Chapter 2
Rain was falling as the small group broke up and scurried quickly to the few waiting cars that lined the macadam drive that circled through the cemetery. The last to leave, with a backward glance at the ugly mound of earth beside the grave, was Marty Wells.
Her eyes were hard. The mist on her cheeks was only summer raindrops. There were no tears. The look on her face was one of relief, like a long-term criminal who has seen the gates to freedom open.
She turned toward the minister who had waited, thinking that he might comfort the motherless child. Beside him stood his son, Eddie, looking sanctimoniously sympathetic. Marty looked hard at Eddie, as if to say, "You tried, buster, but your chance is gone, you snot-nose!" But she said nothing. She turned, staring at the dark sedan where her uncle stood impatiently, holding the door open and scowling at her. Marty's eyes were clear. It was the end of an era and the beginning of a new and free life for her.
"Come on, Marty," said Ray Milford testily, "there's nothing more we can do here." Marty climbed into the back seat of the car and flopped down listlessly. Her Aunt Helen looked severely at the exposed expanse of thigh that her mini-dress provided and said, in a tone of scorn, "I still say that wasn't the kind of dress to wear to your mother's funeral, Martha!"
"Leave her alone," Ray growled as he climbed in behind the wheel. "What the hell difference does it make to her mother?"
Marty sat quietly, glaring defiantly back at her aunt's set face. They didn't like each other, and both of them knew it. Marty wondered how it would be now, with her living with Ray and Helen. There wasn't much choice. Ray was her only relative, her mother's younger brother, and whether Helen liked it or not, Marty had to live with them—at least for a while.
The click-clack, swish-swash of the windshield wipers were like a lullaby to Marty as they drove home. She suddenly realized that she hadn't had much sleep the last few nights, and she was in a half doze, the past few months passing before her eyes like the rerun of a movie she had seen recently. She shivered unconsciously as she recalled the ever-present threat that her aunt had made into almost a battle cry: "If she were my daughter, I'd show her a thing or two. These sexy, cheap girls today—" on and on, it had always been the same.
And now, technically at least, Marty was her girl! Marty wasn't too concerned. If it got too tough, she would just split the scene. She could take care of herself—that much she knew. There was always a man who would break his ass to give her things, just so he could paw over and screw that lush body of hers! Marty knew from experience!
As she daydreamed in the back seat, the voices of her aunt and uncle faded, and she relived some of the excitement that had been hers these past few months—since her mother had been so ill, and Marty had had practically a free rein.
Joe's face loomed up in her thoughts. Joe Vogel, married, with four kids that she had babysat for many times. Joe had been the best. Marty remembered clearly the touch of his hand on her breast and thigh—the way his tongue felt as it slid into her mouth or her ear, and later—into the lips of her vagina, to touch and torment her clit.
She relived the nights they had had together in his car, then later, a motel, and finally, when her mother became too sick to notice what was going on, in Marty's own bed! She recalled most vividly the nights they had ripped each other apart with wild sex, in Joe's very own bed—the bed that he shared with his cold-assed wife, Georgia! That had been a special thrill for Marty, knowing that she was taking the place of Georgia. She hated the drab woman—almost as drab as her mother had been, and her Aunt Helen. Any one of them would shit if somebody mentioned the fact that boys and girls, men and women, actually fucked!
It served Georgia right. Maybe it served her mother right, she didn't know. Marty had never known her father, and her strait laced mother had never known another man in her whole life—that Marty was sure of. Church—that was all her mother ever knew or cared about. Psalm-singing, soul-praying church women. If her mother had known about some of the holier-than-thou men, she'd have shit her panties, Marty mused. Like the preacher's son. Eddie, who had been feeling Marty's ass and tits since she was twelve, along with all the other kids he could get his hands on.
Marty was glad she'd never did it with Eddie. He was a smartass who thought every girl he looked at would just lay down and spread her legs for him. Well, not Marty Wells! Besides, Eddie was a boy—a snot nosed boy, and Marty liked them to know as much as she did about sex ways. She wasn't about to teach anyone about screwing, sucking, or anything that had to do with sex.
She didn't know if she was sorry that she'd soon be leaving all of them behind her. Ray and Helen lived in a big city, over two hundred miles distant, and it had already been decided that Marty would go back with them, right now, to begin a new life.
But she wouldn't forget them—not one. From each male who had tasted her favors, Marty had demanded a memento. She liked to take out her collection and muse over it, remembering the details of each man and how easy it had been to command them.
There was the charm bracelet from Wally, with each little image commemorating a different night with him—some at the beach, some at his house, in his car and in a couple of motels. Wally had been nice, Marty mused, but he had wanted to get serious, divorce his wife, and marry her, and that wasn't the way Marty wanted the game to go at all. It was too much fun the way it was. She wanted no ties, and, above all, no marriage and babies, dishes, diapers, and all the dull, drab routines that went with marriage.
And the locket from Jake Weber, with the tiny diamonds on it and her initials, M.W., engraved on the back. Jake's picture had been there for a time, but she had long since torn it to bits. She could remember Jake all right, without any picture. He had been the first one who had paid her. He was older than the rest, and he was ugly, and he had been feeling her up since she was a little girl. One day, he had just blurted out, "I'll ... I'll give you ten dollars if you'll ... take off your clothes."
She hadn't accepted at first. Something told her that old Jake was good for a lot more money than that. He ran a little store that had a little of everything, and he had supplied Marty—and a lot of other little girls—with free candy for years, in return for them allowing him to play with their virgin pussies and fondle their budding breasts.
No, she'd always remember Jake, locket or no. As she thought of him and his clumsy hands inside her panties, she wondered if there would be any easy marks like Jake in the city where she was going.
She could see in her mind's eye the silver identification bracelet that had been Harvey's contribution to her collection. Harvey was a milkman, and he was as free with his hands as Jake had been, when he was certain no one was watching him feel and kiss the girls on his route. Even more often, Harvey would sneak in and slip into bed with some of the women whose husbands were hard at work. Harvey was a good-looking man, strong and athletic, suntanned from many hours in the sun, fishing, playing baseball with the kids, hunting, or swimming. He was a local high-school football hero whom everyone said was sure to go to college, become an All American, and then play pro football.
Instead, Harvey had knocked up Ella Bordeen when she was sixteen, married her and had taken a job with the dairy that her old man owned. Now they had seven kids, and Harvey had been another of her conquests while she had been babysitting for his spoiled, squalling brats. Harvey was a sucker for girls. He'd proved that when he had messed up a promising future just because he had to soak his big cock in the pussy of some young sexpot. But he had really been something in the hay, Marty recalled, and he had taught her a lot of ways to please a man and get most anything from him that she wanted.
With all those brats, Harvey wasn't good for much money, but he had given her the identification bracelet as a real token of love, and she always thought of Harvey with great fondness, when she got out her collection and looked at it.
No, Marty reflected, she wouldn't really be leaving the town, where she'd been born and brought up, behind. She would take little bits of it with her.
She was snapped from her reverie by her Aunt Helen's harsh voice. "I hope you don't sit like that in school or out in public," Helen scolded, leering angrily at the show of blue nylon panties that Marty's widespread legs showed.
"For Christ's sake, Helen, leave the kid alone!" Ray exploded.
As Helen glared at her husband, a strange smile curled the lips of Marty Wells. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all. Ray seemed to be on her side. But then, most men were. Helen was going to turn out to be a bitch, worse than her mother had been when she was well. She was as big a square, and, Marty thought, she was another religious nut. So what if a little panty showed? If they weren't supposed to, why would they make short skirts?
"Don't you curse at me, Raymond Milford!" Helen ranted. "Someday, the Lord is going to strike you dumb if you keep on taking his name in vain!"
"Balls!" Ray growled. He half mumbled to himself, "Christ, it'll be a relief to get back to work and get away from you. These last few days around you have been hell."
Marty couldn't hide the smile. She was going to enjoy living with him. Ray was her kind of guy—entirely different from his sister, Marty's mother. As she studied his partially revealed profile, her eyes widened in new appreciation. Ray was pretty good-looking at that. He was husky, with dark hair and brown, crackling eyes, and there was something manly and sexy about him, especially when he looked at you.
As they pulled into the driveway of her former home, Marty noticed how Ray was looking at her in the rear-view mirror, lifting himself up slightly so that he could get a look at her crotch. For a brief instant, their eyes met and Marty felt a glow spread through her. She'd be all right. She'd see to it that Ray became a part of her "collection."
There would be no problem with Helen. Marty could almost see the icicles that formed between them when they crossed glances, and the weakness was evident in Helen's gaze, in her high, whining voice, and in the way her mouth set in a pout when she was frustrated.
It would be fun, Marty mused, to play games with Ray, just to see her aunt pout and fume and rant.
Inside the house, standing beside the suitcases that contained all her possessions—except her collection, which she carried in her purse—Marty decided to begin the game of seducing her Uncle Ray. She managed to produce some tears, and she looked so forlorn that Ray stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Buck up, honey," he said. "It'll work out just fine. You'll see."
Marty whirled suddenly and threw her arms around his neck, kissing his mouth, pushing her pelvis hard against his genitals, thrusting out her small breasts in the hope that he would feel them against his chest. Ray's arms enfolded her automatically, and he patted her back, reddening under Helen's harsh stare. He was vaguely conscious of a stirring within his loins at the feel of the girl-woman in his arms, embarrassed at her show of emotion.
In spite of himself, his prick began to harden, and he pushed Marty away quickly, turning to pick up two of the suitcases. "Let's get going," he said. "We can be home before eight o'clock."
Marty rolled the word around on her tongue as she took a last look about her. Home. Leaving the only one she had ever known, for a strange home—a house of strangers.
As if reading her thoughts, Helen put in gruffly, "I know it's hard now, Martha, but you'll make new friends quickly. It will be all right." She grabbed another suitcase, leaving a small overnight bag for Marty to carry to the car.
As they pulled away from the house, Marty didn't look back. In her mind, she was envisioning the "new friends" that her aunt had predicted she would make. "Make" is the right word, too, Marty mused, her pretty mouth curling into a sly grin that went unseen by her aunt and uncle.
To pass the time, Marty read from a true-confession magazine, and from time to time, she took her collection from her purse and examined each memento dreamily, wondering who would be the next to add an item in return for her sexual favors.
William Brady looked at the young girl who sat in the front seat, her legs carelessly spread, showing her filmy pink panties plainly. He could even see the darker shadow of her pubic hair—or at least he imagined he could.
She was a real problem. Brady felt that she could master algebra if she chose, but Marty Wells seemed determined not to make the concerted effort. Because of her attitude, he had commanded that she remain after school. Brady wanted to have an honest talk with her. He knew that she was still strange—a loner—and that she had recently lost her only parent, her mother. He sympathized with her, for he had lost his own parents before he was thirteen—Marty's age.
There was something warning him away from her. Maybe it was the surge of desire that swept through him as he let his eyes rove over the expanse of thighs, the pink panties, and then to the smirking, challenging smile that she gave him. She reminded him of a brilliantly colored boa constrictor, dazzling to look at, fascinating in power, yet threatening to encoil him in strong helical of deadliness and crush the life from him.
Marty spread her legs wider and smiled provocatively at him. She rose and walked toward him, the smile frozen on her face. Her eyes were fastened on the slender chain that crossed his vest. In all innocence, she asked naively, "What's on the end of that chain?"
"My Phi Beta Kappa key," he said, angry at himself for letting her take the initiative.
"May I see it?" Marty asked, smiling up at him. He reluctantly took the key from his pocket and held it out to her. She took it in her hands, holding it almost reverently. "It's ... it's for scholastic superiority," Brady said in strange embarrassment.
"I want it!" she blurted.
Brady stared at her, fascinated by her utter gall. He watched entranced as she leaned forward a bit, ran her hands up under her short skirt and pulled down her panties! She stepped out of them, then quickly unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged out of it. Then she undid her bra and deftly slipped out of her skirt.
Bill Brady was so fascinated by the expanse of alluring flesh, the pink-nippled breasts, the golden-thatched vagina, that he was motionless. All he could do was stare as she moved close to him and ran her hand over his already hardening penis, through the cloth of his pants.
"Trade?" she taunted, stepping back and holding her arms out from her body, turning about to give him a view of her lovely, rounded ass.
Brady was sweating now. He knew he was trapped, and to further remind him, Marty's expression hardened. Her eyes flashed icily. "Or I could begin to scream, right now!"
Brady put up his hands imploringly. "What do you want?" he whined.
The smile returned to Marty's face magically, and that look of triumph came to her expressive eyes. "I want you to fuck me, and then give me that Phi Beta Kappa key for my collection!"
Her eyes were cold again, but Brady wasn't watching her face now. His eyes were riveted on the golden patch of hair, through which he could see the glistening, beckoning lips of her cunt! A wave of desire engulfed him and he swept Marty into his arms, his stiff cock pressing against her pussy as his lips closed over hers.
Unseen by him, Marty smiled in satisfaction. She hadn't figured he would refuse, but if he had, she would have applied the pressure more by telling him that if he didn't agree to her demands, she would simply run from the room naked, screaming that he had torn off her clothes and had attempted to rape her.
Bill's mind was racing as he tried to keep his own thoughts straight. There was a warning thunder deep inside his brain, that here was "trouble" with a capital T, but that inner alarm that was ringing was washed away in a tide of rising desire.
He had never lusted for a woman's body in his life like he did for this teen-age strumpet. His better instincts told him she was just that, an amateur whore who traded sex for trinkets, to satisfy her own ego and her nymphomaniacal desires. But, like others before him, Bill Brady couldn't think clearly and react sensibly to reason. A phrase popped into his mind: "A stiff prick has no conscience." And it was all too true, he knew as his cock grew harder, pushing against his pants, demanding surcease from the delicious torture that her lush young body was inflicting on him.
He felt her demanding, teasing tongue flicking in and out of his mouth, piling desire upon desire that was creating a sea of need for her. His hands seemed to burn as they roved her rounded, soft curves and he pulled her body in close to his own. She wiggled her hips slightly, giving him a "dry fuck," and Brady abandoned all reins of control. He squeezed her tightly to him and shoved his cock up against her hard, making her gasp in pleasure.
He was no longer able to think about the consequences. His need for her body was too great. He moved away slightly and relinquished his hold with one hand so he could unbuckle his belt and unzip his trousers, and peel them off with one movement.
Marty stood back a little, a sly smile curving her pretty mouth, as she stared, in admiration and desire, at his distended organ. It bobbed as throbs of passion ran through it, and Marty reached out and put her hand on it, stroking it gently for a moment, then quickly bending down and planting a kiss on the head of it!
She quickly released it and lay back on one of the narrow desks, her legs spread wide apart to allow Brady a look at the beckoning lips and the wetly shining, soft inner pinkness of her vagina. He moved toward her, his hand holding his rigid prick, his breath coming in short gulps of air, like a fish out of water. He was sweating.
As he withdrew his eyes momentarily from her inviting lovebox and met her gaze, he felt resentment at the triumphal smile on her face. She knew that he couldn't back off now to save his life, and she wanted him to know that she had taken command.
When he drove his cock into her waiting cunt, Brady made savage thrusts, as if he wanted to punish her for her arrogance. But the anger in him faded quickly as her warm, wet woman flesh sheathed his cock fully. He wondered vaguely how a girl of her years had become so expert in sex, for when he began a smooth in-and-out motion, putting pressure on her clit with each part of his strokes, she inched forward a bit and raised her legs and locked them around his hips. He automatically reached behind her and took one cheek of her ass in each hand, lifting her and at the same time bringing her closer, as he pumped away, panting and moaning in his need.
Marty was watching his face, a look of sadistic pleasure mingling with her own lustful leer, and her mouth was opened slightly as she sucked in air. She felt like a conqueror already, and she knew that once he had tasted fully her sex treatment, that he would come back again and again.
Their rhythm speeded up, their bodies making wet, slapping sounds as Brady's balls slammed against her extended pussy lips. Finally, they abandoned muscular control and let their instincts take over. His cock plunged in and out of her cunt rapidly, already beginning to spurt the first warning drops of his semen. They merged completely as a burst of light seemed to fuse their bodies, and he exploded inside her soft vagina with a shudder of ecstasy that Marty matched, throb by throb. Their bodies coasted to a sweet, lingering stopping of the violent surge of passion and, for a moment, they were quiet, with Brady looking deep into her brown eyes, trying to fathom the seemingly bottomless depths of cold.
There was a trace of a smile on her mouth, but it had lost its triumphal look. It now appeared soft and girlish. It was hard for him to believe that only seconds before, she had given him all the sexual delights that his wildest dreams had ever fashioned.
He came out of his reverie and withdrew his flaccid penis from her warm, sticky vagina, feeling sudden embarrassment at its softness, and a vague uneasiness, now that the heat of passion had abated and reason was returning. He wondered if she knew how to take care of herself against pregnancy, but recalling her expert movements of only moments ago, he dismissed his fears. If she knew that much about sex acts, surely she would be smart enough to use preventative measures. Brady had read that many teen-agers took the pill—many of them with parental approval and help.
As Marty Wells stood up and slowly donned her clothing, the leer of victory returned to her face. Finished with her final preening, she held out her hand with a coy smile, her eyes mocking him. "My souvenir, please," she said calmly.
Reluctantly, Brady took it from its chain and handed it to her. She turned it over and over, smiling like a child with a new toy. She looked closely at the name he had engraved on the back, and the date he had received it.
In her mind's eye, she was envisioning the key on her bracelet of sex affairs. It was really something, this memento, not just a little gewgaw that could be bought for a couple of dollars. This showed her domination of an honest-to-god egghead—a real brain.
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the lips. Without another word, she strutted from the room, leaving Brady to don his clothing in a semi daze. He still hadn't come down from the sexy cloud she had taken him to, but he already had misgivings about giving her his key. She had showed, a ruthless side, and he felt that she would use it to blackmail him if need be. He consoled himself with the thought that she had been something else—one of the most exciting girls he had ever encountered, and certainly, the youngest sexpot in his entire sexual calendar of events.
At home, Marty put the key on her bracelet, along with the gold giraffe, and that night, just before she went to sleep, she looked at it a long time, while she masturbated in the dimness, her whole mind and being filled with memories of Bill Brady and his most satisfying cock.