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Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- The Twelve Commandments - 3 - Thou Shalt Not Bear False Wetness By Peter Pan (uds3@hotmail.com) *** When the Beach Boys sang "Help Me Rhonda" way back in the sixties, no-one imagined it would be almost four decades before schoolgirl Rhonda Mitchell would be living up to her namesake. M/f-teen, ped, 1st, reluc) *** Rhonda was a slut. Why deny it? From eighth grade onwards - probably earlier, if you couldn't score at the very least, a finger up her pussy, either you had AIDS or you weren't able to cobble together the two-buck asking fee. Either way, it was no great loss, there surely being as many girls in an Institute for Tourette's sufferers, who offered a classier night out. Every grade in every High School worldwide has its 'easy' girls. At Brookfield High in Ivanhoe Victoria, it just so happened that Rhonda Mitchell, now in year eleven, was Queen of the touch-ups. Whilst the majority of girls at Brookfield were undeniably of privileged stock – mothers from the catwalks of Europe, fathers pulling down mega-bucks in their stockbroking firms in Melbourne, poor old Rhonda really was trailer-trash. She could have just gotten herself a part-time job at Maccas like everyone else though, instead of letting it be known on the grape-vine that double English period wasn't the only time you could slip your hand up inside her knickers – or both hands if you wanted to pay extra. Thing is though, she liked it! Left on her own as she had pretty much always been, what with her mom entertaining down-beats at various low-rent hotels in the area or hanging out with guys half her age at the less salubrious wine-bars let's say, Rhonda was an accident waiting to happen – the girl most likely... to wind up barefoot and pregnant... and that was the best-case scenario. Many was the night therefore that a veritable conga- line of boys and young men would find their way to 18, Chernside Avenue for an evening of biological indulgence that has never been graphically show-cased on the Discovery Channel. Until recently, Rhonda had never even thought of tackling more than one paying-youth at a time and if the truth be known, she had not even gone further than allowing herself to be fingered and for the few with unlimited ATM Access – to be stripped and occasionally suckled. With Geoff from twelfth grade however, business took a turn for the better. "C'mon Rhonda," he had urged, "Let me fuck you – you'll like it. I'll give you a hundred dollars?" THAT bit she did like! Only sixteen still, despite her track-record of unrepressed sexual indulgence, she was still technically a virgin, well, up until the point she took possession of Geoff's one hundred dollar bill anyway. Didn't even hurt her much, probably because her hymen had been rendered obsolete most likely, as a result of so many inbound fingers over the years. Geoff was correct too - she did like it! So much so in fact, the lad was close to needing a paramedic on returning home. The problem is when you become an entrenched teen-slut, so many people want to make your acquaintance. In Rhonda's case that unfortunately included Brent Carter. Now Brent was not one of the planet's better credentialled individuals. Diagnosed early with ADHD (better known as 'Attention Deficiency Disorder') and with a track record of violence, drug dealing and bullying as far back as year eight, here was a grade-A loser! What he did have though was a big cock and a willingness to use it in ways that many might consider un-artistic, to say the least. It was inevitable that fate would bring Brent and Rhonda together. Actually, it was Briony Roberts who can more accurately make that claim. A classmate of Rhonda's, who was having her seventeenth birthday party and more out of misplaced sympathy than anything else, invited Rhonda for the evening. Brent on the other hand lobbed up that night on the arm of Jenny Crawford. It's doubtful if he spoke to her more than twice after seeing Rhonda the far side of the room, surrounded by multiple school jocks – their allowances on stand-by one assumes! No-one fucked with Brent and as he headed in Rhonda's general direction, her entourage parted like the Red Sea. The swagger was reminiscent of Tony Manero, the leather jacket – pure Fonzie! Making no effort to disguise his up-front analysis of Rhonda's upper chest, Brent was not one to observe social etiquette. "Wanna come back to my place Mitchell?" he said, the evolution of a cruel smirk in attendance. "Few things I want to talk you about and anyway its gotta be more fun than hangin' out with these dickheads." He gestured around the room. Never let it be said Rhonda didn't like her men assertive, although those with one hundred dollar bills still ranked pretty highly admittedly. "Maybe," she replied, striving for an edge in the balance of power stakes. "None of that 'maybe' shit," he told her, "Either you're coming or you're not – make your mind up!" He turned to leave. "I'm coming Brent," she called out, picking up her things and scurrying after him. Constructed principally for wiggling, that tight little skirt wasn't designed for power-walking exactly. Slumped into the front seat of his small coupe, Rhonda was having trouble maintaining her hemline at a decent level. Fact is, such proved impossible, forcing her to wedge her clutch-bag into her lap to preserve some modicum of self-respect. Brent drove on regardless. Once at his home – a property at the lower end of middle-class suburbia, Brent ushered her inside. Barely pausing to acknowledge his parents huddled around the TV in the small lounge-room, he indicated for her to follow him down the hallway and into the room at the end. His bedroom as it eventuated. Seeing as there was but one chair across the far side of the room – piled high with folders and other educational discards, she sat down on the edge of the bed. "You wanna drink Mitchell?" he grunted. "Oh, just a mineral water or Diet Pepsi if you got it Brent please," she replied. He glared at her. "I said a drink Rhonda, not something from the fucking health farm!" "Ohhh Ok," she stammered, "Well maybe a bourbon and coke then?" "That's more like it," he grinned at last. "Make yourself comfortable while I go get it," he added, eyeing off the bedcovers. Not sure quite what he meant, she just slipped her shoes off and inched her way up to the bed-head, propping one of the pillows behind her back for support. "Typical young man's room" she thought to herself. Messy, empty glasses lying around the place, clothes all over the floor, empty DVD cases stacked up on top of the small TV that sat on the dresser at the foot of the bed. The well-worn punching bag strung-up from the ceiling near the window, seemed to add somehow just the right macho touch. Brent returned with their drinks. "You still dressed Mitchell?" he laughed. "Figured you might be under the covers by now." "I don't do it for free," she replied, "Whaddya think?" "Yeah?" he said, "And I don't pay for it either girl!" She got off the bed. "Where the fuck are you going Rhonda?" he stared at her. "Well lets see," she replied, "I hardly think you're gonna try raping me with your mom and dad just down the hall, so either you let me go now or I start screaming." "Look don't get your knickers in a twist Rhonda," he said quietly... "I'm not going to rape you – here take your drink, and let me explain what I brought you here for." Still trusting him no further than she could throw him, she reluctantly took her bourbon and sat back down on the edge of the bed. Brent seated himself alongside, taking a healthy swig of the Cougar as he did so. "Well it's like this," he paused, looking for the right words, but finding none continued notwithstanding, "Everyone at school knows you put-out... you know what I'm trying to say Rhonda – like, if a guy pays you a few bucks he can have a "feel"... stuff like that," She blushed and looked fully indignant. "Well it's true Rhonda isn't it?" he added, "No point being all shocked and innocent about it – we all know. The girls too," he grinned. "What business of yours what I do Brent," she protested. "Well that's exactly my point Rhonda – it could be my business – if you'd let me." "I'm not following you," she replied. "Look Mitchell," he took another swig of his bourbon, "If you're going to "do it"... you may as well "do it" properly – earn big money I mean. "Couple of boys have paid me a hundred dollars," she told him proudly. "Yeah, that's right – a couple," he said. "What if I told you I could organise for three or four at a time to pay you double that?" She gasped. "You mean, let four guys fuck me at the same time? Are you kidding?" "Not at the same time Mitchell, they take turns obviously." He explained. "Look. If you're gonna do it once... you may as well do it four times, right? And earn four times as much – at least!" She was quiet for a moment or two, the financial rewards creating a plethora of possibilities in the teenager's suddenly near-hyperactive mind. "And where would all this be happening Brent?" she asked. "I hope you're not thinking of my place?' "Just leave the logistics to me Rhonda," he whispered. "Nah, not your house silly – mine either, in case you're wondering." She finished her drink and for the first time that evening – smiled at him. "Now if I'm going to "manage" you Rhonda," he grinned, "I really need to know exactly what it is I'm promoting – don't I?" She lay back on the bed giggling as he pushed her skirt up, with not a little difficulty it must be said. Wasn't exactly a case of a square peg in a round hole – but not far from it! Little more than a week later, Rhonda's cell showed call-incoming. "Hey Brent," she said. "How ya doin' Mitchell?" he responded. "Ready for your first try-out?" "I guess," she answered almost shyly – certainly nervously! "I'll pick you up Wednesday around 7.30 p.m. OK? Just three young guys my age and they've paid. The place is only seven or eight minutes from your house, so you'll be fine. In any case, I'll be waiting outside for you – they have just an hour." If the truth be known, come Wednesday afternoon, Rhonda was as excited as she was apprehensive. The thought of doing it with three guys definitely made the credit side of the ledger. The fact they were good-looking young men as it turned out was no great hardship either. On unsure ground themselves, they ushered Rhonda in and seemed reluctant to make the first move... not the best strategy when you only have an hour at your disposal. It was Paul, a thin artistic-looking individual – not unlike Bob Dylan in his teens, who finally asked tentatively, "Shall we go upstairs guys?" "Sorry the place is a mess," Bryce apologised, "We didn't have time to clean up." he tossed what clothes were scattered about the bed on to the floor. Grant meanwhile was kissing Rhonda – most effectively it seemed, judging by the way she was wriggling on the edge of the bed. The other two knelt down on the carpet and placed a hand each on the girl's thigh at which point it became evident their financial investment was looking a good thing. Grant allowed a hand to drop to Rhonda's left breast which brought forth not only a small gasp of pleasure but an automatic parting of her legs – enough at least that Bryce and Paul were able to catch a flash of cream-colored panties. "You're sixteen aren't you Rhonda?" Bryce asked. She just nodded, her mind on other things at that moment. "Can we take your panties off?" Paul asked, somewhat hesitantly. Unable to make much in the way of a reply, what with Grant's tongue monopolising her airways, she just wriggled her hips. Taking that to be a "yes," Paul reached up beneath her skirt and began tugging her skimpy briefs down with little finesse but a truck-load of enthusiasm. Bryce meanwhile had her top buttons undone and having exposed her frilly little matching cream push-up, had a hand inside both cups now and was enjoying himself to the max kneading those sexy little nipples. The visuals let's say, already had the lads in a degree of high expectancy, as was evidenced by their collective sub-abdominal bulges. As for Rhonda, this was definitely a step into dark territory. Whether they spread her legs or she did it herself, the fact remains she was most assuredly open for business. Paul was the first customer of the day. Thin he may have been, but as Rhonda quickly found out – this did not translate necessarily to unskilled in the vaginal pleasuring stakes. She was indeed pleasured! Preferring then to indulge their own masturbatory pursuits, Bryce and Grant squatted on the covers somewhat slack-jawed, as their friend compounded his frontal assault before their very eyes. Holding the girl's legs just below her knees, he spread her ever wider as he thrust into that curly little minefield with unchecked vigor. Rhonda had been moaning, now she was crying out in passion, her eyes closed and her breasts undulating freely beneath those tight little 32B constraints. It was too much for Bryce, who directed a sudden white milky discharge across her exposed midriff. This in turn catalysed Paul into ejaculatory mode and he found himself with increasingly less oxygen as he pumped a healthy serving of male DNA up inside that tight channel. Grant, on red alert certainly but not having heard the starter's pistol as yet, hurriedly swapped places with his friend and sank his instrument of phallic destruction deep inside Rhonda's yawning slit, itself discharging the occasional string of rather warm semen. She let out a yelp of surprise, as opposed to displeasure, but then settled back to accommodate the inter-coital antics of her new partner. It wasn't to be of any great duration however as Grant was fully primed. "Oh God Rhonda," was the extent of his verbal exchange and then he too succumbed to the ways of the flesh and creamed the young girl's womb... OK, well maybe that's taking biologically, a little poetic license, having regard to a working knowledge of the female reproductive system, but I think you get the point! Rhonda just lay there clutching at her pussy – Grant and Paul meanwhile clutching at other things. Bryce however, his erection returned to its former glory, was still wanting his share of the action and positioning himself now between Rhonda's rather damp legs, eased his seven point five inch snap-on tool into what felt like a cream-repository. As several filmy globs exited between her legs – forced to do so by the inbound member, Rhonda giggled. "Are you going to fuck me now?" she asked, with every appearance of being serious. Bryce simply worked at his task. He was aided visually in this, by having his two friends remove Rhonda's top after which they unhooked her bra and extricated her rather pretty little breasts, both of which played host to as erect a girlish nipple as could be found at a Roman orgy. Lying there in just her scrunched-up skirt, Rhonda was as arousing a sight as one might reasonably contemplate – it is little wonder that Bryce found he was yet able to make a secondary deposit for the night. The other two, fully catalysed by their friend's finality, spurted what jism they had remaining, and in the process, redecorated Rhonda's breasts and face somewhat artistically. Far from reverting to damage control, Rhonda simply lay there wriggling, whilst the trio of sperm-donors knelt alongside her, suffering respiratory distress it seemed. Given but fifteen minutes remaining, Rhonda was quite happy to allow them to completely strip her before taking turns at suckling those hot little nipples whilst she sat there giggling rather appealingly and caressing their flagging erections by rotation. ** "Wasn't too bad was it?" said Brent s little later, handing over three crisp one-hundred dollar bills. "Ohh, thanks," she said, having expected rather less. "Yeah, well I told you they'd pay more if I organised it, didn't I?" he added. "I better be getting home now Brent," she replied, "I really need a shower!" "I can imagine," he grinned, leaning across and patting her flush on the pussy. "You still on for the weekend Mitchell?" he looked across at her expectantly as he spoke. "Got a big one for you." "Big one??" she asked him, betraying some nervousness. "You mean like more than three guys?" "Five men Rhonda," He responded. "But hey, you'll get a grand out of it, they're paying three hundred each, ok? You're on for 9 p.m. by the way and it's in the city, so I'll be driving you again." "Are they the same age Brent?" she asked with not a little interest. "Nah, bit older Mitchell," he kept looking straight ahead. "But soo? their money's good – just enjoy it. Like today, it's just for an hour and I'll pick you up again okay? You'll be fine." She was still pondering the situation when they pulled up outside her house. "It's cool Rhonda," he assured her. "Trust me... would I let any harm come to you?" ** Having slipped on the tightest little skirt in her armory, then topping that off with a camisole that revealed way more than it concealed, Rhonda dabbed a few drops of "L'Oreal's" Entice on her cheeks and behind her ears. Never having been one to observe tasteful restraint, a couple more unsubtle applications about her midriff and atop her cleavage completed the tease. "Whoa, someone smells hot tonight," Brent muttered as she climbed into the coupe. "Shame you already have a booking Mitchell!" he grinned as he swung onto the freeway entrance not half a block distant. The drive downtown was slow with the usual Saturday night set clogging the roads around the central business district. Passing the sixty-two floor Rialto Tower, Brent made a left and then pulled-in suddenly between a new Explorer and a stretch Caddy. All Rhonda could see was a semi-darkened alleyway that she thought was probably Little Collins Street. "They'll meet you here Mitchell," Brent informed her, "First doorway just down that alleyway." He saw her trepidation. "It's OK Rhonda, it's all set up and I'll be back in an hour or so." With that he took off abruptly, leaving her alone and not too sure about the "or so" comment. Peering into the near gloom she could make out a doorway of sorts just a few metres ahead and started to walk towards it. The sound of a trash-can being overturned somewhere close-by made her jump. She was almost at the door. "Well hello there missy," a voice wheezed out of the darkness right beside her. "What's a pretty little thing like you doing here all on your own then?" She could barely make out his features but he was an old man and way too close for comfort. "I'm w-waiting for some friends," she stammered. "Are you now?" came the labored reply. "And what friends might they be love? meeting a young girl like you in this here alleyway... our alleyway you might like to know." Something in his tone frightened her and standing now square-on with the door, she rapped on it. "No-one's gonna answer that door love," he growled. "It's been locked for six or seven years..." "Would you just leave me alone please?" she told him, knocking again – louder this time. She was beginning to tremble. To her horror, she was now able to make out other shapes materialising behind her interrogator. She turned to run but a pair of strong arms locked themselves around her waist. She would have screamed but for the hand clamped suddenly across her mouth. "No point screaming," said a second man, as she felt herself being dragged further along the alley. "We paid good money for you girl, stole a lot of wallets to pay for what that young man promised us. He told us you'd be worth it." Every city has its derelict buildings, the squats of the homeless and those who have lost all hope. These shadowy half-way houses exist despite Government funded programs, town planning initiatives and all other social reforms in place. No one really cares, the homeless stay homeless whoever takes charge at the ballot box! Rhonda was due for the grand tour! Propelled into what appeared to be some sort of long- deserted basement, she was pushed roughly to the floor – little more than dusty concrete really. The one concession to comfort being what appeared to be a filthy and worn single mattress that quite obviously had once been someone's nocturnal pride and joy... probably still was! "Pleaaaase, Let me go," she begged sobbing, somewhat hopefully some might say. She could see quite clearly now by the reflected street light, her assailants – five elderly men in various stages of sartorial inelegance. All smelt like they had not partaken of a shower since 9/11 and the stench of cheap booze was unmistakable on their collective breaths. "Now then missy, we were told you'd be co-operative. You better give us what we paid for love." The speaker was kneeling beside her now, sliding a long-since washed hand, up beneath that tight skirt. She felt his fingers intrude beneath the leg of her panties, burrowing crudely towards her young sex. She let out an involuntary gasp as her labia were prised apart permitting the man to embark on his own intense digital exploratory. His touch made her gag almost. Other hands were forcing her back on to the mattress – her breasts beginning now to be fondled if not indelicately mauled by other members of the geriatric miscreants. "Can't remember when I last had a handful of hot titty like this," uttered one elderly groper. The fingers inside her vagina meanwhile were hurting in their quest for self-gratification. Aware of her bricked-up incarceration, she knew screaming would avail her but little. "He told us you were a real wet little slut," muttered the obviously displeased owner of the invasive fingers, "You're as dry as the fucking outback girl, best you do something about that I'm thinking, else you could be in for a real uncomfortable night - if you get my meaning. "Get the little cunt's tits out," some derelict whined from the shadows, "Let's at least see what we paid for." General coarse laughter ensued after which several pairs of hands ripped her camisole open, exposing her skimpy nylon bra. . "Sexy little bitch," said a third man, thrusting his hand down inside her left cup and roughly groping her breast. Watching his wrinkled hand as it manipulated her nipples she felt nauseous, but could only watch helplessly as other hands tore her camisole and bra off, leaving her topless and shivering before the grinning assembly. She felt the fingers suddenly withdrawn from her vagina. "Strip the little cunt," ordered the group's evident leader, fiddling between the folds of a putrid coat that no self-respecting thrift store would be caught dead with. They had her skirt off in seconds and with three men holding her arms and waist, a fourth tugged her panties down exposing her young pussy, encircled as it was by neat, though far from prolific, light brown curls. Her nakedness invoked a multiplicity of crude comments and Rhonda could but sob at her unenviable predicament. "Well, we ain't got all night," muttered the man, "Hold her for me men," he added, kneeling down on the edge of the mattress as his two cohorts pulled the girl's legs wide apart. To prevent her struggling, two more held her arms tightly above her head. She stared terrified as the man ushered from between the folds of his coat, a grotesque and scabby looking penis, but yet partially erect. "Don't please," she whimpered, more out of vocal reflex than of genuine hope for reprieve. Unhappily for Rhonda though, God was not on site that evening. She squirmed in abject horror as the old man worked the head of his disgusting appendage the length and breadth of her vaginal opening. At the point he tried gaining initial entry, she screamed out for him to stop and indeed her lips held fast against the would-be invader. So completely un-lubricated was she, the man could not even make ground pushing in hard with what was now a veritably engorged seven inches of pensioned- off phallus. "Jesus," he said, "The little cunt's drier than the Western desert, I can't even get it in her." "Hey Bob," said the downbeat holding the girl's left leg apart, "Got an idea," He leaned across and whispered something to his friend who evidently liked what he heard. "Let's do it," was all he said. Again taking up pole position between Rhonda's legs, he extricated his penis, holding it some eighteen inches above her fully visible pinkish folds. Grinning, the men pulled her legs even wider. As he began pissing over her, directing the flow specifically up and down the face of her slit, Rhonda gasped and shook her head in total shock unable to grasp the degeneracy of what was being perpetrated upon her young body. Piss was splashing across her abdomen and running unchecked down both thighs. At the point he began separating her lips with his fingers and pissing directly between them, she cried out in both disgust and embarrassed helplessness. Still dribbling the remnants of his urinary discharge, the old man once again commenced upon his quest for entry. It was no longer a question of "I'll huff and I'll puff 'till I blow your house down," his cock slid into her piss-soaked doorway with but the slightest resistance. Once inside, it appeared the old analogy "you never forget how to ride a bicycle," was much in evidence. Though emotionally shattered and affronted, Rhonda's body could not live in denial of the pleasures inherent in having a man's cock thrusting deep inside her – whatever its state of cleanliness and however distressingly downmarket the circumstances. That was something you could worry about later. Eventually, her hips began to respond to nature's blueprint and oblivious almost to the hands roaming at will across her breasts, fondling and kneading her now erect nipples, she began thrusting upwards with her hips. The man felt the girl's vaginal muscles clamping down on to his erection just up front of what was his own approaching urgency. "Fuck, is she a hot little slut or what?" he uttered, just moments ahead of what was probably the biggest sexual release he could even remember. Her eyes were open as he pumped what he had to give her, way up inside her vaginal cavity. "Out of the way Bob," muttered the inbound rapist. Breathing hard, Rhonda saw that he was marginally older than Bob even – grottier too, if such be possible. Long unkempt and stringy hair hung down from his temples, the majority of his head long since bald. Hair protruded from his nostrils and he smelt like a sewer, mind you, so did she at this stage, with Bob's piss glistening throughout her pubic hair and across her upper legs. "I want to piss on the girl too," he said and before Rhonda could voice her displeasure, he had his cock out and set in motion a golden shower he directed from her sopping pussy in a sustained northerly direction that took in both breasts and ultimately her face as well. So shocked was the girl, all she could do was wriggle beneath the man's insensitive hydrant, gasping as his piss splattered off firstly her upper thighs, then her pussy and then obviously knowing no shame, raining down on her breasts and finally she was forced to close her eyes as the hot urine cascaded across her upper chest, both cheeks and her rather pretty little mouth. She was still shaking her head in denial of such treatment when she felt him thrust up into her. Kneeling there, he had a hand on either knee, holding her legs wide apart as he grunted his pleasure at having so young a girl at his spread mercy. No longer having to restrain her forcibly on the piss-sodden mattress, the other men had simply formed now a guard of honor around the disadvantaged girl, encouraging a deeper acquaintance yet, between so youthful a girlish slit and so antiquated a penile insert. Any third party would doubtless have thrown up! Watching his friend fuck the helpless girl, Bob saw no option but to wank himself to the edge of sanity. Accordingly, he knelt alongside the girl's soaked but otherwise frenetically pleasured body, masturbating with frenzied abandon so that as Rhonda's gaping pussy was further topped-up with cum, he sprayed the remnants of his own production-plant clean across her chest and face. By the time the third man climbed aboard, Rhonda was on heat. No longer was she seeing a clutch of geriatric paedophiles somewhat down on their luck, all she could concentrate on was yet another cock lined up to take her to where she definitely planned on going. Number four had his own preferences but still had little problem in coercing Rhonda to get on all fours in the center of the mattress. She even knelt there submissively as the man pissed long and hard all over her curvy little bottom before emptying the remnants of his bladder across her lower back and shoulders. What she hadn't planned on was eight inches of wrinkled cock seeking sanctuary in her up till now unused rear tunnel. "Nooooo, not there," she cried, as his helmeted drill- bit intruded that first half-inch into her tight channel. Even with urine running down her crack still, irrigating both the used and the unused, progress was minimal and Rhonda's discomfort at maximum pain-level. Gripping her waist, the man forced himself into her as she screamed out, "Stop it pleeassse, it's hurting me." "Fuck her hot little ass Geoff," went up the chorused encouragement drowning out the girl's pleas for mercy. Once he was an inch or so in, the pain lessened perceptibly, but still Rhonda was utterly humiliated and being tunnelled with what felt like an electric drain-cleaner. Nothing is forever however and although it could not be said she found the experience enjoyable as such, at the point the man spurted one ungodly amount of semen into the depths of her sexy little backside, she shivered uncontrollably in acceptance of so perverted a finality. The men stared, almost in stunned silence, at the young girl still kneeling there before them, cum running out of both rearward passages, mixing with the rivulets of urine streaming down her legs and inner thighs. Her piss-soaked hair even, glinting in the diffused light, such that could penetrate that foul basement. They weren't done with her of course. After the fifth man had fucked her conventionally - albeit doggie- style, she was made to suck the five of them one by one. Some came again, some couldn't for obvious physiological reasons. As she serviced each man, kneeling before them, the other four would fondle and finger her. On two occasions at least, she was almost brought to orgasm by their paedophilic ministrations. More than two hours had passed before they told her she could clean up. The basement had in one corner so she discovered, a decrepit and fully germ-ridden shower that although offering only freezing cold water was still a salvation of sorts. Tossed a grimy old towel, she was forced to shower in front of the debauched assembly – there being no door to the cubicle. Even in that darkened niche, the men could clearly make out every feature of the young girl's body. Most of them wanked themselves uncontrollably, two however were more highly motivated. Her back to the watchers, she was just rinsing the last traces of urine from her hair and cleavage when she felt a pair of hands on her hips. "Please, no more," she begged, turning quickly to face as horrendous a sight as God has yet seen fit to adorn this planet. Physically, a man in his seventies is at his best dressed let's say. These two would have graced the devil's cauldron itself. Sagging guts, shrivelled skin with liver-spots in profusion, wrinkled and gnarled old hands pawing at her youth and sexuality whilst what water was able to navigate those old pipes, streamed down their craggy faces, plastering the few strands of hair left, against their aged foreheads. "Get off me," she pleaded, "I've done what you wanted – what you paid for." "Just want to fuck you once more," said Bob even as his friend grabbed her arms and forced them behind her. Even at the age they were, both men still retained far too much strength for Rhonda to break free of. "No more," she sobbed as Bob brought his erection up between her legs. "Hold her tight John," he said, his fingers already prising her lower lips apart. She felt him enter her and then just shook as he thrust inside with a vigor one could not normally ascribe a homeless pensioner. What exactly he managed to spurt inside her, is up for debate but orgasm he most definitely acceded to. John then forced her to her knees beneath the freezing water and fucked her equally as hard. Mercifully she did not have to look upon the flabby if not hideous body wreaking its perverted sexual dominance on so vulnerable and slight a young girl. They left her then to complete her shower. Though dusty, her clothes had been spared a urinary soaking and having gotten as dry as that pathetic piece of towelling would allow, she wriggled back into her panties and hooked her bra back up. Throughout it all, the five of them watched... some still stroking their withered erections. Just how many suffered a heart- attack in the coming days is open to conjecture. Ten minutes later she saw Brent's coupe at the top of the alley. "You fucking bastard," was all she said, getting in the car. Brent just smiled. © Peter_Pan December 2005 http://www.lulu.com/content/166938 "The Complete Harper Valley" http://www.lulu.com/content/106537 Autobiography: "Cool Among The Flames" http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry .asp?userid=PQ0lfOLCgC&isbn=1411624149&itm=1 *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* The author does not condone child abuse, this story is meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a fellow convict in their local prison. *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* Kristen's collection - Directory 40