in a solemn voice.
"Oh, Hamp!"
"Jesus Christ," he moaned suddenly. And with that he buried his face in his hands and wept with long, body-racking sobs.
"I'm sorry, Wiffie! God! I couldn't even protect you from that punk!"
"It's all right, Hamp." Wiffie turned on her side and began to stroke his head, trying not to touch the gash.
They lay there for perhaps half an hour. Finally they managed to get up, and headed out across open marshland until they reached a two lane paved road. In time, a truck came by and the driver, seeing the disheveled and bloody couple at the roadside, took pity and gave them a lift to Newark, where they took a cab into Manhattan and to the apartment.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Peter came in a few minutes before five a.m., drunk, his clothes disheveled. He smelled of sex and piss, and his trousers were stained with dried semen.
"Where's Elvira?" Hamp asked.
"She's going to ride with the gang for a while," Peter replied in a slurred voice. "She really digs being fucked by those motorcycle cats, man. Pistons and cylinders.. .all that shit."
Peter flopped down on his cot and immediately fell asleep, snoring in drunken exhaustion. Wiffie and Hamp, who were lying on the bed but had not slept, held each other a little tighter and were thankful that Elvira hadn't returned. Finally the two of them fell asleep, snuggled up for warmth and safety beneath the blanket.
Hamp awoke first, and as he stirred, his motions caused Wiffie to wake up too.
"What time is it?" she asked in a whisper. He looked at his watch. "About seven-thirty."
"Let's go."
"What?" Hamp wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly.
"I want to leave, Hamp," she said quietly. "I want to get away from here for good. I just don't think I can take it; not after last night."
"What about Peter?"
"You saw how he liked it. Didn't you notice how he looked when Horse was murdering that poor St. Bernard? And didn't you see how he fell right into that gang's orgy, letting himself be.. .sucked by that girl while a.. .pervert was beating you up and raping me."
"I see what you mean." Pain shot through Hamp's gut and caused his facial wound to ache as he thought of what had happened behind the shack.
"Let's go, Hamp. We don't have to take much with us. If we're quiet, Peter won't wake up."
They got off the bed and dressed quickly. Then they went to the apartment's single closet and began to pack their clothing.
Wiffie jumped when she heard Peter stir.
"What's happening?" the artist mumbled, half opening his eyes and trying to make sense of what Hamp and Wiffie were doing.
"Nothing, Peter. You just go back to sleep." Hamp braced himself for the possibility of a fight.
"You going somewhere? What's going on?" Peter was more fully awake now, and had pushed himself into a half sitting position on the cot.
"Just go back to sleep, Peter," Hamp said in a tense voice.
Wiffie put a hand over Hamp's mouth and turned to Peter. "That's right; go to sleep. While you were sleeping a telegram came. My mother's sick, and I have to go home. Hamp's going with me."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to face my parents alone."
Peter frowned and rubbed his eyes. "Hell, I'll come along too, then. That should make it even easier for you."
Wiffie shook her head. "I don't think that would be a good idea. A threesome would look a little strange, don't you think?"
Peter thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, I suppose so."
"All right, then. You just go back to sleep. We'll be back by Thursday or Friday at the latest." She went over and kissed Peter on the cheek, hoping afterward that he hadn't seen the distaste in her face.
They left the apartment as soon as Peter had flopped back down on his cot.
They didn't know where to go, at first, but finally took the subway to the Port Authority Bus Terminal. It was warm there, and not too heavily peopled by perverts at eight in the morning, and after putting their bags in a locker, they had breakfast in the coffee shop and talked things over.
"Let's get an apartment in Queens," Hamp said. "It's supposed to be fairly decent out there, with trees and even squirrels if you get into the right neighborhood, and if you look hard enough you can find a furnished place for not too much. You can get a job as a secretary or something until I find something that pays better."
Wiffie thought about it for a moment, then grasped Hamp's hand. She pressed his fingers between her own and looked him in the eye as she spoke. "Let's go somewhere else," she said. "Where the air is really clean, and where there aren't any motorcycle gangs or perverts. Someplace away from New York."
"But we haven't got any money!" Hamp told her.
"You've saved a little, haven't you?" she asked. "Well, maybe seventy-five or a hundred dollars, at most."
"Good. And I had some of those bonds left over. You know; the ones my aunt gave me? I said there was only four hundred dollars, but I was lying, I'm afraid. I was saving the rest for a real emergency-like getting out of town if my parents or the Home found out that I'd tried to get an abortion. Hamp, I have three hundred and fifty dollars in my purse, all in traveler's checks."
Hamp was stunned but pleased. "Three hundred fifty and ... Wiffie, I'll bet we have close to five hundred dollars, if you count my next paycheck! I'll quit my job and...."
Wiffie interrupted, putting a finger to his lips. "Tell them by mail," she said. "They can mail you the money, and so can your bank. Let's leave today. This morning, Hamp!"
"But where will we go?"
"How about New Hampshire? Or Vermont! I've always wanted to live in a little cottage in Vermont."
Forty-seven minutes later, they were sitting side by side in an air-conditioned bus, moving through the streets of Manhattan. Wiffie leaned on Hamp's shoulder and held his hand, and both of them entertained visions of the green, clean Vermont countryside in which they would soon reside.
Peter awoke for a second time, this time with a hangover. He stumbled to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, intending to take a couple of Wiffie's aspirin. They weren't there. Neither were her toothbrush, hand lotion, shampoo ... Everything was gone except Peter's own toothbrush and razor. Why had she taken so much if she intended to be gone only a few days?
When he looked in the closet, he saw that all but her least attractive clothes-the ones she never bothered to wear-had disappeared. How had she packed everything in so short a time? And why? Most of Hamp's stuff was gone, too; even his fall suit, which he wouldn't have needed at this time of year. Something was very wrong.
Peter went back to his cot and lay down, covering his eyes to shield them from the light which tortured his retinas, causing his aching head to throb all the more.
He moped about the apartment for the rest of the week. He clung to the hope that his suspicions were groundless; that Wiffie and Hamp would come back. But when they hadn't returned by Saturday, he knew they wouldn't be returning. The missing items from the medicine cabinet, the clothes they'd taken, and the fact that they hadn't even called ... Well, it was a depressing scene.
Sunday evening, Peter got cleaned up and packed his toothbrush and razor in a battered toilet kit. He tossed the kit, his few clothes and a box of brushes and paints into his old tin suitcase, and looked around the apartment. It was good-bye to the old place now; the rent was due on Monday, and he didn't have enough to pay it. He had assumed that Hamp would be around to help out.
Anyway-and this was his real reason for leaving-there was nothing to hold him there any more; nothing but the loneliness and the painful memories and the sadness that had come with the departure of Wiffie and Hamp. Peter headed for Jersey City, and Mugsy's Bar.
There were only three or four cycles in front of the place. Sunday was a quiet evening, he supposed; everyone was probably still hung-over from Saturday night. But when he went inside, he found Horse, fucking a chick who was sitting in his lap. And Elvira-blessed Elvira-was leaning against the bar.
"Peter!" she cried.
"Hi, Elvira. Do you know of anyone who's got a spare seat on the back of his cycle?"
"I'll steal a cycle for us, Peter baby. Hell, I'll even teach you how to ride!"
Peter patted her on the ass, and nodded to Mugsy, who smiled as he took a stein from the rack and filled it with cold, fresh beer.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Peter was fucking Elvira; they were on a massive Harley, speeding along a deserted country road. Peter was driving, his hands distractedly grasping the handlebars as his teeth nibbled Elvira's neck. She leaned forward from his lap, her legs wrapped back about his waist, her forearms and breasts near the center of the handlebars.
Vrooooom! He gunned the engine, eliciting a happy moan from her. She squeezed her cunt more tightly around his aching cock. He advanced the throttle again, and shifted to a higher gear, accelerating and causing Elvira to move even faster on his swollen organ.
Wild vibrations came up through the seat into his body and on to Elvira's cunt and thighs. She moaned and panted, and squeezed her legs more tightly around the waist, at the same time milking his cock with her cunt, in a series of wild pulsations that nearly made Peter lose control of the bike. He barely managed to keep it on the road.
Peter kicked the gearbox down to first and hit the brakes just as he shot his load into her. When they'd stopped, Elvira slowly disengaged herself as Peter sat exhausted, one leg holding the bike upright.
"Peter?" she gasped into his ear. "Yeah?"
"You've got one big prick, Peter."
"I am one big prick, baby." They both laughed gleefully.
It was their wedding night; they'd been married that morning, and had spent the rest of the day strolling through the woods, petting in the grass, chasing each other through clumps of trees. Wiffie had rebuffed Hamp several times when he'd tried to make love to her. "Later," she whispered as she kissed him on the lips and squeezed the wrist attached to his eagerly clit-stroking hand. "We can wait till tonight, can't we?" And they had.
Hamp was in the motel bedroom now, wearing a new pair of pajamas-ski pajamas. The clinging knit material did a nice job of showing off his equipment, he thought. He was waiting for Wiffie, who was getting ready in the bathroom. Hamp grew impatient after a while, and went to the bathroom door and knocked.
"Stay out!" Wiffie called. "I want to surprise you."
Hamp went back to the bed, where he sat on the edge and absent-mindedly began to caress his hardened prick through the pajamas, his mind churning with images of her: Wiffie nude; Wiffie in black lace; Wiffie in only a garter belt and net stockings; Wiffie lying on the bed, her legs over her shoulders and his cock sliding into her cunt.. .
The bathroom door opened, and he saw his bride silhouetted in the light that poured into the darkened bedroom. She was beautiful-more radiant, if that was possible, than she had ever seemed before. Her hair hung soft and loose about her shoulders, and her body was clad in a translucent gown of white nylon and lace that subtly accented the voluptuous curves of her figure, the pink tips of her breasts and her dark pubic triangle.
"You're beautiful," Hamp managed to whisper. He stood up and held out his arms as she walked ' oward him. He held her close when she entered his embrace.
They sat on the bed, Wiffie on Hamp's left, her face blushing pink as he looked down at her breasts and pubic patch through the sheer white fabric.
"I feel.. .silly," she said. "I mean, you've seen me lots of times, but tonight it's as if you'd never seen or touched me at all."
"I don't think it's silly," Hamp replied. His fingers slid up to caress the nipples of one nylon-clad breast. "I feel the same way-like this was the first time. like I'd never made love to you or.. .or felt your hand on my penis."
Wiffie leaned against his shoulder and let her right hand drift down to his lap. She ran her fingertips along the bulge of his organ. "I still think it's a little silly," she said as she squeezed the glans gently, causing him to tense with desire. "But it's still nice. Very nice."
Hamp slipped Wiffie's nightgown off her shoulders and stood back to watch as she pulled it down her body and let it drop to the floor. His eyes moved from her feet up the smooth young legs to the patch of bronze fur that shielded her loins. Then his gaze moved to the curve of her belly, and its sweet navel.
As his eyes beheld her breasts, he felt a lump grow in his throat. He thought of how those pretty tits would someday suckle a child. He stepped toward her and cupped a breast in each hand, and as he gazed into her eyes he bent slightly and kissed her on the forehead.
Wiffie pulled down the covers and slipped between the sheets. Hamp quickly removed his pajamas, walked around the bed and got in beside her. Almost shyly, he moved across to her, feeling the mattress rock slightly as she turned to him.
There was no cunnilingus, no fellatio, no entering from behind or in a sitting position or with Wiffie on top. All that could wait. For now, they would settle for a traditional, simple wedding night fuck.
It was a long one and a delightful one-a fuck that got their marriage off to an auspicious start. They came together, gently but entirely satisfied, and afterward they lay together, Wiffie's face pressed into Hamp' neck and her arms circling his hips. His hands rested on the dimpled cheeks of her smooth bottom.
"I feel like I've been deflowered," Wiffie murmured with a slight giggle.
Hamp was worried. "You mean it hurt?"
"Just a little. But only at first. It was psychological, I guess. Anyway...." She paused to kiss her husband. "I enjoyed every minute of it. I really did."
Wiffie giggled again and lifted her face so Hamp could let his tongue play over her open lips. They fell asleep together, content to spend the night in the same bed, with dreams of the fucks of the morrow, and of the wonderful life that surely lay ahead.
