Chapter 1
I'LL ALWAYS REMEMBER THAT NIGHT IN THE MOVIE. Maybe because it started something new with me. A kind of a beginning, because a man hadn't touched me before. And I never had that wild, hot, crazy feeling again. Never quite like that. It was a total shock.
It was dark in the balcony, and I was sixteen years old; there weren't many people there I was watching the picture and didn't realize the man had sat down beside me.
Then I felt him barely touch my thigh and pull away. I looked, but it was dark; and all I could see was his outline. I started to move.
But then I knew I wanted to feel his hand again, and I hoped it hadn't been a mistake.
It hadn't. In a minute the hand was back, lying on my thigh. It stayed this time.
My belly began to shake all funny, and I think I was a little scared, but I was excited too, and quivering.
I wasn't a fool. I'd heard lots of talk in school, but when the boys approached I always got scared. But I'd heard girls talk so knowingly and casually.
And there I was, tight in a corner and the guy began to feel me up ...
Things like that. And now it was happening to me. I was going to get handled and it was like my insides had turned to water; I began to grow warm and feverish.
I think I remember it so well because it was what you'd call a milestone. I knew from that experience and from what happened later at home.
It was the day I realized I was a nympho, realized that sex was the greatest gift a human could give, or possess.
The greatest thing in life.
The man's hand was lying flat on my thigh, and now his fingers began to move, pulling my dress up under them. I tried to keep that leg from shaking.
My boobs were getting hot, and my nipples were tight and hard. It was the first time that had ever happened without my doing it myself, playing with them.
I sat there tight, waiting. And knowing that the exciting feeling wasn't all my imagination. This was a fiery new world. A man's hand on me.
He'd worked my skirt up to where his fingers were on the bare skin above my stocking. I was terribly afraid he'd get scared and stop, so I was afraid to move. I wanted to stretch my legs, and I knew I'd have to if he was going to get anywhere; but I didn't want to frighten him. As I sat there shaking, I wondered what he looked like. Young and handsome and kind of like a stallion pawing the ground, maybe.
Thoughts like that went through my mind as I felt his hand go along my thigh halfway between my knee and where I knew he wanted to go. I pushed my legs a little, encouraging him.
His hand began moving up between my legs, and I could hardly keep the muscles still. Very slowly, I hunched down in my seat, pushing my legs out in a V. I did it slowly, because I didn't want to seem too eager. I didn't want him to know how bad I wanted to be touched.
He came to my panties, and when he touched them, the nipples on my boobs got so hard the}' hurt. In my wild thoughts, I saw him biting my boob. Biting one clear off!
I was sorry I'd worn panties, but how was I to know? I'd had no way of knowing a man might put his hand there.
He stopped, and I got so scared that he might pull back I got reckless. I wanted to grab his hand and push it to me, to reach over and bite him on the ear, tearing, tasting blood.
Instead I pushed my hand out in his direction.
He was all tense and ready, the way the girls told me it always was with the real hot ones. I ran my fingers up and down and along his leg; it was hard to believe this was happening and then I giggled inside.
What did he think he was going to do in a theater seat? I reached under the fold and found the zipper tab and pulled it. The zipper opened, and I could feel the cloth of his shorts as I tried to work them away.
His hand had slid up over my belly, and his fingers found the elastic of my panties. I was glad he didn't know how much I really wanted it. He began pulling them down, and I lifted my bottom off the seat to help him. My panties came down and were stretched across my thighs.
With my hand, I found the opening in his clothing and put a finger in, and his legs opened. But I couldn't get anywhere and, frustrated, went back to his belt buckle. That was holding everything up.
He was pushing my panties lower, down over my knees and then my ankles. He wanted them clear off, and I wondered why that was necessary, but I lifted my feet one at a time, and he had them loose in his hand.
A crazy thought went through my mind. I'd walked into a theater and sat down, not bothering anybody, and a man had come along and sat down beside me and taken my pants off!
My legs were wide now, and I didn't dare scrunch down any farther because the usher might come along and flash his light. I would have been terribly embarrassed, because my skirt was clear up off my belly and the man's finger was in my navel. Checking for size, maybe. I wanted to laugh.
His belt was open now, and I slid my hand down under the elastic. His belly was hard and wooly, and my hand had never been in a more exciting place. I kept wanting to bite him. Drooling kind of, I guess. Wanting to feel my teeth at his ear or neck and wondering what it would be like to bite his tongue.
I wondered what he looked like.
His hand found me; it was the first time, and I was a little embarrassed because of how it was. The girls at school called that getting ready. I'd been ready and waiting and shaking.
He touched me right, and I jerked. There was space, because I'd made it by stretching out, and his whole palm was there, flat.
My hand had found him, too, and I had a wild ferocious feeling of wanting to twist and pull and move. I couldn't help giggling, my diaphragm going up and down, but staying silent, not making a sound as I thought how he would look without clothes. Like a bull, maybe.
I wanted to make him yell.
It was all crazy and loose inside of me. In my mind, I began calling him every vile and foul name I could think of. In my imagination. I had him tied up and was doing things to him to make him yell.
I hated him and his crazy hand. I wanted to twist it and break it at the wrist. I rubbed and he jerked.
His hand was flat on me, and now he started curling the fingers into a fist. Very slowly. Pressing hard. Gripping what there was to grip. I was mature at sixteen and thick and lush, that's what a girl in the gym shower at school had called me, and there was enough purchase for his hand to gather.
He kept on squeezing, closing his fist.
I had him gripped tight in my own fist, but the advantage was his. He was too tough to hurt. He squeezed, and it hurt. And I knew I had to find something softer and hunted for it.
I found it too, soft and pliable flesh. I squeezed. It was a warning. He jerked a little, and opened his hand.
It was a wonderful, exciting game as we sat there, not knowing each other but having tight grips in the most intimate places and kind of waiting for each other. It was crazy.
He must have been sweating or something because he wiped his face, but he couldn't get to his handkerchief; he was using my panties, wiping his face with them and breathing deeply from the nervous excitement of what we were doing.
I gave a quick squeeze, and then I grabbed my lower lip in my teeth because he squeezed too. There was a momentary truce after that, and I was a little disappointed wondering if this was all it would be. Just grabbing and holding each other.
I wanted my hand elsewhere but I didn't dare let go of my advantage, or he would have had me. I held him and petted him and squeezed just a little.
He was pulling downward along my thighs. Pulling in a way that made me follow him or let him go away with part of me. I couldn't sit still. I'll slow you down, I thought indignantly. And I squeezed.
He grunted. It was a kind of battle to see who would give in first. He was on his shoulders, down in the seat, his legs spread wide, and he was helpless, but I hung on the other place.
Slowly I followed him forward, going down in my own seat. My knees hit the seat in front, and then the only place for them to go was even wider.
Getting more excited, I leaned over and whispered, "You rat! Let go!" But hoping he wouldn't.
I was as wide as I could get, and now his hand flattened. It was hot and wonderful against me. I moved my hand to where he wanted it. But then he took that wrist and lifted my hand, took his own away from me for a minute and he just held my hand for a while. He rubbed my palm and then put my hand back and showed me what he wanted me to do with a motion of his hand. I understood. It was what I'd instinctively wanted to do in the first place. Something a girl wanting a man doesn't have to be shown.
He was using his fingers now, and he didn't need lessons. He found places I didn't know I had, and of course I'd investigated. But always alone in my own room.
He heard my gasp, and I knew he was grinning; I had a vision of him. In the vision, he had five hands and they were all — Oh, God! I didn't need any visions. This was it. He was rolling and kneading and reaching; I wanted to move further to give him more room!
I began to writhe and twist and put my hand on his to push harder.
Harder!
Better than all the dreams and fantasies I'd ever had! The real thing.
Then both my hands were on his, and I was moaning under my breath. But he grabbed my wrist and put one of my hands back where he wanted it. I had to do my part. This wasn't just service for nothing.
So I did and had him almost on his back in the seat. And —oh, God, what if the usher should come and find us this way? Or maybe he was so high up it would throw a shadow on the screen with my hand and grunts coming out of him and all the wild free ecstasy of what we were doing to each other.
He exploded. All that manhood and virility realized, his body taut and writhing and me right behind him, my legs and belly all jumping and exploding like the Fourth of July in wild colors in front of my eyes.
But with him through first, he changed, and while I was helpless, right in the middle of it, and weak as a kitten from the ecstasy flooding through me, he put a hand over my mouth. I let him do it because I thought he was trying to help me keep from screaming.
But then he hooked one arm under one of my legs beneath my knee and pulled that leg up and over toward him and I was being held off the seat. Then one finger! Only one! Hard and straight and only wanting to hurt. It hurt. It hurt plenty!
My whole body came up off the seat like shot rabbit. And I heard his harsh whisper in my ear: "You little witch! That's where you should get it!"
His breath was coming hot, and he called me other names while I twisted and writhed, feeling that other, the new thing, and finishing what he'd done to me, the explosion that answered his culmination but a little delayed.
Then he used his arm to force me back down my seat, and I thought, God! I'm a safe public theater and I'm being raped by a stranger.
Well, it was rape, kind of. Not the real thing but it was being forced on me and that's what rape is: to be taken by force.
Then I guess he got scared about the usher too, because he pulled his hand out from under me. I'd been actually sitting on his hand and after pulling it away he took his other hand away from my mouth.
But I heard his whisper: "You yell and you'll be arrested, kid. They'd take my word if you start trouble."
I didn't want any trouble. I just wanted it to stop hurting and to get my pant back on.
"My panties," I whispered. "Give them to me."
He did, laughing softly, and I almost pulled my hand back when I touched them, realizing what he'd used them for. He pushed them into my hand, and by that time he'd zipped and hooked his pants and buckled his belt with his shirt all inside again. And he got up and left.
The panties were beyond repair. I almost threw them on the floor. Then I thought: What if I go out and the manager has seen me and is suspicious, takes me in the office and I deny everything but he pulls my skirt up and sees how I am and maybe takes a picture for evidence? What the man did to me. Still there to see.
What then? And me with no panties on!
Thinking that made me frightened. They were wispy and transparent; I tried to brush them but that didn't help, so I pulled them on — like putting on tattered rag.
Then I got up and left and it was hard to walk straight. I wanted to walk so my legs wouldn't rub together at all. But I walked straight. All that cold friction. It was awful.
In the lobby there were several men, and I wondered which one it was. They all looked at me. But that didn't help because men always looked at me. They looked at how my boobs stuck out and how my nipples stuck out on the ends of them, and that always gave me a sense of power over them; it made me feel good.
In fact I liked being noticed so much that once in a while, when I felt very devilish and the situation was right, I'd push my boobs out at a man and almost smile but not quite, then maybe cross my legs and show him what he was missing.
Then I'd look at him where the effect on a man shows, and watch him, and let him know I was watching. Making him feel sheepish, make him twist around maybe, to try and hide. I'd watch and wonder to myself what he looked like bare, thinking how frightening it would be to have the man tie me down somewhere alone and do that to me and make me yell and beg.
Things like that in my mind.
But now, there in the lobby, the men were looking at my boobs, and I was wondering which one it was. Then one of them sitting on a lounge didn't look at my boobs. He looked down below, and there was kind of knowing grin on his face; and I knew it had to be him.
Because his eyes and the look in them practically undressed me, and he was looking at me like he really knew and laughing at me because of the panties, knowing I had to wear them. His eyes and his look asking me: How does it feel to be dressed? And how did the whole thing feel?
I knew it was him and cursed him in my mind, thought of having him down helpless on his belly with a club in my hands and nobody to stop me and, oh God, really make him yell.
They say everything comes from the inside, and I think my fantasy about the man, there in the lobby, probably came from a book I saw once when I was younger. A book about the war and the atrocities.
My uncle had it and brought it to show my father; I got a chance to look at it when they were downstairs at the bar. There were lots of horrible pictures in it, but one was about what some soldiers did to some prisoners; the prisoners were all lying around on the ground. Palm trees grew in the area, and the soldiers had ripped off branches of palm trees and made the prisoners suffer. I wanted to make the man suffer like that.
I always remembered that picture and the palm branches with long stems, how the prisoners must have yelled, that was what I wanted for the man.
To make him yell.
But he was the one. I knew that. He wasn't bad looking. Slim and athletic looking with big hands, I'd felt them, and the grin I'd sensed in the theater and very white teeth.
I got up and left, a little reluctant when I realized I would never see him again...
But I was wrong. After I got home that night very late, I went downstairs for something out of the refrigerator and the phone rang.
I picked it up and said hello.
"Hello, baby. How are you?"
"Who is this?"
"You know. We met in the balcony tonight."
I was a little scared at hearing his voice, but I knew it was him and it was a little exciting.
"You've got a nerve, calling here. How did you know where I lived?"
"I made it a point to find out."
"Before—?"
"Uh-huh."
That meant he probably followed me into the theater. It hadn't been just a shot in the dark. I wanted to hang up, but then I didn't want to.
"You had a hell of a nerve, doing what you did in there."
He had a soft chuckle that kept sounding in my ear. "You liked it, though, didn't you?"
"Suppose I'd screamed?"
"You didn't. You just cooperated like a good little nympho and panted for more."
I kept trying to think of things to say. "That was a lousy thing you did with — "
"You're panties? Honey, they were all I had and I couldn't wait. You've got real technique. You've had experience."
That sounded like an insult.
"I have not!"
"Are you kidding? You reached for me like a—"
"You're calling me a street walker!"
"I am not. I'm just saying you're good. And I'm pretty good, too. If we'd had the room I could have made you crawl after me with your tongue hanging out."
"You're rotten!"
The soft chuckle. "What's rotten about having a little fun?"
"I was helpless. A girl doesn't like to call attention to herself."
"That's right. It's better to sit there and take it." He laughed now. "Do you know you almost went over the seat when I grabbed you at the last?"
"That was as rotten a thing as anybody ever did to a person!" Grabbed me. That was a funny way to say it, I thought.
"Quite a surprise, wasn't it?"
"I certainly wasn't expecting it."
"That's part of the fun, getting something you don't expect."
"It hurt!"
"Things that hurt the first time are fun the second time."
"There won't be any second time."
"Sure there will. Where we've got more room to maneuver. We've just started, baby."
"That's what you think. We've finished."
"Then you're going to let me get away with it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you want to get even?"
He had no idea how I wanted to get even. I wanted to tell him about the picture of the prisoners on the ground with the palm stalks, but that wouldn't have been very ladylike.
"Maybe I will someday," I said.
"There's no time like the present. Tomorrow?"
"No."
"There are some nice places in the park."
"Sure! You'd like to get me out there and really grab me, wouldn't you?"
"And you want it, too. You know damned well you do."
"Just because you caught me by surprise in the balcony and took my pants off — "
I realized how awful that sounded.
"Baby! Cut it out! You've had plenty and you know it."
That would have surprised him too. That I was actually a virgin so far as men were concerned. Everything I'd had had been by myself, alone. Or watching it done. All the things. Dreams. Ways you hear about and try because you're afraid of the real way.
But I wasn't going to tell him that. I wasn't going to tell him anything.
"Good night!" I said. And slammed the phone down...