Chapter 10
She woke up the next morning in her own little bed, safe in her own bedroom-mercifully alone.
But she remembered the nightmare. And the Negro rapist had only been the ungodly beginning of it. Jack had obviously planned the entire evening with as much care as a sadist-one with the profit motive in mind, of course. He had made money off of her body, turning her whoredom into gain for himself.
She remembered that after the Negro had brought her to several convulsive orgasms, and yet insisted on continuing his pillage of her cunt, that she had asked Jack for more whiskey. He had given it to her with the same wry, twisted grin of malice that he wore when ordering the Negro to mount her body.
He wanted her drunk, and she had sought through liquor to escape the insatiable, plowing stiffness of the black stud's huge prick. But the terrorizing of her flesh had only begun. When the Negro was finally through with her, another was there to take his place. All evening long, the husky taps at the door announced horny males who had been brought in off the streets and offered a piece of hot tail for five dollars a throw!
Through a blur of drunken rage and disgust, she had been forced to let one satyr after another crawl between her legs and stick his hard-on lustfully into her raw hole. She had been fucked until her legs were numb and her nipples bloated like little pink sausages.
The last thing she remembered before passing out was an old man-very old, with dirty fingernails and a thatch of hair at the back of his balding head-lowering his panting mouth between her legs to suck at her mushy cunt, to clean up after all the fun was over!
How they had got her home-or when-she neither knew nor cared.
She was home, and that was all that mattered.
She moved gingerly between the sheets and slipped her hand down between her thighs. The lips of her cunt were puffed and swollen, as if a million hornets had stung her slit through the long night. The furred hair ovaling her sex was matted with sperm and the slobber of the old man.
She lifted her fingers carefully up to feel the nipples of her tits. They, too, were sensitive and raw, and still elongated. In fact, she was amazed that merely touching her breasts sent a lascivious little echo of need through her. It was as if she had been fed some narcotic of sex, and now needed one more satisfying "fix" to make her able to face the day.
A small, sly grin drifted across her lips: it would be a good time for Mike Barton to call. . .
Hardly had the thought passed through her mind than she heard a sturdy knock on the front door.
A rakish thrill ran through the center of her cunt!
She crawled out of bed and slung on a robe. She quickly walked-or tried to walk-toward the front of the apartment. She had been fucked too long and too well to stroll innocently forward. As a matter of fact, the inner walls of her pussy still felt as if a thick, hard cock were lodged there.
She swung open the front door-and stared into the glowering face of Mrs. Barton.
"I want to talk to you," the older woman hissed. "And I also want to give you this."
She thrust a manila envelope toward Laura.
"It came late yesterday afternoon," Mrs. Barton snapped. "I saw the Special Delivery man knocking on your door. I knew you weren't here, so out of the kindness of my heart, I came over and signed for you."
Laura glanced at the postmark-and the return address.
"It's a letter from my sister."
"I know exactly what it is. And I know all about your sluttish sister. The shame of it!"
Laura looked from the envelope back up into the hard, unyielding eyes of her neighbor. "Is that what you came over here to talk about-me and my 'sluttish' big sister?"
"No, you scheming little tart! I came over to talk to you about my son!"
Laura grinned. "Don't you mean your big, sexy stepson?"
Mrs. Barton looked only momentarily balked. "I think of him as my son, I'll have you know. Anyway, that has nothing to do with what I have to say."
Without a word, the woman marched into ,the house and watched as Laura closed the door behind them. When Laura turned, Mrs. Barton's eyes were traveling with venomous disgust up and down her lightly clothed body.
"I never dreamed that you were so-so-"
"So what, Mrs. Barton? So whorish?"
The older woman took in a gasp of air. Her nostrils quivered. "I know all about what you have been trying to get my little boy to do!"
"Indeed?"
"I certainly do! He told me everything-how you invited him in on the pretext of giving him a Coke, then made indecent advances toward him."
"Do you find the idea of fucking a seventeen-year-old boy all that distasteful, Mrs. Barton?"
A purplish rage passed over the tightened face of the woman. "Your language is a disgrace to womanhood! I should call the police!"
"I wouldn't do that-I might have to tell them to look into a slight case of incest next door."
"I don't know what you're-"
"I think you do. You and your stud stepson have been screwing like minks for years. Are you going to deny that you seduced him when he was fourteen-and that you've been using that lusty young cock of his ever since to satisfy your hypocrite's cunt?"
The woman's face drained of all color. "You vicious, wanton young hussy! You should be horsewhipped and-"
"What exactly did Mike tell you? I trust he at least had the courage to tell you that my attempt at seduction was every bit as successful as yours. Did he tell you that the first day I proposed it, he fucked me like a stallion?"
"Shut your filthy-"
"Did he also tell you that only yesterday he begged me to suck his big, boyish cock for him? Incidentally, have you ever tried that hobby? You should. It's very, very satisfying for all concerned.
And it isn't every stepmom who has such a wonderfully well-hung adolescent to practice on. Mike's horsy young balls are made for the madness of licking ..."
Mrs. Barton's breath was coming now in thick, hoarse gasps. "I don't have to be talked to like this! I wasn't going to tell my husband, but if you force me to, I'll-"
"You won't breath a word to anybody-not even to those vultures you call friends. Can you imagine how they would pick you to pieces behind your back if even the hint of a rumor got out that I said your stepson serviced your big, greedy pussy regularly?"
"You can't prove a single word of-"
"I don't have to. Rumors never have to be substantiated. You should know that-you've spread enough of them concerning my sister."
Mrs. Barton's eyes flashed angrily. "Rumors, are they! Well, try this on for size! I opened that letter you're holding and I read every word of it. I know it by heart-and I'm perfectly capable of delivering an oration on it to every ear in reach. Do you think you could live for ten minutes in this neighborhood-or this city-if the real truth were known about your whoring sister!?"
"You brutal old slut. You really did read it, didn't you?"
"Yes! And I want to tell you this. You're going to be out of this apartment by tomorrow morning!"
Laura waited a heart-beat, then grinned. "You're trying to protect your young stud, aren't you? I'm the kind of competition you've been expecting-and dreading-for some time."
"You're a vicious liar-!"
"Don't get me wrong, Stella. I don't blame you for wanting Mike's hot meat all to yourself. But I wouldn't be too optimistic if I were you. You see, he's already fucking everything that walks. The girls in his school line up for him, he told me. And I'm not at all sure that several of your bitchy, tea-time pals haven't taken advantage of his willingness to-"
Before Laura could finish the sentence, the older woman's hand struck her savagely across the jaw.
Laura fell to her knees-laughing.
"You'll be out of here by tomorrow morning, the way they want," Mrs. Barton hissed, "or I'll have the police on you-and I'll prefer the charges!"
With that, she was gone, slamming the door violently shut behind her.
Laura remained on her knees by the door, still laughing, and knowing that very soon she would have to fuck Mike Barton one more time.
Just for kicks.
The way they want.
The phrase came into her head again as she opened the manila envelope. Mrs. Barton had read the letter from Bev-and she must have been referring to something in that letter when she-Laura's thoughts broke off as the certified check fluttered to the floor. She stooped and picked it up, glancing quickly at the amount.
The check was for one thousand dollars-and it was made out to her and signed by C. Phillip Conner. It had been tucked between the pages of the letter-and no doubt Mrs. Barton's bitchy eyes had gloated over the amount, knowing that it would be more than enough to provide an exit for the young neighbor who was now sapping the lust of her ambitious stepson! Laura opened the letter: Darling Laura, Bev again. This one has to be very brief and business-like. Claude says that I must learn to control my impulsive urges to write to you so often and at such length. I am terribly sorry, dear, if I have been shocking and boring you-to say nothing of mystifying you-with the endless details of my sex life. I'm sure that I've given you many sleepless and worried nights, but I want to assure you that I am in perfect health, and enjoying life to the fullest. It wouldn't be possible to enjoy life more than by being with a male like Claude. He's able to satisfy my every whim-both sexual and material. He fucks like a dream, and he's terribly inventive about things to do-inexhaustible, in fact. But he does have one tiny failing. He likes variety. It's not just the spice of life for him: it's life itself. There are a great many tales I could tell if I only thought I wouldn't again bore you . . .
And that brings us to the check you've no doubt found by now. I told Claude that five hundred would certainly be enough for you to get out here comfortably by jet, but as I said, Claude is nothing, if not generous. He wants you to feel you are floating over the continent on a billowy bed of money!
As for that tedious little job of yours at the library, quit it. Just tell them to take all those dusty volumes and pile them high. Books are for the dead, not the living. The living write their own books with their bodies. I know that sounds awfully profound-but it's not original with me. It's Claude's philosophy. In fact, he says that the next great moral philosophy to influence the world will be written by the body. It's already happening, of course, in a kind of fumbling, decadent-seeming way. The loosening up of censorship, the nudity on the American stage, the promiscuity of the younger generation. But that's only the beginning, according to Claude. He doesn't want to be a spectator to the changing times, he wants to be the avant garde-and he is. All of this ties in, believe it or not, with the check enclosed and our overwhelming desire to have you join us on the yacht. It makes absolutely no difference to either of us whether you are still a virgin or not. We have, I'll admit, been making little bets on your status. I say that you are, and Claude says that you couldn't possibly be. It's the male's desire to believe the innocence of the female is a pose that can be stripped away with the least likely provocation-in this case, my letters to you. Claude says that you no doubt were shocked at first by my confessions, and that then you became increasingly jealous-can you imagine his using that word in relationship to us? We were never closer than we are now, I'm sure. But Claude likes to indulge his fancies in some little vision of how you probably seduced the first thing with balls after reading my first letter. Possibly that nice, horse-hung young man next door to you. And then Claude says you probably went on to bigger and better things, so to speak. I have insisted that his version is nonsense, that you are still the same. . . still the sweet, virginal, unhappy little girl of yesteryear.
At any rate, Claude has developed a missionary zeal to see you changed properly before it is too late. The point I'm trying to make, dear, is that Claude wants nothing more nor less than a chance to fuck you himself. But don't worry, I wouldn't dream of letting him put that thing of his into you without your permission. Even my shameless cunt-which has known pricks the size and length of giant sausages-begs for some mercy when Claude attacks. So, letting him violate your virginal little muffin would be an act of sadism beyond description. No, instead we'll let you get your sea legs on the yacht first (we're all sailing to Mexico the minute you arrive), and then, when you're quite ready, you may-if you wish-lose your precious maidenhead to Eduardo, the cabin steward. He's a perfectly darling boy from one of the southern states of Old Mexico, with a temperament just suited to politely fucking virgins. He's an artist at breaking in the sleepy young cunts of such as you. His cock, just for the record, is not at all large, but it is very, very long; and for a nineteen-year-old, he has a perfectly incredible talent for keeping it hard forever and ever. I remember that last Christmas, while we were sailing from Catalina to San Francisco, Eduardo fucked the Duchess of Bismick for three solid hours without a pause. Claude and I watched the whole thing. Voyeurism is something they say one has to develop a taste for, but I find that difficult to believe. The opportunity to watch a sixty-year-old nympho being endlessly screwed by a beautiful Mexican boy is something few could pass up. The Duchess had to nurse her weary old twat for days afterward, but she had the most sublimely satisfied grin on her face!
Do come, Laura. Claude will meet you at the LA International on Friday. Just wire the flight number.
I can't wait to hug you and kiss you and talk about old times.
Lovingly, Bev "The way they want," Laura whispered, softly, looking again at the crisp check on the sofa beside her.
And then she thought of the mysterious Claude-with his missionary zeal-and her smile widened into a warm, slightly leering grin.