Chapter 7
By midnight, the twinkling strings of Italian Christmas tree lights strung through the honeysuckle and lilac bushes enclosing the Highsmith's huge British-manor style garden were beginning to blur a bit, and Tracey Aronson was forgetting how shy and insignificant she'd felt at first among this crowd of older, more sophisticated kids. Something to do with the delicious fruit punch, she imagined, but by now she was too giddy and giggly to care if she got a little high and accepted another paper cup of the suspicious stuff from the bland-featured prep-school type whose name she hadn't caught. After all, she was much more sober than most of the twenty-some young people milling around the rose beds and mazes and moonlit green glades, and she'd like to feel even more relaxed, really get into the spirit of this exciting party.
"Guess I don't really need more, but skoal, anyhow," she dimpled up to Preppie, who on closer inspection looked rather pimply and puny despite his trendy sunglasses and debonair attire. "What's in this, do you know?"
Preppie had a nasal Boston accent, simultaneously clipped and nasal and snobbish. "Skoal, "he replied-it was apparently the "in" expression of the moment. "Passion Fruit juice and Tequila, plus a few pinches of the same stuff that's in the cigarettes and the nibbles."
"Stuff?" Tracey shot a curious glance toward the silver trays of sweet and savory snacks grouped around the crystal punch bowl. "You mean--? "
The youth snorted. "You people here in Hicksville sure don't know the score. Hashish, honey-the very finest Nepalese that love or money can buy. Ah, there's Celia-'scuse me, must be off."
Tracey, still staring at the dainty bowls of dips and clusters of marzipan and fudge, scarcely noted his disappearance. So that was what was making her feel peculiarly lightheaded! Hashish, she knew, was an insidious substance akin to marijuana but far more powerful. According to wrinkled old Miss Carberry who taught Health and Physical Education at High, it caused temporary insanity and permanent brain damage-but no one paid much attention to Old Lady Carberry, who was so out of it that she actually advised her snickering students not to wear patent leather shoes which might allow boys a reflected glimpse up under their skirts.
Obviously Miss Carberry had overstated the case, but nevertheless the inexperienced sixteen year-old felt a little uneasy when she thought of how many celery sticks and crackers she'd dipped into the tasty, though odd-tasting, sauces. Thank God she'd not smoked any of the cigarettes, amusing hand-rolled offerings fashioned from papers printed like dollar bills or American flags which, together with piles of gilt-tipped matches on whose covers were engraved, "Highsmith Industries, Inc.", were abundantly piled on every wrought iron garden table in the lawn. Her chain-smoking mother had promised her a hundred dollars if she swore not to smoke until she were at least twenty-one. However, this was her third cup of "punch".
"Who cares," Tracey muttered, gulping down a good swallow of Passion Fruit beverage and, in passing, snatching a mushroom-shaped piece of almond-flavored marzipan candy. "Let it all hang loose, like Colin said."
But where had Colin wandered off to? Drink in hand, moving in rhythm to the throbbing beat of the rock band playing in the 1890's-style pavilion in the center of the gardens, she swayed a bit unsteadily down the high hedge-bordered maze's flagstone path in search of her date. Oh-there he was! She started to skip toward him, then froze in consternation as she realized what was going on and surreptitiously sneaked under the shadows of a nearby apple tree.
Oh, God! It couldn't be true! There stood her darkly handsome date, white duck trousers rolled down around his well-muscled thighs and thing in hand, watching the most salacious spectacle she'd ever dreamed of. He was pumping vigorously on his lust-elongated member, and there was a lust-crazed glint in his dark eyes as he gazed at his naked sister writhing on the ground with two half-naked guys.
"Oh, nnooooo!" the immediately aroused Aronson girl gasped without realizing she'd made a sound.
Thanks to her own stunning erotic experiences of the past couple days, she was more excited than shocked by the wantonly wild scene transpiring mere yards away from her. So this is how the "cool crowd" acts! her drug-dazzled brain whirled. What a lot of fun I've missed out on 'cause I didn't know ... Her quivering right hand rubbed, almost unconsciously, over her mini-skirt covered "vee".
Cressida Highsmith, her graceful, sun-glided loins squirming on the grass, was moaning in obscene arousal as she sucked the swollen stiffness of one shirt-and-sandal-clad youth. Saliva dribbled down over her makeup-smeared cheeks and chin, glistening silver in the light of the moon, and her carefully-coiffed chestnut curls were in wanton disarray as the boy tangled his hands in her hair to ram her face closer to his groin. Between her brazenly spread-eagled legs crouched another male. At the moment, she looked a good deal more like a sluttish barmaid than a beauty queen.
An audible gasp escaped from Tracey's lips. That must have been exactly how she had looked two nights ago with Rufus and Toby! Only two short nights ago-Good Lord, it seemed like years, what with that thrilling morning with Ted, and now this crazy party. She felt like a different person from the girl who'd been horrified by the sight of Robbie Runions' spurting white sperm just one week ago.
She also felt a violent craving for a male penis to ease the burning ache in her dampening vagina.
My God! her mind swam dizzily. I've really gone mad-must be the hash. And I have to get out of here before someone sees me.
Instead of silently tiptoeing off down the path, however, she remained mesmerized in the shadows peering in prurient fascination at the lewd tableau. How could Colin be jerking off while his very own sister was degraded in front of him? she asked herself, though she already knew the answer: the more forbidden the act, the more exciting it was. Her own hand slithered up under the hem of her short skirt so that she could caress her quivering cuntal crevice through the moist nylon of her panty crotch band. "Oouuhhhhh ... that hurts!" Tracey's attention snapped back to the Highsmith heiress, who didn't sound as though she minded her suffering in the least, and she echoed her outcry as she saw exactly what the boy between Cressida's long legs was doing. In one hand he held an empty Pepsi bottle, whose nozzle he was shoving up into the girl's dark-fringed vagina!
"You won't go the whole route, bitch," growled the attractive young man, "so we'll play it this way instead. And you're loving it, aren't you? Slut!"
"Keep sucking, cunt, don't stop!" the second male commanded. "Drain me dry!"
The enthralled onlooker was so caught up in the salacious spectacle of a bottle sawing up between Cressida's scissoring legs that she didn't notice Colin had disappeared from the scene until his hot, hard hands grasped her from behind. Yelping in alarm, she snatched her hand out from under her skirt-but she was too late.
"Gets you hot watching, huh?" he leered in a drug-slurred voice. "Well, I guess I better help you do something about your horny little cunt-hole."
The Aronson girl was shivering like a leaf in the wind in her shame at having been caught, and also because his iron-hard length pressing against her buttocks was making her dizzy with demented desire. Suddenly she felt extremely high-she was too innocent to know that the hashish she'd eaten and drunk would take a few hours to be absorbed and take effect-and out of control of both mind and body. What she really wanted was to rip off her clothes and let Colin screw her right there on the lawn in view of the other three orgiests, but despite the fact that perversion was obviously the status quo among this older, richer crowd, she was too conditioned by middle-class morals to admit her lurid longings. "C'mon, get naked." Colin hissed. She felt paralyzed. Incapable of either protesting or obeying, she stood staring at him and imagining how thrilling it would be to rip off her clothes. Then, as the drugged boy grabbed at her skirt, she was caught off balance and tumbled down on the dewy grass.
"Please, no." Her voice sounded as though it were echoing out of a bottomless well. "No, nooo..."
"Cut the bullshit," he'd already ripped off her skirt, tearing the fabric instead of pausing to unsnap the fastenings. "I know you put out and love it, so don't try to kid me. Now, get on your goddamn belly and I'm gonna give it to you from behind. You can pretend you're a dog-bitch in heat. Haha!"
He must be stoned out of his skull, Tracey thought. It'd be easy to escape from him in his crazed condition-if she'd wanted to, and if she'd felt sure her legs would support her. But she didn't even make the effort.
"Okay, Colin," she murmured, those strange tingles of masochistic glee she'd experienced at the hands of the two rapists gliding through her bloodstream along with the narcotic and alcohol. "Screw me like that! Give me your big cock!"
Since he'd not only drunk the passion-fruit punch and smoked about ten joints, but had also taken some speed, Colin's sexual performance wasn't much to boast about. Tracey was so turned-on that it didn't matter much. Even before his swift ejaculation, she'd orgasmed ... and she climaxed two more times as his seething male seed spilled into her no-longer-innocent cunt. Then, sated and satisfied that she was now a member of the in-crowd, she passed out on the Highsmith's lawn.