Chapter 2
"Grant! Please!" Barbara's voice rose and she squirmed her leg away from Grant's hand as they sat in his car at the drive-in.
"You know I don't like that," she said as she straightened the prim, yellow dress over her legs.
"Aw, Barbara," the solid, six-foot tall and heavily built young man beside her mumbled, "why can't I?"
Barbara gave him a severe look in the semi-darkness. "I don't know if you go out with girls when you're not out with me," she said primly, "or what kind of girls they are. But if you do such things like that with them-well, Grant Tyson, I can tell you now, you're not going to get away with it with me!"
"Aw, cut it out, Barbara." He pulled her to him, cut off her words with his mouth. She resisted his effort to press his tongue between her teeth and after a moment, pushed him away.
"What do you think I am?" she asked indignantly.
Grant Tyson breathed deeply. "What about me?" he muttered hoarsely. "How about me, eh? You never do nothin' with me. You think I'm some kind of a freak or somethin'?"
Barbara made her voice soft. "Of course not, Grant." She placed her hand on his with a sisterly gesture. "I understand," she murmured, then added: "In a way, I mean-I don't know why you want to."
"Jesus, Barbara," he blurted, "I've gone steady with you for-for how long, eh? How long?"
"A long time," she said with satisfaction.
"An' we're gonna get married, aren't we?"
Barbara was silent.
"Christ, Barbara-we're gonna get married when I graduate, aren't we?"
"In two years," she murmured.
"Yeah, I graduate in two years. Then we get married, huh?"
Barbara sighed deeply. "If you behave yourself."
"Christ!" It was a strangled yelp. "I've been behavin' for ten years! Jesus, Barbara!"
She patted his hand, maternally this time.
"You've been a good boy, a very good boy, Grant," she said, "even if sometimes you have tried to do things that-" "Aw, Barbara," he groaned. "How d'you think I feel? When're you gonna let me? When, Barbara?"
"After we're married," she said sharply. "You wouldn't want to marry a loose girl."
"Jesus, Barbara-there ain't any girl who's less loose than you."
She made her voice small. "I thought you'd be pleased to have a virgin for a wife!"
"Well, Jesus, yes, but-" His voice tapered off.
Barbara glanced at her watch.
"Grant!" Her voice became urgent. "It's late. We've got to go. You know I don't stay out late-" "Oh, Christ," he sighed. "I hadda wait for you at your house. You were sleepin' or somethin'. An' now we've only seen half a show, an' you gotta get back!" He stared at her in the gloom. "Do your folks still wait up for you?"
"What's wrong with that?" she snapped.
"Do they?" he asked. "Honest?"
She wriggled in her seat. "Well, Daddy does," she murmured, "usually." She didn't tell Grant that nobody would be waiting up for her that night because her parents had gone to visit friends on the far side of town and they wouldn't be back until late. "Let's go," she murmured.
And after a few weak words of argument, Grant drove Barbara to the empty house. But he didn't know it was empty. The lights were still on, as Barbara had told her father to leave them. He watched her trip lightly up the path, open the front door, wave sweetly to him. Then he morosely drove away.
Barbara heard Grant drive away, then she walked back into the big, empty living room and sank into her father's roomy, old but comfortable armchair. "Grant!" she said his name out loud, then murmured it again, this time soundlessly. What would it be like to be married to Grant? She frowned after she had asked herself the question that she had asked so many times before. Everybody expected her and Grant to get married. Their parents were friends. They'd been neighbors for so long that it was just taken for granted!
She got up from the armchair, unlocked her father's liquor cabinet with the key that he had hidden in the antique vase on his desk, poured herself a small glass of vodka, and swallowed it straight. It tasted like nothing. She didn't want to get married to Grant, she told herself -she didn't want to get married to anyone!
She stood in front of the living room mirror, stared at her reflection: her eyes were still bright, but they weren't feverish as they had been when she was in Vincent's office. She thought of Vincent for a moment, then switched her mind back onto Grant. Grant Tyson!
If she had to get married to someone, it might just as well be Grant. At least she could handle Grant, as she'd been handling him all these years. He wouldn't dare stop her from doing the things she wanted to do. She sank into the armchair again, thinking of the things that she liked to do-the secret things, the private things, the unspeakable things! It would be a long time before she got married. She'd make it a long time. A long, long time!
Barbara got up, poured herself another drink from her father's liquor cabinet. Daddy! Dear Daddy. She wondered if he knew that he was partly responsible for her being the way that she was! But he couldn't know! He couldn't know that, because he didn't know the way she was! But he really didn't know. Not the way she really was!
Daddy's little girl! The sweetest child on the block-the nicest girl in the neighborhood. Sweet, sweeter than honey. She'd always been told she was... "honey" when she was small. And that meant sweet-tasting as honey. Honey to be licked, sucked sweetly.
She was such a cute little thing, a good little girl, everybody said it-especially her father, he was always saying that! So she'd made herself into the kind of girl that her father, and everybody else for that matter, expected and wanted her to be. Sweet, pure and good. Nice, that's what she was, a nice girl!
"My little Barbara-puss," her father would say, stroking her light brown hair, caressing her cheeks, kissing her. "Little baby girl," he had crooned to her when she was eight years old, cuddling her and squeezing her. "Daddy's little angel," he'd say, tickling her, making her giggle and squirm and blush, when she was only ten.
And then, on that magic day when she was twelve years old the unexpected had happened, the delicious thing-the secret thing-the thing she could never forget.
"You know what you are," he had said as she sat on his knee, "you're perfect!" Then he'd laughed as though he'd said something very clever, and she'd known he was a little bit drunk. Not too much, but just a little because her mother was away, visiting her sister, and Neil didn't like drinking when Harriette was around. "Here," he'd said, picking up his empty glass and giving it to her, "pour me some whiskey-then come back." He'd smiled, a silly, drunken but affectionate smile. "Barbara-puss!" Calling her his pet name all the time, and smiling, looking happy, and acting happy.
She smiled back at him sweetly, then took his glass to the cabinet, splashed in some whiskey and perched herself back on his knee.
"You're lovely," he'd said, stroking the soft roll of baby fat on her inner thigh, "the sweetest little morsel." He squeezed the smooth flesh and she giggled, so he tickled her tummy, making her giggle more. Then he'd pulled his hand away, really quick, as though he was scared, and picked up his glass and drank, thirstily.
Barbara had squirmed her small body impatiently. She loved it when someone touched her soft skin, sending the sweet shivers cascading over her flesh. It made her feel so wet, so warm, so heavenly! As soon as he put his glass down and sighed, Barbara seized his hand, pressed it between her warm, satiny thighs and lisped, "Tickle-please tickle!"
He had breathed deeply, and she had kissed his cheek, wetly, sweetly, and expectantly. Then his hand moved and she giggled; not because he had tickled her yet, but because there was a small tear in her briefs at the crotch, and the back of his hand was against it. "Oooh!" she breathed into his ear.
His hand seemed to move as though he was trying to pull it away, but she squeezed her thighs together, trapped it there, then pressed herself down, wetly. Her father seemed to breathe more deeply, but said nothing. His hand didn't move.
Barbara pressed her lips against his ear, then bit the lobe gently with her small, strong teeth. She knew that her father could feel the wetness of her, the hair above the tiny lips that she strove to open on his hand. But he didn't give any indication, didn't say anything-not then or ever! She knew that he knew that she had hair there. And she was excited and proud because she was only twelve years old.
"You're sweet, Barbara-puss," he said at last, hoarsely, and he started to withdraw his hand.
She squeezed her thighs together more tightly, trying to hold his hand in its place. But the vaginal lips had become wet, the small slit had oozed open and the back of her father's hand slid, then slipped, outward and upward as it escaped from its slithery trap.
Barbara felt the pressure press and pass over the tiny tip of her clitoris as her father said: "You're so sweet... You're as sweet as a pot of honey."
And with the word... it happened! The wondrous thing: goose pimples rose all over her body, waves of sweetness washed her pure flesh with deep rolls of thrilling intensity. And as the hand made its final exodus, an errant finger touched, teased a vibrating clitoral tip-and Barbara orgasmed, once, then again, wetly and completely onto the back of her father's hand.
Barbara sighed, remembering. Her first real orgasm! She pressed herself back into the deep armchair. At twelve years old! Was that very young to start to have an orgasm, she wondered.
Her father never tickled her any more after that. They never talked of it-not with words, but sometimes they'd exchange an unexpected glance, a naked look that was so revealing in its wordlessness; then her father's eyes would flicker away, quickly and guiltily, as though he'd done something wrong, when he'd only looked, just looked.
But he still hugged her, kissed her sometimes and called her his Barbara-puss, his little baby girl, because she was his daughter, and he loved her as a father. If she teased him, flaunting her curvy body in front of him, or bending over so close to him, so temptingly that he slapped a soft, inviting bottom, well, then, it was a game they played-a harmless game. And they were careful, as though they had an unspoken agreement, not to play when Harriette was there. Because it was the kind of thing that Harriette wouldn't have understood. They both knew that -though they never said it! But in the sea of secret silence that surrounded yet did not separate them, one word remained alive.
Honey -It would pierce Barbara's flesh like an unexpected beam of sensuality, triggering unwanted flickers of orgiastic thrills when least anticipated....
Her mother had made her a new swimsuit and Barbara was modeling it, letting Harriette make last-minute adjustments to its waist, when her father came into the room.
"Now lean forward, Barbara," said Harriette, not noticing Neil, "Let me see how it stretches."
And the rounded buttocks had tightened and strained within the thin material. Neil had glided forward, slapped Barbara's bottom lightly, affectionately, then- "Honey...." he'd murmured. And Barbara had felt the orgiastic tremors begin.
She had tried to stay still; tried to curb the quivers that made her knees shake-and the telltale moistness had slid down her thighs.
"Neil!" Harriette turned a white, furious face to her husband. "Are you out of your mind?"
And he'd stammered apologies for something he'd never intended, then stumbled out of the room and the house. But he'd told Barbara- when they were alone in the house-to be careful. Careful of men and boys. Boys who acted like men.
"You're so sweet," he told her, "that any man would want to-to get to you-" And he'd stopped talking, wordless, afraid and strangely shy.
Barbara had helped him. "I understand," she'd said. "I know what you mean," And she'd looked up at him, smiled, whitely but sincerely, saying: "I won't let them get in. That's what you mean, isn't it?"
He nodded, his throat choked up, then he croaked: "You're my Barbara-puss-" as though that explained how he felt.
She nodded. "Of course I am." Then she'd smiled to reassure him.
And she wouldn't! she told herself. She'd never allow it. Not to go in, right in, with that long, ugly shaft! She shivered at the thought. She'd never do that until after she was married -and only then if she had to!
"My little baby girl," he'd said, and Barbara said: "Yes, lam!"
And she hadn't let anyone-not Vincent, not Grant, not anyone! Except... when she was raped! And she couldn't help that! She was supposed to be unconscious! It was too, too horrible to even think of! But there were nice things, too-like the thing she had with Vincent. That was good: that was satisfying, so intensely satisfying!
There were other things, too. She thought back, remembering her first job when she started work at Erickson's. How long ago was that? Barbara screwed up her eyes, trying to pinpoint the time. The moment when it happened. She'd been at her job for less than a week, so that meant it was a year ago. Just one year since Vincent Erickson asked her to stay late for the first time. The very first time-she was eighteen years old...
"I hope you didn't mind staying after the others," said Vincent Erickson, smiling at her from behind his big desk when she brought in the reports that he had asked her to type out.
"Of course not," she'd said, blushing and feeling awkward at her new job, "I didn't mind at all." She'd stared down at him. He reminded her of her father. The same color eyes and the same build.
He glanced up, caught her eye, smiled. "I have two daughters," he said surprisingly. "One's about your age." He looked at her intently, then: "How old are you?"
"Eighteen," she said, and Vincent had said: "Yes, that's right, eighteen."
She had felt uncomfortable, standing there while Vincent stared for a long moment, not saying anything, just looking at her. She felt uncomfortable and strange and, in a crazy way, scared but excited.
"It's a wonderful age," he said, then he got up and walked to the window, stared into the street as though he'd forgotten all about her.
She had wondered whether she was supposed to go, if this was his way of dismissing her, when he turned and asked: "What do you do now?"
She looked at him blankly, not understanding.
"I mean," he explained, "when you finish work, do you go straight home?"
"Yes," she said, "usually."
He seemed to hesitate, then: "It's a beautiful evening," he said.
She glanced towards the window. It was spring. Spring in San Francisco-and the Bay was so near...
"I like to drive near the water," Vincent said.
"Do you?" Barbara started. That was what she liked to do in the summer and in the spring.
He seemed to look at her for a long time without speaking, then the words sounded strange. "Care to come?"
Her answer surprised herself. "Very much."
"Okay," he said, turning a small key in his desk. Then she was back in the outer office, phoning home, telling her mother, "Have to work late. Don't expect me for a while." And when she turned, Vincent was standing right behind her, smiling at her and probably wondering why she had to say she was working when actually she was going for a drive with her boss.
With her boss! It was if he read her mind. "I hope you're not coming just because I asked you -and because I'm your boss," he'd said.
"No, no, oh no," she'd told him quickly.
"You don't have to. It's quite all right," he said.
She smiled, not feeling shy anymore, not feeling as though this man was her boss, not now.
Not at this moment. "I want to," she said sincerely. "I want to very much, Mr. Erickson."
"Call me Vincent," he said, moving to the outer door and locking it behind them.
He took her on a route that was quite unfamiliar, then he turned off the highway onto a road that was more of a trail that led to a low bluff with a wonderful view of the Bay. "We can get out," he said, stopping the car and pushing open the door. "Sit on the grass if you want."
She slid herself out, her microskirt riding to her waist-and she was aware of Vincent's eyes on her flesh.
"Real grass," he said, dropping down, then lying on his back with his face turned to the evening sun, basking in the warmth.
"I didn't know there was any," she giggled, sitting down beside him. "Real grass, I mean."
He offered her a cigarette, and she took it, examined it curiously.
"Different," she said. It was gold-tipped, with a coarse, dark tobacco.
"Imported," he told her. "I have them sent. See-" He held it close to her face and she saw the initials V.E. on it.
"They stamp your initials on all of them?" she asked curiously.
He nodded. "When I was in South America, a friend had some blended and I liked 'em. So-" He shrugged.
"You mean, they make them up specially for you?"
"Sort of," he said nonchalantly.
She puffed thoughtfully, drew in smoke, blew it out then: "I like it," she said as though she didn't expect to.
He laughed. "See how it makes you feel."
She turned her face quickly anxiously. "It's not some kind of dope-" She held the cigarette far away from her face, her eyes angry.
"No, oh, no," he reassured her. "It's just-" he laughed again. "Some of the natives call it a 'fertility smoke!'" "A wha-at?"
"Fertility," he said. "It's supposed to make you feel passionate." He laughed again.
Barbara took a deep breath, held her knees together primly, then: "If-if that's what you brought me here for, Mr. Erickson..." She began to get up.
"No, no!" He reached out towards her, sitting up and looking worried. "Don't misunderstand."
Barbara stared down at him. It was just too nice out here. The water, the sun, the grass.... "I'd better get home," she murmured.
"Please," he said, "please, Miss Bennett."
Barbara paused. Maybe it was the use of her name that reassured her, reminded her that he was her boss! He didn't have to bring her out here if he wanted to seduce her. It would be easier to do that in his office.
"Don't get all outraged," he said, smiling, "Miss Bennett."
Suddenly her momentary anger evaporated. "My name's Barbara," she said, giving him a small smile in return.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I know that, Barbara-" And he laughed as though he was pleased with himself.
She looked at her cigarette doubtfully.
"Maybe I should put this out."
"No. It won't do you any harm, I promise."
"Really?" she asked.
He smiled. "Really."
She took a puff, slowly, carefully.
"I like the taste of it," she said.
Vincent slithered his body slightly so that he was more in front of her, could see more easily up and under the little-girl skirt.
"I suppose you do," he said softly. "Girls usually do."
Barbara knew where he was looking, what he was seeing. Sometimes when they had guests at home, men guests, she would tease them. The way Vincent was acting now reminded her of their behavior.
She would drag up the low stool that she kept in the living room and place it in a strategic place-strategic for her purpose, that is- usually in front of the guest. He'd glance up, watch her squat down, then his eyes would flicker when she drew up her knees, parted her feet-and let the guest see her new panties, her old panties or her no-panties. She'd see his eyes become still, iris inward, focus on the white vee that led to her tunnel, and a small thrill would shimmer through her body.
If she were alone with him, or Harriette or Neil were preoccupied with other guests, she might giggle, then wiggle her buttocks, opening and closing her thighs or loosening then stretching the tiny briefs at the crotch... if she was wearing briefs.
And she'd see it get big on the guest! The thing, the horrible, big thing! But it wasn't so horrible as long as it didn't go in her. It didn't matter how big it got-and she liked to make it get big, to do things and see it get big-as long as no one tried to push it into her! Maybe-just maybe, it would be all right to do the same thing with Vincent!
She saw his eyes flicker, and knew. Her cotton briefs were thin and small-she always wore a size too small-and her warm thatch of hair was thicker now. Thicker and bigger; a few strands always showed at her pantyleg-she'd noticed that in her mirror.
"You're beautiful," said Vincent, his voice all tight and choked. He was looking up her legs, not at her face.
Barbara drew in her breath, squirmed her buttocks slightly. Was it her imagination, or did this cigarette really make her feel more sexy, more excited? "What're you lookin' at, Vincent?" she said, calling him Vincent for the first time.
"You," he said. "You're beautiful." His eyes riveted on her legs, her thighs, and in between.
"You mean my legs?" she asked, not hiding them.
"Yeah," he muttered, "and-you." He swallowed as though his throat was blocked.
"You're sweet," he said. "Like a honey-pot."
Barbara tensed. The flicker ran through her flesh, as always.
"I'd like to kiss you," Vincent said. He stopped speaking too suddenly, too abruptly, then moistened his lips with a jerky tongue.
Barbara stared at him, then turned her head and tried not to see him, be aware of him, tried to stop the tremor of her lips that the word "Honey..." had started.
"Not on your mouth," Vincent whispered.
"Not on your mouth!"
She held herself rigid, pressing her thighs so tightly together-and remembered Pepe! Pepe, and the thing he had done, so long ago.
She had been fourteen. He came to work on their garden once a week. He had been coming to their house for as long as Barbara could remember. An old man, or he seemed like an old man to Barbara-probably ten years or so older than her father. If it hadn't been for her father, she'd never have started with Pepe, she thought. That "teasing game!" That was the first, then after that, Pepe!
"So sorry, Missy," he had said when the handle of the rake fell onto her foot after she had entered the small tool shed so unexpectedly.
"It hurts," she had muttered, hopping on one foot and holding the other.
He had gone down in front of her, made her sit on a box, then he'd taken off her slipper, so carefully, so reverently, as though she were a small goddess.
"Still hurt, Missy?" he asked anxiously, rubbing her foot gently.
"Not so much," she'd murmured, then she saw his eyes flicker up, and she remembered that she wasn't wearing any briefs. She felt a small flush suffuse her face. Then she wondered curiously if he liked it, like her daddy liked it-and whether he would get all big on his horrible thing.... Her eyes went onto his body-and he did!
"So sorry," he said again, then she felt shocked when he bent his head, kissed her foot lightly. He glanced at her face, then under her skirt, and smiled. "Kiss it better," he said, as though she were five years old. But he was looking at her legs as he said it.
"If you want to," she murmured, her face feeling hot.
He kissed her foot, then her ankle, then the bottom of her calf. "Sweet," he said, smiling up at her. "You're very sweet."
He touched the side of her knees with the tip of his tongue, then his mouth slid higher, slithered onto her thigh. He kissed it, gently but wetly, and when he looked up there was a trace of saliva at the corner of his mouth.
"Honey..." he said. "Little Missy tastes sweet as honey." And his head went down again as the thrills ran through her body at the softly spoken word.
Honey! The waves ran through her flesh until they reached her belly and eddied in teasing circles, then plunged down. The breath panted from Barbara's lips as the wet mouth moved higher. Then she stretched open her thighs with a jerky, convulsive movement as his tongue touched the apex, paused, trembling- then thrust onto the lips. "Ooooh, Pepe," she moaned, then higher: "Oh Pepe!"
His tongue slid smoothly into her, and Pepe began to suck...
"Not your mouth," Vincent had said, and the memory had flashed, and with it the beginning thrill. "Mmmm... like honey," said Vincent again, sending the new waves to melange with the old waves. He buried his face between her thighs. "I want to kiss," he said, his voice muffled by her flesh.
Barbara could hear the cars passing on the highway, but out of sight. There was a mound in the ground between the bluff and the road that hid them, shielded them.
"May I, Barbara?" asked Vincent.
She giggled breathlessly. It sounded crazy when he said it like that. Her boss! She didn't answer, but she didn't stop him when his hands slid round her waist, drew down the chaste briefs and slipped them off her legs. She parted her thighs when his head slid between them, then slithered up, his mouth tracing a wet path on her skin. She felt her lips curling open when he touched them with the tip of his tongue. Then she raised her buttocks, pressed her pelvis forward when his mouth flattened against her vulva. Her eyes irised down to his head and he glanced up, lifting his mouth off her with a soft, sucking sound.
"You're delicious, Barbara," he said, savoring the word and taste of her as though he was a connoisseur experiencing something exquisite.
"Suck," she mouthed, feeling the throb in her body when he spoke. "Suck, Vincent." And she pushed at his head, pressing it through the maze of hairs on her belly until she felt the sweet softness of his lips enveloping the opening vagina.
"Lick it-an' suck it-an' make me come," she spewed, inserting the cigarette between her lips, drawing on it and wondering between the spasms of ecstasy whether it was the combination of the smoke and the word and the air and the sun which made her feel so voluptuously, deliriously aroused and excited and vicious and hungry.
She took a cluster of Vincent's hair in her fingers, inhaled the smoke and twisted the strands fiercely. Vincent made a small sound of pain, and that gave her pleasure, too. "Make me come," she muttered, swallowing smoke and opening her mouth for air. "Suck," she spewed, lifting her buttocks.
Vincent moaned, moved his mouth, and sucked deeply. She gripped with her thighs, squeezing his cheeks with an intolerable tightness, then her clitoris tensed, twitched and her whole vulva jerked. "Oh, Vincent," she moaned, "make me, Vincent-make me come-come- come!"
Her voice keyed high. "Suck the honey," she squealed, then her body wracked itself against his lips as she orgasmed, violently and obscenely, not like a nice little girl at all.
Barbara sighed and smiled as she remembered. She leaned back in her father's armchair, glanced at the empty glass beside her and wondered how long she had been sitting here dreaming. Her dreams had been so delicious! She squeezed her legs together, closed her eyes again. She felt so sleepy. So many thoughts, emotions, dreams. The first time with Vincent -it had been so good! But there were other times, too-so many others.
She rested her head in a comfortable corner of the armchair, closed her eyes more tightly, and went to sleep.