Chapter 11
She made her break when Carl began to paw her. As the evening progressed, Carl became drunker. Stanley had cut herself off from the group, lying on her stomach on one of the beds, either asleep or pretending to be asleep. Alan was reading, apparently none the worse from the steady drinking. Carl came to Angel, still seated in the straight chair. He grabbed a breast roughly and she jerked away, almost falling out of the chair.
"Leave me alone," she said.
" 'Kay, slit," Carl said. "Be that way. It's going to be a long night." He went off, staggering, to the bath. Alan continued to read, as if he were oblivious to the entire scene. Stanley was stretched out on the bed, lying on her stomach. Angel, her heart pounding, picked that moment to flee. She started slowly, lifting herself from the chair with an eye on Alan. Then she moved rapidly and was throwing open the door, with freedom out there in the darkness of the night, when Alan caught her.
He jerked her back into the room. "Angel," he said, his voice hard, "as Carl said, it's going to be a long night. Now I can't afford to risk another little incident like that. I'm going to get some sleep sometime tonight and short of tying you up, I don't know I'm going to do that, do you?"
She refused to speak to him. She jerked out from under his hands and walked to the far side of the room, her body shivering.
"Send her on a trip," Carl said, having come out to witness the last part of the abortive escape attempt. "She goes way out and we won't have to worry about her trying to bug out."
"I donno," Alan said, rubbing his chin. "The stuff hits her pretty hard."
"Well, hell, it never hurt anyone yet," Carl said. "Look, like you say, we gotta get some sleep sometime. Now I say let's slip her a cube and forget it."
"No," Angel said. "No." Her voice rose in panic as she thought of the horrors which came to her while she was under the influence of the drug.
But Carl, seemingly more sober, at least more steady on his feet, reached into his pocket and took out a small box, somewhat like a pill box.
He took out a white cube of sugar and held it up. "Come and get it, baby," he said.
Angel bolted for the door and was grabbed roughly by Alan. She fought, heels making contact with Alan's shins. The big fellow cursed and smothered her struggles in a bear hug, falling with her to the floor, wrapping one of his legs around hers so that she couldn't kick him. Held helpless, able to move only her head, she saw Carl kneel and hold the cube of sugar out to her. She closed her mouth tightly, like a small child refusing the nasty tasting medicine, and shook her head wildly back and forth. Carl's big hand seized her by the chin and the cube approached her lips. Still she wouldn't take it.
Carl held her head between one arm and his body, leaving one hand free to close over her nose. She could not breath. With his other hand, he held the sugar cube, loaded with the acid, to her lips. She held her breath until blackness began to close in. Her body went limp. With a short, quick gasp of surrender, she opened her mouth and the sickeningly sweet taste was in her mouth. The cube of sugar melted slowly. She could not taste the acid, but there was a growing feeling of hopeless panic in her. They held her there, her body wrapped up in Alan's arms and legs, her face held by Carl, until she swallowed the last of it.
Stanley was not asleep. She'd heard all of it. She started to offer an objection. She didn't like the way the stuff treated Angel. On some people, it was bad stuff. On some people the results were accumulative and she didn't like the way Angel had acted after having only two doses. But she didn't object. She lay on the bed, face down, and her mind leaped ahead. With Angel out of it, under the drug, maybe the boys would go to their room for a nap and then.. . .
The drug had a strange effect on Angel. It began to work with the usual quickness, but instead of the horrors, it produced a tranquil, dazed, drunken peace in her mind. She rolled away from Alan, who was still lying on the rug, his face supported on one hand as he watched her, and lay on her back. She laughed softly.
"Hey, Angel," Alan said. "What's so funny?"
"You," she said gaily. "Carl, all of you. You are so serious about all this when really nothing matters but happiness. Love. Happy, happy love and.. . " She broke off, humming tunelessly, but the melody was, in her mind, more beautiful than the finest aria ever composed. Alan grimed at Carl.
"Good trip," Carl said. "Makes me want to join her."
"We've earned it," Alan said, "but I'm afraid we can't risk it."
"One of us could take the trip," Carl said.
"You're already half-boozed," Alan said.
"You got a point. S'Kay, I'll have a drink or two and you fly, huh, baby? Ole Carl will guard the fort." He produced the box and Alan, a strange look of peace on his face, chewed the acid-laden cube hungrily.
"How about the ice maiden?" Carl asked, risking to stand over the bed.
"How about it, doll?" Alan asked. "And don't tell me you're asleep."
She rolled over. "No thanks," she said. "I'm not in the mood. One of us had better keep his senses." She rolled back over and turned her back to them.
Angel crawled to a wall, sat with her legs spread wide, her hands loosely idle in her lap. She looked misty-eyed, dreamy. A lovely little smile spread across her face and stayed there. Carl sat down to watch her, while Alan, beginning to feel the effects of the drug, speculated on the rounded curve of Stanley's rump. In the mini-shift, there was a lot of Stanley showing. Her long legs were creamy white and her rump made such a delightful jump up in swift, soft curves.
The acid always had a happy effect on Alan. From the first time he'd ever taken a trip, he lived for the time when he could leave it all, fly away climb into himself for that glorious, spinning ride to nowhere which came with a specified, small amount of LSD. Each trip was better than the last. Each trip made the world seem smaller, less important When he felt the thing begin, with his eyes on the sweet, feminine shape of the ice maiden, he no longer had to think about the fact that he was probably in his last quarter at school. His grade level was down to the disaster point and he probably wouldn't be allowed to re-enroll for the next quarter. He didn't have to think about the fact that his parents were questioning the expenses of his schooling. He was in his fifth year away from home and was still a considerable distance away from even the simplest bachelor's degree and his father was growing increasingly sceptical of Alan's stories and excuses. Nor then, with the shape of Stanley growing to become world mother, all-woman, did Alan have to wonder if he had done right to ally himself with people who were obviously not interested in non-violent protests against the Viet Nam war.
The people who had sent him, along with Carl, to meet Stanley and Angel Tomsk were after something bigger than mere student protest, but Alan didn't have to ask what with the sweet feeling of apartness coming over him.
He sat next to Angel, against the wall. He heard her tuneless humming ann joined her in an off-key, wandering serenade to the world of illusion. Sex was not on his mind. Nothing was on his mind, really. His mind was a jewel floating on a sea of cold fire. His soul was disembodied. He was eternal and complete and at times as huge as the universe, itself.
Carl had a drink, looked at Angel and Alan, envied them. "Good trip," he said to an unresponsive Stanley. "Look at ole Alan. He's flying."
For a long, long time they sat against the wall. Sometimes Angel hummed. Alan, his eyes open, unblinking, was relieved of even that casual link with reality. Carl, feeling the effects of the booze he'd been putting away, leaned back in the chair and dozed off. Stanley, no longer pretending sleep, made a tiny buzzing sound as she breathed deeply and regularly.
Something woke Carl. It crept into his sleep fogged mind insidiously, bringing him back to a state of drugged, mouth-dirty semi-consciousness. He opened his eyes. Stanley was making that little half-snore. She had turned onto her back in her sleep and the miniskirt had pulled up to show the lower lace on a pair of yellow panties. But the sound was coming from Angel. She was lying on the floor, making soft, hair-raising moans. At first Carl thought she was having a bad trip, then, upon closer inspection, he felt a visceral stir of carnality. The chick was turned on. She was still way out of it, but the stuff had hit her in the seat of the pants, the way it did last time and the time before that. She was lying on her back, one hand on her stomach, the other on one of her large breasts. It was quite a sexy pose. She quashed her breast forcefully between her fingers, paying attention to a nipple, and moaned like a girl on the verge of pitching her cookies or something. She sounded more sick than sexy, but it was obvious that she was turned on.
For a moment, Carl considered it. Then he decided that this head hurt. He had a vile taste in his mouth and his neck was stiff from sitting in the chair.
Old Alan was still sitting next to the wall, out of it. Having a joyful trip, to judge from his shifting, non-blinking eyes. Alan, Carl thought, where are you boy? He went back to sit in the chair. The dumb broad still played with her tit and made the moaning sounds.
It was almost midnight. He had to get some sleep. Everyone was either out of it or asleep. He leaned back in the chair, said aloud, "What the hell?", went to sack out on the other bed.
Her moaning kept him awake. He sat up, cursing. He had one more drink and the bitch was still at it, squeezing her tit like crazy. He grinned. Shame to make her suffer, even in the world of unreality. He got up from the bed and walked to stand over them. Alan was way out of it. He unbuttoned Alan's shirt, grinning all the way. Be a good joke on ole Alan. Tell him all about it tomorrow. He jerked the shirt out of Alan's trousers, pulled the inert man away from the wall to remove the upper garment. Then he took hold of Alan's feet, pulled him roughly out into the floor. Alan's head hit the rug with a sound like that of a ripe mellon falling. Carl, his purpose clear, pulled off the dreamer's shoes and then jerked off slacks and shorts together.
Alan was about as interested in sex as he was in advanced trig at that moment.
But he thought he could fix that, with Angel's help. It was easier undressing her and, for a moment, it was touch and go whether or not he would carry out his original intention or take her himself. His tiredness won. He had that miserable feeling which comes from sobering up without an adequate amount of sleep to help the body recover. He felt a tiny urge, deep within, but it wasn't enough to make him do anything about it. It was enough to push on with his joke.
"O. K., Angel-baby," he was saying, as he tugged Angel into position. "You want it, baby. Here it is."
He put her hand on Alan's limpness. "Sic 'em, baby," he said, grinning.
Somewhere down there it did something to her. He saw her hand tighten around Alan and begin a little massage. Nothing happened. He'd have to do something about it. Looked as if the broad would be content to just play with nothing all night.
He picked her up, positioned her. Her face was pushed down into Alan's lap. He had to almost put it in, himself, but she got the idea, at last, and started using it like a baby after milk. He chuckled. Whether or not ole Carl knew what was going on, things got up. Things began to happen. He thought it was rather exciting to see it get hard and push its way out of Angel's puckered lips. And he thought it did something for her, for she was making little moaning sounds as she worked him over.
But in the end he even had to lift her again, place on atop the inert Alan. He had to position her and with his hands in contact with her lubricous womanhood as he pushed her down to make contact with the only part of Alan which wasn't inert, he began to experience a growth of real world, but her world had become man, huge, interest, himself. Then she felt the penetration and her sexuality took over. She was still out of the big in her, filling her, thrilling her as she'd never been thrilled before. Her mind made her entire body one huge vagina and she was full of man. She lunged and bucked and pulled her soft, female body on and down on the body of Alan. She reached one happy peak quickly and didn't even stop, pulling herself up and down as soft things convulsed inside her. She was the spirit of sex personified and nothing would stop her . . . now.
"You are a vile son-of-a-bitch," Carl heard, as he knelt beside them, watching her doing all the work, wondering if those wet, sobbing, laughing sounds she made indicated as much kicks as they sounded like. He turned. Stanley was sitting up on the bed, looking at him with disgust on her face.
"Just watching the action," he said, feeling guilt, not because he'd coupled Angel and Alan, but because he'd been caught watching it, from up close.
"Well," Stanley said, "that's how some people get their kicks."
The sound of her voice, her haughty tone, made him angry. He got up off his knees and looked down at her. "Knock it off," he said warningly. "At least I'm capable of getting my kicks in a normal way. I'm not so sure about you, ice maiden."
"When little boys can't do anything else, or think of anything else to say, they call people names," Stanley said.
"You snotty bitch," Carl said. "You got no right to talk to me that way. Who told you, you were such hot shit, hah?"
"And I don't like vulgarity," Stanley said, her disgust still strong. Behind Carl, Angel was still mounted on Alan.
"What do you like?" Alan asked her, his voice tense. His hands were clenched. He was still a little bit drunk, he felt like hell with his body trying to throw off the booze without adequate sleep, and he'd been excited by watching the wanton, drugged Angel using the inert Alan for her own purposes. "What is it you do like, huh?" He leaned over her, a big, powerful man, young, vigorous. She saw the anger in his face and returned it in kind. She had been brought out of a restless sleep by the animal sounds made by that bitch, Angel, and then she'd seen a male pig down on his hands and knees practically lapping up the juices of the disgusting spectacle. What the hell did they think she was, some kind of pervert? What kind of a circus was this?
"I don't like you," she said icily. "I don't like being made witness to filth. I don't like being associated with animals."
"Animals?" Carl asked. "You calling me an animal?" He grabbed for her and got a handful of sharp nails across his forearm. Four red welts leaped up and he cursed, his hand finding purchase, this time, in the material of the skimpy shift. Stanley tried to pull away, scratching, kicking. The dress came apart at the seams, the front panel coming off neatly to leave her dressed in very brief yellow panties, a lacy bra and the back half of a mini-shift which clung to her body by the armholes.
"Animal," she spat, backing off the other side of the bed to stand facing Carl.
"Don't call me that," he said warningly.
"Animal," she repeated, edging toward the bathroom, with a vague warning sounding back in her mind. He came directly across the bed. She'd been expecting him to come around it and she would have had a clear shot at the bathroom door. Once inside, she could have locked it, but he came over the bed, surprised her by his quickness, and caught her before she could do more than make a sound in her throat. She fought. She left her marks on him. Her nails made red, angry welts on his arms and his neck but he was so big, so strong. He smothered her struggles until, gasping, she let her body hang limp in his arms, her feet off the floor.
"Animal, am I, huh?" he asked. "You queer bitch, calling me names. You never had a normal urge in your life, bitch. And you call me names."
She sobbed. She tried to escape the crushing arms. He was squeezing her so tightly that she couldn't breath. He moved, tossed her lightly onto the bed. She bounced and came up on her rump, hands behind her. The position jutted her nice breasts forward in the skimpy, lacy bra. Carl saw and a new joke was forming in his mind.
"You ever try a man, queer girl?" he asked, moving toward the bed.
"Carl," she said, telling herself that he was just drunk, that she could talk sense to him if she remained calm. "Now, Carl, listen to me."
"Gonna save you, baby," Carl said, grinning, coming closer, closer. "I'm gonna save you from yourself, show you what a real man is and deliver you from a life of queerdom. Your hear, baby? I'm gonna give it to you, right in the ole kazoo, baby. like . . . WHAM!" He jammed one finger into a circle formed by thumb and forefinger. "Wham! Huh, Stanley, baby?"
"Be sensible, Carl," she said, forcing her voice to be calm, not able to believe that he could be serious. Behind him, Angel was clinging to Alan, riding, disgustingly erotic and making wet, slurping sounds.
He leaped for her and she couldn't get off the bed fast enough. He dragged her back, ripping the back portion of the dress away. In yellow panties and bra, she was forced to be close to him. She beat on his chest with puny fists and told him to leave her alone. She writhed in anger and agony and turned her face away from him. She tried to knee him, but her legs were pinned under one of his heavy thighs and her face and neck were being hurt as he held this portion of her rigid in one huge, ham-like hand. His breath smelled of stale booze and she held her breath, closed her mouth tightly, turning her lips inward to avoid as much of his kiss as possible.
He would stop. She knew he would stop. He was just teasing her in his drunken way and nothing serious would happen.
"Carl, please," she begged.
"Carl, please," he mimicked, forcing his disgusting mouth down on hers with his lips wide. She felt his wet, sickening kiss on her closed mouth and she freed one hand, raking her nails into the back of his neck. He yelped in pain and hit her. He hit her with an open palm, but the force of it almost unseated her head, made her see stars, then a moment of real blackness during which Carl, taking advantage of her sudden limpness, broke bra straps and exposed a pair of very feminine breasts. He was playing with them, using both hands, when she came out of the blackness and, screaming, went wild.
She'd never, never had a set of male hands where his were. She'd been born the way she was, she was convinced of that. She'd never liked boys, except as friends or playmates or as someone with whom to compete. She had her first Lesbian experience when she was nine years old and all her sexual thoughts since then had been feminine directed. She'd never dated a boy, never kissed a boy when it wasn't absolutely necessary to maintain the fiction that she was like other girls. And, when it was necessary to date a boy, such as for the Junior-Senior prom, she went with some boy who usually had trouble finding a date of any kind and she never, never allowed liberties. Thus, when she came out of the brief blackness and felt Carl's rough, male hands on her sensitive breasts, she went wild and almost broke away before Carl recovered from his surprise. When he hit her again, it was with his fist, for her flailing nails had caught him again, under his left eye. She fell back, limp.
Something about it had turned him on. Maybe it was the feel of her struggling body, hard-soft girl fighting, fighting. Maybe it was the atavistic cave-man instinct of conquest which made him ready. With lust growing in him by the second, he determined quickly that she wasn't really hurt. She was breathing normally. He pushed her into position in the center of the bed, divested her of the yellow panties quickly. She had blonde pubic hair and he grinned, thinking that a true blonde was hard to find, baby. He glanced over his shoulder. Angel was riding. She was kneeling over the body of Alan, her knees under her, impaled on Alan's cooperating prick. She was grinding, grinding, a really well-stacked chick getting her jollies right before his eyes. But there was another well-stacked chick on the bed under him and she was his by right of conquest. He pushed the white, well shaped thighs apart and looked at the dark-red-moist areas of Stanley which offered him the greatest temptation.
She was vaguely aware of his hands on her. She couldn't move. She felt his fingers pull her labia apart and she felt his hands push her thighs apart and she felt his body go into position between her thighs.
"Don't," she whispered, "Oh, please don't!"
He said nothing. He put his weight on her and his hand was between them, guiding that disgusting, hard, man-thing into the defenseless softness where man had never been, should never have been.
"God, Carl, you don't know what you're doing," she said, shifting her hips desperately, avoiding the penetration. "Please stop. Oh, God, please, please." But she was so weak. Her head was still spinning from his blow.
She screamed, once, as he pinched her hips painfully, forcing her to be still. "I don't want to hurt you," he told her.
"Then stop, oh, God, stop!"
"Not a chance, baby," he said.
"I'll kill you, Carl," she promised. "I swear I'll kill you."
He laughed. The sound was low, eerie. She screamed as he centered that vile, huge object and shoved to tear tender tissue which had felt nothing more penetrating than a friendly, feminine tongue. She fainted with the pain, with the sheer disaster of it and she awoke with pain continued as the beast in her and on her lunged and shoved in an animalistic fury.
"I'll kill you," she promised, as he bucked the monstrous thing into her. She lay lax, full of pain, full of horror and a sickening disgust.
He went quickly, fortunately. He poured his filth into her softness which she tried to pull away, in sudden terror, as she realized that he was near. He held her painfully, his fingers digging into her soft rump and she could feel it pulse obscenely into her. He left her. He went into the bathroom.
On the floor, Angel moaned sensuously as she, lying flat on the motionless Alan, moved slowly, erotically, that impaling manhood still in her. Stanley leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited. Then, after Carl had slammed out the door, she couldn't stop the sobbing. She lay on the bed, nude, weak, helpless. She sobbed. She cried until her body jerked and the harsliness of her sobbing made her throat hurt. She cried for what she had lost.
She cried out her hate and horror as Carl's vile leavings oozed onto the softness of her inner thigh. And on the rug, Angel, at last, was still.