Chapter 2
After he was gone, Lydia rose nude from her bed and went into the living room. She took the tape out of the player, emptied the half-consumed drinks down the sink, locked the door (both locks), and shut out the lights. It was almost two in the morning, and she really needed to get some sleep, with that beauty salon appointment at eleven, but she wasn't at all sleepy. Not yet.
She went back into the bedroom and closed the door, then examined herself in the mirror. "Oh, you were beautiful, baby doll!" she told the reflected Lydia, a sinuous hand stretching out to caress the breasts of that glass image of herself. With her other hand, she fondled her tits, feeling the nipples, still up, still tingly under her caresses, and it was such a turn-on, touching herself, watching herself. Sometimes she felt that her mirror was the only real friend, the only confidante, she had. Oh, they'd shared so much, Lydia and her mirror! She leaned forward, kissing the image of herself on its cold glass lips. But the lips felt so warm, so responsive ... She rubbed her front against the mirror, drawing strength, arousal, most of all deriving pleasure, of a sort she'd never known with a man, could never know with a man ...
Men. Goddamn them, they were all the same! They only wanted her body, only wanted to make her a vessel for their cocks and their sperm, only wanted to feel her erupting beneath them as they fucked hot sticky cum up her pussy. Her blood ran cold as she thought of the men she'd known, but it warmed as the remembrance stole upon her, the remembrance of the men upon whom Lydia had retaliated. Yes, she thought, I've had my revenge, had it in full measure, but had it so sweetly I want more and more and more . . .
Somehow she found herself on the bed, sitting on the edge, her long legs dangling to the floor and spread widely, her fingers buried in the wet pink slice between her smooth thighs, her clit throbbing as she stabbed herself with those long fingers, as she fondled her aroused sex trigger, as image after image passed before her half-shut eyes.
Eleven years ago. She was only fourteen, her body a magical storehouse of newly-found sensations. During the past two years her breasts had grown, slowly but surely from training bra size to marvelous, sensitive 34-Bs, proud and noticeable under clingy shirts and sweaters. Skirts were short then, not mini or micro but short all the same, and : had lissome legs jutting from her high hems. Once she'd heard a couple of boys at school commenting on the way her ass twitched and wiggled when she walked. It was something Lydia had never noticed before, but as soon as it had been called to her attention, she found that the boys were right. She did wiggle. Sometimes she'd walk, just for the sake of practice, and watch herself over a shoulder in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. Her hips had a definite sway to them, a marvelous sway, and she'd watch till her neck muscles ached.
Often she'd strip off her clothes and simply look at herself, naked, in the polished glass. She'd stand facing the mirror, then turn profiles, and last of all reverses, entranced at the beauty of her development. Oh, God, what could be better than being young, than being in bloom? She'd cup her breasts, lift them even higher than nature had set them, and her nipples would stiffen, stiffen, so that she had no choice but to sit down carefully on her bed and stroke those nipples with her knowing fingertips, pinching and squeezing until thick moist juices oozed on the slice of her pussy.
And, God, what a pussy! Each time she touched it with her hands it was like receiving a brand-new Christmas present! Sometimes it was most exciting to slip a finger into the tight pussy mouth itself, reaming her cunt with awkward but effective strokes, and other times she preferred to rub the full, ripe bud of her clitoris until her head swam and her heart was racing and her entire body shook and trembled with the onrush of what she found out was an orgasm, clinically speaking. It was like nothing else on God's earth, and that was one thing Lydia Pembroke knew for certain.
But if it was delightful in the privacy of her bedroom, it was even more so in the bath. Of course, she had to be picky about the times she chose for indulging herself, because it was such ecstasy to immerse in water and caress her pussy that she frequently flopped about in the tub and splashed water everywhere. Once Aunt Martha had even come to the door and asked if anything was wrong, and it had taken Lydia a moment to collect herself and lie her way out of the potential embarrassment.
She'd been living with Aunt Martha and Uncle George since she was eleven, when her parents had been killed in a car crash. They were older than her parents. Uncle George was bald and paunchy, biding time until his retirement, and Aunt Martha was very tall, with iron-gray hair and a face nearly as severe. The two of them spoke little—to one another or to Lydia—though lately Uncle George had shown a little more interest in his blossoming niece. Just the other night she'd been in her room, dressed only in bra and panties, studying her figure and her walk in front of the mirror, when she felt a shuddery little chill run up and down her spine, as if cold eyes were focused upon her. And then, in the mirror, she'd seen it.
Uncle George, standing in the darkened hallway, peeking through her half-opened door. A little dart of light reflected on the shiny pate of his head, and it was obvious that he was watching her, studying her as she studied herself. Lydia's heart jumped into her mouth but she didn't cry out or cover herself, conscious as she was of her almost bare body. Instead she moved very slowly, as if she were unaware of his presence, moved toward the chair where her housecoat lay. She picked up the concealing garment and donned it, almost casually, and when she looked at the door again, Uncle George was gone. Lydia breathed heavily, in relief, and she sat down on her bed. The boys at school enjoyed looking at her—looking at her with all her clothes on. Did older men like that sort of thing too? Especially when the nubile young figure was almost completely uncovered? She didn't know. She couldn't even guess. Not at that moment.
Two nights later, while Aunt Martha was out of the house, attending a club meeting, Lydia decided to take an early bath. She was alone, for Uncle George had been working overtime all week and rarely came in before eight o'clock. The opportunity was too good to pass up, so Lydia stripped, filled the tub, sprinkled a liberal helping of bubble powder, and climbed in. She soaked in the sudsy aromatic water, massaged her tight young pussy, and thrashed in the tub as three separate orgasms rippled through her body. It was delicious and delightful.
"Oh, beautiful, too!" she said aloud, standing on the white furry mat beside the tub, drying herself with a fluffy soft towel. Her body glowed with the health of its blooming, and her heart sang joyously. Faster and faster her hands moved with the towel, until Lydia wondered if she might not be justified in hurrying into her bedroom and taking advantage of this luxurious feeling. It would be so sweet, so very sweet, to stretch out naked on her bed (with the door prudently shut, of course) and let her fingers trace each responsive curve, explore each little nook of sensuality. Lydia worked the towel between her legs, swishing and sawing across the impudent puffy swell of her pussy, until her knees twitched and her head felt fantastically giddy. That was when the door opened.
"Aaaaggghhhh!" she cried, freezing for a moment. Only for a moment, but long enough for Uncle George to fill his leering eyes with the sight of her naked front. Late, too late, Lydia remembered that she had a means of preserving some modesty. She pulled the towel from between her legs and hurriedly brought it up to cover the front of her body.
Uncle George's face was red, and his eyes gleamed. He made no effort to back out of the room. "I didn't know you was in here," he said.
"I. .. I was taking a bath. I didn't hear you . . . didn't hear you come in."
"Well," he said. "I'm here, all right." He looked her up and down, and it was as if his eyes were ripping away the flimsy shield of terrycloth towel. Lydia tried to shrink, so that her tall, limber body could more easily skulk behind that protection, but she felt just as naked, just as embarrassed.
"You're filling out nice," Uncle George said. He took a step toward her, and Lydia shrank back. The cool, damp rim of the tub blocked her from going very far, and she nearly fell over. Her eyes lowered—she couldn't look up at his face. Instead, she focused her attention on his belt buckle and the roll of paunch just above.
"D-d-don't," she stammered, raising a hand to fend him off. She didn't know why the thought of his touch filled her with alarm; she only knew that she didn't want him to come any closer.
But instead of approaching, George brushed past Lydia, so close she could smell the heavy scent of his workday sweat. "I came in to take a leak," he announced, raising the lid of the John.
He was profiled from where she stood, and Lydia shifted about, to keep him from getting a side view of her nudity. But even when she moved, it wasn't far enough to keep her from seeing what Uncle George did. He unzipped his pants and fished out a long, rubber piece of flesh, which he aimed down at the toilet bowl. She knew what it was, even if she'd never really seen one before. It was his penis. Cock, pecker, dick, peter, rod, as the kids at school variously called it during bravado conversations. And even as she stared, realizing that she'd never seen a full-grown penis before, Uncle George began to piss through his, a thick splashy stream of golden urine that jetted from the end of his cock down toward the toilet.
He knew she was watching, and he stared at her as he urinated, studying Lydia's face. When the stream ebbed and ceased, he shook his cock, a couple of drops of liquid falling from it, and then he turned. "You were looking," he said. "That isn't nice. Good girls don't look at peckers. So do you know what that must make you, honey bunny?"
She clutched at the towel as he came toward her. He hadn't put his cock back inside his pants, and it flopped and bounced with each step he took. Lydia stared at his jiggling dong in goggle-eyed horror, and she tried to retreat, but her legs were made of jelly and she couldn't move.
Uncle George grabbed her by the wrist—the same wrist that held the towel against her body—and the towel fell to the floor as he jerked her to him. Lydia screamed, but it was a muted whimper of a scream, one that barely echoed in the confines of the bathroom, let alone seeped out to tell the world that a young girl was in some mysterious danger she couldn't quite understand.
"I've seen you," he went on, smacking her against his chest, so that her firm high breasts rubbed him vigorously. She tried to pull loose, but he still had her wrist and, as she struggled, he jerked that wrist up, behind her back. Lydia's eyes enlarged and she moaned with the pain of it. He'd never hurt her before. He'd never been especially affectionate either, but certainly he had never inflicted pain like this.
"Ohhhhhhh ..." She closed her eyes and tried to endure it, but her wrist hurt so much.
"I've seen you," he went on. "When you thought nobody was lookin'. The way you stand around in front of that goddamned mirror, lookin' at yourself. Naked, or almost naked. Bet you like to look at yourself when you got no clothes on, huh? Huh?" He twisted her flesh again, and abused her wrist until she nodded, more from fear than the need to reveal.
His free hand clasped her shoulder, then slid down the slender arm, onto the hipbone, down her thigh. Lydia rose onto tiptoes, moaning as he kept squeezing her wrist, as he began to pet the bare damp flesh of her just-bathed thigh and hip. "Please, Uncle George-don't do that. Don't touch me there. It's not nice. It's not right."
"Goddamn it, I'm your uncle, and I'll tell you what's wrong and what's right, what's nice and what ain't!" He ground his loins against the girl, and she felt the nasty, snakelike wriggling of his limp cock. "There!" he said triumphantly. "Feel that? Bet it ain't the first one you've had rubbed up against you, is it, Lydia? Girl as pretty as you are, girl built the way you are-bet the boys are followin' you like a pack of dogs after a butcher's wagon. Do you ever let them catch you? Ever let them touch you? Like this?" He pinched off a roll of soft flesh on her ass. His fingers were vicious.
"No-no-no-"
"Don't lie to me!" Again a painful twist of her hand. His fingers dug more savagely into the flesh of her butt. "A sweet piece of tail," he added. "I haven't touched anything so sweet and soft and spongy since I was your age. There was a girl I knew back then, her name was Lucy, and if you asked her real nice, she'd do anything you wanted. She'd let you touch her all over, just the way I'm touchin' you now, Lydia—" His fingers abandoned their pinching hold and began to slide across the young girl's trembling ass. "Let her rub her, just like this—" He put his middle finger into the bold cleft of Lydia's bottom and started to rub, back and forth, his knuckle sliding across her terror-struck anus, the tip inching down to jiggle her pussy from behind. Lydia squirmed again and tried to lift herself even high on tiptoes, but she couldn't gain any extra height. And Uncle George's finger kept on with its unnatural rubbing, till her teeth chattered and her eyes blinked in fright and she moaned, pleading for him to stop, stop, just stop— "A pussy, too," he said, grinning lewdly. "You've got a little pussy down there in the hair, haven't you, girl? Did you know that your Aunt Martha sewed up her pussy a couple of years after we got married? She didn't really sew it up, but the old bitch might as well've, for all the good she's done me. Yours ain't sewed up, though. I can feel it, all moist and hot, and crinkly when I rub my finger through the hair. Spread your legs a little."
"I can't, Uncle George!" She strained against the hand that still immobilized her wrist. "You're hurting too much!"
Warily, he relaxed his pressure. Lydia gasped as her hand's agony slacked. "Now spread 'em!"
She had no choice. She opened her legs, blushing scarlet, and Uncle George brought his fingers tickle her around from rear to front, taking time to ticker her ass on the way. "AAAAAAHHHHH!!!" she wailed as he started fingering her little twat from the front.
"Stop yelling," he said, "or I'll bust your face!"
She ceased her cries at once, knowing that he meant what he said. Still, it was hard not to cry out when he parted the petaled lips of her cunt and slipped a finger inside, where only her own smaller, softer fingers had ever been invited. His fingers were big and callused, and they explored her without mercy or subtlety.
"Please don't," she whispered, reaching down to touch the back of his hand. "You're hurting me. You're hurting me so much. Oh, please, Uncle George-"
He jerked his finger out of her cunt, grabbed her hand, and forced her to make a fist around his cock. "Come on," he invited. "Play with me. Make my dick stand up big and hard. And then I'll do something nice for you, Lydia. Something real nice."
She shook her head, fist still wrapped around his limp tool. "No," ,she said weakly. "I don't want to."
Uncle George let go of the hand behind her back, but before she could catch a breath he'd seized her by the earlobe. It pinched, and it hurt like hell when he squeezed there. "I'll rip your ear off," he threatened. "I'll rip off your pretty little ear, girl. Unless you do exactly what I say. Get down on your knees. Come on! On your fuckin' knees!"
Reluctantly, Lydia sank, the white furry bath mat providing at least a comfortable kneeling place. "Now," Uncle George went on, "take my cock and put it in your pretty little mouth. And suck me."
"I... I... I can't!!" Her stomach turned at the very idea of putting his red sausage in her mouth, of... of... sucking it! No! She couldn't! She wouldn't!
Again pressure on her earlobe, and she felt her flesh stretching, stretching, ad if he really did mean to tear off her ear. Slowly. So she could feel it happening.
"Pretend it's a big juicy tootsie roll," Uncle George suggested. The fourteen-year-old girl blanched. She looked at the cock where its ruby tip protruded from her fist. God, it was so long! And he wanted her to make it even longer, even bigger! She looked at the tip, where her fist had peeled back his foreskin, and she saw the slitted opening from which he'd shot his piss only a few moments ago. Oh, Lord, she could even smell the lingering aroma of urine. Put it in her mouth? Never! She'd sooner die first. She told him. "I'd sooner die!"
"Don't talk back to me! The only lip I want from you is the lip you're gonna wrap around my pecker!" And he jerked on her earlobe, jerked so hard she felt her skin tearing, wondered if he'd torn off that entire side of her face. Oh, God, it hurt! He could hurt her! He was a big man, she was only a fourteen-year-old girl caught in a trip she didn't understand, couldn't escape.
I don't want to, Lydia thought miserably, opening her mouth to its fullest. She leaned up on her knees and she allowed her hand to guide that cock into her mouth, but she kept her lips in an enormous G, tongue drawn back. She didn't want to touch the ugly, dirty thing.
"Suck!" he commanded, rapping sharply on the top of Lydia's head. Her jaws snapped shut and before she knew what was happening, she was really, honestly, truly sucking Uncle George's cock. Uggggghhhhhh!!! she thought.
But he kept feeding it into her, his hands guiding her head as she kept him in her mouth, and by now her tongue was upon him, touching the barrel of his limp organ. She could taste piss on him, or at least she thought she could taste piss, and her stomach heaved in revolt. Lydia gagged and she wondered if she'd heave her cookies all over Uncle George and his ugly cock. Oh, God, and if she did, what might his revenge be?
She struggled to contain her revulsion, and the impulse to vomit slid by. Indeed, after a few minutes of her sucking, nausea was the least of Lydia's worries.
Uncle George's cock erected suddenly, without warning. One moment she was using her lips and tongue and cheeks on a limp, floppy pecker that jiggled about every time her lingua nudged it, and the next moment her mouth was full of an even thicker, even longer, steely hard-on, one whose swollen tip lanced and thrust toward the back of her throat, as if it meant to fuck a path down her gullet.
"Arrrggggghhhhh!!!" Lydia gurgled, drawing back in self-defense. She was beginning to strangle. She couldn't breathe. Her mouth was totally full of pecker and her lungs ached for air.
Uncle George withdrew himself carefully, lest her front teeth injure his organ, and he looked down at Lydia and at the hard-on she'd sucked up. "Pretty good," he said. "Been a long time since I been sucked so nice without paying for it. Get up." She rose. He cupped her chin with a large, strong hand. "Do you know what I want to do now?" Lydia shook her head fearfully. "I want to take this cock—" he moved against her belly so she could feel the instrument of which he spoke, "and stick it into that pretty little tight cooze of yours. I want to stick it up you so far it'll tickle your tonsils every time I shake it around. I want to fuck your cute little buns off, Lydia. Come on!!"