Chapter 1
My one desire in life, Laura, is to tell you about the exquisite charm of being fucked- The large manila envelope containing that shocking line had arrived only a few seconds before Mrs. Stella Barton-the nosy next-door-neighbor.
That single, initial, uncompleted line of the letter from her older sister was all Laura had time to read before the knocking on the door made her snap the thick letter back into the envelope and hide it under the sofa cushion.
She hurried to the door with a flush of shame in her clear, youthful cheeks. When she pulled it open, she was both annoyed and alarmed at seeing the grinning, almost evil face of the older woman, staring through the screen at her.
"I saw the Special Delivery man arrive," Mrs. Barton hummed, hungrily, "and I wondered if it were something about your sister. Some good news, perhaps."
Laura stared at the woman, trying to read more into the inquiry than could possibly have been there. It wasn't logical, she told herself, that Mrs. Barton could know anything at all about the contents of the letter. Not logical at all!
"No," Laura stammered. "It was-nothing of importance."
The woman continued to stand there, like some omen which had appeared on the horizon of an otherwise untroubled day. She wanted in, that was obvious. And it was times like this that Laura wished she could be hard as nails-even a bit cruel.
But she had never been that in her whole life.
"Won't you come in, Mrs. Barton?"
The snide grin on the older woman's face widened perceptibly. "Why, thank you, dear. Of course, I can only stay a moment-but there was something I wanted to speak to you about. It concerns your sister, Beverly, as a matter of fact."
The mention of her sister's name drove a fresh fear through Laura's brain, but she tried to keep the expression on her face as calm as possible.
"Do sit down, Mrs. Barton."
Once in the living room, the prying woman searched the walls and furniture of the room as if she were some incarnation of the Gestapo. It was as if she expected to see some evidence of the rumor she had come over to share with her smoldering tongue.
"You sure you haven't heard anything about the disappearance of your sister?" Mrs. Barton cooed. "I mean, I was hoping she had written you-or communicated in some way. It's all so dreadful for you, I know."
Laura drew as casual a breath as possible under the circumstances. "I'm not worried about Bev, if that's what you mean," she managed. "Bev has always been able to take care of herself."
There was a small, gloating change in Mrs. Barton's expression. Her lips seemed to purse for a moment, as if she were about to give evidence in a witch trial.
"I'm glad you feel that way, dear, but I do consider it my duty to tell you what they are saying in town ..."
Laura stared at her. "In town? Mrs. Barton, this is a very large city, so how could-"
"I'm sorry, Laura. Of course you're right. I keep forgetting that I grew up in a small place, myself. I didn't mean the whole city was talking about your sister. I suppose I meant the immediate neighborhood-the people who live around here. Heaven knows, I've tried to stop the rumors, but you know how people are."
"Yes, I know how people are."
"Well-the truth of the matter is, quite a few people have been remembering things about your older sister. And some of those things are not altogether pleasant. I thought it my Christian duty to come right over and tell you so that-"
"What kinds of things, Mrs. Barton."
The older woman assumed a superior expression of morality, but beneath it all was a cunning, wolf-hungry glint of pure malice. "The truth is, my dear, that people have been calling your sister a woman without principles-a simple harlot."
An hour ago, Laura thought, she would have lifted her eyebrows with both anger and indignation. She would have flushed at her cheeks and shouted down the rumors with a heated desire to vindicate any vicious and simple-minded lie about Bev. She had always known Bev to be a saint!
But that was before the sudden arrival of the mysterious-and terrifying-manila envelope. And the first line of the letter still echoed like a brazen bell in the middle of her head.
"What-precisely-are they saying, Mrs. Barton?"
"You're absolutely sure you want to know? It isn't exactly pretty . . ."
"I'm sure I want to know everything."
Mrs. Barton pursed her unpainted lips in obvious pleasure at being the one to reveal what she considered the worst of human foibles. "They're saying, dear, that your sister was as fast as lightning even at a very early age. They claim she practically ruined the life of Rodney Bradshaw."
Laura stared at her neighbor blankly. "Who on earth was Rodney Bradshaw?"
"Oh, you remember that sweet little son of the Baptist minister. The Bradshaws lived just down the block when your sister was fourteen."
"Mrs. Barton, I was only eight years old when my sister was fourteen. I don't remember anybody down the street who-"
"The sweetest boy in the whole world. Used to lead the singing at Wednesday-night prayer meetings. The whole congregation loved him like a son."
"And my sister ruined him, you say."
Mrs. Barton drew herself up rather archly. "I didn't say anything, my dear. It's the vicious gossip that's going around which is fanning the blaze. The minute I heard it, I insisted that the whole thing was a silly tissue of lies, and-"
"You haven't told me yet who they are. I mean, the ones who say Bev ruined Rodney whatever-his-name-is."
"All I know is, they say she taught him how to sin."
"Are you talking about sex?"
"Of course, my dear!"
Laura waited for a moment in the uncomfortable silence of her own living room, then cleared her throat calmly. "How old was this Rodney-at the time, I mean."
"Only a child-only a boy. About the age of my son, Mike."
Laura smiled, despite herself. "Mrs. Barton, your son was seventeen on his last birthday, wasn't he?"
"Yes. But what has that got to do with-"
"Perhaps nothing. But you might remind all those pious souls who are intent on destroying the reputation of my sister that a fourteen-year-old girl could hardly be totally responsible for pitchforking a grown boy into hell. Now could she?"
Mrs. Barton was waiting for the first small wail of defense. It showed in her eyes, and in the savage way her thin mouth twisted in a rage to taste blood.
"I daresay such things have happened before, Laura. But my Mike would never-"
"And I daresay that seventeen-year-old boys are much more capable of lustful thoughts on the arts of seduction than girls just entering puberty."
"But the fact remains that people would rather gossip and make up outrageous lies than to look for the truth."
The sudden force of Laura's voice proved the proper check for the wily gossip perched on the sofa in front of her. Mrs. Barton's face changed expressions. She retreated-to gather her forces for another day.
"You're exactly right, Laura. And you've used practically the same words I used back at them."
Laura smiled, almost bitterly. "You tell them that this time they are wrong. I know my sister like a book. And even what people are trying to call a 'disappearance' is nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact, I have heard from Bev."
Mrs. Barton's eyes widened. "You have?"
"Yes, but I'm not ready to say anything about it. As you know, my sister is an actress-or is trying to be one in California-and her so-called disappearance concerns that."
Mrs. Barton waited a few more seconds, almost bursting with curiosity about the development she was not prepared to deal with. Then she made a warm but false smile and stood up.
"I'll leave you now, dear. And I hope I haven't upset you. But as I said, my Christian duty compelled me-"
"Thank you, Mrs. Barton. And good-bye."
The instant the old bitch was out of sight, Laura grabbed the manila envelope from under the very cushion Mrs. Barton's wide hips had been crushing. Clutching the manuscript to her small breasts, she hurried into the bathroom, shut and locked the door, and perched on the edge of the tub to read, undisturbed. As if the first sentence of the long letter could possibly have left her anything but wildly disturbed!
She read quickly but thoroughly, her mind leaping like a frightened hare over the typed words:
Dearest Sister, My one desire in life, Laura, is to tell you about the exquisite charm of being fucked-and I hope that you will find my ramblings to your advantage. By that, of course, I mean that you should follow in my footsteps with all possible haste. You must, above all, get it out of your silly head that you are the ugly duckling of the family. You aren’t or at least you need not be, darling, because you have a cunt that is, I'm sure, altogether as bewitching as mine. Do I shock you, sweetheart? It's Claude's fault. He's taught me all these words, and I must admit that now they roll off my tongue like fat, round grapes. I'm not the least bit shocked by words like fuck, shit, shuck, cunt, pussy, prick . . . As a matter of fact, l've learned to love them-all of them. But more of such matters later. This letter-and it is only the first of several which I intend to write to you-has as its specific purpose the desire to enlighten you on how I began the small carnival of lust which has now become something of a wild circus inside me.
I also do it out of atonement for sheltering you so long and vigorously from the realities of life. But I'm sure you will forgive me. Honesty can always be forgiven. Oh, I'm rambling already-and Claude is leaning over my shoulder like a Satanic muse, making wisecracks. There he goes again! He just made a joke about my wise crack. He says he's educated it with his pedantic prick-and that's why it is wise. But I'll make a joke of my own since he's reading over my shoulder. I'm going to make him feed my pussy some milk-some- "
Laura stared at how the sentence faltered on the page, how it resumed at a fresh line several spaces down. It was perfect evidence that Bev's joke had somehow gotten out of hand. But it was a joke which did not make Laura smile. Instead, a crawling tide of nausea began somewhere in the pit of her stomach, and continued to climb slowly up into her lungs as she read: -sorry for the interruption, darling Laura, but I suppose my little joke backfired. Claude wouldn't be put off in my suggestion to have my puss fed some of his deliciously thick, hot milk. I'm talking about male sperm, of course, you little ninny-and in case you've never had the rare joy of seeing it, or feeling it, or smelling it, I'll tell you it comes from a man's balls. Sometimes, as in the case of my Claude, it comes in great, boiling gluts which simply flood the deepest corners of my aroused cunt until I could scream with the pleasure of it. But I'm still digressing, damn it, and I don't want to. I must discipline myself if I am ever to be a writer of good letters to you. So I'll begin over in the next paragraph . . .
Laura's eyes dropped like veils of shame down the page to the stipulated paragraph, and her lips moved with a kind of fear and trembling over the printed lines of incredible obscenity: What I started out to do, Laura, was to tell you of my first experience with the wonder of fucking. I'm sure that if you go very far back in your mind you can remember Rodney Bradshaw. He's the nice boy who used to come and sit on the porch swing in the evenings when you were only a little tot in pigtails. I wasn't much older myself-but I suppose, to you, I seemed quite grown up. I wasn't, except in the vague, physical way in which all fourteen-year-old girls mature. For months before it happened, I had been aware that something quite strange and marvelous was transforming my body. It was only the usual kind of change which takes place in every girl-but it was happening to me, and that made all the difference. You remember how you changed, don't you? First I began to notice a kind of mossy, corn silky growth around my genitals. In other words, my pussy seemed to be growing a soft little, comical mustache! I had my first menstruation (a nightmare because our dear mother had not prepared me for it) and I noticed that my breasts and hips had begun to fill out, to round, to take a shape. I was at the height of this miraculous and holy change, Laura, when Rodney Bradshaw chose to initiate me into the even holier joys of sexual intercourse.
I have often wondered-you'll never know how often-if Rodney was not merely some simple instrument to divine my innately nymphomaniacal nature. Such things are possible. You've read about those farmers and simple folk who go around with a forked stick pointing it at the ground to discover hidden wells? It was that way with Rodney and me. He was only a boy-only seventeen at the time-but his nature was already highly achieved, sharpened to a lusty point, and I suppose if he had been something less than a mad little Trojan of lecherousness, I might have had to wait some years to discover what he revealed within me in one amorous night.
It happened this way. Rodney was one of those adolescent males who is loved and trusted by everybody. Most preachers' sons fall into this category. It is simply assumed, I suppose, that because a boy is reared under the watchful eye of a man of God, that his nature will reflect the qualities of compassion, modesty, chastity, etc. People are such limitless fools! Exactly the opposite is much more likely to be the case. When a young man with a naturally salacious drive in his loins is forced into the role of a boyish saint, he is much more likely to find the footsteps of the Devil dizzyingly attractive.
Such was the case with Rodney.
He was after me from the very beginning. Those long evenings that we sat so innocently on the porch swing were merely the previews, the warm-ups for the night I'm going to tell you about. But I wouldn't want you to think I was innocent and wide-eyed when that night finally came. Far from it. The first time Rodney put his hand on my knee, I let him. I made no effort at all to remove his fingers. It was one of those instinctive impulses of non-action which leapt out from the darker cave of my very being, Claude says. I, myself, am sure that there must exist on the face of the earth young girls who would recoil from the unformulated hint of sensual arousal as they would from the slithering touch of a snake. But I was not one of them-even then.
Not only did I let Rodney put his hand on my leg, I let him squeeze my flesh. And even when his fingers wandered dangerously high, I made absolutely no move to stop him. It was as if we were both pilgrims in some uncharted land. I'd never had a finger on my cunt in my entire life, but I knew that a finger was what it needed! I knew that hiding under the thin softness of my panties was a little, freshly fringed crack made for loving a bold finger. I'll confess that during those first few relatively harmless evenings of dalliance on the porch swing, I knew nothing about being stirred by anything but a finger. For all I knew about the mating of the male and female (again, thanks to our dreary mom), babies were made by hand!
I wonder now what I might have thought if I could have seen in the dark shadows of our family porch that Rodney had a quite different, larger finger of meat straining up against the crotch of his roguish fly?
But I didn't see it, or know it was there, and Rodney was much too clever and much too careful to open the trap and let his little dove of fun fly away. He intended to fuck me correctly from the first, of course, but all in his glorious good time.
That time came one weekend when you and mother were away. I can't imagine what prompted mother to be so trusting with me. She should have had more sense, but the fact remains that she left me alone in the house that fateful weekend-and it was that rare moment that Rodney chose to devour my charms.
I remember that he came over quite early in the evening. I knew, of course, that he would have to put his hand on my leg again, and I was quite ready and willing for such games. It's a dubious credit to my girlish innocence that I expected no more than that. We did sit on the porch swing for almost an hour. Rodney's clever hand was on my leg the entire time, squeezing, pinching, play fully pressing around on my steadily excited flesh. I remember that precise moment when the blood began to stir in my youthful loins. I grew moist in the area of my cunt, and the softly folded muffin of my labia felt sticky and hot.
That was why I made no protest at all when that delightfully naughty boy slid his wanton hand up under my panties and began to feel for himself the heat and strength of my arousal.
I can see him even now, leaning toward me in the sultry half-darkness of the porch, his eyes hard as flint, a small, lusty grin drawing up the corners of his young mouth.
"Let's go inside, Bev," he whispered, "I want to see your pussy, too ..." I confess that it was the first time I had ever heard that silly euphemism for the female genitalia.
Pussy.
The word made me giggle. Yes, I actually threw-back my blithe little head and giggled as his fingers stroked the furred trench of my unfucked hole!
Did I resist the invitation to let him look upon my slit?
I did not. Instead, I led him into the house and watched with shameless approval as he shut the front door and locked us inside!
"Let's go upstairs, "he urged, a little hoarsely. "I wanta pull your panties down. I wanta touch it, kiss it, smell it!"
The brazen nerve of his request didn't seem at all extraordinary to me. I marched with him up to Mother's room(was it a Freudian slip, Laura?) like a nymphet from the pits of Satan's hell. Once inside the sanctum of Mummy's own room, he again shut the door and locked it.
"Take 'em off," he said, grinning at me with that cheerlessly stubborn expression of mounting passion that I have seen so often in males since that night. "I want to watch you strip out of them. "
I grinned back at him-vixen of greed that I already was!
"And then what are you going to do, Rodney?" I breathed.
"I'm going to play with it, get you nice and hot."
Playtime was exactly what I had in mind, and even as I hooked my fingers into the elastic at the top of my panties, I could feel my randy young cunt beginning to throb with the anticipated pleasure of having him touch it, scratch it, caress it with the blunt fingertips of his male hands.
When my panties were off, I tossed them to him and he hung them on the bedpost like some small, pink flag of victory.
"Stretch out on the bed, baby. Pull your legs up-and open them wide for me. "
I was flushing with fire as I did what he demanded. It was as if he had hypnotized me with his adolescent stare, captivated me with his marvelously magical fingertips.
I stretched out and opened my legs. My dress rolled down against my stomach like a kind of modest fringe, but I felt absolutely naked. I was, I must confess, even a bit disappointed that he hadn't asked me to take off everything.
I closed my eyes as he came toward me. I felt the weight of his body sink into the mattress at my feet, and I waited-tingling with the excitement of a child at Christmas-as his fingers feathered over the virginal crevice that beckoned him on. When he touched me, I trembled and gave a little gasp of both pleasure and fear. I knew then that he was after something that I was powerless to prevent him from taking.
He was gentle with me at first. His fingers wandered a little blindly and very gently over the puffed ridges of my pussy, as if he were discovering for himself the dark mystery of the eternal cunt.
He touched every hair, every pore-and all the while my pubescent pussy seemed to be growing larger, hotter. It was as if the lips of my sex were being stung by huge, velvet bumblebees of pleasure. My Venus mound thickened and puffed and quivered as he petted it, and I could feel the slit beginning to widen-like a voracious and hungry mouth begging to be fed.
And then he put his index finger into the folds where his husky young prick was dying to lodge itself.
I moaned and twisted-but he kept his finger there, gently inserted. Then he inched in a bit more, then more, until I could feel the entire length of his lewd finger deep up inside my boiling hole.
"Rodney!" I gasped. "You're driving me crazy doing that!"
I heard his boyish voice deep in his throat rasping out words that were sweet music to my ears. "I'm gonna drive you a lot crazier before I'm through, honey. First with my finger, then with my tongue, and then with my prick!"
I formed the word he had just uttered over and over on the tip of my tongue. Imagine if you can my total ignorance of the word. It was as if he had said something bestial and Greek to me.
Prick?
What on earth was a prick?
But such intellectual pursuits were soon lost in the salacious stirrings his finger was producing inside my twat.
He moved his long, ambitious finger in a jiggly oval within the warm, red meat of my pussy. Everywhere he touched, I twittered with needles of joy, sharp jabs of raw pleasure!
"You like that shit-don't you!" he grinned.
I was too blind with liking it to even answer. I merely arched my legs wider, flattened the rounded mounds of my buttocks into the mattress, and let him finger-tease me all he wanted!
Something was happening inside my loins. Some wild, mad flood of rakish juice was beginning to foam and boil. I could feel his finger digging for it, stroking and tickling the grainy, mossy walls of my heated young cunt until Oh, God!! I wanted to scream with the ecstasy of it!
"Come-if you want to," I heard him rasp. "Come all over my finger and I'll lick it out with my tongue!"
Again, I had no idea what the word "come" meant, but the sound of it was erotic and unchaste-and I knew that the swishing juice oozing from the cavern of my pussy was what would come to his finger, bathe his knuckles with a whorish draught of lewdness.
But I had to be brought to the brim and over the brim of such carnal pleasure, and he knew exactly how to do it. He found my clitoris and began to tickle and rub it with just the blind point of his finger. I had not even known such a tool of female lust existed before that night, but I could feel it high up in the circle of my cunt. Just a little fang of gristle that had to be teased.
He teased it, strummed it until the clit was standing up hard and long as a baby's thumb.
I was coming for him, moaning and grunting and twisting as his finger literally fucked me out of my mind!
I almost fainted when the orgasm swirled through my loins. It was as if his finger had grown to the size of a ballbat and I was impaled upon it, lusting for it, driving it deeper and deeper into the core of my slit as my liquids flooded and foamed in release.
Through the delirium of my joy I could hear the squish and mushy whisper of my swollen pussy as his finger fed inside it. I knew that my juices were running out of that nether mouth, bubbling out and rolling slickly down the insides of my legs. I had never felt such exquisite pleasure in my life, Laura!
Then, abruptly, his finger came unplugged and his head was between my legs. I could feel his hard, fiendish tongue lapping and sucking at the honey he had stirred from the depths of my sex. The pleasure of having him do that to me-of his licking my wet and throbbing cunt-brought me to another orgasm that was even longer and more thrilling than the first. He was literally drinking down my love-nectar!
I wanted him to stop what he was doing. I needed a respite. I desperately believed that his tongue was going to drive me mad with joy if it probed one inch more inside the sappy folds of my cunt.
But he didn't stop. He held my thighs pinned down with his hands and continued to suck at my pussy like a beast. I twisted and tossed and groaned. I begged him to stop until my voice was hoarse-but with each passing second I could feel my passion being rekindled. Finally, wi\h a vague whimper of contentment, I lay still, with my thighs pushed up high against the jaws of his face, his tongue buried to the roots inside my lusty twat, his tongue moving unhurriedly in hungry circles.
Slowly, a small, almost cruel grin pulled up the corners of my mouth. He was eating me, and I was loving it!
The little orgy went on for what seemed hours. I could hear nothing but the steady, succulent slurp of his mouth clamped between my legs, but I could feel the very harps of paradise as he licked.
I was coming again-this time one of those long, lazy orgasms that only a young girl can have who is being pleasured by a lascivious boy who craves it, and cares not a damn about her modesty or innocence or future. We were animals, the two of us, one greedy to eat a ripe pussy and the other more than eager to have it eaten.
But Rodney was full of surprises. When he had worked me to the very peak of an exploding climax, he pulled his lapping tongue out of the throbbing, gaping slit and crawled off the bed.
Do you know the nature of the animal inside us, Laura ?
I'm sure you do not, but when you have learned about that nature, you will understand how I felt at that moment. Blind with the need for nothing more than the drumming pleasure of having my cunt satisfied, I was suddenly deprived of the joy by a grinning, lust-drenched young fool!
I remember that I sat up on my elbows with my legs still splayed ruttishly apart, my inflamed cunt yawning open like a clown's mouth.
"Lick me!" I hissed. "Stick your tongue in it again and suck me!!
By my cunt, Laura, the young Lothario merely grinned at me again, and began to unbuckle his pants.
"You're ripe to be fucked, Beverly," he husked. "I built you up to the boiling point only to put my dick into you. But don't worry-by the time I'm through screwing that hot pussy, you'll have cream coming out of your goddamned ears!"
Fucked?
Again-yet again-I had to admit to ignorance of the word. To be even more honest, I'll have to admit that I didn't at all understand why he was taking off his pants. But one learns fast in the lusts of love, as the poet says. When I saw that gross young scoundrel produce from between his legs a tool of meat designed only for the purpose of a lifelong fuck with virgins, I understood it all.
I knew what his prick was for.
It was the very finger of God-and he was going to touch me with it as God touched Adam. And I was going to be given a new birth.
As he got more naked, I pulled my legs apart like a nutcracker and lay back on the mattress. He came to me again and the bed sank on complaining springs. At that moment I thought of Mother. It was her bed I was being fucked on for the first time-and how perfectly ironic it all was! Our dear, sweet, stupid mother who had guarded my precious cunt with the care of a saint was now unwittingly providing the bed of lust on which I was to be reborn.
"Put your hands down, pull your pussy open," Rodney whispered to me. "When I put this big thing into you, you can guide it along an inch at a time. We're gonna fuck all night, if that's what it takes to satisfy me!"
Need I tell you, sweet Laura, that it did indeed take the better part of three hours to satisfy us both. I don't know how long the agony lasted of having his monstrous, stiff young cock poked steadily into my hitherto virgin cunt. But I do know that once the pain and blood were over, I was in the throes of a more exquisite torture than before. My adolescent whoremaster fucked his mare without mercy for the better part of an hour. My orgasms came and went on murderous feet of joy, and each time I spasmed, the strong young muscles of my cunt would suck and grasp and nip at his "plundering prick until he would groan and curse with lust. . .
Am I beginning to bore you with my erotomania?
I am sorry, and it is late. Even Claude is becoming impatient with me. He says that if I would put half my passion for prose into worshipping his insatiable, big dick, I would be a happier hausfrau.
But Claude has never been able to understand my desire to share my happiness with others-and especially you, Laura.
I will write again. I must. Until then, think well of me. I'm off for a jolly fuck with you-know-who.
Love, Bev Laura was not sure how long she continued to sit on the edge of the tub, staring in dumb, shock-stricken silence at the last few words of the long letter.
She only knew that it was as if somebody had put a gun to her head and mockingly clicked the trigger against an empty chamber.