No one who reads the morning paper, who listens to the evening news on the radio or on television, can argue the fact that these are troubled times we live in. The pace of life in our Western world seems to accelerate constantly, with changes following so closely on the heels of changes that we haven't a chance to stop and catch our breath and consider what is happening to our confusing world. This is true in every arena of human existence, but we hazard that the problem is most severe in the personal part of our lives. Otherwise, why the current craze for encounter, or '"regroups"; why the glut of books and articles on psychological self-improvement (i.e. How To Be Your Own Bent Friend, I'm Okay, You're Okay, etc.); why the hundred or more dollars which millions dish out for an hour on their analyst's couch?
Here at Fireside Reader we believe that one of the more important causes of personal unhappiness and insecurity is that few of us take enough time to truly think about what is going on in our society. We're so busy running along trying to keep pace with the onrushing current that we forget to stand aside and take a good look beneath the facade. Take, for example, the recent scandals concerning Watergate and the CIA-until a few brave citizens took the time to dig down to the depths and discover the frightening truths, the docile and apathetic tax-payer was being taken for a ride.
The written word can be a powerful weapon in the causes of fighting injustice and aiding the population along the path toward personal fulfillment, and in this sense we sincerely feel that a publisher has a commitment to the public just as much as the attorney or doctor, the social worker or educator. Taking the time to sit down with a book gives the reader a much-needed interval of respite from the morally and spiritually deadening rat-race and infuses a new dose of energy by pointing out the way other people have solved their conflicts and overcome their doubts and fears. It is for this reason that we take all possible efforts to seek out authors who have a talent for, and a dedication to, examining the relevant themes of our present-day world. We do not wish to criticize romantic fantasies or escapist adventure novels, merely to point out that without some meaningful moral message a book becomes as much a flight from reality and responsibility as that third martini. An author can simultaneously entertain and instruct, as Roger Gray's sure bestseller, Seduced into Sin, conclusively proves.
Seduced into Sin is, in our opinion, the sort of book which is powerful enough to help our fellow Americans make positive changes in that perplexing area-family life. In addition, it's fast-paced, readable style is so professional that we think you'll be as astonished as we were to learn that it's Roger Gray's first novel. He came to fiction through the back door; after a successful career of writing for technical and scientific publications, it suddenly struck him that these articles, important and exciting though they might be, were never going to reach the general public who most needed to receive the message. In the course of preparing a detailed study of a randomly selected group of three hundred women who were (a.) members of one or another sort of Women's Liberation organization, and (b.) the patients of psychiatrists, he came to the conclusion that he must present these facts in a fictionalized form.
The problems faced by today's modern women are only one of the topics treated in Roger Gray's fascinating account of an average family living in Midwestern America. Rape, incest, and a score of other very relevant subjects which may seem offensive to the over-sensitive, Puritan-conditioned mentality are covered in unrelentingly vivid and honest detail. Since he's the justly proud father of two charming and refreshingly well-adjusted adolescent girls, the author writes of the traumas our youth undergoes in these days of "sexual freedom" with particular sensitivity and depth.
Due to the author's unflinching dedication to truthful portrayal of the facts, however ugly and unpleasant, we feel a moral obligation to state that we do not recommend this novel to the immature under-twenty-one reader who might gain the wrong impression by taking the details out of the context of the universally important whole. However, we, the Publishers, feel that this is definitely one book no socially-conscious, mature man or woman ought to ignore ... not if they're concerned about their country, their family, and most of all, themselves.
-THE PUBLISHERS
CHAPTER ONE
"Well, that's all the news for tonight, folks. But all you faithful fans out there in Listening Land can catch Dirk Dilworth's six a. m. farm and news report if you stay tuned to WKMI here in Kalamazoo. The early bird catches that worm, right?-hahaha! Now at the sound of the tone it'll be exactly eleven here in Michigan, home of our great President Ford, and so before we sign off the air we wanna remind all you teens under eighteen that it's curfew time. Hurry it up with those good-night kisses, okay-doke, artichoke-hahaha!
And parents: do you know where your children are tonight?! "
The vociferous voice faded into a strident squall of static punctuated by siren-shrill squeals, rousing Ms. Denise Aronson from her comfortably curled-up position against the couch cushions. FREE AND FEMALE MAGAZINE and her package of Camel filters tumbled to the uncarpeted floor as she leaned over to switch the station selector dial to some Nashville folk-rock nonsense, and one ripe-melon breast dislodged itself from the cotton confines of her sensible white percale nightgown.
"I ride high, high in the saddle an I'm tall, tall, tall in luv..." wailed the radio.
"Oh, for God's sake!"
Denise switched off the white plastic clock-radio and stuffed the offendingly exposed flesh back inside her high-necked nightie. They'd called that sort of eardrum-grating junk "music" back in the late forties when she'd been a small girl-hadn't human consciousness evolved at all over the years? Then, as she realized that there was now no sound in the sparsely furnished living room save the hungry hum of mosquitos and faint murmurs of animal gluttons gorging on her biodynamic unsprayed garden outside, she turned the machine back on.
"WLS in Cheee-ca-goooo! Bringing you down Memory Lane through them Fabulous Fifties with that oldie-but-golden goodie, 'Rock Around the Clock Tonight'! Are ya ready! Here we go!"
"What in God's name's wrong with me tonight?" the dark-haired divorcee muttered as she irritably rearranged her voluptuous figure on the lumpy sofa and picked up her magazine. "I'm all on edge and I can't even concentrate on this great article on rape in FREE
AND FEMALE. Maybe it's because my tits hurt so much ... or this awful sticky heat-it never used to get this way up here in northern Michigan..."
It had, perhaps, been a mistake to sunbathe topless this afternoon-but if you were going to burn your bra, wasn't it an unforgivable compromise to continue wearing a two-piece bathing suit? Of course it was! And if her breasts were now not only shaped like premium-quality ripe cantaloupes, but also the same orange-pink color of this fruit's succulent interior, wasn't it her own fault? Hadn't she succumbed over all these thirty-five years to the male myths of covered mammary glands originated by profit-greedy bikini manufacturers? There was no other reason why this particular portion of her anatomy ought to be so supersensitive, and she would have to tell her daughters that they should start sunning topless at once.
Her daughters...
"Parents, do you know where your children are tonight?" echoed the radio's voice in her memory's ear.
Well, at least that was one positive thing about this inexplicably frustrating evening: she knew exactly where her two tow-haired blondes were, and had nothing to worry about on that score. Twelve year-old Caroline with her coltish skinny legs and pigtails was safe in her survival-style tent at the Back to the Basics Camp up in the Upper Peninsula, no doubt sleeping peacefully at this hour. As for sixteen year-old Tracey, she and that dull but unthreatening Robbie Runions were no doubt still happily sock-hopping at the "Rock Revival" dance down in the basement of the local Birch Bay Methodist Church. She was bringing up her two darling fatherless children in the Right Way, now she'd climb up to her bed and finish this educational article about actual legal defenses against the ultimate male outrage, rape.
Maybe my weird mood's got something to do with the full moon, she thought drowsily as she snuggled down under the sheets some minutes later.
FREE AND FEMALE once again tumbled to the floor as Ms. Aronson's lids fluttered down over her big brown eyes and her full-sculpted white thighs drew together in a paroxysm of unadmitted yearning, and the droning of insects was momentarily muted beneath the half sobbing sighs of her guilty finger-induced release...
CHAPTER TWO
His warm, wet hand pressed the especially sensitive stretch of thigh between her bare knee and the high hem of her dress, and Tracey Aronson felt happiness bubbling up inside her. She leaned her fair head lightly against her boyfriend's shoulder and hummed a few bars of "Blue Velvet", the last song that had been played at the Methodist Church Rock Revival Hop. Dancing, even with a lead-footed partner like Robbie Runions, was something she adored. Once the rhythm of the music started throbbing through her bloodstream, she forgot to feel shy and inhibited.
That crazy, wonderful feeling lingered even now, fifteen minutes later, as they cruised along the shore-side highway in Robbie's Dad's company car. Normally, she pushed his hand away from her leg. In Drivers' Ed they'd seen terrifying movies about what happened to people who didn't keep their hands on the wheel and their mind on the road; besides, the over-intimate touch made her stomach churn in a disturbing way. Tonight, though, she was enjoying the strange, tingling sensation too much to rebuke him.
"I sure had a fabulous time tonight!" she smiled at Robbie's freckled, snub-nosed profile, his thatch of sandy hair with its irrepressible cowlick. No one could have accused him of being handsome, but at the moment she felt very fond of him. "That Birch Bay Bebop Band wasn't half bad, was it?"
"Yeah, they were far out!" He turned toward her, gray-green eyes blinking beneath his bleached eyebrows because his contacts were bothering him again. "I dug the way they played all those slow numbers at the end. . . and I 'specially dug the way you dance. . . "
The sixteen year-old was grateful that darkness hid her automatic blush-darn that silly, childish habit, anyway! It had been great dancing close in the darkened church basement for the last twenty minutes of the Hop, but she'd never have admitted aloud just how much she relished the slow, sensual beat and the almost indecent physical contact. A guy could say things like that-everyone expected him to, in fact-but if a girl spoke in the same way people might start thinking she was a cheap slut.
"I specially liked the drummer, and the lead singer was good, too."
She pretended to ignore his intimation, the significant squeeze on her upper leg, though the touch sent quivering white-hot arrows shooting out to every nerve-ending in her ripe young body. As usual on a hot summer night, she wore no pantyhose-no brassiere, either; in fact, no underwear at all save a lightweight pair of bikini panties. Mom didn't approve of bras, and all in all it was easier to go along with her mother's views than argue. Besides, her firm adolescent breasts stood high and proud without any need of support.
Had Robbie realized she wasn't wearing a bra when they were dancing cheek-to-cheek, chest-to-breast?
"Wonder if the Bebop Band's going play at the Fourth of July Dance, too," she continued, her voice shrilling slightly. "Hope so!"
"What I hope is that I can make it home that weekend..."
Another more intense press on her tender-skinned thigh, and Tracey caught herself just in time before a small shuddering sigh escaped her throat. She'd forgotten-funny how often she didn't remember things Robbie told her-his news about having found a summer job at last, fairly well-paying work as a lifeguard at some YMCA camp downstate near Benton Harbor. Her first reaction had been an unfaithful flush of animation, for Benton Harbor was quite a long drive from here and perhaps if everyone wasn't thinking of her as "Robbie's girl" other boys might ask her out. Robbie was a sweet guy, and perfectly acceptable socially since he'd become captain of the swim team, but he definitely wasn't the cream of the crop at Birch Bay High. Not by any means! Mr. Runions had a respectable job as an insurance adjuster in the nearby small city of Harbor Springs, but there were six kids in the family and Robbie wore threadbare hand-me-down shirts and had to work after school at the A&P. And even with this part-time job, he couldn't afford to take her anyplace nice since he turned most of his earnings over to his mom.
"Yeah, Robbie, I sure hope you can make it the weekend of the Fourth, too..."
She meant it sincerely. Dancing with him this evening, feeling his well-developed swimmer's muscles rippling against her thinly-clad body and growing more and more aware of the hardness in the crotch of his jeans, had put her in an affectionate mood. Also, there was absolutely no assurance that anyone else would want to date her. Probably she'd end up spending every Friday and Saturday night moping around with her girl friend, Clara Pringle, or else sitting home helping Mom type those boring articles she wrote for FREE AND FEMALE. What a drag! And if she couldn't find a summer job, the days would be just as deadly as the empty evenings.
"I sure am going to miss you, Robbie," she added, head still cradled on his broad shoulder. "Too bad you didn't get that job life guarding at the Birch Bay Club right here, huh."
"Ha! Fat chance! When Hughie Hopkins' Pop practically owns the place.
"I know, but he only just passed his Red Cross test last month, and you..."
Her voice trailed off as she suddenly realized where they were. One minute the company Chevrolet had been spinning down well-lighted Ridge Roadway toward her home, and the next they were bouncing along a rutted lane winding downhill toward Lake Michigan. Her tongue flicked out, moistening her oddly parched lips, and she drew a deep breath to quell the swarm of butterflies which had started swishing around inside her tummy.
The trees were a fathomless fence around the Chevrolet now, their thick foliage eerily iridescent in the glow of a gilded gold, basket-ball-round moon, and ferns and other roadside bracken were brushing against the fenders of the fat-bellied car as they dove down into the darkness. Although Tracey had never navigated this derelict driveway before, she knew exactly where they were heading-a private beach belonging to the deserted "Villa la Reja." Ever since Old Lady Douse died a few years back and the "For Sale" and "Trespassers Will Be Violated" signs had grown rusted and unmenacing, she'd often descended the rickety wooden staircase to swim and sunbathe on its secluded sands.
But I've never been here at night, she thought, sensing her heartbeat accelerating so much that her naked-nippled breasts swelled to thrust against the floral fabric of her new cotton dress. And I've never been here with Robbie...
"How does a midnight swim sound?" He spoke without looking at her, for the road was pothole-ridden and limb-littered, and if he messed up his father's company car there'd be hell to pay; but his right hand still rubbed eloquently along her leg. "I'm not one bit sleepy yet, are you? And-and, well, this is our last chance to be alone together for ages. After I catch that 2:47 train tomorrow afternoon I don't know when I'll be able to make it back to Birch Bay. Whaddya say, honey?"
The high school sophomore hesitated, uncertain of what she wanted to say-or rather, of what she ought to say. A moonlit dip in the lake sounded marvelously romantic, but of course she hadn't brought her bathing suit along...
"Well, I-I don't know..."
"Oh, c'mon!" Robbie jerked the automobile to a halt instants before the gravel truck merged with white sand dunes. "The water's real nice now. I was skinny-dipping last week and it was warm as a bathtub. Honest Injun!" Skinny-dipping. . . ?
And she detested when he used corny, grade schoolish expressions like, "Honest Injun..."
"But I haven't got my suit with," she protested, imperceptively inching away from him.
On the one hand, she yearned to feel gentle waves washing over her inexplicably overheated loins; on the other she was fearful of her new, difficult to control erotic urges-urges which had been aroused by the dancing-and definitely uneasy about inviting temptation by stripping off her dress.
"I mean, it sounds great, b-but," she stammered awkwardly, "do you th-think we should. . . ? "
"So let's go, if it sounds great!" Robbie interrupted a trifle impatiently. "Who cares about bathing suits? We're all alone here on Old Lady Douse's beach-and your underwear's no different from a bikini, anyhow."
There was a vast difference. Her modified "string" bikini-an identical copy of the sort everyone who mattered was wearing this season-was pretty skimpy on top, but at least it was a token covering of her budding breasts. Yet wasn't Mom always saying that there was no reason on God's green earth why a Female should be ashamed of her nature-endowed tits? And wasn't it Robbie's last night in town?
"Okay! What the heck! Let's go!"
She flung open the passenger seat door in a spurt of wild exhilaration and sprinted away over the sun-warmed sands toward the seashore. Over her shoulder she called out, "Last one in's a rotten egg!" Then, shedding shift and sandals as she ran, she plunged into the surf.
Robbie had been correct-Lake Michigan was delightfully tepid even in the middle of the night. Tracey, who'd lived near the water for as long as she could recall, set off at a fast crawl for the quarter-mile-away rocks; but Robbie, star of Birch Bay's trophy-triumphant swim team, soon overtook her. They crawled up onto the moon-irradiated boulders, giggling and panting a bit from exuberant exertion, and it was thus a minute or two before the boy realized that his date's breasts were indecently exposed.
"Wow...!"
Her pert-tipped globes glowed like priceless ivory in the moonlight, and the sensuous swells accentuated against the dark tan of her slender shoulders and flat young belly nearly drove him out of his mind. He'd explored those tantalizing twin thrusts through the impediments of wool pullovers and cotton shirts, but so far he'd never dared to make a determined effort at undressing the girl he'd been dating every weekend these past months. And now here she lay-clad in absolutely nothing except a sopping-wet scrap of nylon lace through which he could clearly discern each and every strand of her golden-brown pussy hair!
"Wow...!" he gulped again. No other communication was conceivable at this miraculous moment. "Wow, Tracey...!"
All alone with an almost naked blonde ... isolated from everyone else in the world by a quarter-mile of inky-black water ... it was simply too good to be true. Was this really happening to him? He felt at least as dazed as if one of the rocks on which they reclined had dropped smack on the center of his skull; even more out of it than he had that time after the Bay City meet when he and the rest of the guys on the swim team had polished off a fifth of Bacardi with one of those economy-size cans of Hawaiian Punch.
Until about one year ago, when he finally shed his baby fat and the humiliating nickname of Porky, Robbie Runions dared not risk ridicule by inviting a girl for so much as a Coca-cola. Tracey knew she was the first girl he'd dated steadily, but she didn't realize she was also the first one he'd kissed. It didn't occur to her to wonder why he wasn't a dirty-minded, persistent predator like so many other guys; she was simply grateful that he was apparently satisfied with tender kisses, hand-holding, and a few discreet above-the-waist caresses.
At sixteen, Robbie had an almost-developed man's body; obviously he was not satisfied with his Ann Landers approved sexual life. The other guys were always boasting about their conquests, and even if half what they said was bullshit, they were having much more fun on Saturday nights than he was. But although he was often tempted to introduce a little more spice into their good-night embraces, he never quite dared because Tracey acted so uptight at tentative touches and off-color jokes. He was certain the cute teenager wasn't That Sort of Girl. . .
. . . or was she? After all, she was running around without a bra-the fact that he'd never noticed before proved how timid his advances had been-and hadn't needed much convincing to discard her dress. Robbie sighed and wished for the hundredth time that he knew more about the opposite sex. All women-even his schoolteachers, his plump mother and pubescent younger sisters, the housewives in the A&P-had a disconcerting way of changing their minds and manners for no apparent reason whatsoever. How on earth was a guy supposed to figure out what his girl really wanted?
An urgent thrust of his eager adolescent thickness against the clammy cloth of his jockey shorts weakened the youngster's inhibitions, and then an inspiration struck. It was all so simple that he couldn't imagine why it hadn't occurred to him long before: the way to find out what Tracey wanted was to test how far she'd go before getting really mad at him. Breath quickening, cock lurching again, he gaped greedily at the slender figure reclining on the rocks beside him and at the expression on her up-tilted face. She was staring dreamily at the star-spangled sky, and if her near-nakedness embarrassed her she was hiding the fact very well indeed.
There's absolutely no reason to feel embarrassed! Tracey was telling herself firmly as she squinted unseeingly at the clearly-defined constellations. Mom never wears a bra, and last Free and Female thing I typed for her was about making topless bathing legal in State and National Parks. Anyhow, Robbie never tries to get too fresh-I'm sure he would never do anything I didn't want him to do.
Tracey turned off her thoughts. Continuing this train of thought would mean admitting that, deep down inside, she was wanting him to do some things of which even her liberated mother would definitely not approve.
"Isn't it a beautiful night," she hastened to start a perfectly normal conversation. "Look, you can see all the Heavenly Bodies, just as clear as those slides Mr. Wallace showed in science class last term. There's the Milky Way, and Orion, and-oh, those bears, what're they called again? I forget."
"I dunno." Robbie leaned toward her, clutching at her smooth arm. "But I know one thing-I'm sitting right next to the only heavenly body I care about! Honest, Tracey, you're-you're beautiful!"
No one had ever said that to her before! It made her feel warm and happy inside, but she was too afraid of appearing vain to accept the compliment gracefully. Also, it was best to keep the tone light, under the delicate circumstances.
"Oh, Robbie! You must've lost your contacts again! Hope they're not at the bottom of the lake, like the time they fell out at the swim meet. Your dad'll really hit the roof this time!"
"No kidding, Tracey, I mean it. I always thought you were one of the cutest chicks in the class, but tonight you're beautiful! You could be one of those models in Playboy."
"Robbie Runions!" Tracey snatched her arm away from him and folded both arms over her exposed breasts. The very idea of posing in the nude before a camera, of millions of male eyes leering at her naked photograph, sent shivers slithering over her damp flesh. "What a thing to say! I'd never let my picture be in that stupid magazine-not for a hundred thousand dollars."
It was frustrating to have his compliments received as insults. "It's not a stupid magazine," he retorted sulkily. "Did you ever read it?"
"Of course!" It was a lie. Mom would have had a fit if she'd brought home an issue; every time she passed the magazine rack in Johnson's Drugstore, she loudly and disdainfully declared that male chauvinist trash like Playboy was every woman's enemy. "But that doesn't mean I'd want to be in it! No nice girl would."
"Hey, don't get mad." It was this uptight attitude of hers which always made him lose his nerve. "I didn't mean anything bad, honest."
"Who's mad?" What was the point in quarreling on their last night together? She reached out to brush an unruly tuft of damp hair from his freckled forehead, an uncommonly affectionate gesture for her. "Not me!"
The young athlete's hopes and potent penis rose in perfect synchronization, and he leaned nearer intending to give her a tender kiss as a prelude to what he intended to be their hottest yet making-out session. Suddenly, his hand encountered something smooth and metallic instead of porous boulder-two pop-top malt liquor. Exactly what was needed to loosen Tracey up!
"Hey, lookit what I found!" he exclaimed, immediately opening both tins. "Someone must've had a picnic here and forgotten 'em. What a piece of luck, huh!"
The girl accepted the proffered beer, more because she wanted to appear sophisticated then because she wanted it. Before she'd taken more than a token taste, however, she heard something that froze her hand in mid-air ... a sort of gasp, followed by a shrill but soft squealing noise, then more unnatural breathing....
"What's that?" she whispered.
"Huh?" Robbie was still maneuvering his way toward a kiss-he was going to try "Frenching," something the other fellows talked about a lot-and couldn't hear anything but the loud thud of his own heartbeat. "What's what?"
"That noise. It sounds like a hurt animal or something."
Tracey loved all animals, even things like lizards and snakes which disgusted her girl friends. It was one of the few things she had in common with her mother; so long as they confined their conversations to the family's two golden retrievers, three adopted stray cats, and parrot, they got along splendidly. Until she'd realized that she'd only avoided flunking geometry, biology, and general science because Mr. Wallace and Mr. Kotowich happened to like her, she'd dreamed of becoming a veterinarian.
"Awh, take it easy. I don't hear anything," Robbie swallowed half his malt liquor in two giant gulps, hoping it would build up his courage, and since he was unaccustomed to alcohol it made him dizzy at once. "Hey, Tracey, you look so cute tonight, I just-"
"Ssshhh!" She interrupted by placing a finger against his lips. "Let me listen. Don't you think it might be a sea gull with a broken wing, or maybe even a poor dog who fell off a boat? There it is again! I'm going to find out what's wrong!"
Before he could protest she was nimbly navigating the steep slope of the jagged rock mass, her snow-white buttocks jiggling provocatively above the tiny strip of her nylon bikini panties. He rose automatically, beer in hand, and followed like a dog on the trail of a bitch in heat. Jesus! If it wasn't one goddamn thing, it was another. Wounded sea gulls, for God's sake! Wasn't he ever going to get the chance to get to first base with the sexy blonde sophomore?
Suddenly he, too, perceived the faint noises.
"OOhhh ... aaaahhhhh..."
That was no sea gull ... it wasn't a dog either. It was a human being-a female human being.
Robbie's left wrist quivered precariously as he raised the can of Country Club Malt Liquor to drain its final drops, then flung in down into the lake. Then he took a deep breath and rather clumsily clambered up the cliff after his girl. When she suddenly froze, his impulses were so slow that he bumped into her ... nor was he sorry, for the pliant globes of her ripely rounded buttocks felt fantastic around his out-jutting penis.
"Oh, nooo!" the innocent Aronson girl gasped softly. "Oh, God!"
Robbie inclined his head over the smooth slope of her shoulder, prurient curiosity churning through his bloodstream even before he viewed the obscene evidence. When he actually saw the two lewdly entwined bodies mere yards below, he felt as though he were about to faint from excitement. It really was a girl-and a guy-and they were going at it like crazy. He recognized them: Otto Strang and Mimi Sweeney, two members of the "fast" crowd at Birch Bay High, to speak to.
Tracey was aware that her date had lurched against her, but she was too astounded to head the hard swell shoving at her unprotected ass-cheeks. Her brown eyes darkened to wide, cloudy pools and her full lower lip dropped open in disbelief as she gaped at the older couple, who's spread a blanket on a flat slab of stone and were writhing nakedly amidst a clutter of discarded clothing and empty beer cans. Oh, God! They weren't just making out-they were doing that unspeakable thing which made the boys snicker whenever Mr. Kotowich wrote "69" on the blackboard in math class. The "nice" girls pretended they didn't understand what was funny.
"Ohhhh!" she gasped under her breath. "Oh, Robbie, it's awful! We've got to get out of here right away!"
"SShh!" His arms eased around her from behind to press his hands just below her tantalizing twin mounds and he ground his aching groin harder against her taut buttocks as his fingers grazed the swelling pliancy of the undercurve of her naked breasts.
"They'll hear you! Anyhow, what's so awful? Seems to me like they're having a great time."
Suddenly she was aware how close their bodies were, how his arms encircled her bare body. It occurred to her that she should squirm out of the embrace, but they were half crouching at the top of the rocks and to move away would mean standing up in full view of the couple below. She'd just die if word got around that she'd been here watching-and of course everybody would assume she and Robbie had been doing nasty things, too.
"Robbie, this isn't a joke. We can't stay here-I mean, don't you see what they're doing?! ? "
"Sure I see!" His lust leant him enough bravado to cup the warm gloves of her breasts in his palms. "I'm taking a real good look, you bet I am. Who wants to leave?"
There was a guttural intensity in his voice that she'd never heard before, and when she twisted her neck around to stare into his face she was almost frightened. And he'd never grabbed her in this greedy, animal way before, either ... he'd been a gentleman and his caresses had always been tender, respectful ...
"Robbie, wh-what's wrong with you?" she hissed. "You're talking crazy. And d-don't touch me there! You know I don't like that."
"We can't leave now-they'll hear us. We're just lucky they didn't already. In fact, all they gotta do's look up and they can see us spying on them."
"B-but ... but-"
He paid absolutely no attention to her faint protests, and his hands remained firmly fastened on the supersensitive spheres of her breasts. Before she realized what was happening, he'd eased her over to where there was a smooth, moss-coated hollow and maneuvered them both to the ground.
"Now they can't see us 'cause of the rock wall," he breathed against her cheek. "But we can still see 'em fine! Look!"
Sure enough, a handy crack provided a camera's eye view of the salacious spectacle below. Tracey told herself that she definitely wasn't going to look at the dirty things they were doing even as she squinted down through the peephole, and her lithe young loins tensed as the moon reappeared from under a cloud and the blatantly bared bodies were revealed in high-noon clarity. Each and every erotic detail was visible, but for the moment all she noticed was the girl's thick thatch of darkly tangled pubic curls and the scarlet tongue which was lewdly lapping into the strands of dampened pussy hair.
"Oouuggghhh..." Her jagged expulsion of breath echoed over-loud in the starlit stillness. "How could any girl..."
Her horrified suspiration trailed off in a shuddering sigh as she realized that her own pussy was vibrating with a peculiar pulsating warmth. It wasn't merely the swim which had dampened the narrow crotch band of her bikini panties; sinful secretions were playing their part as well. Surely the sight of that immoral girl's splayed-apart thighs and coral pink cuntal lips wasn't turned her on? Unthinkable! But now the strange heat was flooding from her virginal vagina to every nerve ending in her near-naked body, and there was no ignoring the evidence of her indecent arousal.
If only she'd been brought up a Catholic or a Methodist or whatever and could pray to God for guidance, for strength to fight the insidious stimulation created by Robbie's rummaging fingers on her tender breasts and the lurid scene transpiring below.
Mom had always scornfully stated that religion was the placebo of the mindless masses-whatever that meant, exactly-so she couldn't elicit aid from her guardian angel or count on forgiveness following the ritual of confession. Perhaps religion wouldn't have helped, anyway; Robbie was a Catholic, and he was acting wild and weird tonight, fondling her breasts until she wanted to scream aloud in an insane ecstasy of pleasure-pain.
"Robbie, please! T-take it easy, okay. C'mon, don't do that."
"Lookit them!" he rasped, rolling sideways so that their bodies were wedged together like the pieces of a jigsaw-puzzle, his thickened phallus fitting neatly into the hollow between her barely parted thighs. His voice sounded more frenzied than ever, and his fingernails were digging into the erect buds of her nipples so roughly that her breasts tingled with red-hot torment. "Jeez, she's really gonna suck him off, I bet. Gonna swallow his pecker!"
Tracey's glassy gaze swiftly shifted from the girl's tongue-abused vagina to where her tangled mop of dark hair sprayed out over the beach blanket. It was difficult to see her expression, for the boy was crouched above her with his muscular buttocks over her face and his knees straddling her head, but she saw enough to make her cringe in stupefied shock: Just above her uptilting chin and rouge-smeared lips dangled the boy's rigid thing!
"Oh, God..."
How huge it was-and it didn't look one bit like the drawing of a "male sexual organ" in her Tomorrow's Happy Homemaker health textbook. That discreet diagram had been an unalarming black-and-white, whereas this real-life specimen was an angry-red cudgel embellished with thick, purplish veins and topped with a mushroom-shaped knob of an even brighter crimson. His testicles, too, seemed enormously swollen-they were much larger than her pet retriever's hairy balls-and the entire rod glistened wetly in the moonlight. On the very tip hovered a pearl-like droplet, winking up at her.
Did all males look this huge, this threatening, when they took off their pants? Did Robbie? Out of the corner of her eye she glanced toward his jockey shorts, but she couldn't see the outline of his penis because his groin was pressed up against her leg. However, she could definitely feel its rock-hard bulging length, and it seemed quite as gigantic as the kid below. Shivering, she made another weak attempt to ease away from him, away from that frightening fascinating, phallus.
Her boyfriend's hands tightened on her swollen young breasts. "Please, Robbie!" she pleaded, alarmed at the illicit excitation engendered by the salacious scene and his outrageous fondling of her naked flesh. "You've got to stop that..."
Her voice rang so unconvincingly in her own ears that she wasn't really surprised when he paid no attention ... nor was she really sorry. His lips mashed against her mouth, his tongue splurged down between her teeth, and she found her own lips and tongue automatically responding to his ardent French kiss. It was wrong, she knew, but somehow the sight and sounds of the passionate pair below fanned the erotic fires of her desire. Never before had she felt so turned-on with Robbie ... never before had her body's responses blazed out of control of her conscience...
"OOhhh," she wrenched her mouth away at last. "W-we've got to stop b-before we get carried away."
He drew her flushed face back toward him. "Stop?
How come-this feels so good, baby, and I won't kill you again for so long. Don't spoil our last evening."
As their tongues lewdly entangled once again, both youngsters kept their eyes riveted to the naked couple below, hypnotized by the obscenity of their oral embraces and secretly longing to experience the obviously extraordinary sensations. Tracey recognized the girl now: Mimi Sweeney, an over-painted senior who was famous for (I) her extraordinarily large breasts, (2) spending her junior year with green hair after an attempt at peroxiding herself into a blonde, and (3) her well-documented promiscuity. Mimi didn't have any girl friends, but she had lots of boyfriends, mainly among the non-college-bound crowd who wore Easy Rider sunglasses and leather jackets, drove motorcycles, and hung out at the Roller Rink or a place called Isabella's which served booze without asking for ID's.
Until now, Tracey Aronson had turned up her nose at Mimi, whom she considered a cheap tramp. She wouldn't so much as have smiled at her in the washroom or on the street, even though she knew the older girl because they were in the same gym class, and she joined in the general mockery of the voluptuous brunette's size-too-small tops and out-of-style miniskirts above black nylons with runs and patent leather boots. Suddenly, however, she found herself almost envying the girl who didn't have any moral inhibitions to interfere with her physical pleasure.
"Aahhhh, oouuhhh..." Mimi's moans echoed up to the entranced onlookers. "Yeah, Otto, that's it. Fuck me good with your goddamn tongue."
In principle, Tracey believed that anyone-and especially girls-who used vulgar language was lower-class and unintelligent; but the brunette's gasping obscenities were oddly exciting. Robbie's cloth-covered cock was prodding more urgently between her trembling thighs now, "dry-fucking" her, stimulating her over-sensitive cuntal lips, and she couldn't dream of bringing herself to stop him. Not yet ... just a few minutes more...'cause it felt sooo gggooodddd ... Besides, she was busy trying to ascertain exactly what Otto's prodding red tongue was doing to Mimi Sweeney's glistening coral-pink cuntal orifice ... not to mention what his gigantic flesh pole was doing as it plunged in and out of her bulging cheeks and wide-stretched lips.
"Ohh, Tracey, honey..." Robbie groaned in demonic delight. "If you only knew how bad I've been wanting to touch you like this!"
His words didn't really sink into the sixteen year-old's befuddled brain, but they blended with Mimi and Otto's strangled gasps and moans and obscenities to form an impossibly arousing chorus of lust. Fingers of fire blazed from her quivering pussy and crushed breasts, electrifying every cell in her awakening body with a rising need for fulfillment, and low, unbidden mewls spilled from her lips as she continued kissing, encouraged more and more caressing. A warning siren shrilled in her brain, but it no longer seemed to matter that she was playing with fire and could very easily be burned.
"No, R-R-Robbie ... noooo..." she whimpered under her breath, but it was a mere token protest which neither of them took seriously.
Somehow, before she'd noticed, Robbie had eased off his damp jockey shorts. Now she could feel the heated hardness of his slender phallus grazing her barely-protected buttocks-just the way Mimi down below could feel her long-haired date's plunging penis. Except, of course, that the dark-haired senior was actually tasting male cock as the rigid rod seesawed between her straining, lipstick-smeared lips ... and Tracey herself would never permit such an outrage. . . of course she wouldn't. . .
"Baby, please!" Robbie stopped kissing her to pant in a hoarse, unfamiliar voice. "Let's feel good like they are, okay? There's nothing really wrong-it's not going all the way-and I want to taste your pussy so bad. I wanna feel you kissing my prick before we leave each other for the whole long summer. Please..."
His unexpectedly lewd suggestion jolted the inexperienced girl out of her euphoric trance. She rolled clumsily as far away as possible in the narrow space between the rock walls, staring in dismay at his exposed penis, cursing herself for having gotten so carried away. A little petting in the moonlight was one thing, but an ominous, uncovered hard-on was quite another, and the worst of it all was that she couldn't take her eyes off the thing. It wasn't as thick as the senior boy's down below, but it seemed quite as long ... and growing longer before her incredulous eyes with each passing second.
"P-put your pants on again, PLEASE," she stammered, shrinking so far away from him against the cliff that barnacles cut into her bare back. "I'm not a slut like Mimi Sweeney and I should hope you know that!"
"I know you're not, Tracey." He embraced her again, more carefully and tenderly now although his balls ached with the urge to slide into her almost visible pussy, or at least her sweet heart-shaped mouth. Christ, had he blown things just when they were going better than ever before? "But it's different with us 'cause we're in love. If I'd just picked you up at the dance, it'd be another story; but no one could call you an easy make like Mimi just for wanting to be real close before we say goodbye. Anyhow, nobody's gonna know about it..."
In love? Tracey considered his words as logically as she could considering the circumstances, her budding body remaining tense as a spring although she allowed him to stroke her back and shoulders and presently even her belly and breasts and upper legs. The Gothic novels and Romantic nineteenth century poetry which were her favorite extracurricular reading material had led her to expect that when she finally met her True Love things would be a good deal more passionate than they were with the Runions youth, on the other hand the flattering fact of having a boy be in love with her made her feel all warm and elated. No one had ever spoken these words to her before, so she was innocent enough to overlook the possibility that he might be exaggerating in the ardor of the moment. Before she knew it, she'd relaxed against him, warmly pushing penis and all, and was tilting up her flushed face for another kiss.
"I-I'd never let anyone pick me up anywhere!" she protested, defensive in her guilt at allowing their hot necking session to go on. "Never! But, you're right, I guess; we've been dating for ages and it is your last night. And I really I-uh, think you're the greatest."
Robbie pulled away from her, and she wondered if he was mad because she'd been unable to honestly claim she loved him. But no-he was removing the only object which covered his naked young loins, his class ring, and he was slipping it onto her middle finger.
"Would you wear my ring this summer, Tracey? 'Cause I really love you a lot, and I'd feel fantastic if I was sure you were gonna be true to me. How about it, honey? Shall we go steady?"
The sixteen year-old's amber-flecked brown eyes widened as she stared dizzily at the signet ring on her left hand. Her first fleeting reaction was to say no, she hadn't she been daydreaming about dating other guys while Robbie was out of the picture-but instead she slowly nodded her tousled blonde curls and kissed him tenderly. Deep inside, far below the level of conscious thought, she knew why she'd accepted the significant symbol binding her to a boy she didn't truly care much about: it made what they were doing here on the rocks relatively legitimate.
"I-I'd love to wear your ring," she whispered. "B-but-but we still don't want to do something we'll be sorry for. Promise me you won't go too far? Promise? Not even now we're going steady?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die," he fibbed.
Another of his uncool expressions which normally affected her nerves like chalk scraping on the blackboard, but tonight it scarcely registered on her sex-preoccupied mind. One of his perspiring palms had immediately latched onto her left breast, thumb forefinger rolling the erect crimson nipple, while his other hand began slithering downward over her belly toward her panties. Tracey held her breath, closed her eyes tightly. Despite her virtuous resolutions and prim protests, thrills of untempered pruriency were pulsating through her veins, and the worst of it was that the more he acted like an aggressive animal the more he turned her on.
I must be some kind of sick pervert! she agonized, not aware yet that no woman in the world wants her man to be a meek, well-mannered gentleman in the bedroom. I like it when he pinches me so hard it hurts, . . and I want him to make me do dirty things I know are wrong. Oh, what's the matter with me?
Oddly enough, her shame only served to increase the building tide of longing in her healthy young loins. Ripples of strange masochistic excitement broke over her awakening body and spread out in wave after widening wave of lusting desire, and the voices of Mimi and Otto rising from below were a further stimulus. Something about the rock angles made the older couples' sensual sounds seem to be issuing from right beside them ... as if they were in the middle of an orgy, like in those forbidden "adults only" books some of the kids read under their desks during boring classes.
Robbie, too, was intensely aware of the lascivious back-ground noises. His eyes shifted dizzily from his girl friend's curvaceous sun-bronzed figure to the salacious scenario of oral love and back again, and his passion-blurred vision was so distorted that he failed to identify the approaching circle of luminance as a boat's headlight. Nothing mattered to him except the sperm churning in his bloated balls and the urgent need to get Tracey's tight little panties off so he could kiss her glistening pink pussy and drive her out of her mind the way Otto was doing to Mimi.
"Open your eyes, honey," he hissed as he hooked his clumsy fingers around the elastic waistband of her last shred of protection. "Lookit-I think they're gonna cum!"
Of course, she ought to say she didn't want to look, just as she ought to order Robbie to get his hand out of her panties, but somehow she couldn't seem to manage to speak. Her lids fluttered open and she stared entranced at the licking, sucking twosome while her steady boyfriend gingerly traced his middle finger along the never-before-touched lips of her virginal vagina. Already she was so aroused that the timid caress drove her mad for more, especially when she saw the voluptuous brunette spasming and twitching in the throes of extreme ecstasy.
"Good! Goddamn good! Go, you bastard, go on and tongue me to death! Oh, yeah! Ooooohhhhhh!"
Mimi's thighs were disproportionately heavy, her ankles were thick, and her legs were pasty white because she worked all day Saturday and Sunday serving root beer and hot dogs at the "Dog 'n Suds" drive-in. Yet as far as Otto Strang, the two adolescent onlookers, and another pair of as-yet-unobserved spies were concerned, she might have been a Playboy or Penthouse centerfold. Her unshapely legs had wrapped around Otto's lean shoulders, her heels beating a frantic tattoo on his muscled back to drive his delving tongue deeper and deeper into her craving cuntal channel, and her chinless, acne-afflicted face was now a mask of sheer wanton lust as she gulped the boy's tumescent thickness halfway down her throat.
"Oh, God ... It's too obscene! She's gonna strangle her-" Tracey's shuddering whisper broke off in an abrupt, heartfelt mewl as her date's inexperienced finger accidentally grazed the nerve-filled bud of her sensitive clitoris. Nothing had ever felt so magnificently erotic-it was a hundred times more exciting than when she used her own finger to bring herself to guilty climaxes in bed. Yet much as she longed to murmur, "There, Robbie. Round and round, just there," and direct his inept fingerfucking, she was too timid, too fearful of sounding like the wailing, wanton Mimi down on the rocks below.
"AARRGGHHH! I'm almost there! Oh, Otto-gimme your cum! Shoot your nice hot, sticky jism right down my throat! Ohhh, do it, you bastard!"
Even as Mimi's lascivious howls echoed in her ears and her steady boyfriend's middle finger once again accidentally rubbed against her clitoris, Tracey froze. A small, strangled yelp spewed from her suddenly fear-parched lips, and she jerked away from him to cower under the overhanging cliffs.
"What the hell-"
"Look, Robbie. Look! The cops!"
Although the sixteen year-old swim team champion was so aroused that cum was cartwheeling down in his ready-to-explode testicles, he also froze at the word, "cops". It took a moment for his passion-distorted vision to focus, but the second he recognized the black hull of the patrol boat, he too flattened himself on the promontory and groped blindly, vainly for his hastily discarded jockey shorts. As the boat inched forward and its low motor shivered to a halt, he even had the foresight to secrete the empty can of Ballantine's malt-liquor in a convenient barnacle-plastered cavity. Then his arms groped silently for Tracey's shuddering figure and they lay clinging to each other, trembling with trepidation as they envisioned the dread consequences of being caught out here by the authorities.
I'll never win that athletic scholarship that Coach told me I've got tied up so long's I keep my nose clean, Robbie agonized, his mind abruptly clear and concise even though his contrary cock had swollen thicker than ever in his panic. And Dad can't afford to pay tuition, even to State, so I'll have to get some shitty job in a factory or join the army or some crap. My life'll be ruined!
Tracey was at least as distressed as the youth whose warm, tremulous loins were welded to her near-naked body. Her Reputation! If she lost her Reputation, it meant two long, unendurable years of social ostracization at Birch Bay High, not to mention the fact that Mom wouldn't trust her any longer. At present she got away with murder compared to her friend Clara and lots of other kids, for Mom viewed curfews, rigid rules and strict supervision as parental dictatorship. She advocated self-reliance and an occasional democratic family counsel, and was fond of declaring:
"My daughters have been raised to know better than to let some male talk them into drinking or drugs or sex. I've brought them up to think of themselves as Women of the Future, so of course I trust them. Smother-love isn't love at all! What those mothers need is an interesting career of their own."
This agreeable arrangement would end abruptly if Mom got a call from the police department. She'd be a virtual prisoner in her home, and life would be a purgatory of lectures. Even if Mom didn't ground her, however, no decent guys-or girls either, for that matter-would have anything to do with her after she'd been arrested along with the infamous Mimi Sweeney.
Yet, crazy though she knew herself to be, she was still acutely aware of Robbie's turgid thickness burrowing against her tensed-together thighs. Instinctively, she wriggled her buttocks against the smooth stones, easing her legs apart just enough so that his bulbous cockhead could press against the desire-dampened crotch band of her panties. God, his thing felt good against her hotly tingling pussy lips ... what would it feel like inside
Rather to his surprise, Robbie discovered that paranoia had made him hornier than ever. Lust filled his veins with liquid lightning as he ground his enormous erection against Tracey's warmly responsive vaginal mound, and he could see her biting her lips to hold back whimpers of arousal. Then he followed the direction of her glowing eyes to where the older couple were still loudly licking and sucking as they hovered on the brink of orgasm.
"Wh-where's the cop boat?" Tracey's soft breath tickled the inside of his ear. "Have they gone?"
He tore his eyes away from Mimi's crazily thrashing figure and gluttonously gulping throat to survey the still black water. "I don't see it," he whispered, "but you can bet it's around somewhere. There-see that shadow over there?-they've cut their motor and put out the lights."
"Wh-why?"
" 'Cause they wanna watch the action first." He'd heard stories about the same thing happening to kids who'd parked in the forest preserve or the bird sanctuary, two "lovers' lanes" popular because of the thick foliage and lack of through traffic. "As soon's they've gotten their kicks, they'll move in and bust them."
"But that's rotten! How-"
Tracey's indignant exclamation was cut short by a wild wail from the brunette below. Her voluptuous loins spasmed and jerked till she resembled a large, obscene marionette manipulated by some marquis de Sade-minded puppet master, and her face was so contorted now it didn't even seem human. Goosebumps rippled over the incredulous watching girl, and she squirmed in vicarious excitement as Mimi's frenzied hands grasped the boy's testicles and massaged them madly.
"Cumming!" shrieked the uninhibited senior. "Yeah, lover, ggooddd! Stick your finger in my ass-hole. Ooohhhh, ggoooodddd! Oouugghh! AAAGGGHHH!"
The Aronson girl shuddered, unconsciously rubbing her body provocatively against her steady boyfriend.
So that was what happened when you made love ... it looked so wild and wonderful that she almost wished Robbie would put his mouth on her burning pussy and quell the fires that were raging there, although of course she'd never be able to do anything as vulgar as taking his cock inside her mouth.
"Here goes, you bitchin' slut!" Otto's shaggy dark head reared up from Mimi's insanely twitching ass and thighs as his own orgasm raced upon him. "Open that cheatin' throat of yours real wide so's you can swallow every damn drop! NOW! Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh Christ! Cumming!"
Tracey continued to stare, transfixed by the sticky streams of cream-white sperm which escaped from the edges of Mimi's cock-stuffed lips to dribble down over her chin and madly gulping cheeks and gagging throat. A few droplets of the obscene seminal fluid even trickled onto her melon-shaped breasts. Never in her sixteen years had she dreamed she'd see anything so unspeakably lewd, but in fact the most shocking thing of all was that she was more fascinated than repulsed by the wanton display of depravity.
The boy beside her sensed her breath quickening, her body vibrating against his own ready-to-explode loins. She was turned on by the sordid sixty-nine scene! Turned on enough to let him push his painfully pulsing pole into her pussy, whose warm, dewy pinkness was now quivering against his groping fingers? He was so stimulated by now that he was going to try, whether she liked it or not. Hell, he'd endured the humiliation of being a sixteen year-old virgin far too long already!
"Oohhh!" Tracey gasped, forgetting the still-invisible policemen as an electric shock jolted from the tips of her ten white toes to the top of her blonde head.
"Wh-what're you doing? You promised not to!"
It was as though he hadn't even heard her. His finger was sure and steady now as it bore down into the clasping confines of her tight cuntal channel, and then he remembered something else he'd dreamed of doing but had never dared. Groaning like an uncaged lion, he fastened his mouth first on one taut-nippled breast, then the other, nipping the pebble-hard little buds a good deal more roughly than he realized.
"Robbie! Don't-that hurts!"
The frightened adolescent forgot all about the other couple, who had in any case collapsed on the rocks in satiated exhaustion; she'd undoubtedly have forgotten the Peeping Toms in the patrol boat, too, had they not chosen that moment to turn their spotlight on full-force and activate their siren. Even the dangerous high-noon brightness and screaming alarm didn't deter Robbie, however. He continued groping at her panties as though he were possessed by satanic sexual forces, and she was actually having to fight him off physically to retain her last shred of protection.
"Stop it! You can't do that! Please..."
Her voice warbled weakly, for the finger digging into her palpitating pussy was speeding her into a delirious whirlwind of unwanted passion. Down below, the siren cut off abruptly and there were the sounds of gruff, ominously official shouts, but she scarcely heard as two conflicting voices inside her head commenced a clamorous debate.
No, no! You'll be sorry if you let him do it-and he'll probably drop you cold and boast about it to the other guys, so whenever you go out you'll be fighting to keep your panties on like now. That was her conscience, the segment of her character conditioned by mother's moralizing, small town society's mores and
Seventeen Magazine and Red Rose romance novels' fantasies.
Who cares? demanded a second, louder voice rising from deep within her newly awakening feminine soul. He can't tell the other guys, 'cause he'll be down at that camp Benton Harbor. And does it really matter, anyhow? Does anything matter except feeling his big, warm thing inside my aching pussy? I'll bet a lot more girls do it than let on, anyhow, especially if they're going steady ... and I'm not a little kid now, I'll be an upperclassman when school starts again in September. I'm ready to be a woman.
But you don't want to become a woman in an ugly way like this! her conscience interfered again. Not with him forcing you and acting so crazy you can bet he wouldn't care whose vagina he was screwing. The first time is supposed to be romantic and beautiful! Besides, there's a boat full of cops just yards away and if they find you balling on the rocks you'll be in a real mess. Use your head! Think what Mother would do...
Mother would definitely never allow any man to compel her to commit any act she herself hadn't instigated.
"Cut it out! Don't you dare!"
Tracey was suddenly fighting like a tiger, losing her temper, scratching and kicking at the lust-demented high school athlete, but even though she was a strong, lithe-muscled girl after a childhood of beach and country exercise, she simply wasn't as powerful as Robbie. Within seconds he'd literally ripped her pink nylon panties from her wiggling buttocks; they drifted down the cliff, fortunately attaching to an outcropping crag rather than landing on top a policeman's head.
"You-you bastard," she hissed, and clamped her thighs together so that neither his middle finger nor his rampant rigidity could invade the virginal privacy of her vaginal mouth again. "You said you'd take it easy! What's got into you?"
Robbie ground his gigantic male weapon against the barrier of her clenched upper legs, gritting his teeth in desperation. "Honey, I can't help it! I gotta have you now! I'll go crazy if I can't cum in your sweet little pussy!"
If he only knew how badly she wanted to spread her thighs wide open in uninhibited acceptance, to scream and sob out her passion at the top of her lungs the way Mimi Sweeney had minutes before. But Mimi was the senior class slut, and she wasn't about to follow in her footsteps; her hymen must remain intact until her honeymoon night ... or at least until she was engaged to be married.
She locked her thighs together tighter than ever, exerting so much energy that her muscles ached and wobbled before the savage slammings of his hardened manhood. It felt as though a red-hot metal poker were prying apart her legs, and despite herself she let her tensed tendons slacken for a moment's respite. Immediately his invading penis partially parted her pulsating thighs and was rubbing excitingly against the swollen flanges of her vagina and even the erected button of her tingling clitoris.
"Oh, God!" she sobbed, shutting her eyes as wild, wanton sensations sped out to every nerve ending in her overheated young body. "Oh, God! Oh, please ... nnnoooo...!"
The innocent sixteen year-old felt her boyfriend's prick expanding between her inadequately entrapping inner thighs and groped out to grab it's rock-hard length and force it away from her sacred sanctuary. As soon as she grasped his pummeling penis it began pumping madly against her palm, and his entire body jerked against her. It was a nightmare! Then his harsh, guttural grunts reverberated against her ears:
"Oh, shit! Cumming! Can't stop! Oh, you cock-tease! Aahhhhhh!"
Hot, sticky fluid surged in spasmodic spurts between her clasping fingers, and when she gaped down in horrified fascination she could see his life-giving seed spilling out of a thin glans slit in the bulbous head of his enormous penis. Jet after jet of white-hot semen bubbled out of his long-frustrated cock, splashing over Tracey's golden-blonde pubic mound, trickling over her upper legs, slithering down into the quivering pink crack of cuntal flesh between her shuddering thighs. She almost orgasmed from the sheer sensation. . . but now quite. The climax rose, fell, vanished, and she lay like a frozen statue as the last dribbles spattered her defiled, frustrated, but still-pure body. A queer moan of half humiliation mingled with unsated lust burbled from her throat, and then she fell limply back against the rocks, breathing heavily.
Once Robbie had eased his pumping, panting ejaculation, he also fell into a lifeless pool of satiated flesh. Neither boy nor girl dared look at each other as the frightening sounds of cops and culprits echoed up to their burning ears, and silent tears spilled from Tracey's wide brown eyes while her outspread fingers frantically wiped at the shreds of drying sperm which decorated her naked body.
"Okay, kids, let's get it straight." The cop had a broad Midwestern accent; his vowels were broad, like Mayor Daley of Chicago on the television. "You was having yourselves a late-night picnic out here. Drinking Ballantines an' eatin' pussy and cock. Well, that's just fine with us ... so long's you've got an ID that shows you're old 'nough to purchase that there booze.'
"Officer, we was only-"
"Your ID, kid! On the double!"
Tracey's tears had dried, but she was still trembling like a leaf in a gale. Her fingers fumbled among the rocks for her panties, and when they were nowhere to be found she crossed her hands over her cum-matted pussy mound in a belated gesture of modesty. It was all my fault! Her conscience accused. I let things get out of hand, beginning with this crazy skinny-dipping. But God, how could I have been so dumb?
"Right-under twenty one-jist like I thought!" The loud-mouthed cop turned toward his sway-bellied, silent partner. "Guess we gotta run these two in, huh? Betcha we find sumpin' else against them once we get down to the station, too! C'mon, ya two-get decent and come along with us."
Both Robbie and Tracey lay unmoving, paralyzed and panic-stricken, until Otto Strang and Mimi had sulkily covered their naked bodies and followed the cops onto the patrol boat. The black motorboat faded from sight in the general direction of Petoskey, one of the larger cities along this northern Michigan coast. Then, hesitantly, they gazes into each other's eyes.
"Jeez, Tracey, I'm sorry," mumbled the chastened swim team champion as he tugged his damp jockey shorts over the wilted remnants of his manly member. "I-uh, I dunno what got into me. It won't happen again, I promise."
"It's okay, Robbie." Tracey's voice sounded strained, uncertain as it vibrated in her own ears. "It was as much my fault as yours. . . " She slunk away from him, feeling dull and disinclined to think. "Let's just go home now, okay."
The quarter-mile swim back to shore seemed to take five times longer than it had the first time when they were infused with unconscious erotic energy. By the time they were in Robbie's Dad's car and heading toward Tracey's house, they were both too tired and depressed to talk much. Robbie, who was so nervous he kept grinding gears whenever he shifted from second into third, pulled the automobile to a halt just beyond the entrance to the Aronson's gravel driveway. He cleared his throat.
"Hey, Tracey, honey, I hope you aren't real mad at me. I hope you'll wanna keep wearing my ring...'! "
Her eyes slid down toward the unfamiliar circle on her left middle finger; it was an ugly thing, actually there were five styles of class rings, according to price, and Robbie's was the cheapest sort and fashioned from some sort of unidentified metal with a glaringly fake ruby set square in the center. No, she didn't want to be burdened by this unattractive thing ... she didn't want to feel tied to him ... but after the way she'd behaved tonight, what could she say except:
" 'Course I want your ring, Robbie."
She planted a quick kiss on his parchment-dry lips, then jumped out of the car without waiting for him to drive her up to the darkened house. Best that Mom didn't awaken-it was almost four in the morning, according to her Timex-and anyway she just wanted to be alone in her bed now. No more conversations, no more emotions. She felt drained dry, sad and besmirched ... and very, very weary.
But once in bed, sleep eluded her. The fingers of her right hand inched surreptitiously up underneath the high hem of her pink nylon nightie, and her moans of release figured in her mother's troubled dreams.
CHAPTER THREE
Shortly after dawn, as the blood-red ball of June sun was breaking through the scarlet and magenta cloudbank hovering on the horizon, Mrs. Denise Aronson awakened with a start. For a moment or two she lay staring through her bedroom window at the crimson sunrise streaked away into a glaring expanse of cobalt-blue sky, wondering why she felt a gnawing sense of guilt in the pit of her belly on a sunny Monday when she had a million things to do. Why this lingering inertia, this vague unease and irritable dissatisfaction...?
"Red sky at morning, Sailors take warning. Red sky at night, Sailors delight."
Her grandfather, Aage Aronson, who'd built this frame farmhouse where she now lived with her daughters, had sworn by the old sailors' saying, and Gramps had been a shrewd old fellow who knew what he was talking about or kept quiet. Denise didn't doubt that there'd be a summer storm before the day was out, but that certainly didn't begin to explain her peculiar mood. For all she cared it could pour down cats and dogs all day long; she'd no intention of gadding around in one of those imagine pleasure-boats the summer folks kept moored in Charlevoix and Horton Bay and right here in Birch Bay-she was a working woman and the draft for her next Female and Free article was due before the end of the week.
"Must just be a dream that's giving me this funny feeling," she concluded, and hopped out of bed. "Nothing worth wasting valuable time lying around in bed worrying..."
But when she was vigorously soaping her ripely feminine figure in the shower, the touch of the terry-cloth washcloth against her rose-tipped breasts and sparsely curling pussy "vee" ignited a humiliating flood of memories. Oh, God. She'd been weak again and let her flesh overpower her intellect. . . and the worst of it was that masturbation generally left her feeling almost more frustrated and tense than before.
"No use brooding about curdled milk-make it into cottage cheese, instead."
That had been another of Gramps' axioms, one which the young divorcee considered very wise indeed.
Action was the best cure for the blues, and moody, fretful females only gave their sex a bad name. Denise had been raised by her Danish-born grandparent and was always pleased when people said she took after him, for he'd been a strong man who could do many things and do them well.
Strong, really masculine men like that were few and far between, she reflected as she whistled to the golden retrievers, Carlos and Conchita and took them for a brisk walk through the dew-dampened fields surrounding their out-of-town house. The exercise made her feel more like herself, and as she weeded her biodynamic vegetable beds before breakfast she decided that she wouldn't expend energy in worrying about men when she had so many things to do.
Her mother was sipping black coffee and distractedly staring at a few scribbles on a pad of lined yellow legal-size paper when her daughter entered the kitchen about an hour later, and the girl sighed with relief to see her working. When Mom was in the midst of writing, she wasn't-likely to ask how late she'd come in last night; or notice the embarrassing red mark which Robbie's over-ardent kisses had left on her slender neck, the circles under her eyes, the scratch on her thigh from the rocks.
"Morning, darling," Denise mumbled to her eldest daughter without looking up from her notepad. "Sleep well?"
"Um-hmm." But how to explain those dark circles, or the way she was sure to yawn over the supper table after a day of job hunting? "Except it was awfully hot, and this darn mosquito kept buzzing 'round my pillow and waking me up."
The pretty blonde plopped down on the bench and helped herself to a brimming mug of coffee from the giant-size thermos which always rested at Mom's elbow while she was working. Usually the teenager preferred juice for breakfast, but after only a few hours of fitful slumber she felt in need of a good dose of caffeine to keep going. No doubt she'd be trudging all around town today to apply at the last few local spots she hadn't tried yet ... and maybe even driving Mom's derelict old Rambler into Charlevoix or Boyne City.
Denise simultaneously poured more black coffee, lit another camel filter, and chewed ferociously on the blue plastic top of her Bic. Somehow her ideas just weren't flowing the way they ought this morning, and she decided that a short break would perhaps refurbish the creative centers of her brain. Laying down her ballpoint, she smiled vaguely across the table at her daughter.
"I know, this dreadful heat wave." At last, a fine excuse for her inability to concentrate on her work ... though unfortunately not the sort of alibi which appealed to the sympathies of editors. "But it'll break after the storm this afternoon."
"Hope so..."
Diverted from her own depression by the listless droop in her daughter's voice, the mother shot her a sharp glance, then frowned slightly as she watched her staring pensively into her steaming cup, nose wrinkling as she swallowed the strong brew. Carefully applied cosmetics and a crisp, ruffled blouse-feminine frivolities which she herself scorned-couldn't quite disguise a wan complexion and slumping shoulders. Something was definitely bothering her little girl.
Little girl? Not any more, Denise thought with a guilty pang. While she'd had her nose buried in a manuscript, her eldest child had suddenly metamorphosed from a clumsy, coltish kid with pigtails and braces into a budding beauty with the body of a young woman.
"You don't look well, dear," she said with uncommon maternal solicitude. "Have something to eat-there's Muslei and yogurt on the table, and fresh strawberries and eggs in the fridge."
Tracey turned to the bowl of homemade yogurt and felt her stomach turn upside-down as a thousand butterflies began swarming inside it. Suddenly her naked thighs were once again spattered with thick, cream-white sperm, and she was seeing Mimi Sweeney's cheeks contorting in obscene greed as she gulped down her boyfriend's spurting seed. Two burning spots of scarlet flamed on her cheeks.
"I-I'm not very hungry this morning."
"But you know breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and that if you don't eat now you'll get hungry later and grab some commercial trash with no nutritional value." Why were the girl's eyes sparkling in that odd way? For some reason that she couldn't quite put her finger on, Mrs. Aronson felt uneasy. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? Not brooding about that Bobbie boy going off for the summer, I hope?"
"Robbie. No, Mom. Just worried about finding a summer job, I guess." Then, to avoid further argument, she added, "And I suppose you're right about breakfast-I'll boil myself an egg."
Thank goodness she'd not put on Robbie Runions' class ring-it was much too big, she needed to put some wax inside it or something-for that would surely have been another subject of controversy. Why did Mom always have to be so smug, so certain that her opinions were the only right ones?
Denise watched her pretty eldest daughter trudge lackadaisically toward the stove, and her frown deepened as she noted the short skirt, smoothly waxed legs, and trendy wedge heel espadrilles. It was a source of constant amazement to her that both her offspring were so-so conventional, so different from herself.
"What sort of job are you looking into today," she inquired sarcastically. "Modeling work, maybe? That's certainly the way you're dressed. Honestly, Tracey. All that make up, and shoes you can't possibly walk in, and that silly scarf around your neck on a sweltering day like this. Any employer worth working for is interested in your qualifications and abilities-not your appearance."
The sixteen year-old almost dropped her egg as irritation temporarily dispersed the persistent memory of last night's forbidden escapades, but then she bit her lip and silently counted to ten. By nature she was docile and peace-loving, and it always seemed easier to keep out of arguments with her strong-willed parent. However, lately the continual criticism of her clothes and hairdos and makeup was grating on her nerves, and she often was tempted to snap at Mom, saying that she'd look years younger and prettier if she took as much interest in beauty hints in Glamour as she did in her dull Female and Free Magazine.
But what was the use? Mom wouldn't so much as dream of wasting time and money on her appearance. Too bad, because she could be a far more attractive woman than most of her friend's fat, blowsy mothers.
"First I'm going back to Peerless Department Store to see about the job I applied for in the accounts department," she said. "But I don't have my hopes up, 'cause Candie Wolfe applied, too, and her aunt works there. That leaves nothing but the Dog 'n Suds-so could I borrow the Rambler to drive out to Harbor
Point or Charlevoix?"
"Take it. I'm working all day, anyway. But what about that 'help wanted' sign in the window of the new boathouse? There's a job where you'd learn while you earn, and get some healthy exercise, too."
"No go. I tried there Saturday, soon as I saw the sign. I'm kind of sorry-it'd be nice to work outside instead of in a hot stuffy office or a smelly restaurant full of noisy summer people."
"I should think so. What was the matter-had Ted Comfort found someone already?"
"No. But he said he was only interested in hiring a guy."
"WHAT? Did you tell him you've grown up around boats and certainly know as much about them as any boy in town? What did he have to say to that?"
"Well..." The teenager looked uncomfortable and toyed with her egg, meticulously removing the shell and sprinkling on salt grain by grain to postpone meeting her mother's flashing eyes. "Well, I really didn't get a chance to talk to him. He sort of, uh, slammed the door in my face."
"Of all the nerve. How dare he," sputtered Denise furiously. "Well, he was a stuck-up bully, even when he was a kid-he grew up in my neighborhood before he ran away to sea, you know."
". . . ran away to sea?" Tracey tried to divert her mother's attention before she really got on the warpath, but her ploy went unnoticed.
"Hey, b-boss?"
The tall man behind the desk swiveled his leonine head to glower at the boy who'd barged into Bay Boat Works, Inc.'s small showroom, then drained the rest of his second glass of Alka-Seltzer. In his thirty-eight years Ted Comfort had survived many a Monday morning hangover, but this one was a real winner and he was not in any mood for Toby Turetsky, the stupider and uglier of his two deckhands.
"What's the matter now, Toby? I thought I told you guys to get to work on Colin Highsmith's speedboat and not bug me while I'm going over these damn accounts."
When Toby got excited his chinless, flabby-jowled face twitched and he stuttered. "B-boss, there's someone to s-see ya. A lady."
"Well, tell her to come back tomorrow or something. I'm busy right now. You get the hell out of here, too, and don't come back till you and Rufus have that motor out. Got that?"
Turetsky's gangly bulk vanished, only to reappear seconds later with an even more sheepish expression on his face beneath the greasy strings of long dun-colored hair. "She w-won't go 'way, boss. They, I mean. I mean, there's two of 'em."
"What's the bitch's name?" He slammed the accounting pad back into his drawer with a bang, deciding that if it were some ex-girlfriend he'd cure his hangover with a quick screw. Down in the stateroom of the senior Colin Highsmith's Motor Yacht would be an appropriate seduction setting, and borrowing the king-sized master bed seemed justifiable in view of the fact that his pounding head and queasy stomach were the direct result of an evening entertaining his new clients. He'd already noted the built-in bar ... the stereo and speakers installed in the headboard ... the springy mattress and-
"Aronson, she s-said her name was," Toby's stutter shattered the boathouse owner's erotic reverie. "D-Denise Aronson."
Denise Aronson? It rang a bell, but he couldn't attach a face or body to the nametag. But what the hell difference did it make, really? He'd been around the world twice and lived and loved in all its important ports, and it was his unqualified opinion that all broads were the same: tell them they're beautiful and that you love them, and their cunts start creaming and their thighs open wide for you. Only thing was to be sure not to get hooked into marrying one of them, for after the honeymoon they abruptly became frigid, nagging bitches. At the age of twenty-two he'd made that mistake, but he'd been smart enough to get out of that ball-breaking domestic dungeon in a hurry, and had no intention of falling into the same trap twice.
"Missus Aronson 'n her friend are two d-damn sexy chicks, boss..."
Comfort's ruggedly handsome face relaxed into a grin. Already, his hangover was drastically improved. "Okay, kid. Go tell them to come on in here."
A threesome, perhaps? Fine with him. It had been ages since he'd enjoyed the supreme pleasure of fucking two beautiful girls simultaneously, for Midwestern women had a tendancy to label anything except the missionary position "perverted". Things had been far more loose over in Europe, he reflected dreamily, remembering a beach orgy in Saint Tropez ... a midnight sun party outside Stockholm...
Aronson sounded like a Scandinavian name. Could this possibly be the long-legged girl with flaxen pigtails who'd drunk so much Aquavit at the crayfish-eating orgy that she'd poured a glass of the potent stuff right down inside her pussy and invited him to lap it up? His testicles tingled at the very memory of that amazing night. He'd thought that blonde honey-pot had been called Inga-Lisa, but he'd consumed so much
Aquavit himself that he couldn't be sure of much of anything. "Mr. Comfort?"
A tall, full-bodied young woman strode toward him, her attractive features overpowered by a thundercloud of rage and her ripe curves hidden by jeans and a loose-fitting Mexican peasant blouse. She wasn't blonde, and in no other way, shape or form bore resemblance to the Swedish girl he'd been daydreaming about. In fact, her strident tone reminded him, so much of a commanding officer that he couldn't help smiling.
"Aye, aye, sir," he said, saluting smartly.
"Very funny, Mr. Comfort. Very funny, indeed."
There had always been two sorts of women Tom loathed: whiney, helpless females with medicine cabinets crammed full of pills for every conceivable imagined illness and perfumed lap-dogs which they paraded on rhinestone leashes-like his mother; and frozen, fortune-hunting bitches-like his ex-wife. Lately a third type had been added to his lust, the ardent and aggressive Women's Liberation advocate who denied her femininity and considered all members of the opposite sex enemies. The woman standing arms akimbo before him was a perfect example of this third category of undesirable dames, and his hangover reappeared as abruptly as it had vanished. Potential client or not, he wasn't about to let this obnoxious intruder get the upper hand.
"Yeah," he shrugged nonchalantly, and ran undressing eyes up and down her statuesque figure in a way that was calculated to antagonize her. "People always said I had one helluva good sense of humor."
"Well, perhaps you'll stop laughing long enough to listen to what I have to tell you, Mr. Comfort."
"You've got something to tell me, Mrs. Aronson? Go on, tell, 'cause I've got a lot of work to do this morning."
"Ms. Aronson, please." Denise squared her shoulders, an action which had the unintended result of jutting her ripe cantaloupe breasts against the thin cotton of her smock-style shirt. Comfort's eyes glued themselves to" the taut little tips of her nipples, correctly concluding that she wore no brassiere.
"Oh, what the hell, a foul ball's a foul ball, no matter what you call it. Go on, speak your piece. I told you I've got important matters to attend to."
"You'll think this is important enough when you find yourself with a lawsuit on your hands, I imagine."
"What the hell--? "
Denise smiled, feeling in control of this conversation at last. "A lawsuit, I said, yes. Uh, I believe my daughter paid you a visit day before yesterday to apply for a job."
Ted blinked blearily as her shapely, but un-manicured and ink-stained hand gestured toward a figure behind her whom he'd not noticed before. Oh yeah, that cute chick in the mini-skirt-he remembered now. And he also remembered something else as he stared at the teenager's embarrassment-flushed face.
"Hey, you're Denise Aronson!" he exclaimed.
She glared at him. "I told you my name. Men! You never listen to anything."
"Denise Aronson ... all grown up! Christ, you were a skinny-legged high school freshman last time I saw you. No, wait, that's not so ... I came home for Christmas a few years later, when I was working trawlers on the Great Lakes. You were just about the same age as your cute little gal is now, and we went out dancing, if I remember right."
Denise paled beneath her golden tan. She'd successfully blocked out that embarrassing incident ever since hearing that Comfort had moved back to Michigan, and wasn't at all pleased to have it dragged back up into her consciousness-particularly not in front of innocent her daughter. What a naive ninny she'd been with her ridiculous infatuation for the four year-older neighbor boy!
"We did indeed," she replied in her iciest tone, for the faint smirk on his face told her he was recalling the degrading details of that date quite as vividly as she was. "But I prefer not to dredge up unpleasant memories. As you keep saying, we've got important matters to attend to."
His smile broadened as he surveyed the woman before him and mentally compared her richly mature female curves with the lithe Lolita-like body of the girl he'd come so close to deflowering that long-ago night. Defiantly unprovocative attire could not disguise the fact that she was one of those fortunate women who came into their prime in their thirties. At seventeen she'd been pretty: today, she was sensuous, alluring ... if she'd make a slight effort, she could be beautiful.
"Can't imagine why I didn't recognize you straight off ... you sure don't look much older than back inlet's see, must've been '56. Jeez, you were about the cutest chick in town, with your ponytail and bobby socks and all. Weren't you the Apple Harvest Princess one year?"
"No-you're thinking of the Regatta Mascot Crown Contest. But I didn't come here to chat about that old nonsense, Mr. Comfort-and I warn you, flattery will get you nowhere. This matter of sex discrimination in hiring policies is a very serious-"
"Aww, Denni, c'mon down off your high horse." The boat yard owner rose from behind his desk, displaying six-foot-two of solid, sun-bronzed muscle, to set up two folding chairs. "Sit down, girls. Great to see you again after all these years! But what's this Mr. Comfort shit! Seems to me that after we've played kick-the-can together-not to mention kissy-face-we ought to be on a first name basis."
The mother glared down at the metal folding chairs. "No, thanks. I prefer to stand, since this'll only take a minute. Anyway, I'm no fragile flower-if I want a chair, I can fetch one for myself."
Finally her aggressiveness was getting to Ted Comfort, and he, too, started to lose his temper. He tried to control himself, though, for the memory of that long-ago date, Mrs. Aronson's voluptuous figure, and the paucity of plausible female partners in this neck of the woods had made him determined to start an intrigue with her.
"I always say there's nothing like old friends," he grinned. "Would've looked you up when I first moved back here, but I'd heard all that talk about you running off with some artist fellow, so I figured you'd be living in New York or 'Frisco or Europe. You divorced?"
"It so happens I am, but what's it to you?" Her voice fairly crackled with fury-there was nothing more infuriating than being in the mood for a good fight and finding your opponent determinedly cheerful and friendly. "Now, as far as my Tracey's qualifications for your job as a deckhand..."
Throughout this interchange Tracey remained silent and inconspicuous behind her mother. The new high hells had begun pinching her feet, and she stole glances at the empty folding chairs out of the corners of wide fawn's eyes as she shifted her weight from one shapely leg to the other. Well, Mom had been right about the shoes, maybe, but the rude way she was treating nice Mr. Comfort certainly wasn't right, and she was so uncomfortable at being the cause of all this trouble that she was momentarily tempted to bolt out the showroom door. There were, however, certain interesting aspects of the adults' conversation which she didn't want to miss.
Who would ever have guessed that Mother, authoress of a damning invective entitled, "Ban the Barbarous Beauty Contest" had once won the annual Regatta Mascot Contest? Wearing the Mascot Garland was the supreme honor a girl could achieve here in Birch Bay ... better than being Prom Queen or Homecoming Queen or Apple Harvest Princess, since competition was limited to the exclusive elite whose families belonged to the yacht and sporting club. In theory Tracey was eligible since Gramps had been a charter member, but it had never crossed her mind that she might be the one wearing the silver filigree wreath and opening the Gala with doddering Colin Highsmith I, founding father. Besides, everyone knew that the old boy's granddaughter, Cressida, would win this year. She'd returned from boarding school back east looking stunningly lovely instead of simply cute ... thanks, snide tongues whispered, to the best dermatologists, plastic surgeons, orthodontists, hairdressers and dressmakers money could buy.
". . . sailing in competition and winning trophies ever since she was old enough to enter, and she helped crew on her uncle's forty-two foot ketch and helped with deck chores, too, until he moved to California two years ago. She's got her Red Cross..."
The teenager tuned out her mother's belligerent recital of her qualifications and recalled Uncle Norman, who'd looked a good deal like Ted Comfort except he'd had a mustache. She'd been fond of extroverted, jovial Norm, and Mom had liked her cousin a lot too, though she seldom wrote to him or mentioned him since he married "that cheap, gold-digging slut", Verna, who'd been working as a barmaid in one of the area's more swinging nightclubs. Come to think of it, that had been about the time Mother got so obsessed with this femininist stuff. . . though for as long as her daughter could remember she'd resented any male who wanted to date her. It just didn't make sense. Now here she was alienating handsome Mr. Comfort, who'd been right on the verge of asking her out and renewing what sounded like a very exciting old friendship."
". . . as any fool with half a brain can see," Mom was concluding, "my daughter's as well qualified as any male in town. And I've raised her to believe in honesty and hard work, which is more than most parents can say these days. A look at her Birch Bay High records will verify that if you don't want to take my word for it, Mr. Comfort."
She paused for breath, and there was a moment's silence as Tracey squirmed in acute embarrassment and Comfort threw up his large, capable hands in irritation. For another instant Denise's loud, angry voice seemed to reverberate through the showroom, and then its echo died away and they heard gulls screaming out on the piers and a tinny transistor playing out where the two assistants were working. "Blue Velvet" ... the same song she'd danced to with Robbie last night. Although it was overly warm in Comfort's stuffy cubicle, the adolescent shivered as visions of erect, ejaculating penises, wavered before her mind's eye, and before she realized what she was doing she found herself gazing curiously at the sandy-haired boathouse owner's crotch.
Thank God nobody was paying the least bit of attention to her. Mother and the man were still glaring at one another in mutual anger-like a lion and a tiger stalking each other, thought the girl.
"Look here, Denise, I'm sure you're kid knows something about sailboats-but that does not mean she'd work out for the job I'm advertising for. Hell, this is heavy labor, men's work, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna pay some dainty schoolgirl this equal wage you keep blabbering about to stand around and powder her nose and distract the boys so they don't do a decent day's work, either. This is my business, and I'm running it to make it the best boat yard this side of Lake Michigan, not to do people favors ... not even old girl friends."
"Old girl friends, nothing, you conceited fool." Mom looked mad enough to hit him over the head with her briefcase. "My daughter is strong and healthy and she can do the job-can't you. Tracey."
She nodded miserably. "I-I sure would do my best."
"Her best-hah."
"Let me finish, Ted Comfort. What I've been trying to beat into your thick skull for twenty minutes is that it's illegal for you not at least to hire her and give her a chance to prove herself. I'll send you copies of the laws, since you're so uninformed about current events. Women aren't men's helpless slaves any longer. We have rights, and I for one intend to fight for those rights. I meant it about the law suit. And what's more, I'll write to every publication in the country using names and telling about you."
"Good God, woman, shut up. Okay, okay, I know about equal pay for equal work laws-but this is insane. I'll take the girl on-on two-week trial-but I guarantee you'll be sorry you pushed my hand this way. Good and sorry."
Denise smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Ted. I'm so glad you came round to my way of thinking. . . it'll save us both a lot of unnecessary trouble. When shall Tracey report for work?"
"Right this fucking minute," he snapped, then glanced at the flushed-cheeked teen and made an impatient gesture. "Hell, go home and change into working clothes, girl. And get back here on the double!"
"Yes, sir."
"And now both you dames get the hell outta my office."
Denise turned on her heel, took her daughter's arm and hurried to the door, unaware that Comfort was staring rather intently at her indignantly twitching ass-cheeks. "Thank you again for being so understanding, and I'm sure everything's going to work out beautifully."
She slammed the door behind her so hard that papers rose in a cloud from the furious man's desk and the bottle of Alka-Seltzer bounced onto the tile floor and smashed into smithereens. Comfort cursed at the top of his lungs, swearing to get revenge on the vindictive bitch if it were the last thing he ever did.
"Ram this right between that tight, saucy ass of hers," he raged, stroking his semi-erected stiffness. "Show her what a man's got that a dame hasn't. Hear her begging for it. . . "
CHAPTER FOUR
By Friday afternoon, after four and a half days on the job, Tracey Aronson's healthy young body had adjusted to the strenuous tasks, her blisters had hardened into painless calluses, and she'd acquired an enviable suntan. In most ways she enjoyed her unusual job, though she was a bit nonplused whenever she ran into one of her "cool crowd" classmates and they inquired about what she was doing this summer. Most of them, of course, didn't have jobs ... nearly everyone in the "cool crowd" was wealthy.
"You're what?! " Caroline Chittenden's nasal voice had shrilled when they met in Johnson's drugstore the other evening. She'd been buying Nivea cream for her blisters; Caroline was purchasing perfume and the latest issue of Vogue. "Well, I suppose it's something to keep you busy while what's-his-name's away, but a boat yard..."
"Oh, it's kind of fun," she'd pasted on a vivacious smile. "And anyway, Robbie Runions and I aren't going steady or anything."
Caroline didn't extend the hoped-for invitation to a party or beach picnic, but simply arched her over-plucked eyebrows and muttered, "oh, really?" as though she couldn't have cared less. Then she sauntered away, calling back over her shoulder, "Have fun down at the harbor. See you around when I get back from Europe, maybe." Then she was gone, and Tracey was left alone staring at her ring-less left hand.
It was going to be somewhat awkward explaining to her boyfriend why her finger had been bare in his absence. . . perhaps she could claim she was allergic to the metal, or say her Mom had thrown a fit. Whatever. The main thing was first, not to incite unnecessary unpleasantness at home, and second, not to discourage possible dates. One very positive aspect to working in the boat yard was that good-looking guys were always wandering around ... summer folks and upperclassmen from the "cool crowd" at High and prep school guys and even college men home for the holidays.
Guys like handsome Colin Highsmith...
Early this morning, when she'd been energetically engaged in stripping old paint and varnish from his Dad's ritzy motor cruiser-Mr. Comfort, in revenge against her mother, having assigned her the most arduous tasks he could invent all week-Colin had strolled into the boatshed looking crisp and elegant in spotless white duck trousers, Easy Rider sunglasses, and a black tee-shirt with a little alligator on the breast pocket to prove it wasn't just any old ordinary T-shirt. Since the temperature in the sun was already up in the nineties, she'd taken off all her clothing except her modified string bikini and an unfastened threadbare shirt. At first she'd been embarrassed to approach Colin-surely his sister Cressida and her refined girl friends never ran around half undressed with their hair in pigtails and paint splatters on their hands and legs-but since Toby and Rufus were as usual late to work and the boss had gone off on some errand, she'd had no choice but to speak to the Highsmith heir. "Hello. C-Can I help you."
He'd taken off his trendy sunglasses. "Oh, hi there, uh-Gracey, isn't it? Yeah, well, I just wanted to find out when my speedboat's gonna be finished."
He'd remembered her name ... well, almost. . . but nevertheless...
Obviously she knew who he was; everyone in this stretch of Michigan knew the Highsmiths, for they were just about the best-heeled family around, and old money, too, not like the Holches who'd gotten rich selling used cars and invested in a mammoth pick stucco split-level with pink dock, pink boathouse, pink powerboat, and pink Cadillac to match. Mrs. Holch had even had their poodle dyed pink until the poor thing developed eczema and insisted in scratching its genitals in public like a common hound dog.
No, the Highsmith's had class, and Tracey hadn't dreamed Colin would remember a Nobody like herself, even though she had been friends of sorts with his sister before Cressida went off to boarding school.
Once she'd even been to a birthday party in the Highsmith's huge villa, and though she'd only been twelve or thirteen at the time she remembered in covetous detail the velvet plush dining room with its crystal chandelier and the British manor-type gardens with their fountains and rose beds and mazes formed of neatly clipped hedges. Instead of the usual layer cake with candles and ice cream and bottled soda pop, they'd dined on some delicacy composed of raspberry sherbet and pistapeaches called a "coupe ambassadrice" and chocolate "truffles," plus a selection of exotic juices.
While she'd still been suffused in the warm afterglow of Colin's perfunctory appearance, something else nice happened. Mr. Comfort, who'd been mean as a bear all week long, had come out on the cruiser's deck with a jovial grin on his rugged, sun-browned face and had stood watching while she worked. After some minutes, to her utter surprise, he'd come up beside her to pat her bare shoulder in a kindly way.
"Okay, kid, guess you've proved you've got guts, after all. C'mon inside the office with me. Today I'll let you take things easy-this really isn't work for a little gal like you, not in this blistering heat."
She'd hesitated, blushing. "Gee, thank you, sir, but ... but honest, this stripping's not so bad once you get used to it, and-"
"Hey, don't worry," he laughed, squeezing her upper arm in a paternal manner. "You don't have to get uptight about Mama finding out I'm doing you special favors just 'cause you're a girl. Somebody's got to cope with the inventory while I finish up this end-of-the-month accounting, and I don't reckon either Toby or Rufus have enough sense to so much as count the toes on their stinking feet. So it's up to you, sweetheart. C'mon, let's get a move on-it's already after ten."
"Right, Mr. Comfort, sir." She positioned herself in what she fondly supposed to be a seaman-like stance, too intent on appearing eager and efficient to notice his scrutinization of her half-clad figure. "Math's not by best subject, but I do fine till Algebra and Geometry came along, and Miss Turnbull in Sophomore English said my handwriting was the most legible in the whole class. So I'll try my best."
"Good girl!" His eyes roved hungrily over her budding breasts, her half-exposed ass-cheeks. Accounting, a chore he normally abhorred, would be a far more pleasant task now that he'd have generous glimpse of tits and legs and taut teenaged buttocks whenever he raised his eyes. "Hey, sweetie, here's a buck. Run 'round the corner to the Sweetshop and pick us up some coffee and Danish before we get started, okay. No-too damn hot for coffee. Get me a coke, and whatever you like for yourself."
"Yes, s-I mean Ted," she dimpled up at him, grateful that he was finally acting friendly. "Just as soon as I get into my clothes."
"Oh, don't bother about that. Scorcher like this, you're better off in your bikini. And with all these summer folks waltzing around town in pin curls and underwear, no one's gonna mind your cute little swim-suit."
"Well. . . okay. You're right-it sure is hot today."
By five-thirty, when she'd finished tabulating tins of paint and coils of rope and cases of fiberglass and boxes of nuts and bolts, it was still so hot that the front seat of Mom's Rambler burned her bare thighs and the steering wheel was almost too hot to touch. In spite of the torpid weather, however, the fair-haired adolescent was in high spirits. Work had been more like play today, what with Ted making jokes and looking at her in a way that made her feel pretty. Un-like her mother, who blew her top if a man stared at her on the street, Tracey rather liked the warm feeling a man's admiring eyes gave her. And, of course, it was all perfectly okay with her boss ... just like with her teachers at school, or with her favorite Uncle, who was so similar in looks and personality to Ted Comfort.
Only one unpleasant incident had marred an otherwise enjoyable day. After work, when she was in the crew's quarters big bathroom changing into her lightweight cotton shift, she'd overheard her male coworkers talking in the corridor outside.
"It ain't fucking fair!" Rufus Bray was exclaiming loudly, resentfully. "How come we gotta work our balls off while she don't do nothing but show off her tits to the boss?"
"And blondeie's getting paid just as much as we are to strut 'round showing off her bod! Shit, man, I ain't gonna ... "
"Well, who cares about them?" Tracey shrugged as she turned onto Main Street. "They're just a couple ugly creeps. It's sure not my fault they're too dumb to help with taking inventory!"
She tossed her silky shoulder-length hair back from her face, putting the boys out of her mind as she steered the car through the tangle of holiday traffic which clogged the narrow small-town street. Overweight businessmen with pale-fleshed bellies sagging above their tartan-plaid swim trunks ... elegant city matrons in high-heeled sandals and expensive beach costumes and Jacqueline Kennedy sunglasses ... squalling kids with sunburns and inflated inner tubes and dribbling popsicles ... poodles on sequined leashes snarling at sniffing local stray mutts ... Tracey saw all this without really seeing it, for it was just exactly the same scene she'd witnessed every summer for as long as she could remember. Besides, her attention was focused on four sun-gilded young bodies lounging against a new-model Mercedes sports-car parked outside the Dairy Queen.
Colin Highsmith! And his pretty sister, Cressida in a skimpy black string bikini unbelievably ... and another extremely handsome blonde youth with an Irish wolfhound panting at his feet ... and a large-breasted redhead in a bikini only a shade less revealing than svelte Cressida's. The Aronson girl was staring at the attractive quartet so intently that she stalled the Rambler. None of them noticed her, but she got a good view of the over-developed auburn-haired girl fictitiously snatching at Colin's "Mr. Misty" crushed ice beverage, then kissing him on both cheeks like a mademoiselle in a French film when he finally laughed and gave her a sip.
All at once, Tracey Aronson's happy mood dissolved, leaving a black cloud of despondency in its place. Compared to that self-assured auburn-haired boarding school coed, she'd been a gauche and gawky small town simpleton when Colin had come into the boat yard this morning. How had she ever been crazy enough to consider herself the equal of these privileged private school butterflies, these cultured, high-class creatures who'd lounged on yachts in the Mediterranean and Acapulco and Nassau instead of scraping paint off the same ships here in Birch Bay for $2.75 an hour. She was a Nothing, a dun-gray moth, dull and tongue-tied and unattractive ... undesirable...
Traffic began to inch forward again, but instead of continuing on the congested county highway which led her directly home, she swung off onto Ridge Roadway. The only vehicles on this narrow drive wending its way along the coast from villa to villa were elegant limousines and sports-cars, some chauffer-driven, and the occasional delivery van or telegram boy's motorcycle. It was a dead-end stretch of concrete leading only to private seaside mansions like the Highsmiths house and to abandoned villas like Old Lady Douse's place.
"A nice cool swim," the young blonde muttered to herself. "That ought to cure the blues..."
But how could any normal sixteen year-old girl be in good spirits when she faced the prospect of a dateless Friday night? Robbie Runions' class ring hidden under her underwear in the top drawer of her bureau along with her dairy and a copy of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About SEX was no consolation; he was just a dumb kid compared to cool guys like Colin Highsmith, and she'd just as soon watch some boring television program with Clara Pringle-who was pretty boring, too, with her chatter about her job at the Baptist Church Bible School-as answer his corny letter promising eternal fidelity.
"Damn!" Tracey's thonged foot sank all the way to the floor in a vain effort to accelerate the aged automobile. The reverberating echo of the forbidden word made her feel better. "Goddamn everything!"
The dashboard needle crept up to 40 mph, 50 mph, 60 mph. That was as far as she dared tax the tired Rambler, but it was good enough. A cool wind whipped through her shoulder-length curls as she hurtled down the highway, dispersing some of the wildly exhilarated energy which boiled inside her, and as vitality vibrated through her veins she began to sing at the top of her lungs. "Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen!"-a current oldie-but-goodie chart-topper on the In Crowd's favorite Kalamazoo radio station.
What a weird mood she was in this evening! She screeched the car to a halt underneath a twisted oak just on the outskirts of the Douse's property, then vaulted the gate and ran down the rickety wooden staircase two-at-a-time, leaving her bikini behind in the back seat. Why not go skinny-dipping?
And indeed, it felt delightfully wicked to dive into the cool water without a strip of clothing binding her healthy young body. Feeling like a mermaid, she headed for the rocks where she and Robbie had made out at a strong crawl...
CHAPTER FIVE
"Hey, pop open another of them beers for me, willya, pal," Rufus Bray demanded, then burped and gulped in satisfaction as Toby Turetsky complied. "Yeah, that sure hits the spot. But lemme tell ya, back in Grand Rapids where I come from we didn't mess with this low-power shit-we drank '7-7's'. "
" '7-7's'? "
"Seagrams and 7-Up," Rufus replied, loftily. Rufus was driving, lugubriously elongated form hunched over the steering wheel, bony elbows winged out at ninety-degree angles, beads of perspiration shimmering on his acne-pocked brow. The vintage Studebaker was even older than the Rambler which his female co-worker had driven down this same stretch of road some ten minutes earlier, but it's engine had been souped up so that he could reach over one hundred miles an hour if he pressed the auto to its utmost. This was exactly what he was trying to do now, until his watery blue eyes caught sight of a car parked beneath an oak tree and he squealed to an instant, bone-jolting halt.
"Wh-what's up?" stuttered Toby, twisting his thick neck to gape curiously at his friend. "Whatcha st-stopping for?"
"Lookit-over there. It's Blondie's short!"
"Huh?"
"Y'know, Toby, I betcha you're the dumbest guy in this town full of hicks. Who've we been talking 'bout for the last half hour-Tracey Tits, right. There's her crummy old car."
"Wh-what's it doin' here? Ain't nobody lives here no more."
The heavyset youth was so accustomed to hearing slighting comments on his intellect that he no longer reacted outwardly, wasn't conscious of feeling insulted. Deep in the back of his brain, however, resentment accumulated in an ever-expanding pool of rancid vindictiveness which now and then flooded to the surface and caused him to explode in rages of sadistic violence. Okay, so he'd been called "Tubby" all through grade-school ... so he'd been the only kid in town to flunk second grade twice ... nowadays he wasn't the school fat boy anymore, and he figured he was probably strong enough to take on any guy in this neck of northern Michigan. Rufus, who was built like a limp string bean, wouldn't have a chance against him! But he didn't really mind when Rufus talked mean; it wasn't meant seriously, and besides they were real pals after having spent several months in the pen together.
"What it means is that Tracey Tits is somewhere 'round here." Bray turned off the ignition and peered into the trees. "Nobody lives here, you say? So why don't we find out what she's doing, and have a talk 'bout how we don't dig what's happening on the job."
"There's a b-beach," Toby remembered. "B-betcha she went swimming. And there's a road going down-lots of kids p-park there."
The naked sixteen year-old was still thrashing through the water, working off her frustrations by driving her healthy young body to physical exhaustion, so she didn't hear the car approaching. Since the boys had prudently parked out of sight of the beach, she didn't see them either, and clambered out of the shallows without the least trace of self-consciousness about her unclothed figure. It was after six now, but the setting sun was still warm and the sand was actually hot after the afternoon's sweltering temperatures, so Tracey stretched out on the beach to dry off before getting into her clothes. She felt much calmer now, so relaxed that after staring at the rose-tinted horizon for a minute she closed her eyes and lay back enjoying the sensation of the breeze dancing over her naked and sensitive flesh between her slightly parted thighs.
I've missed a lot of fun by not skinny-dipping before, she was thinking, oblivious to stealthy footsteps behind her. Being naked feels good ... makes me feel more alive, more-
"Who's the girl without her eenie-weenie polka-dot bikini?" a vaguely familiar male voice jolted her from her reverie. "Well, I'll be damned if it ain't Tracey! Lookit that, Toby!"
"I didn't know there was nude beaches 'round here," smirked Toby. "Sure is a nice s-s-surprise, huh!"
Tracey's eyes flew open and she leapt to her feet in alarm, trying to remember exactly where she'd dropped her dress and panties. She was so busy anxiously scanning the beach, arms hugged to her thudding chest in a vain effort to hide the grapefruit-sized mounds of her budding breasts, that it was a second before she saw that Rufus Bray was tauntingly dangling her clothes from one hand. Far more horrifying, he was as naked as she was ... and so was that horrid half-witted Toby.
"Oh, my God!" she gasped. "Oh, no!"
Both boat workers were brandishing their fearfully swollen things, lewdly massaging the glistening purple-red lengths and easing back the foreskins to reveal bulbous brighter red glans ends. Although the innocent teenager was half-blinded with shame and dread, she distractedly noted how different the two flesh stalks were. Toby's was stubby, even shorter than her sixteen year-old steady boyfriend's, whereas Rufus's was as long and thin as his gangly body.
"Blondie looks even better in her birthday suit 'n she does in her bikini, don't she?" Rufus took a step toward her, though he still held her orange cotton shift and white nylon panties just out of reach. "Bet the boss'd dig having her come to work bare-ass like that. Might even pay her a bonus!"
Rufus giggled, a high-pitched, oddly childish snicker which grated along the girl's raw and sensitive nerve endings.
"Think he'd pay us a bonus, too, if we came 'round tc the yard with our peckers dangling? Sure is a fuckin' shame he's not queer, ain't it?! "
There was something evil in the Bray boy's acne-pitted face which chilled the blood in Tracey's veins; the cruel glint in his watery bluish eyes, the sneer twisting his thin mouth, those feverish florid spots on his sunken cheeks. She especially didn't like the way his tongue kept flicking out, snake-like, greedy, to wet his chapped, unusually pale lips. Even Toby, whose beady gray eyes were generally vapid mud puddles reflecting nothing in particular, now wore a satyric, almost sadistic, mask of animal brutality.
Of course the trembling blonde knew what sort of fellow eighteen year-old "Tubby" Turetsky was everyone in Birch Bay was well aware that he wasn't quite normal. Not knowing what else to do with the obese little brat who couldn't seem to manage to learn to read or memorize his multiplication tables, the local school authorities had shrugged and passed him on from grade to grade until, to the relief of all concerned, he'd dropped out of High. He'd been in Tracey Aronson's class; even in these bizarre circumstances, it was a bit difficult to be afraid of someone she still considered the class dummy who'd spent more time standing in the corner or out in the hall than he had at his desk.
Rufus Bray was another matter. All she knew about her unappealing co-worker was that he was nineteen, came from Grand Rapids, a city some hours south of here, and was also a high school dropout. Since the only pages of the newspaper which interested her were the letters to the editor (Mother's donations figured frequently here), the women's section with its recipes and fashion tips, and the next-to-the-last-sheet featuring a crossword puzzle and comics, she'd never read about the two incidents which had landed Bray in jail. Two rapes: one, a Northern Michigan State College coed, the other his thirteen year-old first cousin. Nevertheless, instinct warned her that the lanky red-headed youth could very well be dangerous.
Stop panicking! she ordered herself. They've got as much a right to go skinny-dipping as you do! Just keep cool and everything'll be okay...
"C'mon, Ruf," she strained her lips into a facsimile of a smile, "quit kidding around. Hand over my dress, okay. I-I've got to get home right away, or else-or else Mom'll worry why I'm so late getting off work ... "
"Fuck your mama! You ain't gonna be goin' nowhere for a while, baby doll."
A piercing shriek shattered the sundown serenity of the deserted beach as his outstretched palm whacked against the side of her head. Caught off balance, she toppled facedown into a patch of dune grass too stunned to scream again as the breath was knocked from her lungs. The prickly weeds cut into her naked belly and breasts, but she didn't notice the discomfort any more than she noticed her tangerine-toned sundress fluttering to the ground beside her like a limp flag of surrender.
"Shit!" Rufus's voice was reverent with awe for his friend's brutality. "You sh-showed her, all right!" . "Yeah, you bet your life I showed her! Get a good look at her ass, willya!"
"Jeez! It's as good as her b-boobs!"
This can't be real! Tracey's mind wheeled wildly as the clouds of confusion started clearing from her head. It's some crazy nightmare! It has to be! But she knew perfectly well that it was true; her mouth was full of gritty sand and a razor-sharp blade of dune grass was pressed right up against her tender bare breasts.
"Ya know what I'm thinking, Toby?" the tall red-haired rapist drawled. "I think it was real lucky we showed up here to find Blondie all ready for a party. Now we can have us some fun and let her know it ain't fair for the big boss to be the only one getting any action."
"Don't you dare touch me again! A party! You're out of your minds! I'm getting out of here this minute, and if you hit me again I'm gonna tell. You couldn't pay me a million dollars to have a 'party' with ugly creeps like you guys!"
"Think you're too good for us, eh? Hell, baby, you're coming to our little private party, and you're gonna dig it, too!"
Terror thrummed through Tracey's veins like liquid lightning, and she struggled to her knees, spitting out sand and clutching clumps of weeds for support. Sneering, Rufus Bray allowed her to scramble to her feet before lunging forward to imprison her naked figure in a lecherous arm-lock.
"Goin' somewheres, little girl? Party hasn't begun yet."
Stinging tears half-blinded her as she tried to jerk out of his grasp-oh, God, his terrible bulge was actually touching her bare belly!-but her clumsily pummeling fists and inept attempts to kick him were to no avail. Although he was skinny as a concentration camp escapee, years of gang warfare and his stint in the State Penitentiary had hardened his lean muscles and improved his technique. Besides, he was experienced at this sort of thing ... and also had a more than willing assistant standing at his side.
"Grab her from behind, Ruf!" he panted. "Keep her legs down. The little bitch's goin' after my balls, I think."
Precisely the teenager's intention. A few months ago she'd helped Mom type a Female and Free article on the subject of rape, and one section had stuck in her memory.
"A male's Achilles heel is, ironically, that part of his anatomy of which he is proudest: his genitals. Criticize his penis and destroy his ego. And a well-aimed kick at his testicles should disable him long enough to give any physically-fit Sister a chance to flee to safety."
All this had sounded simple enough when she'd read it, but now that she was shamefully squashed between the grinding pelvises of two sex maniacs, with her muscles weary from her vigorous swim and head groggy after her fall, she was struck by her total helplessness. As one pulsing phallus pressed between her shuddering buttocks and the other mashed against her churning young belly, she tried desperately to recall what else Mom's magazine story had said about self-defense. Something about tear gas pistols, about carrying a sharp pair of household shears in your handbag at all times ... helpful hints, no doubt, but of little use under the circumstances. And now, horror of horrors, pimple-faced Rufus was pinching her tender breasts in his grubby hands, digging into the pale brown aureoles and rosy nipples with his filthy, unfilled fingernails.
Ungovernable angry repulsion raced through her bloodstream, speeding adrenalin out to every inch of her body. Suddenly she shoved her hands between Rufus and herself, pushing his bony chest away with all her might while she simultaneously tried to squirm away from Toby. Teeth gnashing, fists flailing, she actually managed to fight free of her two fellow deckhands before a brutal blow from red-haired Bray send her sprawling back down on the sand. She was beaten and she knew it, but still she continued wriggling wildly, a frantic animal snagged in a trap, and wailing out protests.
"No, no. You can't do it! Get away from me, you dirty pigs!"
"What's your problem, anyhow? Ain't we good enough for ya? Ya only like screwing old men like the boss?"
By now Tracey was sobbing, tears rolling over her burning cheeks to puddle onto the soft sand. She wrenched her neck around to gape at Rufus, who was again massaging his bloated male weapon and whose eyes burned with sadistic fires which told her instinctively that he actually wanted her to struggle so he'd have a chance to beat her up. Accordingly, she collapsed in a passive heap of pain, screwing her eyes tight shut to try to blow out the image of his horrifying penis.
"I n-n-never did anything wrong with Mr. Comfort," she whimpered miserably. "Please! I don't know why you're doing this to me, but please let me go! Please, please!"
"Why're you doing this to me?" Rufus mimicked in a high-pitched falsetto. " 'Cause you're a cock-teasing bitch with a hot cunt that needs a little stud action, that's why. So there's no reason for carrying on-that itchy twat of your's is gonna get what it wants. Me and my buddy, we got the equipment-as ya can see!"
The innocent adolescent shuddered as he tugged on his turgid thickness again, for the thing seemed to grow more enormous with each passing moment. Fear surged through her so strenuously that she could actually taste it, a nd her tongue was a leaden weight as she whimpered: "You're crazy! You can't! I'll-I'll tell the cops, and you'll be sent to jail! I will!
"Will ya, now?" Rufus took a couple menacing steps toward her pinioned body. "And are ya gonna mention you was trespassion and swimming nude? Asking for it? Ya gonna tell them how much you loved getting fucked by two big cocks at the same time?"
"WHAT?! "
"That's what I said, two cocks. You deaf or something? Ya never did it with two guys before-hell, honey, you're gonna go crazy. Ain't no bitch in the whole fucking world who doesn't!"
"We really gonna f-f-fuck her, Rufus?"
"You bet your life we are. Just wait'll you see Tracey Tit's tail twitching when we're both banging her. I'm gonna letcha ram it up her cunt, man, 'cause I wanna try out her cute little ass-hole."
"W-wow! Outtasight!"
They really were insane! How could any woman alive stand to have even one of these repulsive creatures touch her, much less ENJOY it? And what in God's name did he mean by at the same time? She'd never heard of such a disgusting thing. One thing she did know, however: she had to get away from these monsters at once!
This was Tracey Aronson's last coherent thought before the Bray boy's ruthless middle finger stabbed through her tiny anal orifice to plunge agonizing inches into her tight rectal passage. She screamed at the top of her lungs, then bit her tongue in panic-stricken alarm as her outcry elicited another stinging blow on her impaled ass-cheeks. Blackness swam before her eyes form the pain in her backside and on her sadistically scraped ankles, and even as frantic pleas gurgled from her fear-parched lips she was praying that she'd pass out.
"Stop! Stop it, you-you animals!" she wailed, beating her balled up fists into the sand in helpless protest. "Get your filthy paws off me! I'm a virgin! A VIRGIN! Don't you dare touch me, you pigs!"
Toby Turetsky made a croaking sound, then giggled moronically. "Didja hear that, Ruf? She says she's a v-v-virgin! Am I really gonna crack a ch-cherry? Am I ? "
"She's fulla shit! No chick with a bod like hers could be a goddamn virgin."
As he spole, the nineteen year-old ex-convict yanked his finger out of his terrified victim's tight anus, his heinous howl of mirth masking the lewd popping noise. Then, still chuckling, he rubbed the finger over the smooth pinkness of her vaginal slit.
"All dripping wet and ready for us!" proclaimed Rufus. "C'mon, Toby, let's turn her over and see her boobs better."
Now brutal male hands were gripping her shoulders as well as her feet, and the smell of stale beer and cigarettes suffused her nostrils until she wanted to gag. So they were drunk-that made the possibility of reasoning with them even more remote. No longer caring whether or not the boys beat her up, she commenced a new round of ineffective struggles, sobbing and screaming simultaneously in a shrill, inhuman song of despair which reverberated back from the surrounding dunes in an eerie way.
The worst of it all was that, loathe though she was to admit it even to herself, her virginal vagina was indeed seeped with shameful secretions. Of course, there could be no connection between desire for these loutish perverts and the damning droplets which were dampening the petals of her pussy. It was simply some sort of chemical reaction of fear, or perhaps an inopportune effect of the dune grass tickling her unprotected genitals. She pressed her legs as tightly together as she could, assuming she could will away the unwanted wetness.
"I AM a virgin! I am, I am!" she shrieked, fighting with every fiber of her healthy young body not only to hold her upper legs together, but to prevent them from turning her over. "Get away from me! GET AWAY! Nnnoooooo!"
Deaf to her frantic cries, the two beer and lust deranged boat workers effortlessly slipped the slim sixteen year-old flat on her back. Particles of sand cut into the raw bruises which Bray's spanking had left on her backside, but she scarcely was aware of the pain. In fact, the only things which had any significance for her at this nightmarish moment were the two blood-bloated rods looming above her helpless body, with their pulsing purple veins and menacingly swaying testicles and an ominous pearl of pre-cum secretion glistening on each narrow glans slit.
"Looks like I've knocked the fight outta the smart ass slut, huh, Toby!" gloated Rufus, then turned to stare hungrily at the whimpering teenager. "Well, how about getting on with our party. You like the look of our peckers? You getting all hot and horny already?"
"I s-s-sure am horny-I'm gonna go crazy if I d-don't get my prick inside her real soon. How're we gonna work this, Ruf? We really gonna both screw her at once? How?"
"What! You never sandwiched a bitch before?" Actually, despite his tone of scoffing superiority, the lanky red-haired youth was as inexperienced as his friend, but he'd read plenty of graphic literature on the subject. "Jeez, man, you guys around here don't know how to have fun with a broad like we do down in Grand Rapids."
Usually Toby was a willing listener to his coworker's tales about his hometown, but today his slow brain was pre-occupied with impatient passion. "Yeah, but whadda we do? Should we leave her on her back, or turn her round, or what?"
It was a good question, Rufus frowned, thinking back over the paperbacks he'd read as best he could considering the clouds of lust and alcohol and sadistic glee clogging his brain cells. As far as he could recall, the authors hadn't mentioned such mundane practicalities as position: rather, there were just two fellows crazily ramming their huge cocks into some sexy broad who kept begging for more, more, more.
"Hold your horses, man," he replied. "I wanna get Blondie's motor humming first, so's she's screaming for cock. That way, she'll know better 'n to treat us like dirt anymore. And what happened to that six-pack? Gimme another can, okay."
The instant a long-faced Toby released her to grope among clumps of dune grass and discarded articles of attire, both the blonde's shapely legs shot upward in the general direction of Rufus' heavy, baseball-sized testicles. By now the sun had drifted beneath the skyline and the sand hills were casting long purple-blue shadows across the beach; even if the lanky ex-convict hadn't chosen this exact second to lunge down toward her breasts, she'd probably have missed the aimed-for genitals. As it was, her abruptly up-kicking heel caught him square on the chin, and with a hoarse yelp of shock he tumbled backward onto the sand beside her.
"Goddamn slut!" raged Rufus, angrily swabbing at the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth with the first thing that came to hand-Tracey's little lace panties. "I warned you, you bitch. Okay, you wanna play it the hard way, I got no objections!"
Tracey shrunk back down against the suddenly-cool sand, heart thudding in her chest as she realized she'd misjudged the malicious hatred this virtual stranger somehow held against her. This was no adolescent mating game, like the night she and Robbie Runions had cuddled out on the rocks; this was real and earnest and very ugly. It wasn't the Little League anymore-it was a Major League combat with dangerously high stakes. Deep fear gripped her, nauseated her, as she gaped up at the demonic eyes and twisted snarl of her enemy.
"Wow! Sh-shit!" stuttered Toby, and dropped the six-pack.
Neither the girl nor the Grand Rapids' hoodlum paid him a moment's attention. Grinning in mirthless, vindictive glee, the nineteen year old sadist slammed the heel of his tennis shoe between her rigidly clenched thighs, prying them apart. Then, laughing aloud when she winced and moaned in pain, he planted both feet between her upper legs and slowly, torturously spread them apart until her legs were spread-eagled. Looking down, he saw her glistening pink pussy lips pulling open like the petals of a flower.
"Oh, God, stop it! You're hurting me! Please stop!" He was going to split her right in two! "Pleeezzze!"
"I'm hurting you? Sure is too fucking bad, girlie."
Rufus Bray's beady eyes squinted into malevolent slits as he inspected the exposed curl-fringed pussy slit. In a way, he longed to drop to his knees and lunge his aching stiffness deep down inside the enticing hole without another minute's delay. There were, of course, several very good reasons for not doing so: intuition told him she hadn't been putting them on about being a virgin, and appropriating under-age pussy was what had landed him behind bars the last time ... and his probation officer was one mean son-of-a-bitch. However, he was only momentarily stopped by the recollection of the risks. There was another, far more compelling explanation for his hesitance.
Before he was finished with this conceited cunt, he vowed, he'd reduce her to a helpless puddle of pleading female flesh, for the ultimate triumph would be seeing her grovel in carnal craving beneath proudly punishing prick. Bray gulped down half the can of Budweiser to wet his excitement-parched throat while he considered which way of forcing the girl to beg would bring him the most satisfaction.
Whipping a bitch was always fun, he thought, glancing toward the spot several yards away where he'd dropped his wide leather belt-that's how he'd dealt with the plump coed he'd picked up hitching a ride back to her college dorm. Women were always instantly anxious to satisfy his every lewd desire when he held his switchblade against their necks or nipples or pussy mounds, too, but unfortunately his weapons had all been confiscated when he was arrested and he'd not yet been able to afford replacements. Anyway, all these sadistic diversions took time, and his balls were already churning with a white-hot urgency he didn't dare to ignore.
He finished off the beer and tossed it to the ground; it landed on top of the blood-stained panties he'd used to wipe his cut lip, and for some reason the sight brought a rush of inspiration. The sandwiching plan had been fantastic-the only reason he was abandoning it was, of course, that it was too much trouble to explain to Toby what he must do. Instead, they'd sandwich her another way-with their mouths-and with her snotty little mouth, too.
"Get over here, you ass-hole," he barked to his companion, who was still standing several feet away in open-mouthed astonishment, hand unconsciously pulsing up and down on his stubby flesh stalk. "How come you're beating your meat when we've got Tracey Tits to take care of us, you dope?"
"Please!" the girl was too terrified to sound defiant anymore. "I-I'm sorry I kicked you. Please don't do anything bad!"
"Sorry, are ya? Kinda late for that. But don't worry," he chuckled in an ugly way, "we ain't gonna do nothing bad. Just you wait and see how good your teasing little twat's gonna feel. But I'm telling you now, any more funny business and I'm gonna give like I got. Only I'm gonna kick in every one of your little white teeth, and cut up that face so's you won't be pretty enough for any guy to wanna fuck again. That clear? You just lie back and enjoy it!"
Tracey was sobbing so hysterically that she couldn't have answered even if she'd known what to say. She didn't doubt that the hot-tempered thug would carry out his gruesome threat ... but on the other hand it was unthinkable to relinquish her precious purity without protest. How would she ever face herself or anyone decent again if she did that?
Bray sniggered at the misery mirrored on the girl's tear-splotched face. "First thing I wanna see you do is get down on your hands and knees, like the she-bitch you are. And keep that fine ass of yours up high!"
She gaped at him in horror-stricken disbelief, but to her own surprise found herself slowly sinking to a kneeling position. She was too slow for impatient Bray, who grasped her hips and flipped her down onto the sand with her round white ass-cheeks quivering toward the darkening sky. Then, after a couple rough slaps on her openly up-thrust buttocks, he dropped to the ground beside her, crouching so close to her that his swollen member dangled mere inches from her dread-dizzied eyes and her nostrils puckered at the pungent, unwashed odor of his crotch. Automatically, she tensed her thighs together-but too late.
"Get in gear, Toby!" ordered Rufus. "C'mon, get your fat head down there and tongue her to death. Drive her out of her dirty little mind, okay, man!"
"But, b-but-" His voice was muffled as he obediently dropped to his haunches, gripped the girl's satin-skinned hips to keep her from moving, and wormed a clumsy finger into the coral-pink cleft of her pulsating cunt. "B-but-"
"But what? Hell, don't you know how to eat pussy, either?"
"S-sure, I do. Done it with a wh-whore in M-Muskegon last summer. B-but-"
"So then, start licking this here whore!"
"But I thought you said we was gonna f-fuck her! Crap, my pecker's gonna blow up any minute if I don't-"
"So jerk off or something," interrupted Rufus with an unfeeling shrug. After she sucks me off, she'll go down on you, okay. And then we'll screw her. Shit, this is sure going to be one long, wild party!"
"No! Noooo-
The schoolgirl's shrill shriek abruptly snapped off into a gagging, inhuman gurgle of disgust as gusts of scorching breath grazed against the sensitive surface of her unprotected pussy and a stubby, calloused fingertip scraped along her cringing crevice. There were scruffy tufts of hair tickling her inner thighs, and a clammy palm clamped on the side of her buttocks whose ragged-nailed fingers cut into her flesh when she attempted to squirm away from this ultimate obscenity. Of course, she still kept trying to wiggle away, to rise to her feet and run as fast as she could down the beach and up the steep dune to her car. Even if they caught her and beat her to a bloody pulp, it was better than enduring this outrage.
"Hold still, girlie, or you're gonna be good and sorry."
Hold still, when "Tubby" Turetsky, the class dunce, had his filthy, slobbering mouth this close to her most intimate female flesh? Impossible! Tracey shoved her thighs together as hard as she could-and, despite her frail, very feminine appearance, she was quite a strong young woman-but this only succeeded in trapping Toby's head deeper inside her quivering inner thighs ... and in rousing rage in the other man lurking near her head.
"Nooo! Stop it-oouuggg-"
This was too much! Turetsky's slimy tongue had touched her private genitals! Tracey raised her hands from the now-cool sand, vaguely intending to scratch out Rufus' eyes and then attack Toby in some similar fashion, but before she could put this foolhardy plan into effect the tall Grand Rapids ex-con had launched his own assault.
"Fucking bitch! I toldja to behave!"
Hot, sweat-sticky hands crushed as though the man thought he was kneading bread, forcing her little nipple buds into taut round bullets of unwanted sensation. She screamed again, acute alarm and infuriated resentment raging in equal proportions through her bloodstream, scarcely aware than one of his gaunt hands had left her tortured breasts to rummage in the pocket of his dirty unbuttoned blue work shirt. Only when his cheap lighter flickered in the gray-purple dusk and the glowing end of a Marlboro inched toward her did she belatedly recall for the second time this evening that this Bray character was a lot more dangerous than she'd first imagined.
"You gonna sit still and shut up, or am I gonna have to burn a few holes in that pretty face of yours?"
"Aaahhhh!"
The cigarette butt grazed the delicate skin of her swan-like white neck, filling the fresh, faintly fishy night air with the acrid odor of singed human flesh although it only ground once against the sensitive sinews, a stubbing-out-in-the-ashtray motion. Searing pain shot from the top of Tracey's tousled blonde scalp to the tips of her ten involuntarily curling toes, but by now she was too terrorized to dare to vocalize her acute agony. Rufus Bray laughed, lunging forward.
"liked that, cutiepie? Now you've got yourself a pretty little scar to remember this night. And now you're gonna be a good girl, ain'tcha?"
The young blonde shuddered, her face transforming into contorted mask of unwilling compliance as her muscles froze in fear. It was obvious now that there was no hope of defending herself against these drunk, demon-possessed morons-to try would be suicidal. No, all she could do was pray their obscene appetites would be swiftly satisfied, that she could somehow escape with her virginity intact. Horrible as this bestial oral attack might be, it was preferable to losing her treasured maidenhead to a couple of despicable dock workers.
I'll close my eyes and pretend it's not happening, she vowed silently. I won't let myself even feel the dreadful things they're doing. Maybe I can't keep them from pawing at me with their filthy hands and slimy mouths, but I can keep them from touching my mind!
It was a brave, sincere resolution, but one far more easily made than carried out. Within seconds, as Toby's tongue delved into the secret depths of her precious virgin vagina, she was shuddering in repugnance and realizing that no amount of willpower could numb her nerves. Tracey gritted her teeth to keep from screaming at the strange sensations between her legs and the stinging arrows shooting out from her mauled breasts, nearly fainting from the vain effort of training her traitorous body into a stone statue.
"Good eating pussy, huh, Toby? Look, she's already starting to twitch her tail! Thought she'd be a hot number once she got going-she's got one of 'em sassy asses that always mean a gal's good in the sack."
The teenager's clenched lids flew wide apart at this atrocious insult. After one horrified glance at Rufus Bray's lust-slackened features and ferociously fondled cock, she'd begun to shut her eyes tight again when she just happened to glance down and her eyes widened in fascinated revulsion instead. Peering through her bouncing breasts, she had a clear view of her wantonly spread thighs and the strawberry-colored tongue sluicing right into her curl-framed cuntal channel. It was the most disgusting thing she'd ever seen ... and yet, in a forbidden corner of her brain, she recognized that the warm ripples stirring in her veins were born of vulgar, unwanted erotic intoxication. Suddenly, fleetingly, she thought of the time out on the rocks when she'd gotten so inexplicably aroused watching Mimi Sweeney and her lover.
At last, after much frantic fumbling along the schoolgirl's fresh-tasting furrow and puffy pussy lips, the retarded Turetsky boy located the round button of her clitoris. That whore in Muskegon-a kindly sort, if a bit past her prime-had informed him that this tiny miniature penis was the most important part of a girl's body and that he should suck, nibble, kiss and so on until it stiffened into a female version of his hard-on. Fate hadn't afforded him an opportunity to perfect his technique until now, so he was surprised and delightedly proud when the blonde's body responded at once to his tongue.
"W-w-wow!" Toby grabbed for his savagely swollen stiffness and began massaging the fleshy stalk furiously. "Sh-shit!"
To her intense shame, Tracey noticed that she was indeed wiggling her buttocks in involuntary response to the lewd oral titillation. Now that he was circling her throbbing clitoris in maddening, ever-increasing enthusiasm, however, she was gradually losing control of herself. It felt wonderful, no matter how sordid and wicked it was. . .far better than her own guilty fumblings beneath her nightie, or than Robbie Runions' timid finger-thrubbing on their last night together.
"Go, man, go! You're doing great!" leered Rufus. "Ram your tongue right down to her belly! And stick your finger up her ass, too. Show her the works!"
In order to better appreciate this prurient hors-d'oeuvre preceding his own carnal gratification, Rufus Bray had popped open another Budweiser and was absently toying with his foreskin. His eyes squinted into narrower than usual slits of. reptilian venom as he scrutinized the slavishly kneeling schoolgirl; no doubt about it, she was getting hot-her glassy eyes were glued to her tongue-tormented vagina, her lithe body shivered sporadically, a film of perspiration bathed her flushed, twisted face. It was only a matter of minutes now before she was aroused enough to suck his own impatient erection with masochistic pleasure! "Ooohhh!"
Rufus burped, then grinned in lascivious pleasure, as the girl cried out from the unexpected pain of a finger ramming into her previously untouched little anal orifice. Hell, this imagine-pants bitch was going to discover she wasn't one bit better than a five-dollar-a-buck-fuck down in Chicago's Black Belt. She was just the sort of bitch he detested-like those prick-teasers he'd gone to school with before he wised up and dropped out, snide, perfumed snobs who'd scorned him because he had a couple of pimples, a bad address, and a mother who did their mothers' washing.
"Fucking sluts!" he muttered, animal lust burning like a live coal inside him.
At least he wasn't a numbskull like his pal, Toby, who just went without cunt, or paid for it, because he'd never figured out that nine women out of ten really wanted to be ravished in the most vile, vulgar manner possible. He was only twenty, but he'd discovered this invaluable item of information back in 1970 when, while still a rebellious Grand Rapids' high school student, he'd raped a certain Glenda Grimes, president of the Future Homemakers of America Club and a notoriously determined prude despite her Playboy centerfold type figure. She'd screamed and writhed and finally pleaded for more, and after that night in the forest preserve he'd been hooked on rape like some people were on booze or dope or gambling.
Glenda Grimes hadn't breathed a word about her shameful surrender to sexuality, and neither had nine of the other twelve tight-ass broads he'd transformed into shivering masses of mindless feminine flesh. Two out of twelve had blabbed to the cops, a pretty decent ratio all things considered. Rufus figured this innocent little piece kneeling slave-like on the sand before him wouldn't dare tell a soul, and even if he'd expected she might, he was far too aroused to stop now.
The young victim, unaware of her attacker's lurid thoughts, was still concentrating all her energy on trying to submerge the tide of sexual excitation rising in her healthy adolescent loins. It was a hopeless cause. With each passing second, her pussy lips throbbed and swelled more pleasurably around his deep-thrusting tongue, and as he pushed further into her seeping passage, his nose teased at her aroused clitoris. Tears of despair welled in her big brown eyes when she felt tingling goose bumps rippling across her quivering belly and jouncing breasts.
I can't be liking this! her tortured mind screamed. Hadn't the article she'd typed for Mother claimed that the common saying that all women secretly longed to be raped was nothing but a male chauvinistic myth? Tears trickled over her cheeks as she realized she must be just as sick and disgusting as these two unwashed boat workers ... maybe even more perverted, because she knew better but was allowing her body to respond anyway.
"Nooo ... please, no more! Nooo..."
Her whimpers rang weak and unconvincing in her own ears, despite the fact that Toby had just commenced a new outrageously debasing torture. A few minutes earlier, his merciless middle digit had pierced the resisting ring of her anus and an electric jolt of agony had exploded inside her; now, as she shuddered in shame, his cruel fingers had pried apart her fear-clenched ass-cheeks and his hot, wet tongue was licking a lewd path along her crevice. After a second, as she'd feared, the outthrust oral member was teasing the puckering circle of her rectal mouth. Her taut rosebud opening spasmed, tried to shrink itself inward to escape this new lewdly exciting sensation, but Toby and Rufus only laughed, and the tongue speared right through the elasticized entrance.
"Oh, God! Oh, please, noooo!"
Once, twice, three times the tormenting tongue dug into her forbidden rectal recesses. Then it snaked back along the damp crack between her nether cheeks to resume its maddening manipulation of her crazily churning vagina, and although she kept swearing to herself that she'd never fall prey to her sinfully prurient desire, she knew his flicking tongue was speeding her to the point of no return. Soon, unless he stopped his lappings and lickings, she'd be approaching the wickedly exquisite state where nothing mattered except total sensual satisfaction.
"My God, I can't help it. I can't stop myself!"
Tracey certainly hadn't intended to utter the damning words aloud-they'd just spilled from her lips of their own accord. When she heard the voice echoing through the darkness, she was so horrified that she bit her lips hard enough to draw salty droplets of blood.
Well, well, guess you're hot enough now, aintcha?" leered Rufus Bray. "Tell us how much you like having your cunt eaten, kid ... and remember what happened last time you didn't cooperate."
I have to do what they tell me, the tormented teen rationalized wildly. Otherwise who knows what they'll do. It's okay if I say it, so long as I don't mean it.
But the shrill cries which rang out over the still black water weren't stilted, sham pretenses ... they were genuinely passionate, and with each obscenity she uttered, the more the evidence of her own sordid carnality turned her on.
"Ohhh, yeah! It's good! I love it ... love your tongue in my pussy. K-keep doing it! Fuck me with your tongue!"
"That's a good girl! And sure, Toby'll keep tonguing your hot little twat till you cum ... so long's you do just what I want."
Before the masochistically maddened adolescent had a chance to consider what this new threat portended, rough hands had clutched her flushed face and two thin thumbs were prying open her blood-flecked lips. "Suck me, bitch! And suck me good, or you'll be damn sorry! I wanna see ya swallow every bit of my jism, hear?! "
Her half-daze of deliciously wicked bliss was shattered by this barbaric command. She gasped in stunned revulsion as Rufus eased back his foreskin so that the bloated head of his long penis pulsed mere inches from her forced-open mouth, unwilling to obey him even though she knew full well how furious he'd be if she didn't. It had been one thing to plant a gingerly kiss on her boyfriend's penis, but the idea of letting her mouth be defiled by this monster's sticky sperm sickened her.
"No, pleeezzzzeeee-" she started to whimper, her voice a grotesque gurgle because of the thick digits forcing her jaws wide open. "I can't ... "
"Sure ya can-ya better!"
Additional protest was effectively cut off as the hot, spongy-textured tip of his lust-throbbing member crushed against her teeth. The innocent virgin's eyes widened as she gazed in dismay down the impossible length of the gleaming angry-red rod, and a shudder wracked her subjugated figure at the piquancy of male pre-cum fluid which seeped from it's glans tip onto her taste buds.
"C'mon," the ex-convict gloated. "Sink your mouth all the way down 'round my pecker and suck till you drain my balls dry!"
A muffled moan burst from her violated lips as the mushroom-shaped head crashed forward into the moist softness of her cringing mouth. For a moment she thought she'd gag from the feel of his dribbling from its narrow slit opening down to the base of her tongue, but as his hands tightened viciously in her tangled golden curls she realized dizzily that she had somehow to discover the easiest way to endure this humiliating torture. Breathing through her nose helped, as did making swallowing motions which flexed the walls of her cheeks around the impaling cock shaft.
"Suck harder, you prick-teasing tramp. Do it good like Toby's doin' it to you, or I'll break your fucking neck!"
Toby! She'd almost forgotten the sinfully salacious pleasure his tongue had been bringing her, but now she once again felt a delicious shiver of depraved delight thrumming from her orally-abused pussy to every nerve ending in her naked body. Her buttocks involuntarily contracted, spasmed, and her lips simultaneously started nibbling on the thick flesh rod crammed inside her cheeks. Oh, God! This dual subjugation was vile, perverted-but unbearably thrilling!
Unexpected masochistic tendencies were being roused in the naive schoolgirl by the two rapists; she didn't understand what was happening to her, but she couldn't fight it she knew. They'd driven her to the depths of depravity, and she no longer had the will to try to drag herself out of the sordid swamp of lust. Groaning greedily, she wriggled her ass and sucked Rufus' pistoning penis so deeply into her throat that she could feel his sparse-haired testicles bouncing against her saliva-streaked chin and cheeks. She was acting like a debauched slut, a bitch-just as they kept calling her-and she relished it more than anything she'd ever experienced in her short, sheltered sixteen years.
"Ohhh, crap! She's a natural-born cocksucker!" Rufus Bray's lust-coarsened voice rang out across the dunes. "Shit, blondeie, you doin' great!"
Down between Tracey Aronson's wantonly wriggling buttocks, dim-witted Toby continued slathering his tongue from clitoris to anus, all the while pumping his right hand up and down on his purple-veined flesh pole like a man possessed. By now the teenager was so aroused that the salacious sight of a man masturbating as he licked her pussy, plus the almost painful scratching of his unshaven cheeks on her tender inner thighs and the licentious wet slurping sounds, quickly drove her to the precipice of orgasm. She needed no more urging to stimulate the massive male organ which had invaded her mouth; eagerly, greedily she experimented to discover what movements made the steel-hard stalk pulse most excitedly, made the cock's owner groan most deliriously, made the vein on its underside vibrate most vigorously. .
"Ya love it, don'tcha, baby doll?" Rufus Bray's triumphant voice hissed above her madly bobbing head. "Don't think you're too good for me now that you've had a taste of my love juice, do ya! Reckon you know you're just a broad with her brain between her legs, just like all the other cunts in the world. C'mon, play with my balls-an' stick your dirty little finger up my ass like Toby did to you."
Tracey complied willingly, She knew that she was acting like a tramp, but something inside her ha snapped so that she no longer cared. In fact, her slutishness filled her with a weird sense of exhilaration of wild abandonment. He was right-she wasn't on bit different from, say, the infamous Mimi Sweene however, she was luckier and, she hoped, more clever, so her shameful sensuality would remain a closely guarded secret. These two greasy drop-outs had forced her into this and therefore wouldn't dare tell, which meant that she'd be able to walk down the halls at Birch Bay High with her head high and without the guys saying smutty things about her as she passed.
"Ohhh, shit!" Bray moaned. "I'm gonna cum any minute, the way she's blowing me. Christ Almighty!"
Waves of onrushing climax welled in the young blonde's sweat-lathered loins and she ground her buttocks against Toby's mouth in avid invitation while teasing her finger into Rufus' puckered anal opening again and uninhibitedly fondling his velvety balls. Since there was no risk of besmirching her Reputation with these crude workmen, why shouldn't she let herself go and try all the wicked things she'd dreamed about? Why the hell shouldn't she just go wild?!
"Gimme your hot cum!" her own voice spluttered, shocking her, exciting her. "I wanna eat it up, you bastard!"
Beneath her fingers his balls tightened, the gigantic phallus between her sluttishly straining cheeks seemed to grow longer than ever, and the tube on its underside shivered against her tingling tongue. Tracey shuddered in wicked delight as the first depraved droplets splashed down into her cock-stuffed mouth, but even as she strained every muscle in her lusting loins for her own orgasm, Toby's tongue and lips suddenly abandoned her craving cuntal crevice.
"Ouugghhh!" he wailed. "M-me too! C-can't wait! CCUUMMMMMIINNGGG!"
"Don't stop yet!" Tracey tried to scream back to him, but seething sperm was gushing down her throat so the only sound she could make was a gagging mewl. And then heated jets of sticky semen were spattering against her wantonly kneeling body, dribbling over her suddenly frozen buttocks and thighs and even onto the dangling pears of her bruised breasts. Each additional spurt acted like a fire extinguisher on the flames of her passion until, by the time he collapsed panting on the sand, she wasn't even feeling frustrated-just sick and sad and soiled.
For a torturous eternity after the boy behind her had spent his passion, Rufus continued spilling his sticky male seed down her gagging throat. Her enthusiasm for swallowing his sperm had evaporated along with her orgasm, but when she attempted to tug her mouth away from his endlessly spurting hose, vicious fingers tangled in her flaxen hair and held her face tight against his groin. Choking and coughing, semen spilling over her contorted cheeks and matting her hair, she endured his ejaculation to the last bitter drop when he finally sank to the ground beside his bud-dy.
Tracey, too, fell forward onto her belly, spitting out sperm, but she remained immobile for only the briefest second. Without even wasting the time to collect her scattered clothing, she set off at a stumbling run toward the stairs leading up to the highway. The sated youths, who hadn't enjoyed such thrilling sexuality in far longer than they'd ever have admitted, hardly noticed her flight until she had already disappeared into the darkness. Even when they realized their virginal victim had vanished before they'd had a chance to fuck her, it took them awhile to lumber to their feet, and as they were unfamiliar with this beach they didn't know where the stairs were and presumed she'd run up the driveway.
By the time they'd reached the highway, there were a few fresh dents in the fenders. And Tracey's Rambler was gone...
"Oh, hi there, dear."
Mrs. Aronson glanced up from her battered old-model IBM long enough to notice that her daughter was wearing a bathing suit and looked very tired. Then her glance roved toward the kitchen clock, which read 9:30 p.m., and back to the typewriter. If she were going to meet her deadline on "Sex Prejudices and Male Employers", she'd have to work another two or three hours tonight. She sighed.
"Home late, aren't you?" she remarked vaguely, her mind mostly on due-dates and unpaid bills from the IBM repairman and the plumber and the telephone company. "Hard day?"
"Sort of," Tracey sighed, hoping she'd disguised the bitterness and shame from her voice. "And then I-I went for a swim."
"That was nice, darling," Denise inserted a fresh sheet of paper and frowned intently at the illegible scribbles on her yellow legal pad of notes. "By the way, that Clarice Pringle girl rang twice to say she was babysitting tonight so she couldn't get together with you."
"Oh." The teenager sidled toward the door. "I'm pretty worn out, anyhow."
"There's some tuna salad in the icebox..." Denise said, distantly.
The thought of food made Tracey want to vomit, for the taste of sperm was still strong and pungent in her violated mouth.
"I-I think I'll go straight to bed," she gulped, and hurried upstairs to the bathroom.
For almost one hour she scrubbed and soaped her sullied figure, but she still felt filthy when she finally dragged herself to her bed. No amount of cleansings, no perfumes nor purgatives, could ever make her feel clean again, she thought as she lay down for a night of bad dreams and insomnia.
CHAPTER SIX
The instant his shapely blonde deckhand dragged her slump-shouldered figure Ted Comfort recognized that something was the matter. Gone were the enticing bounce of firm young buttocks, the pert swing of her flaxen pigtails against the graceful curve of her proud neck, the vivacious grin which crinkled her cute little nose, the lilting, unconsciously provocative ring to her voice.
"Good morning," she mumbled when he greeted and approached her. Her melancholy brown eyes remained fixedly focused on the ten tiny white toes protruding from her sandals.
"Now, now, what's all this? You sure don't sound like you think it's a 'good' morning, sweetie. At your age you shouldn't have a hangover."
"Hangover?" Tracey echoed stupidly.
Funny, the successful entrepreneur reflected, how fond he'd grown of his pretty adolescent assistant-despite her overbearing mother. He shot her a penetrating glance, noting the deep circles beneath her oval eyes, the bruises on her sculpted legs which he'd certainly have noticed if they'd been there yesterday, and the rather wicked scar on her ivory-white neck which she'd inadequately attempted to hide with some sort of cosmetic cover-up cream. Looked like she'd had one hell of a hard night. . . the remarkable thing was that the shallowness of her skin beneath her healthy tan and her air of despondency made her look interestingly intriguing, fresh and pure in spite of her over-indulgence. The bloom of youth...
"Hey, honey, you sure look under the weather." Ted wrapped one arm around her bare shoulder in a fatherly fashion, chucking her under her chin and then rumpling her feather-soft golden curls. "Something bothering you? Usually helps to talk about these thing, y'know."
Was something bothering her? Tracey asked herself with a bitter, silent chuckle. That was putting it mildly. Physically, she was a wreck: every muscle in her battered body ached, she'd hardly slept a wink what with nightmares and agonizing over what she ought to do, and the last thing she'd eaten was the ice cream soda she'd shared with her boss yesterday afternoon. The mental burden of shame and worry which she had to bear all alone was even more distressing.
Obviously, she couldn't approach her mother. Mom would haul Rufus and Toby straight to court with all possible publicity, as a matter of Principle, and the sixteen year-old would rather have died than stand before a judge and jury and tell her sordid tale. What if the boys told how she'd acted like a whore during their vicious oral rape? No, no, a thousand times, no! She'd drown herself in Lake Michigan sooner than face that humiliation.
Since confiding in Mother was out of the question, Tracey'd decided she had no choice but to quit her job. Mom would get mad, of course, but she'd just have to dream up some sort of excuse. A summer of being nagged at was far preferable to a summer spent in close proximity to her rapists' leering mouths and bulging crotches.
"Nothing's bothering me," she lied, still staring down at her feet. "It's just that-that I have to tell you I'm qu-quitting."
"Quitting--? What on earth for?" Comfort pushed her face up, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Hey, honey, I know I treated you mean at first-gave you a lot of shit jobs, made you work too hard, maybe. But you said just yesterday it wasn't too much for you. And hell, if you can't handle the heavy work, I can always use help here in the office. This time of year, I never find time to get to the paperwork."
"No, no. I have to quit. Today!"
Good lord, what had got into the girl. She actually seemed terrified at the prospect of working for him, whereas yesterday he'd thought they got along fabulously.
"Look, I'm not saying that about helping in the showroom and office to be nice. I'm getting a lot more work than I'd expected this year, and Turetsky and
Bray are all brawn and no brain-can't expect them to do anything but manual labor. But you're a clever little gal, and you can do all different sorts of things." All this was true enough; it seemed unnecessary to mention that her physical charms were one of her more vital assets. "And I thought we were getting along real well. . . ? "
Tracey gulped back the tears which had started choking her throat at the mention of her two terrible co-workers, shrugging helplessly. In her concern with thinking of something to say to Mom, she'd neglected to consider that she'd have to give her nice boss some logical reason for quitting. Now, her head was whirling so wildly she just couldn't think of a thing to say.
"I-I do like you, Ted," she tried. "And it's a great job, too, but-b-but-"
Suddenly, almost as much to her own surprise as to his, she burst into a violent fit of sobs. His hand, which was still resting casually on her shoulder, circled her in a full embrace which allowed her tearful face to rest on his muscular shoulder, while his other hand gently stroked her baby-fine golden hair. Poor kid's really in a state, he thought, not yet admitting to himself that her pliant breast pushing against his chest was causing a suspicious swell in his trousers.
"I'm s-s-sorry," the blonde stuttered through her sobs. "I'm being a b-baby, but I just can't help it."
"Nothing to be sorry about, honey. Everyone needs a good cry sometimes."
The teenager threw him a look of gratitude, and gradually her eyes dried and her body stopped shuddering. Mr. Comfort sure was a great guy, she thought, and she felt better just being beside him. Once again, she reflected how much he was like her favority Uncle.
"C'mon, Tracey," said the middle-aged man, guiding her limp form back into the storeroom and easing her down on a folding cot, part of as as-yet unassembled window display. "Sit down and I'll get you some kleenex and a glass of water. And then I want you to tell me what's the trouble. Keeping problems bottled up inside only makes them worse, you know."
Kind Mr. Comfort returned, sat down close beside her, and started wiping away her tears. Soon there was a tremulous smile on the girl's pretty face-this was the sort of sympathetic concern she'd always imagined a father would provide. Somehow, before she knew what she was saying, the whole disgusting story had burst from her lips in full, incriminating detail.
". . . And the worst of it all's that-that I keep thinking about, keep seeing their things, keep feeling so f-funny inside. Oh, Ted, I just know I must be going crazy!"
Comfort's first impulse was rage, an inclination to rush out onto the dock and smash in the faces of those two punks. However, reason told him he'd deal with them better when he was cool and controlled and could really frighten them; besides, the cuddlesome creature snuggling against him needed his help right now. Obviously she was all mixed-up about sex, and he understood quite well that she couldn't possibly discuss things with her militant Womens' Lib mother.
"Now, honey, just calm down. Of course you're not going crazy-you're just feeling like any normal little girl would after an ugly thing like that." He pushed damp strands of golden curls off her flushed forehead and gave her a playfully tender kiss. "Don't worry about Toby and Rufus-I'm gonna fix 'em so they won't so much as look at you again, and you'll never be working with them alone. I'll look after you, sweetie."
"Oh, th-thank you, Ted. 'Cause I was so worried about what I'd say to Mom about quitting, and-"
"Sure, sure, I understand. I'm real pleased to help you out, Tracey. You're an awfully nice girl, and you can come to me with any problems, anytime, okay? like I was your daddy..."
She gave him a warm hug. "Gee, I'm a hundred million times happier than I was when I walked in here! But-but, I'm still worried about. . . "
Her voice trailed away in embarrassment. ". . . about acting like a whore," she'd been about to say, but after the initial hysterical outburst she was once again hesitant to talk about such forbidden things. Nice as Ted was, she really shouldn't have said all that she had. Why, she'd even admitted that she'd felt frustrated because she hadn't had an orgasm. He must think she was an incorrigible nymphomaniac!
"About what, baby?"
". . . about behaving like a slut," she whispered miserably. "I don't think I ever want to be with a boy again, after that."
"Nonsense! Listen here, it's a drag that you learned about sex from those two morons, but you did learn something that's good. You're a very female young woman, honey, and of course you get pleasure from your body. When you find the right man, you'll learn that sex is beautiful, not ugly."
"When she finds the right man..." His own words rang in his ears as he took a good look at the teenager in his arms. Last night he'd not had a date and had sat home sullenly drinking bourbon and watching television-an old movie called Lolita. The cute blonde could practically be the double of the star of the film...
"The right man..." Who, he asked himself with a quick glance down to his bulging groin, was a better man than Ted Comfort. He knew everything there was to know about dames, had deflowered at least ten virgins in his travels around the globe, and was sincerely fond of her so that he'd treat her with the necessary gentle consideration. Yep, he decided, he was elected.
And what a fantastic way of getting even with her snotty, tight-assed bitch of a mother!
Already, his husky suntanned arm was draped around her so that his fingers were nearly touching the ripe grapefruit mound of her budding breast. Squeezing her warm body a bit nearer to him permitted his middle finger to trace very gently around it from base to nipple in concentric circles. Then he opened his palm to tenderly cup the resilient flesh.
"Oohhh!" gasped Tracey, and blushed a furious shade of scarlet. "Wh-what-"
Ted laughed softly as he gave the breast a light squeeze. Since she wore only a flimsy sundress and no brassiere, it was almost like touching her naked skin.
"Don't worry, darling. I'm just showing you that it can feel good to have a man feel your breasts."
The teenager's body relaxed again. "You know, Ted," she said trustingly to her newfound father-substitute, "in a way I liked the mean way they pawed my breasts more than when my boyfriend touched them. That's why I think I'm sick! Rufus bit my nipple so hard it was bleeding, though ... and then it wasn't so good anymore ... but it was nice when they kinda pinched hard..."
Ted pinched her already pertly erected nipple hard, and she let out a sort of giggling gasp. "Ooohhh! Yeah, like that! Oh, you must think I'm just awful!"
"No, honey, not one bit awful. You're a very feminine, sensual person, that's all. And that's a great thing to be! The reason you felt like that's just because your boyfriend doesn't know much about pleasing a woman yet-and you've got a woman's body already, you know. Best thing that can happen to a growing girl is to learn about love from an older man who knows what the hell it's all about. like those South Sea Island tribes where the custom is that the uncle's in charge of the sex education department."
Tracey figured it probably wasn't right for her to be letting a man old enough to be her dad stimulate her breasts, that her mother would be horrified. However, she was a little tired of always trying to do what Mother thought was best, and Ted's hands felt wonderful.
"That's funny," she answered him. "Y'know, it was my uncle who told me about how people make love, when we were watching the dogs mate. And he told me real nice, too, lots better than the book Mom gave me for Christmas last year. I mean, the book made sex sound like doing exercises in gym class ... but Uncle Norm made sex sound like fun. He was a lot like you, Uncle Norm. I've sure missed him since he moved out West."
"Norm Aronson? Yeah, I knew him when we were kids. Good guy-we used to get in all kinds of trouble together!"
His hands were on both her breasts now, and thrills of delicious erotic excitement were slithering through the girl's bloodstream. As she sensed her panties' crotch band dampening, she squirmed a little on the cot and blushed again. Ted watched her, remembering how similarly her mother had acted at the same age and wondering what had turned Denise Aronson into a man-hater. Well, he was going to make sure that her daughter didn't suffer the same sterile fate, that was the important thing at the moment.
"It's funny how weird I feel all over when you touch my breasts," confided the pink-cheeked schoolgirl. "And what's even funnier is that I can talk to you about stuff like that. I never even do much with my girl friends ... but with you I feel so-so free."
"Good!" Ted kissed her again, still paternally but a bit more erotically than before. "Now, Tracey, you say that damn fool Rufus hurt your nipple? I think I better take a look and make sure he didn't do any serious damage. Jeez, I could kill those two for what they did to you!"
A curiously pleasant shiver coursed through the teenager's ripe loins at the idea of exposing her breasts to Ted Comfort. It was somewhat the same sensation she felt when she had to go to the doctor's, but much, much stronger. "Well, if you think so..." she murmured.
Her skimpy green sundress was cut high in front, plunged low in back, and fastened with a tie round her graceful neck; it took half a second to peel it down to her neatly nipped-in waist. Sure enough, there was a vicious black and blue bruise on the tip of her left breast, and purplish fingerprints on both proudly high-set mounds. Ted's cock lurched in lascivious excitement as he bent to kiss the blemishes.
"Poor kid," he soothed. "There, this'll make you forget all that nasty business."
"That's what Uncle Norm used to do when I fell down and skinned my knee or something..."
"Where else did those apes hurt you, sweetheart?" Ted, with an expertise born of much practice, peeled the little green garment all the way off before she realized what he was doing. Then he rose and carefully shut and locked the storeroom door. "Don't want
Turetsky and Bray snooping around while we're-uh, examining you, that's for sure. Now, just lean back. . . that's a girl..."
Feeling extremely shy and praying he'd not noticed the wet patch on her pink lace panty crotch, Tracey did as she was told. She shut her eyes as dizzy waves of delight surged through her virginal figure in response to his teasing, testing fingers on her belly and thighs. When she opened them again a minute later, her pink panties had somehow vanished from her body and were neatly folded, along with her dress, on top of a nearby stack of old Yachting magazines.
"You've got a truly beautiful body, Tracey, you know that?" his voice was low, husky as his fingers tangled in the silken golden-brown curls of her pubic "vee". "A body made for love, with those long Scandinavian legs and these perfect breasts and this delicious pussy. And one of the roundest, tightest asses I've seen in many a day. But just look at the ugly marks those animals left on your lovely thighs!"
Gentle but insistent hands pushed apart her unresisting upper legs, and the teenager let out a weak whimper as he traced a finger along the damp slit of her vagina! God! She thought wildly, I feel like I'm on fire. like last night, only better 'cause this isn't vulgar and smutty. I almost wish he'd kiss me down there like horrible Toby did...
As if he'd read her secret thoughts, the older man bent down to bury his sandy-blonde head in the "vee" formed by her splayed-apart thighs. Suddenly she noticed the huge protrusion inside his tight white-duck pants, and such a strong wave of excitation swept through her that she whimpered again.
"There!" Ted Comfort's hypnotic voice echoed in her ears. "I'm kissing your wonderful little cunt, and now you know that it's a good thing to do. Honey, I want to help you. I want to teach you about how sex should be-loving, tender sex without any anger or fear or ugliness. Let me show you how you can use your marvelous body like a real woman, okay?. "
"I-I don't know, Ted. You make me feel so good, but-but is it right?"
"One thing you'll learn as you get older, my dear, is that 'right' and 'wrong' are something you have to define for yourself."
Generally, the adolescent resented any sort of advice which began with, "when you're older. . . , " but Mr. Comfort's words seemed wise and meaningful rather than condescending. Maybe she did accept the dictums of her mother and teachers and boring people like Robbie and Clara Pringle too much at face value. It was high time she began thinking for herself!
"My motto," continued Comfort, "is, 'If it feels good, do it!'. So long's you don't hurt anyone, that is. And there's exactly where those thick-skulled louts who attacked you last night were off-base. Sweetheart, your pretty pussy's all wet and willing. You know, that's your body's way of telling you it needs some good love-making."
"Maybe," the naive high school girl faltered. "But ... but ... oohhhh..."
A talented tongue slid into her secretion-seeped passage, putting an abrupt end to her unpersuasive protests, then rose to titillate her instantaneously throbbing clitoral nerve center. Oh, good God, I'm going to go crazy! Her mind reeled as she stared at his hands massaging her bruised, fire-filled breasts. They were huge hands, at least twice as long and broad as her own, with short, clean nails and skin that was as deep brown from years in the sun and covered with sparse white-golden hairs ... masterful hands which handled her sensitive body as expertly as they dealt with the motors and machinery of sailing yachts, teasing and stroking until she was nothing but a helpless mass of quivering desire.
"What's wrong, honey? Aren't I making you feel good?"
"Oh, Ted, you know you are!" she burst out impulsively. "I'm in seventh heaven! But the trouble's that it feels so fantastic I don't want you to stop. I'm scared I'll get carried away and..."
Her voice trailed off into a sybarite's sigh of out-of-control sensuality as he played another Houdini trick and shed his pants before she could blink twice. His underpants-not the baggy white cotton kind which Robbie's mom ordered by mail from Sears Roebuck, but sexy black nylon ones like swim trunks which emphasized his huge hard-on-vanished next. Her boss was as naked as she was now!
Ted smiled as the young girl's big brown eyes filled with excitement and alarm. He resumed his position beside her slumped-back figure, resting his rock-hard length on her trembling upper thigh.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. We won't go any further than you want to-I just want you to see what a nice thing a man's penis is. Bet you never had a real good look and feel, right?"
"Well," Tracey was again astonished at her utter lack of shyness, "Robbie showed me his once, but it wasn't nearly so big as yours, and besides it was dark. Before I really got that much time to see it or anything, he came, all over my legs. Wow, was I ever embarrassed."
With an effort Comfort refrained at laughing at her girlish innocence. "You don't need to be embarrassed with me. And I promise I won't cum; unless it's inside your lovely little pussy, and that's your decision to make. Part of growing up's learning to choose for yourself, and once you've decided you want to be a real woman at last, then you'll be ready for love-making."
This twisted logic sounded very sensible to the confused adolescent. Feeling secure in the knowledge that nice Mr. Comfort wasn't going to rape her like those two creeps on the beach last night, she began caressing his mammoth reddish flesh rod from its velvety balls to the glans on its burgeoning head. A rash of goose pimples prickled on her naked flesh as the enormous penis jerked and swelled beneath her teasing, stroking touches and a droplet of fluid seeped from its seminal slit. Just like Toby's and Rufus' excited cocks ... except now it was thrilling instead of frightening. So thrilling that she bent her head to kiss its slick smoothness.
"You want to kiss my cock, honey?" Ted asked gently his fingers still busily at work on her vagina and breasts. "Is that what you want? Or is is something else ... ? "
Tracey was astounded at her reply, for she didn't realize that she'd unconsciously made her decision back when he first touched her pussy. "I-I want you to make me a woman, Ted," she whispered. "I'd rather you were the first, honest! You're much more exciting than any of the guys I know at High, and most of all, I really trust you."
"Tracey, you're a helluva lot more of a woman than most grown-up females I know." he kissed her full on the lips. "I'm 'fraid this is going to hurt a little at first, but I promise I'll do my best to make your first time a day you'll never forget. Now, lie down and put this cushion under your sweet ass."
Thank God the little girl was already very turned on and lengthy foreplay would be unnecessary, Comfort's mind whirled as he eased a boat cushion beneath her silken-fleshed little buttocks and stared at the fresh pinkness of her upraised virgin vagina. This was the most extraordinary thing that had happened to him since returning to live in Michigan, and his impatient phallus was throbbing with furious lust the way it had back in his own high school days. For a fleeting moment he compared the daughter's eager acceptance of her own sexuality with her mother's rigid morality ... times sure had changed, and for the better as far as he was concerned, at least in this aspect. Who needed all that hypocritical Puritan crap? On the other hand, it was getting harder and harder for a guy to make it independently by sheer force of will and character. He'd made it to the point where, at thirty-eight, he was a financial success and doing work he liked, had traveled the world over while learning a trade while working instead of rotting in a dusty college classroom for some of the best years of his youth and then slowly atrophying in some servile junior executive job: but he was an exception, and he knew it. Nearly all his former classmates were pot-bellied and balding, their balls broken under the burdens of nagging wives and bosses, mortgages and ulcers-whereas he felt every bit as virile as the day he'd run away to sea, or the night he'd put the make on shapely Denise Aronson.
The craziest thing of all was that, had his seduction been successful, this little girl offering up her beautiful body like a vestal virgin on a pagan altar might well have been his own child. HIS OWN DAUGHTER!
The thought might have been a sobering one if he hadn't already been burning with passion: as it was, obscure visions of incest only fires the flames of his lust. Maybe he was crazy-certainly nine-tenths of the folks in this neck of the woods would think so-but just because he'd moved back here temporarily since it was the easiest and most lucrative spot to establish himself and win a name in yachting circles, didn't mean he was under any obligation to accept Birch Bay's outdated ideas about right and wrong. He believed in following his own code, just as he'd told little Tracey, and she was giving herself to him of her own free will.
Enough of this stupid thinking! He told himself as his proud penis gave an impatient thud. Time for business!
"Now, baby," he said, kissing her again, a deep, tongue-twirling kiss that caused her to moan. "I want you to relax. Just let every muscle in your sweet, sexy body feel loose and easy."
As he spoke, he was finger-fucking her, circling her erect clitoris with soft, insistent and slightly irregular pressure as her moans rose to a steady mewl of longing and the fear faded from her long-lashed eyes. She was ready! Pulse quickening to a tumultuous tempo, he slicked back his thick foreskin and began rubbing his wetly glistening cockhead against her equally damp cuntal orifice.
"Ohhhhh ... aahhhhh! That feels fabulous, T-Ted, but it looks so big. How's it ever going to fit inside me without ripping me to pieces?"
"Honey, men have been fucking women for millions of years now and there was always a first time. Don't worry! That cute cunt of yours was built by a master-designer who knew his job. Remember, an eight-pound baby comes out of the sweet little hole." Suddenly he stiffened, an icy alarm overwhelming his desire. "Hey, do you take the pill?"
Fucking a girl young enough to be his daughter was one thing; an illegitimate baby with a sixteen year-old mother and militantly malicious grandmother was quite another story. Beads of perspiration broke out on the burly boatyard owner's forehead. Of course, he could always pull out before he came, but that sure would spoil the fun.
An oddly mature, husky laugh spilled out of the quivering corners of Tracey Aronson's parted lips. "Sure! Because my periods weren't coming on time. See, I'm not so dumb as you think!"
"Sweetheart, I never thought you were stupid. Not for a minute."
As a vigorous flood of relief shot through the older man, his penis swelled larger than ever and he unintentionally flicked his powerful hips forward, driving the mushroom-shaped tip a couple inches into her suddenly cringing cuntal channel. His throbbing thickness slid in easily enough, thanks to her copious feminine secretions, but her sharp gasp of pain told him that her inexperienced vaginal muscles were too suddenly spread. Gritting his teeth, Comfort forced himself to go slowly, steadily, gently. After all, this wouldn't be a true success unless he got the innocent schoolgirl so turned on that she craved sex for the rest of her life.
"Relax, relax," his hoarse voice crooned. "Once I'm in, it'll be marvelous. Promise!"
Tracey was also clenching her teeth together to keep from crying out in pain. He was so very big, that was the trouble. Or else she was built all wrong, deformed, unable to accept a man like the millions of women he'd mentioned before. Tears pricked in the corners of her wide-open eyes as she stared, mesmerized, at the salacious spectacle of his huge, steel-hard spear inching into her infinitesimal orifice, but no matter how much it hurt, she vowed to bear it without crying like a silly baby. If intercourse was going to be such a grueling ordeal as it promised at the moment, she was far better off with kindly Mr. Comfort than with some dumb kid like Robbie who'd probably injure her in a shameful way ... and she'd no intention to remain a dried-up prune of an old-maid, or a man-hater like Mom, no matter how bad the first time might be.
"I'm tr-trying, Ted," she whimpered. "Oooohhhh, that helps. When you touch me like that, I don't think about the-the other feeling so much."
"That's my brave girl!"
He stepped up his strumming motions on her crazily twitching clitoris as he forced his way deeper into her tight passage, remarking with relish how his manipulations loosened her involuntarily resisting vaginal muscles. Already, he'd plunged all the way down to the thin membrane of her mainden head, and she was liberally lubricated with dewdrops of desire.
"Keep those hips up, and keep those muscles relaxed," he commanded, kissing her lips and neck. "This is gonna be bad for a minute, but once it's over it'll be heaven. Believe me!"
Tracey believed him, but she couldn't keep her cuntal muscles from tightening up anyway. As his hips shot forward and his unbelievably enormous thing crashed down, through the protective sheath protecting her purity, there was such a flashing stab of agony that she thought she was dying, and the elegant stateroom was filled with shrill shrieks of anguish. Even if he didn't kill her, she'd certainly never be able to walk again!
"Aarrgghh! Oh, stop, STOP!"
The pain continued unabated as he continued to push down until the full length of his punishing pole was buried inside her and his sperm-bloated balls were bouncing against the bottom of her buttocks. Barbed darts of suffering shot from her severed hymen to every nerve ending in her quivering young body, but somehow she managed to stop screaming. It wasn't Ted's fault-he'd never have done this if he'd known what dire pain his penis would inflict. No, she must just be built wrong...
Comfort felt his proud penis piercing her maidenhead and gloried in the primitive rush of power and ultimate manhood which always followed his defloration of a virgin. Then, exerting the superb self-control which was the fruit of a rich and varied sex life, he held his impatient penis still inside her deliciously squeezing vaginal passage so the teenager would have a chance to adjust to its immense bulk.
"Now you're a woman, Tracey," he murmured, and was pleased to see that almost at once her expression altered from anguish to awe.
Indeed, the symbolic significance of the torn, tissue-thin little membrane moved the sensitive sixteen year-old so deeply that she forgot the pain in her impaled pussy. She was truly alive at last-alive and engaged in the age-old act of love-making which had united male and female since the dawn of history. Ted had been right, after all: sex wasn't dirty or sinful-it was the most wonderful thing in life.
"Oh, wow..."
"And now," he whispered, kneading her breasts, kissing her perspiration-dewed face, finally moving one hand down to softly massage her clitoris again, "now you're going to learn how to fuck."
Groaning under his breath from the exquisite tightness of her no-longer-innocent vagina, the middle-aged man began moving his massive member almost all the way out, then back down to the hilt. At first his movements were slow, careful, but as her breath quickened and he felt her fear-tensed inner walls relaxing somewhat he stepped up the pace to a rapid-fire rhythm that shook the mattress of the king-sized stateroom bed. "Oh! Ohhh, Ted! Ooohhhh."
"Stopped hurting, like I said it would? Is it better now, sweetheart?"
"It still h-hurts a little, but it hurts good," Tracey gasped out. "I ... I feel all tingly and excited and ... ooohhhh!"
"Yeah, that's the way! Move your sweet little ass, too! Jesus, honey, you have one of the greatest pussies I've ever felt-you're so tight and smooth you're driving me crazy!"
Tracey glowed at the praise and churned her hips up to meet the pistoning penis with vigorous enthusiasm. This wise and experienced older man liked the way she was making love! He considered her a real grown-up female-and she felt like one, too, the way her body was starting to sing with vibrating chords of pre-orgasmic ecstasy. Pleasing a man was, she decided before drifting into a mindless frenzy of sensuality, was obviously her true vocation. Every woman's true vocation, perhaps, which explained why her mateless mother was often bitter and moody and kept channeling her pent-up energies into causes.
I bet if Mom married a guy like Ted Comfort, was her last coherent thought, she'd be much happier, and much easier to live with, too.
Then, as purely physical sensations took control of her curvaceous body, the teenager forgot all her problems. Puzzling parents, unwanted going-steady rings, snubs from "in crowd" classmates, sex-crazed coworkers and the dim rumblings from her guilty conscience played no part in this wild universe of lust and flesh. Nothing existed now except belly smacking against sweat-slickened belly as a male and a female writhed on the soft furry coverlet in the motor cruiser's stateroom, and this magnificent man's iron-hard penis thrusting into her love-starved cunt and flooding her with undreamed-of delight.
"God, baby, you're fantastic!" groaned the feverishly bucking man above her. He'd abandoned his initial efforts to treat her gently, for by now it was apparent that Tracey's innocent exterior had been ripped asunder to reveal a wild wanton who yearned to be fucked with all the savage strength of his powerful loins.
It was really hard to believe that this ardently responsive blonde was the same naive, shy virgin who'd stood staring in shame at the floor only twenty minutes ago. She'd given herself up to lust now, flailing out her sculpted legs around his furiously pounding cock to kick up in the air and hammer her smooth heels into his back as though spurring on a horse. Through the tousled golden strands of her hair, he caught fleeting glimpses of a contorted mask of abandoned passion, and a lewd chorus of mewls and moans spilled from between her slackly parted pink lips.
Christ Almighty! She looked as though she were already on the brink of climax! Comfort had initiated a good handful of virgins into the joys of sex, but this was the first one who'd turned-on like a seasoned whore. It was incredible!
"Tell me when you're ready to cum, baby!" he rasped, thrusting deeper and harder than ever to speed her toward release. Her wanton arousal had excited him so much that his cock felt ready to explode at any second.
" Oohhh, good! Hard, harder, like that!" Tracey babbled. "Gonna cum soon ... sooooooon! Aahhhhh!"
The aroused adolescent felt her body rushing toward orgasm,-like an out-of-control car speeding around dangerous curves on some treacherous mountain road, but she wasn't afraid. She strained her body, striving with all her might for the violent explosion of ultimate release. Another two or three strokes of his deep-driving ramrod, and she'd be there!
"Ohohoh ... oh, Ted, I'm CUMMING!"
For a second everything went black, and then suddenly fountains of stars burst before her glazed eyes and her weightless body was rising with them into a new universe of pure sensual bliss. Low whimpers of ecstasy burbled from her lips, and her whole body spasmed and jerked around the pleasure-giving pole still spearing ruthlessly into her quivering vagina.
It felt to Comfort as though the little girl's convulsing cuntal walls were milking his potent penis, and within seconds he was groaning out his own release as the first hot jets of sperm shot from his blood-engorged balls into her never-before filled belly. "Goddamn!" he groaned. "Cuuummmmmming inside you, sweetie!"
She'd just surfaced from the exquisite unconsciousness of her first orgasm when the heated drops of male cum started splashing against her sensitive cuntal channel. He was filling her with his life-giving seed! she thought in a delirium of delight, and she wanted to drown in this erotic sea of hot, sticky sperm. Suddenly her lush loins exploded into a second orgasm, then a third, till she was almost insane from the sheer spasms of joy and collapsed limply on the bunk in a state of ecstatic satiation.
For what seemed a long while, the thirty-eight year-old bachelor lay entwined around her sex-flushed figure, panting hoarsely as he sought to regain breath after the wondrously skyrocketing orgasm. Half-asleep, with her pink lips slightly parted and her yellow curls spread over the pillow, her face had all the purity and innocence of a little girl playing the part of an angel in a Christmas pageant. Only when he ran his eyes lower, past the still taut tips of her breasts to where her small hand lay lightly on her sperm spattered blonde "vee" could he truly believe what a powerfully sensuous woman resided inside this slender sixteen year-old's body.
After a few minutes of rest, they showered together in the motor cruiser's luxurious "head", soaping each other's bodies lovingly. Then he sent Tracey up to the showroom while he went out on the dock to bawl out Toby Turetsky and Rufus Bray and frighten them away from the girl with threats of probation officers and job loss. As he'd expected, the two unintelligent ex-convicts cowered sullenly beneath his scalding verbal attack, and he felt so satisfied as he strode away that he didn't notice the shadow of young Colin Highsmith standing behind a boat within easy earshot of his tongue-lashing.
Colin's dark eyes were thin lines of scheming greed, his mouth was twisted into a lewd grin, and as soon as he saw Tracey Aronson's boss disappear into his father's motor cruiser, he headed purposefully toward the showroom to invite the overwhelmingly delighted to a party at his house that night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
By midnight, the twinkling strings of Italian Christmas tree lights strung through the honeysuckle and lilac bushes enclosing the Highsmith's huge British-manor style garden were beginning to blur a bit, and Tracey Aronson was forgetting how shy and insignificant she'd felt at first among this crowd of older, more sophisticated kids. Something to do with the delicious fruit punch, she imagined, but by now she was too giddy and giggly to care if she got a little high and accepted another paper cup of the suspicious stuff from the bland-featured prep-school type whose name she hadn't caught. After all, she was much more sober than most of the twenty-some young people milling around the rose beds and mazes and moonlit green glades, and she'd like to feel even more relaxed, really get into the spirit of this exciting party.
"Guess I don't really need more, but skoal, anyhow," she dimpled up to Preppie, who on closer inspection looked rather pimply and puny despite his trendy sunglasses and debonair attire. "What's in this, do you know?"
Preppie had a nasal Boston accent, simultaneously clipped and nasal and snobbish. "Skoal, "he replied-it was apparently the "in" expression of the moment. "Passion Fruit juice and Tequila, plus a few pinches of the same stuff that's in the cigarettes and the nibbles."
"Stuff?" Tracey shot a curious glance toward the silver trays of sweet and savory snacks grouped around the crystal punch bowl. "You mean--? "
The youth snorted. "You people here in Hicksville sure don't know the score. Hashish, honey-the very finest Nepalese that love or money can buy. Ah, there's Celia-'scuse me, must be off."
Tracey, still staring at the dainty bowls of dips and clusters of marzipan and fudge, scarcely noted his disappearance. So that was what was making her feel peculiarly lightheaded! Hashish, she knew, was an insidious substance akin to marijuana but far more powerful. According to wrinkled old Miss Carberry who taught Health and Physical Education at High, it caused temporary insanity and permanent brain damage-but no one paid much attention to Old Lady Carberry, who was so out of it that she actually advised her snickering students not to wear patent leather shoes which might allow boys a reflected glimpse up under their skirts.
Obviously Miss Carberry had overstated the case, but nevertheless the inexperienced sixteen year-old felt a little uneasy when she thought of how many celery sticks and crackers she'd dipped into the tasty, though odd-tasting, sauces. Thank God she'd not smoked any of the cigarettes, amusing hand-rolled offerings fashioned from papers printed like dollar bills or American flags which, together with piles of gilt-tipped matches on whose covers were engraved, "Highsmith Industries, Inc.", were abundantly piled on every wrought iron garden table in the lawn. Her chain-smoking mother had promised her a hundred dollars if she swore not to smoke until she were at least twenty-one. However, this was her third cup of "punch".
"Who cares," Tracey muttered, gulping down a good swallow of Passion Fruit beverage and, in passing, snatching a mushroom-shaped piece of almond-flavored marzipan candy. "Let it all hang loose, like Colin said."
But where had Colin wandered off to? Drink in hand, moving in rhythm to the throbbing beat of the rock band playing in the 1890's-style pavilion in the center of the gardens, she swayed a bit unsteadily down the high hedge-bordered maze's flagstone path in search of her date. Oh-there he was! She started to skip toward him, then froze in consternation as she realized what was going on and surreptitiously sneaked under the shadows of a nearby apple tree.
Oh, God! It couldn't be true! There stood her darkly handsome date, white duck trousers rolled down around his well-muscled thighs and thing in hand, watching the most salacious spectacle she'd ever dreamed of. He was pumping vigorously on his lust-elongated member, and there was a lust-crazed glint in his dark eyes as he gazed at his naked sister writhing on the ground with two half-naked guys.
"Oh, nnooooo!" the immediately aroused Aronson girl gasped without realizing she'd made a sound.
Thanks to her own stunning erotic experiences of the past couple days, she was more excited than shocked by the wantonly wild scene transpiring mere yards away from her. So this is how the "cool crowd" acts! her drug-dazzled brain whirled. What a lot of fun I've missed out on 'cause I didn't know ... Her quivering right hand rubbed, almost unconsciously, over her mini-skirt covered "vee".
Cressida Highsmith, her graceful, sun-glided loins squirming on the grass, was moaning in obscene arousal as she sucked the swollen stiffness of one shirt-and-sandal-clad youth. Saliva dribbled down over her makeup-smeared cheeks and chin, glistening silver in the light of the moon, and her carefully-coiffed chestnut curls were in wanton disarray as the boy tangled his hands in her hair to ram her face closer to his groin. Between her brazenly spread-eagled legs crouched another male. At the moment, she looked a good deal more like a sluttish barmaid than a beauty queen.
An audible gasp escaped from Tracey's lips. That must have been exactly how she had looked two nights ago with Rufus and Toby! Only two short nights ago-Good Lord, it seemed like years, what with that thrilling morning with Ted, and now this crazy party. She felt like a different person from the girl who'd been horrified by the sight of Robbie Runions' spurting white sperm just one week ago.
She also felt a violent craving for a male penis to ease the burning ache in her dampening vagina.
My God! her mind swam dizzily. I've really gone mad-must be the hash. And I have to get out of here before someone sees me.
Instead of silently tiptoeing off down the path, however, she remained mesmerized in the shadows peering in prurient fascination at the lewd tableau. How could Colin be jerking off while his very own sister was degraded in front of him? she asked herself, though she already knew the answer: the more forbidden the act, the more exciting it was. Her own hand slithered up under the hem of her short skirt so that she could caress her quivering cuntal crevice through the moist nylon of her panty crotch band. "Oouuhhhhh ... that hurts!" Tracey's attention snapped back to the Highsmith heiress, who didn't sound as though she minded her suffering in the least, and she echoed her outcry as she saw exactly what the boy between Cressida's long legs was doing. In one hand he held an empty Pepsi bottle, whose nozzle he was shoving up into the girl's dark-fringed vagina!
"You won't go the whole route, bitch," growled the attractive young man, "so we'll play it this way instead. And you're loving it, aren't you? Slut!"
"Keep sucking, cunt, don't stop!" the second male commanded. "Drain me dry!"
The enthralled onlooker was so caught up in the salacious spectacle of a bottle sawing up between Cressida's scissoring legs that she didn't notice Colin had disappeared from the scene until his hot, hard hands grasped her from behind. Yelping in alarm, she snatched her hand out from under her skirt-but she was too late.
"Gets you hot watching, huh?" he leered in a drug-slurred voice. "Well, I guess I better help you do something about your horny little cunt-hole."
The Aronson girl was shivering like a leaf in the wind in her shame at having been caught, and also because his iron-hard length pressing against her buttocks was making her dizzy with demented desire. Suddenly she felt extremely high-she was too innocent to know that the hashish she'd eaten and drunk would take a few hours to be absorbed and take effect-and out of control of both mind and body. What she really wanted was to rip off her clothes and let Colin screw her right there on the lawn in view of the other three orgiests, but despite the fact that perversion was obviously the status quo among this older, richer crowd, she was too conditioned by middle-class morals to admit her lurid longings. "C'mon, get naked." Colin hissed. She felt paralyzed. Incapable of either protesting or obeying, she stood staring at him and imagining how thrilling it would be to rip off her clothes. Then, as the drugged boy grabbed at her skirt, she was caught off balance and tumbled down on the dewy grass.
"Please, no." Her voice sounded as though it were echoing out of a bottomless well. "No, nooo..."
"Cut the bullshit," he'd already ripped off her skirt, tearing the fabric instead of pausing to unsnap the fastenings. "I know you put out and love it, so don't try to kid me. Now, get on your goddamn belly and I'm gonna give it to you from behind. You can pretend you're a dog-bitch in heat. Haha!"
He must be stoned out of his skull, Tracey thought. It'd be easy to escape from him in his crazed condition-if she'd wanted to, and if she'd felt sure her legs would support her. But she didn't even make the effort.
"Okay, Colin," she murmured, those strange tingles of masochistic glee she'd experienced at the hands of the two rapists gliding through her bloodstream along with the narcotic and alcohol. "Screw me like that! Give me your big cock!"
Since he'd not only drunk the passion-fruit punch and smoked about ten joints, but had also taken some speed, Colin's sexual performance wasn't much to boast about. Tracey was so turned-on that it didn't matter much. Even before his swift ejaculation, she'd orgasmed ... and she climaxed two more times as his seething male seed spilled into her no-longer-innocent cunt. Then, sated and satisfied that she was now a member of the in-crowd, she passed out on the Highsmith's lawn.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Goddamn it all!"
Denise Aronson ripped the half-typed sheet from her IBM, crumpled it viciously and tossed it into the overflowing waste-basket. Then, after lighting a Camel Filter, she rose from the kitchen table and began pacing around the house feeling like a caged tiger.
"What's wrong with me, anyway?" she muttered. "Why can't I get this outline written? And why are my nerves on edge?"
It would be easy to blame her black mood on the sultry temperatures, but Denise, who always tried to be vigorously honest with herself, knew the weather was only part of the problem. Several problems had been preying on her for the past couple of weeks, the most tangible of which was the letter from Free and Female's editor. Sighing, she trudged from the living room back to the kitchen and plucked the much-read sheet from among an untidy sprawl of papers, pamphlets, and editing pens.
"Your article on discriminatory hiring and firing policies was, as usual, well-written and informative, but for your next contribution we'd like you to come up with something along slightly different lines. What really boosts our readership is the personal touch, the experience to which they can relate their own problems. Facts, figures, and dogma don't interest the average Sister, according to our extensive market research: what the Reader wants to pay $2.50 for is a magazine which is interesting and exciting as well as informative. Remember, we are weaning our Readers away from True Confessions, Family Circle, and Readers' Digest! Note that subscription sales soared an encouraging 17 per cent upon the addition of our three new features: 'Cuisine for the Working Wife'; Florinda Black's 'Sexual Satisfaction' question-answer column; and 'My Story-Your Story-Our Story'.
"Accordingly, we would like you to come up with an outline for the 'My Story-Your Story-Our Story' series. Something fairly simple, readable, and filled with honest, intimate details. I understand that you have two growing daughters-something along this line would surely be relevant to many Sisters. May I suggest that you include a selection of appropriate photographs, if possible, as we have concluded from the abovementioned market research studies that a more visual approach is desirable.
"Please realize that we do not desire confession stories, merely extremely honest accounts of how you, personally, have solved problems which arose in the course of rearing your daughters to be proud, self-achieving Sisters. We will need your outline by Friday, July 13, at latest, in order to make whatever revisions seem necessary.
"In the meantime, may we remind you of the annual get-together for Free and Female supporters, friends, and contributors, to be held this year in..."
Denise balled up the letter and tossed it into the trash basket along with the discarded shards of her attempted outline. Today was Saturday, July 14, 1975.
An unwelcome truth surfaced from the depths of her soul: this is exactly why you've never made it as a writer-you don't dare put anything of yourself into your work. And then a second, even more damning accusation: how can you write about solving problems with your adolescent children when you haven't solved anything, when things are getting worse and worse with every passing day?
All of which brought her round to the most pressing worry of all-sixteen year-old Tracey's peculiar behavior during these past several weeks.
The phone shrilled, jolting the distracted divorcee from her disturbing reverie. She hastened to the living room to answer it, her sensitive nerve endings grating with every loud ring. "Hello. Aronson residence."
"I wanna talk to Tracey," drawled an Eastern-accented voice. The boy sounded as though he were either drunk, drugged, or dim-witted. "Is this Tracey?" The mother winced, stiffened. "You're speaking with Mrs. Aronson, Tracey's mother. She's not here at the moment." But where in God's name was she? It was three in the afternoon, and she only worked mornings on Saturday. Despite the heat, Denise realized that she was shivering. "Can I take a message?"
"Naaahhhhh ... I'll call another time."
The phone went dead. Denise very precisely replaced the receiver. Then she slowly mounted the staircase to the second floor bedrooms, realizing that she was about to do something she considered despicable and unethical: she was going to read Tracey's journal. Thanks to her once a month or so perfunctory spurts of clean-up, she knew exactly where her daughter hid her private diary, and although at first she'd carefully replaced it underneath the teenager's absurd collection of frilly lingerie now it seemed imperative to find out what was going on.
Who were these strange, almost inevitably impolite boys who were constantly telephoning her daughter? Summer people, she suspected, and older boys from the country club crowd which she didn't really approve of-but whoever they were, her child was going out every night, usually with a different date, and had dropped her former dull but unmenacing companions completely. Tracey even looked different: there was in inexplicably odd sparkle in her brown eyes, and dark rings beneath them, and she'd been wasting her entire salary on make-up and new clothes which emphasized her flowering figure. Also, she'd grown secretive. Something was definitely rotten here, and the worried mother realized she'd neither write the article which would pay the rent nor conquer the insomnia which had plagued her lately until she learned the truth. "July 4." She opened at random to an entry sloppily scribbled in the silly peacock-blue ink her inscrutable offspring fancied. "Wow, am I ever stoned after that wild orgy on the Chittenden's cruiser. We all got really smashed on something called Harvey Wallbangers-it tasted like orange juice, but there sure must've been something else, too! Then Jay (I think that was his name, but maybe it was Ray) had this fab '69' scene! Jay's cool-he goes to college back east and drives a Triumph Spitfire, and he'd pretty cute. But not as cute as Colin Highsmith!
"Colin was at the party, but he hardly even looked at me. I wonder why? He had a pretty date, but she was real uptight. Just when things started getting hot, she made him take her home. Why's he with a chick like that? Doesn't he remember how much fun we had the other night?"
"Oh, God..." gasped the shocked mother.
She held the diary at arm's length as if it were contaminated while taking deep breaths of oxygen to calm herself. All her worst fears were more than realized! Her finger shook as she turned the page.
"July 5. I forgot to write something that happened yesterday. Robbie came over in the afternoon-I'd forgotten I'd told him I'd go to the dumb old town dance if he came home for the weekend. Well, of course I couldn't go with him 'cause I was going to the Chittenden's cruiser bash. He got mad, so I told him to take his cheap ugly ring back and get lost."
"When I told Clara Pringle she thought I was nuts. I said I was on to bigger and better game, and she said that was awful. So what? I don't care if she'd mad at me 'cause I have lots of neat new friends and she's a drag anyhow."
"My own daughter-a selfish social climber!" Denise was pale as a ghost, and shivering despite the heat. "Oh, no!" She flipped to the latest entry.
"July 13. Thank God tomorrow's Saturday so I can sleep late-the yacht club dance really wore me out. . . especially what happened on the way home! I went with a guy called Scott something who was Colin's roommate at prep school, and Colin was with that same uptight girl he's always dating now; I don't like her-she looks like Tricia Nixon and acts just as dumb. Anyway, they went in our car 'cause Colin smashed up his and the girl went home early in a taxi 'cause she got mad when he tried to make out with her on the terrace, so it was just Scott and Colin and me driving home. We parked down by Lake Waloon and they both fucked me at the same time. Out of sight! Scott was in my pussy-he has a huge cock, almost as big as Ted Comfort's-and Colin was in my ass. Wow! That was the first time someone fucked me in the ass and was it ever exciting, especially with the other cock in my cunt. And I feel so glad that Colin-likes me again-maybe he'll wise up and ask me out instead of that stupid goodie-goodie."
This was too much! Denise flopped limply back on her daughter's bed, beside the fluffy stuffed dog Tracey'd had since she was a little girl. Well, she surely wasn't a little girl anymore-she was a common slut! Imagine liking being anally abused? Why, she'd left her husband for raping her in the rectum!
The young divorcee's eyes drifted shut, and her daughter's disgraceful diary fell from her numb fingers onto the floor. Years vanished as if by magic, and imagination transported her back to the cramped, artsy-craftsy apartment in Chicago's Hyde Park section which she'd inhabited together with her husband, Wade Hardwell, and her two tiny daughters, and, usually, a motley collection of Wade's beatnik friends. No, the anal rape hadn't been the only reason she'd walked out on her husband-it had merely been the straw which broke the camel's back.
Wade had been the handsomest guy she'd ever seen when he came hitchhiking through northern Michigan and she and Cousin Norman had picked him up one hot afternoon in August of 1958. He'd reminded her of the photograph in her English Literature book of the romantic poet, Lord Byron-same dark head of curls, brooding eyes and sensitive mouth, some lean, chiseled features-and sure enough, he turned out to be a writer, albeit unpublished, on a pilgrimage to Hemingway's boyhood countryside. Arrows of excitement shot from the top of her ponytail to the toes of her bobby socks, and she knew this must be Love At First Sight.
"He's a ne'er-do-well," warned Grandpa. "A born loser. I know the type."
"Sissy schmuck can't even handle a sailboat," scoffed Cousin Norm.
Denise paid absolutely no attention. She was head-over-heels in love with Wade, who wooed her with romantic poems and pretty watercolor sketches and gentle caresses instead of trying to get his hands inside her panties the minute you let him kiss you, like Ted Comfort-the only guy in town worth mentioning-had. Much to Grandfather's annoyance, she offered to let him camp in their big back yard.
"Enough's enough!" proclaimed Grandpa after supporting his unwelcome guest for some ten days. "That fellow's bad luck if I ever saw it, and I don't understand why you're all starry-eyed over a penniless poet when you turn down dates from a good man like Teddy Comfort. I thought you had more sense than that."
"I detest Ted," she'd replied haughtily. "He's a vulgar creep!"
"Have it your way, but one thing's sure: the Hartwell kid's not staying another night on my property. And you can just go and tell him to start packing up his gear right now."
"You're throwing him out?" her voice shrilled. "You can't do that!"
"I can, and I sure as hell am. With the greatest of pleasure."
"If he leaves, I leave with him!"
That was exactly what she'd done, withdrawing her $733.00 college savings account to purchase two tickets to Chicago. First-class private compartment tickets, of course, so that the honeymoon night could be consummated in style. Denise hadn't expected her strong-willed grandfather to ever forgive her, but after some six months or so he began answering letters in his usual warm way. No financial aid was ever forthcoming-"You've made your bed, and now you have to lie in it. . . "-and so when he died five years later she was extremely surprised to discover he'd left his three houses and considerable acres of property around Birch Bay to her.
By now, after supporting Wade through his various unsuccessful ventures into the arts, the weary young wife had few illusions left about their marriage. All during her first pregnancy she'd done secretarial work at the University of Chicago so he could continue his literature courses, and after he'd flunked his exams and decided his true vocation was drawing and painting, she'd borrowed a typewriter and taken in work in between washing diapers and making formulas to pay his Art Institute tuition. Wade switched to the drama department and made some contacts which got him advertising jobs ... she'd hoped to be able to stop slaving away, but somehow his artistic temperament didn't enable him to arrive on time, and if he did get some money, he and his horrible beatnik friends drank it up before she could pay the rent and grocery bill. Finally he'd floated into photography, pawning his expensive art materials to buy a Nikon. Her second pregnancy was spent clerking in Marshall Field's book department during the day and typing a revolting pornographic manuscript for fifty cents a page at nights.
She was only twenty-three, but there was a hardness in her eyes, a bitterness in her voice, and a very cynical streak to her character.
As if her husband's irresponsibility weren't bad enough, there were his disgusting ideas about what constituted a good time in bed. Denise considered herself a modern, healthy liberated young woman; sex was biologically necessary for producing offspring, and was also a natural physical need. However, there were limits. She liked it when Wade lay on top of her under the covers and fondled her breasts and pussy and then put his penis inside her vagina and brought her to orgasm, like any normal woman, but he didn't ever do it that way. Pretty soon she stopped climaxing altogether, for every time they got into bed he had some new kinky, perverse position he wanted to try. Oral sex ... upside-down and inside-out and backwards positions ... coming into her from behind while she kneeled like a canine bitch ... and finally the ultimate horror-anal intercourse.
On the day she'd received the letter about Gramps' will, he'd come home half-intoxicated and informed her that he was selling his camera equipment, buying a guitar, and singing up for private lessons with a successful folk singer in a coffeehouse he and his greasy buddies frequented. She'd blown her top, and he'd lost
J his temper too and raped her back there. Next morning, she and the kids were on a train on their way back to Michigan.
After the ultimate humiliation of having cum with her drunken husband's thick cock pulsing in her anus and his indecent middle finger fiddling around inside her pussy, how could she stay another day in the same house with him?
"But I didn't want to remember that!" Denise muttered.
The past evaporated into the present and here she was lying weakly on her daughter's bed. And there, beside her sandaled feet, lay that damning diary. . . Suddenly, something clicked inside the worried parent's brain and she snatched the slim volume up from the floor and thumbed through it in search for another mention of Mr. Theodore Comfort's name. Ahah! Here was the answer to why her innocent child had been transformed into a debauched little whore!
"Yesterday was the most important day of my life! First, the fantastic morning! Ted turned me into a REAL WOMAN! It's fantastic that he thinks I'm sexy and a good fuck! I really love him like crazy!
"Then Colin Highsmith invited me to a party, only it was really an orgy. I acted like a whore and it felt fabulous! Who cares if..."
Red-hot anger flooded through Mrs. Aronson's veins as she slammed the little journal shut and threw it onto the floor. No need to suffer through more of the prurient outpourings of her abused adolescent's sex-crazed soul ... Now was the moment for drastic action. Comfort, the criminal culprit, the child-corrupting villain, was not going to get away with this atrocity!
For once, the militant Feminist was wearing a skirt-all her jeans were hanging out on the line to dry, for as a way to procrastinate from her outline she'd done a rare load of wash. She passed a full-length mirror on her furious flight out of the house, but didn't waste time inspecting her appearance and was quite unconscious of how voluptuous her body looked in the tight cotton shift she'd borrowed from her daughter's extensive wardrobe.
She was equally unconscious of the strange stirrings of desire which had awoken in her frustrated loins upon reading Tracey's salacious diary and remembering her ex-husband's bawdy sexual inclinations. Her panty crotch band was damp and her uncovered breasts were hot and swollen, but she thought only of Revenge as she sped recklessly down toward the harbor.
CHAPTER NINE
"Oh, Ted, Ted!" Tracey's Aronson's woebegone, tear-stained face stared up at her boss in abject misery. "I just don't know what to do. How could they have said awful things like that about me? I was just acting like the guys wanted me to, and I thought they liked me ... I thought I was really part of the crowd..."
Comfort's frown deepened. "There, there, calm down, sweetie," he soothed, stroking her tousled golden curls away from her flushed forehead. Then, breaking their intimate embrace, he marched toward the well-stocked bar which occupied almost an entire wall in his small bachelor's pad and found two clean highball glasses. "A drink'll help, honey. What's your poison?"
"I d-don't know," she half sobbed. "V-v-vodka, or tequila, anything that doesn't taste n-nasty."
He mixed two Tequila Sunrises with a practiced hand: a double splash of tequila, some Florida orange juice, a good squeeze of lime, and crushed ice. Then he sat back down beside her on his low-slung Scandinavian leather couch, once again entwining his burly arms around her slender, shaking shoulders. After that delightful deflowering some weeks ago, he'd forced himself to hold to a hands-off policy ... an under-age little lover was just a bit too dangerous, even for a men of his rebellious temperament. Oh, of course there had been lots of touching and kissing during working hours, but it seemed that Tracey was being sexually satisfied elsewhere and wasn't really hungry for more. In fact, she'd seemed increasingly fatigued, though she'd always performed her chores with accuracy and enthusiasm in between yawns.
This evening, however, she needed comfort and renewal of her self-confidence, and he wondered if a good fuck wasn't perhaps the best method to stop her flood of tears. Poor kid! She hadn't realized what a tight, puritanically hypocritical society reigned her in the rural Midwest, and she'd fallen into the same trap so many other young girls did of thinking she could gain social acceptance through promiscuity. And no wonder, either, considering that the lines of communication with her mother were so blocked that she'd come to him instead of her parent when the ugly truth hit her full in the face.
Debutantes could get away with murder; rich young scions were expected to sow their wild oats. But when an ordinary middle-class girl tried to play the same game, she was immediately classified a tramp. The fact of her unusually high level of sensuality made the whole question even more complex, and Ted felt a bit guilty because he'd helped rouse her slumbering sexuality and had persuaded her that acting erotic was a positive quality.
Well, hell, it was! It was just this stiffling atmosphere in these parts that perverted things. Luckily he'd finally gotten the name and capital to enable him to sell this boatyard and buy a bigger and better one on the West Coast. Three months from now, he'd be thousand of miles away from Birch Bay and no more homesick than he'd been the first time he left home to run away to sea.
"That's better, isn't it, Tracey?" he murmured softly against her silken hair as she sipped her drink. "Listen, so you've made a few mistakes-we all live and learn. It doesn't mean you're not still a beautiful person."
"Oh ... but I feel so ugly and dirty," she sighed hopelessly. "I feel-I feel used."
"You have been used," he replied, abandoning the warm curves of her cuddling young body once again to refill their glasses. "But it's their loss, not yours-ultimately, that is. You're a woman with a hell of a lot to offer a man, baby, but these guys you've been running around with aren't men-they're stupid little boys who just want to prove how cool. Think of it that way and you'll feel better, okay?"
"Oh, I just don't know..." the teenager's voice trailed away sadly. She took another sip of her drink, which was indeed raising her sunken spirits, then flashed her kind boss a shaky smile. "I just wish I didn't have to go back to High, 'cause everyone's gonna be talking about me and treating me weird, y'know. But I can't help liking sex, honest I can't! I-" she took another gulp, her eyes softening as the tears dried, "I feel sexy right now ... I-I'd love it if you'd fuck me. Do you think I'm horrible when I say that?"
"No, I sure as hell don't!" The older man was, in fact, extremely aroused himself. "I think you've things more together than any sixteen year-old gal I ever knew, and it's really a drag that you're stuck in this sick part of the globe where people are all fucked-up about sex. C'mon, let's get naked!"
Tracey's cut-off Levi's, skimpy tee-shirt and pastel pink panties were lying in a heap beside his blue work shirt and jeans when the front door burst open and Mrs. Aronson burst through the unlocked front door looking like the wrath of God. Sparks of fire shot from her dark brown eyes, zest for battle had painted two scarlet spots on her high cheekbones, and she wielded her worn leather handbag as though it were a weapon as she stomped through the small foyer into the main room.
"Ted Comfort, where are you?" her strident voice reverberated through the one-bedroom bungalow. "Come out here this instant! I want an immediate explanation about-oohhh!"
Comfort was in the living room; she hadn't noticed the bodies on the couch in the far corner until now, or she'd have made a more discreet entrance. Despite her rage, she was loathe to have to witness the vile man's odious indecency-having intercourse in the middle of the living room and in broad daylight, the very idea but it was too late to retreat now. But. . . but. . . the sex maniac and his cheap blonde paramour weren't having normal sexual relations!
"Oh, God!" she whispered. "Ugh..."
Snixante-neuf. . . the same repulsive, unsanitary act her ex-boyfriend had tried to persuade her to perform on their long-ago date, and also one of her former husband's perverted hang-ups. What sort of woman would allow a man to put his mouth against her most intimate flesh while simultaneously touched his big throbbing thing with her own lips? she wondered dizzily, then noticed on closer inspection that Comfort's naked companion wasn't a woman after all. She was a young girl...
"TRACEY ARONSON!" she screamed, horrified, incredulous. Somehow, even the explicit evidence of the teenager's dairy hadn't truly brought home the fact that her child was capable of such depravity. "HOW DARE YOU?! "
The frightened girl's glistening lips drew away from the huge flesh pole with a lewd little slurping sound, but otherwise the sinful couple didn't move a muscle. Even the penis remained arrogantly erect, and the harder Denise tried to ignore the proud, purple-veined phallus, the more it obsessed her. Suddenly Comfort chuckled.
"Well, well, if it isn't Denise. Didn't expect you to drop by this afternoon, my dear. Come to join in the fun?"
"You may think this is a laughing matter," retorted Denise in a voice which shook despite her efforts to steel herself against the salacious spectacle, "but I don't think you'll still be smirking when you find yourself on trial for child molestation."
"Mother, please!" the young girl cried out. Her first reaction had been clammy fear, but Ted's strong, confident embrace gave her more courage than she'd dreamed she possessed. "He's not molesting me ... and I'm not a child anymore, either!"
There was a moment's pregnant silence during which Denise's face drained of all color and her knees started wobbling weakly. Comfort laughed again.
"Sit down before you fall down, why don't you, Den-ni? And pour yourself a drink-you look as though you could use one."
The mother shot him a look of loathing, hating him for his calm conversational tone, but she did as he'd bid. That's better, she told herself as the whiskey warmed her belly. Now maybe I can stop reacting like a wishy-washy, weak-willed female. Even as the thought ran through her throbbing head, however, she was unable to rip her eyes from the sordid scene on the couch.
"Tracey, get away from that dreadful man this minute!" she tried to sound authoritarian. "Put on your clothes, and wait out in the car while I finish discussing this with Mr. Comfort."
"I think Tracey's old enough to make her own decisions, aren't you, honey?"
The teenager nodded, astonished at finding herself able to stand up against her strong-willed parent at last. "I want to stay here, Mom. And-and Ted's not dreadful-he's wonderful! You just don't understand."
"No," Denise snapped, "I most certainly do not under-"
Comfort interrupted, still infuriatingly cool and smiling more broadly than ever as he instinctively sensed Mrs. Aronson's subconscious sexual arousal. A lascivious flicker of lust gleamed in his green-gray eyes as he mentally undressed his voluptuous ex-girl friend.
"Now, what were we talking about? Oh, yes-a law suit. Well, I frankly don't think you've got much of a case, but if you really want to take this to court I wish you'd discuss it with my lawyer. As you may have noticed, I'm occupied with other things at the moment."
"Of course I'm going to take legal action!" Denise spluttered, vainly trying to pull her indecently short skirt over her knees as she felt his eyes roving over her half-exposed loins. "Look how you've corrupted my innocent daughter! You should be locked behind bars so you don't get the chance to ruin any other little girls' lives."
All of a sudden Comfort lost patience. Domineering dames were the ultimate drag, and the warm proximity of little Tracey's cuddling curves was making him impatient to resume love-making.
"You stupid bitch!" he swore. Then he gently kissed Tracey and stood up, penis jutting from his sparse-haired groin at a ninety-degree angle, and strode toward where the woman was collapsed on one of the cushions which served as chairs. "You know what's the matter with you?"
Her eyes glazed over as his weighty weapon approached. She tried to speak, but not a syllable passed from her quivering lips. For some inexplicable reason she was overcome by an emotion which, unfamiliar as it was, she recognized as fear.
"You've never known a man who had enough balls to put you in your place, that's what's your problem. The cure for a stuck-up, tight-assed bitch like you is a good fuck."
He took another couple steps toward her, so that he stood mere inches away and she could see the pulsing veins and soft-haired testicles and a dewdrop of fluid on his threatening cockhead. To keep herself from admitting weakness and retreating, the distressed divorcee swallowed the rest of her Scotch.
"Of all the nerve..." she mumbled in a shaky whimper.
"Shut up! Lady, you've met your match this time. I'm gonna do what you've been wanting some guy to do for years, even if you're much too high and mighty to admit it-I'm gonna fuck the hell out of you, till you know what it means to be a woman. A real woman, like your daughter here."
"You must be out of your mind! Put one finger on me and you'll be sorry!"
"The only thing I'm sorry is that I didn't have the guts to do this when you were seventeen, you bitch. You wanted it then-don't try and pretend you didn't! Well, now you're gonna get it."
Anger and dread raced through the thirty-five year-old brunette's veins like liquid lightning and sent adrenaline surging through her system. Impulsively she reached out and slapped him hard across the cheek. Even as the resounding smack still echoed through the birch-paneled room, she knew she'd made a serious mistake.
"All right, you asked for it!"
Before she knew what was happening, she was flat on her belly, gasping for breath from the impact of the blow which had sent her lurching to the carpet. A split second later, the skimpy cotton shift she'd borrowed from her daughter was torn from her body with a sickening sound of ripping fabric, and her panties joined the growing pile of discarded clothing another second later. Since she'd long since burned all her bras, she was now as naked as the vengeful male and her sinful child.
Comfort stared down at her ripe white buttocks; they were fuller, more mature than Tracey's, as were the golden globes of her breasts which were crushed against his fur rug. Painfully crushed, he hoped.
Damn the women's liberation movement and all its insidious offshoots! Well, this particular snooty bitch was going to get a good dose of pain and humiliation which would cure her of her cold conceit forever, by God. And, as he inspected the dark crevice between her flailing ass-cheeks, he knew exactly which punishment would fit the crime. His potent penis was going to ram deep into her ass-hole until she screamed out in pain, then began whimpering and begging in a frenzy of unwanted arousal. Yeah! that was the answer! SODOMY!
But first, a bit of will-breaking humiliation...
Denise finally regained her breath. "You pig! You filthy animal!" she howled, squirming in an unintentionally seductive manner as she tried to summon the strength to rise. How had she ever ended up lying like a helpless slave girl on the floor after all those rather expensive karate courses? "You'll pay for this! You'll-"
The naked man laughed as he lunged on top of her to pinion her to the fur throw rug ... a sinister, satyric chortle of mirthless lust. "This is how I like to see you, Denni," he sneered, digging his fingernails into the tender flesh of her resilient buttocks. "Lying there helpless, waitin' for my cock in your ass. But first we're gonna play some turn-on games. Tracey," he looked from mother to daughter, eyes softening somewhat at the shocked expression on his adolescent lover's pretty face, "c'mon over here."
The schoolgirl obeyed as if hypnotized, her slim, curvaceous figure shivering with fearful excitement as she slowly moved from the sofa to the naked couple on the carpet beside the fireplace. Mother's face was pressed tightly against the rug-thank God, she'd never have had the nerve to meet her parent's eyes.
"Kneel down between your Mommy's legs," directed the demonically excited man. "Spread her thighs, and start kissing her pussy just like I was doing to you when she barged in uninvited."
Tracey froze. She'd seen Danish blue movies of women licking each other's vagina's at one of the many cruiser parties she'd attended lately, and had been aroused by the salacious spectacle, but with her own mother? Oh, no, she simply couldn't. . .
"Oh, Ted, no!" she gasped weakly.
"Listen, honey, you trust me, don't you?"
She nodded mutely.
"Well, this is gonna help your mother, understand. She needs to learn that sex is great, just like you did. I promise you it's okay! Honest!"
Who in her entire life had she ever believed in more than her wonderful boss? Very slowly, the teenager dropped to her knees and put her small hands on Mother's quivering thighs. She pushed them apart, shuddering at her own audacity and shocked at the intense emotions that surged through her at the sight and feel of her parent's voluptuous body.
"Tracey!" whimpered Denise. This whole bizarre situation was too depraved for belief, and the worst of all was that her will power seemed to have deserted her. She felt drained and helpless, and it was impossible to ignore the shameful dampness of her pussy, the strange flickerings of desire which were fast .transforming her into a white-hot mass of sinful longing. "Don't listen to him! You can't do this! Youoouuhh..."
After all, the teenager rationalized dizzily as she gently kissed her mother's softly-fleeced "vee", haven't I known for ages that Mom needs to turn on to sex? And she's all wet-she MUST need it, even if she won't admit it. Just like Ted said! Her tongue snaked into the dewy depths of her mother's squirming pussy, hesitantly at first, then ardently as her own passions flamed higher. Oh, God, how wicked this was ... how wonderful!
"It's okay, Mom," she heard her own voice whispering. "T-Ted knows what's best, really he does..."
"That's my girl! Tongue her good-get her ready for my cock!"
In a way, he wasn't surprised to see that his rebellious ex-girl friend was almost immediately growing excited. She'd been a hot-blooded little thing at seventeen, and probably hadn't ever had the occasions to express her hidden erotic nature since ... and she was her sensual daughter's mother ... His vision blurred slightly as he stared down at the two different but equally exciting female forms writhing beneath him in an incestuous lesbian embrace: one lithe, undeveloped, but responding like an experienced call girl despite the fact that he correctly suspected she was a novice at this particular sort of sexuality; the other more lushly rounded, though without an inch of excess flesh on her statuesque figure, unwillingly beginning to respond to her long-denied yearnings. An anguished throb of his mammoth member told him he couldn't hold back a moment longer.
"All right, Tracey honey, that's enough." His voice sounded strange in his own ears, hoarse and almost inhuman in the throes of passion. "Now get down and spread your sweet legs so Mama can do the same to your pussy. I'm gonna take care of this end of things!"
All the while, Denise had been mewling in anguished, but hopeless, protest. Now, as Comfort's eager cockhead smashed up against the cringing crumpled ring of her anus, she let out a loud howl.
That was exactly what he wanted to hear. He spread his palm flat and brought it down hard against the side of her tender-fleshed breast which was spreading out from under her feverishly thrashing figure.
"Shut the fuck up!" he rasped. "And put your mouth 'round your kid's pussy, or it's gonna hurt a helluva lot more."
"Oowwwhhhhh!"
"Do what you're told, bitch!"
He struck her other breast, then dug vise-like fingers into the sensitive skin on her pliant buttocks for support as he shoved his rampant rod down through the resisting walls of her rectal passage. At last, with a low moan of despair, she complied ... a cry which, much to his gratification, soon grew to an involuntary croon of prurient pleasure interspersed with yelps of physical anguish.
"Relax, Mom, that way it hardly hurts at all," Denise heard her sixteen year-old child murmuring in a tender tone. It was as if, by some strange magic, their roles had been reversed and she had switched from mother to daughter. "Just make your muscles real loose back there and soon you'll feel great! And I'll keep kissing your beautiful pussy so's you'll feel ever greater!"
In spite of the vile obscenity of it all, Denise was deeply moved by her daughter's soft words of assistance. She'd felt more rejected than she'd realized consciously when Tracey chose to obey Ted and ignore her own mother, but now she dimly discerned that the young girl had honestly been doing what she believed to be best. And, in all honesty, she couldn't recall ever having experienced anything more delightful than her little girl's lapping, nibbling lips and gently twirling tongue around her clitoris.
"Thank you, darling," she said, discovering to her shock that Tracey was correct. The instant she stopped fighting against the unnatural invasion of her anus, the pain receded to an almost pleasurable pressure which, combined with the intensely blissful sensations in her pussy, pushed her to the point where right and wrong no longer mattered. "Oohhhh, I-I feel ... "
She stopped herself before admitting her growing arousal, not wanting to give Ted Comfort that satisfaction, but when the youngster replied, "Feels what, Mom? Does it feel good? Tell me...", she forgot her resentment in a rush of love for her child.
"Yes, yes, it feels heavenly," she breathed.
"Then use your tongue just like I'm doing," urged the precocious teenager. "Please, Mother ... make me cum, too,"
Until now, Denise had been very timidly touching the fresh-scented folds of coral pink flesh without really exploring the slightly quivering little lips and passage, but now was so turned-on that all revulsion and guilt faded and she gladly set out to satisfy her daughter. Why, she wondered dizzily, had she always considered genitals something ugly? Tracey's vagina was beautiful-soft and smooth and secreting a fluid more exquisite than the most expensive French liqueur. Was a man's penis just as nice? there seemed no reason why it shouldn't be...
"Aaahhh, good!" Tracey bubbled ecstatically. "I never did it with a woman before like this-I never dreamed it's be so fantastic! And I can feel Ted's big prick with my tongue! Wow-I'm already almost ready to cum!"
"I-I'm glad it's the first time, darling ... glad I can help you d-discover sex, too..."
"You two beautiful bitches," Ted, who'd kept silent during the tender interchange, burst out. "You're all woman, both of you! Denni, you've got the sweetest, tightest ass I ever felt-it's driving me crazy! And Tracey, I can feel your tongue, too. Christ almighty!"
Denise remembered vaguely that she should be insulted to be called a "bitch" and "all woman", but she wasn't-she was proud and happy and, at last, truly free and liberated. She was alive now, she loved and was loved in turn, and she was speeding toward the most stupendous orgasm of her thirty-five years. What more could any female ask for?
As the sexually awakened divorcee began feverishly bucking up her buttocks to receive his pistoning penis deeper into her anus and crying out, "Yes, Ted, fuck my ass! Fuck it hard and deeep and good! Oooohhhhh!", he couldn't hold back any longer. Urgent sperm was churning in his heavy testicles, and it was evident that both mother and daughter were also ready to explode.
"Now! I'm gonna cum!" he bellowed. "Cumming in your ass!"
"Oh, yes, yes, yes! Oh, God ... oooohhhhh!"
The white-hot spurt of male seed into her spasming rectum, plus Tracey's ever-more-enthusiastic tonguing, triggered the mother's orgasm. Seconds later, stimulated at the sight of Mother's writhing ecstasy and the sticky white semen trickling out of her ass-hole over her quivering buttocks and thighs, Tracey was wailing out her blissful fulfillment. All three were overwhelmed by the intensity of their climaxes and the powerful new emotions their incestual orgy had roused; clasping each other's perspiration-slickened bodies, they collapsed for long minutes on the floor in a half-conscious haze of post-orgasmic peace.
Denise was the first one.to stir. Rolling over, she kissed her daughter full on the lips, then turned toward Ted and, completely uninhibitedly, kissed the sperm-sticky phallus which had raped her-and released her.
"You were right, both of you," she sighed softly. "Sex is beautiful! And we should have done it long ago, Ted."
He looked deep into her soft brown eyes. "Never too late to make up for lost time," he said, his cock rising again. "I'd love to fuck your cunt now, Denni."
Her tangled brown curls shook no above his eager erection. "No, Ted, first I want to suck your big prick ... why don't you suck Tracey while I do it? And then we'll make love..."
That's just what they did, till about five in the morning when they collapsed in total exhaustion.
CHAPTER TEN
The dogs began barking when Ted Comfort swung onto the wooded drive leading to his new house in Boulder Creek, California, but his wife's silky brown head didn't stir from his shoulder, and his stepdaughters remained curled in each others arms, sound asleep on the bed in the back of the VW bus. After parking the van in front of the sprawling redwood home which they'd all designed together, he sat quietly for a moment staring at his three women.
No wonder they were tired-it was three in the morning, and cousin Norman's party had been exhausting, though definitely exhilarating. After lots of California rose and delicious lasagna in a homemade sauce liberally laced with marijuana, Norm's step-son seventeen year-old had rolled some cigar-sized joints. During the ensuing orgy, every possible variation had been experimented with and enjoyed.
"I'm one hell of a lucky guy," he murmured softly into the pine-scented stillness of the warm winter night. "Never thought I'd say this, but you couldn't pay me to be a single guy again. No way!"
His wife didn't have a jealous bone in her voluptuous body, and she never nagged. Perhaps she wasn't the world's best housekeeper, but what the hell; she was busy on a new book, a children's story which she'd been inspired to start when she learned that she was pregnant last month, and anyway his Pacific boatyard was so successful that he could easily afford to pay a cleaning lady to come in a few times a week. Most important of all, she was never too tired for sex.
"It makes me more creative," she confided. "You know, I bet that's why I couldn't ever really write anything that pleased me before..."
And his daughters! Tracey grew more beautiful every day, more self-confident, more womanly. As for thirteen year-old Caroline, she'd never go through the same adolescent traumas of status-seeking promiscuity as her older sister had. She was still too small to accept his large penis, but she was a marvelous cock-sucker and had the same fortunate capacity for multiple orgasms as her mother and sister.
