Chapter 3
She had to plan it carefully-and inexperience was her biggest problem. She had simply never seduced a male before, and this would be a seduction of an innocent. She knew intuitively that young Mike Barton would not be the Rodney Bradshaw of her sister's past. She had at least seen enough of the boy to know that much.
But she nevertheless made it a habit to study him over the next few days-and often at a very close angle. But happy circumstance, Mike had been for some time employed by her in a believable capacity as a yard boy. She paid him two dollars every Saturday morning to clean and rake the lawn behind the duplex in which she lived. The other half of the duplex was temporarily unoccupied.
Until her planned excursion into erotica, she had never really paid much attention to Mike, physically. She knew him to be a quiet, relaxed, smiling young man who was interested only in tinkering with an old car he had pulled from the junkyard. She knew also, from the constant blathering of his mother, that Mike was something of a star on his high school basketball team. In short, he was the kind of consummately healthy, well-adjusted, young male adolescent who might react either way to a stubborn female's attempt to seduce him; he might be ready as ripe wheat to be harvested, or he might balk in fear and disgust.
It would be interesting to discover that aspect of his nature at the same time she was uncovering her own.
She waited almost breathlessly for the next Saturday to arrive, but her time was by no means wasted. While sitting at her desk in the Public Library she gave constant thought to the manner of the seduction.
She certainly could not simply tell him she wanted fucked!
And she was not at all sure that she did want to be possessed in a violent, animal like encounter. Some nagging fear of being hurt held her away from the direct approach. And then, there was the matter of imitating the actions of Beverly, her sister. Something about the necessity stimulated her resolve.
"I want to have it done to me as it was done to her," she whispered to herself at one point. "But I want to go Bev one better, too-if that's possible!"
To that end, she narrowed the goal of her deliberate seduction down to a very specific event: she would invite Mike Barton to do nothing more than tickle her cunt.
But again, how?
What would be the technique-the modus operandi?
The thorny problem bothered her for all of two days-and might have seemed insoluble altogether if it had not been for a very amusing and timely bit of fate. On Friday afternoon a small boy of about nine approached her desk with a picture book which he wanted to check out. It was a book about American history, and the second Laura's wandering mind and eyes fell on the cover, she knew that her problem was solved.
The cover of the book was a picture of George Washington signing a document with a huge, pink quill pen.
She could hardly contain her pleasure as she stared at the illustration. She'd invite Mike Barton to tickle her pussy with a feather!
Had Laura but known how trite her inventiveness would seem to the practitioners of lasciviousness, she might have blushed with something besides pleasure. But she did not know. She only saw that a feather would be a harmless, gentle instrument of titillation which might not only give her the kind of depraved pleasure she was seeking, but might also serve as an intoxicant to a horny boy. For all she knew, Mike Barton had been dreaming since puberty of scratching the portals of a pussy in just such a way!
But first she had to buy a feather.
The instant five o'clock arrived, she found herself heading downtown to a Woolworth's store. She had seen quill pens in such stores before-those silly imitations of the real thing which contain ballpoint pens cleverly concealed at the tip of the feather. That would do perfectly, she reasoned.
But Woolworth's disappointed her, and she found herself ranging over the store with a kind of hungry madness. Surely she would be able to find something with a feather on it!
Finally, in a last ditch effort born of desperation, she hurried into a hat shop. She was like an addict now, blindly seeking out the balm of her itch. The clerk was very helpful, producing from a pile of attractive chapeaus just the right number.
The feather was white, with a fluffy, pointed tip. And it measured fourteen inches from end to end.
It seemed made for teasing cunts!
She slept very little that night, and when the first light of Saturday's dawn came, she found herself standing half naked at her bedroom window, peering out at the back yard as if it were the Elysian Fields. A choking terror went through her once or twice when she considered the possibility of Mike's not showing up at all. Perhaps one of his ridiculous high school ball games would keep him away!
But he did appear, halfway into the morning. And since her vigil at the bedroom window had been more or less constant, she saw him at once. Narrowing her eyes, she studied his body from every angle. He was wearing faded, tight jeans and a T-shirt, and he seemed to be going about his work today with a kind of lazy, bored indifference.
If he only knew the excitement she had in store for him!
She had long ago made ready for the event by carefully bathing and perfuming her body. The selection of her clothes had been a real problem-she kept asking herself what Bev would have worn-but she finally settled on a very thin, sensibly dark dress that sported the highest hemline in her wardrobe. To simplify matters, she wore neither panties nor bra, and that alone made her feel deliciously wanton. The tips of her yearning tits seemed to fill with warm blood and stick out against the dark clothes like acorns.
With blood also beating at her temples, she checked the other windows in her apartment-the ones which gave her an advantageous view of the Barton home. She had no intention of letting her enemy see what she was up to. Fortunately, Mrs. Barton had drawn the blinds on the side windows of her house, as was her custom, and the path was clear for the first step of the plan.
At exactly half past ten, she opened the back door of her apartment and called to her young worker.
He turned, shading his youthful and sweating face against the sun-and grinned at her.
She beckoned with her finger that he was to come toward her. She watched as he walked toward her with a casual swagger of his coltish, lean hips. Her eyes fell with a gnawing fascination down to his crotch. She saw-or thought she saw-the telltale bulge that demonstrates the nature of the male animal.
"Hi," he said, coming up to her with his grin.
He said nothing more, and for one terrible instant Laura felt words freeze in her throat. She had nothing to say to him, no possible way to begin!
But he unwittingly saved the day. "Anything special you want me to do today?"
It brought a small, welcome grin to her own face. "Yes, Mike, there is. But why don't you come in and have a cool drink first. We can talk about it in the kitchen."
He nodded without a moment's hesitation, and followed her into the house.
She was tingling from head to toe! She was sure that he knew everything, that he could see simply by looking that she wore neither bra nor panties. She was equally sure that he could read her mind.
While he sat at the kitchen table, she got him a Coke from the icebox and brought it to him. He thanked her, and sipped it casually. Then he looked up at her with the brownest eyes she had ever seen, his grin gone a bit slack at the corners of his mouth.
"What was it you needed done special?" he asked.
The cleverly constructed innuendo, the memorized approaches she had carefully worked out, fell suddenly away from her mind like dead leaves being kicked by the wind. Instead, she took a short, sketchy breath and said: "I want you to tickle my pussy-with a feather."
The silence in the kitchen was suddenly as thick as marble.
Mike Barton remained frozen in place for a few seconds, then brought both his hands up around the glass of Coke in front of him. His grin collapsed for a moment, then widened into an arch that spread his crimson cheeks.
"Goddamn, Miss Miller," he whispered, thickly. "I don't know what to say about that."
She smiled shamelessly. "Just say you will, Mike. I bought the feather yesterday. It's in the bedroom. I want to take off my clothes and lie down on the bed, and I want you to-"
"Jesus," he husked, softly, "do you have any idea what you're even saying?"
"I have every idea of what I'm asking you to do-and if you do it to my satisfaction, I may let you fuck me. Although I don't promise that."
An uncertain gurgle seemed to pass from the boy's throat, as if the vision of her pussy was already dancing in his brain. She saw his eyes clouding suddenly with the mixture of lust and fear.
"Who the hell knows about this," he breathed. "Anybody?"
"Nobody-I can promise you that. Now, will you do it for me?"
He didn't answer. He merely pushed back from the table and stood up. He seemed suddenly taller to her-and a most admirable young stud at that.
"Let's go," he whispered.
She led him into the bedroom. She remembered all the details of her sister's letter, and so she locked the bedroom door. She had already pulled the blinds, and the room had been thrown into a muted light.
She began to take off her clothes.
"Want me to strip?" he asked, behind her.
Without looking back at him, but feeling a wild ripple of pleasure surge through her loins, she nodded, "Yes, Mike. Take off your clothes if you'll enjoy it more. I'd like to see your body."
When she was free of her dress, she walked lithely, nakedly toward the bed and crawled into the center. She spread her legs exactly the way she remembered the description in the letter. And then she took a deep breath.
"When you are ready, Mike, the feather is on the bureau."
"I see it, yeah."
She closed her eyes then, just as Bev had done and waited for the first ethereal brush of the soft wing-tip against her waiting cunt.
Then suddenly he was upon her.
She had no time to rise, to defend herself, to even struggle. His body-much heavier than she had ever dreamed possible-was across hers, and the male knees were digging like cudgels under her soft buttocks.
"No-!" she hissed.
But it was too late. She felt the searing pain of his blunt hardness thrusting between the dry, defenseless lips of her cunt. She screamed-but it was a muffled scream, since even in her terror she remembered the mother next door.
"Mike-for God's sake-NOH"
He didn't answer, and wouldn't answer. The only answering sound was the rough gasp of his breath as he rammed his hips forward once more, and drove the length of his adolescent prick to the roots in her slit.
One more ragged scream and she felt the blood and tissue tear inside her. The fist of a cockhead seemed to be lodged against her lungs! He was killing her with it-he was FUCKING HER!!
She barely had time to know the depths of her sister's towering lie before she fainted under his savage, joyless thrusts . . .
She came out of the darkness being rocked like a boat. He was still on top of her, his youthful, gorged prick rammed deep into her cunt. The pain was gone, but a numbness, a rawness had replaced it. Her arms were pulled back, away from her on both sides, and he was holding her down as he fucked.
She stared blindly up into his flushed face. His eyes seemed glazed, his cheeks ruddy. His mouth was open like some animal's, and she could see his tongue hanging out a bit between his teeth. He grinned at her.
"Fuck with me, baby," he whispered. "Let's come together!"
She twisted her head to one side and shut her eyes, clenched them over the strange sensation which, despite the nature of her rape, was beginning to seize her like a fever.
She felt the tickling, embryonic dig of pleasure in her loins. The numbness was giving way to a deep, abandoned kind, of rapture. Her lushly violated cunt gave a throb, then another, and she felt his incredible stiffness respond with a throb of its own.
"You didn't know I had such a big one," he grinned. "You didn't know I've got the biggest, goddamn prick in school."
He said it almost mockingly, as if he really believed she had known exactly what he had, as if her invitation had been covetously built around such knowledge. She only knew that the tunnel of her helpless pussy was stretched to capacity, and the knob at the end of his cock moved like a clenched fist against her half-resisting walls of flesh.
She felt his mouth close lustily over one of her small, pointing tits, and another involuntary shudder of delight went through her. He began to suck her nipple, licking and biting it with his tongue and lips. The little peak grew into an extended thimble of erect meat, and he sucked it even harder before moving to the other tit to repeat the attack.
He had turned her on to the very flame of lust. She wantonly moved her hips in circles to complement his vertical thrusts. His prick went deeper into her, plundering the remotest corners of her pussy, satisfying her to her toes.
"I'm- coming!" she gasped.
The maddened muscles of her cunt suddenly gripped his horsy young prick like a soapy hand. She held his hardness inside her for one, two, three seconds-and then she spasmed.
He rammed home his cock savagely as she groaned, making his balls slap obscenely against the lifted crack of her ass. Her juices spat against his legs and trickled down into the cleft of her buttocks like thin, hot syrup.
In her ecstasy, she had drawn both her legs up until they were holding his naked hips in a vise. Her cunt continued to throb greedily, and he had not once paused in his stubborn drive to keep fucking her hard.
He had lifted his mouth from her pointing tits at the apex of her orgasm, and now he was again grinning down at her, his hair hanging over his eyes, his tongue half out of his ruttish young mouth.
"Wanta come like that again?" he breathed, huskily.
She slid her legs up over the lean hillocks of his naked ass and purred at him-purred like the hot pussy she had suddenly become.
She had found her whoremaster!