Chapter 4
Uncle George fucked her at least three and sometimes as many as five times a week during the next two years. Any time Aunt Martha was due to be out of the house for more than an hour or so, Lydia could count on being dragged off to her bed for a session of screwing with her horny uncle. The man was insatiable, and she couldn't help wondering what he'd done before she came along.
He enjoyed fucking Lydia. Sometimes, despite his fifty-odd years, he was able to take her two or three times in a row, but those were infrequent occasions. Most of the time he simply mounted the trembling, protesting young girl and fucked her for the fifteen or twenty minutes it took him to reach orgasm. And he fucked hard. Even when he only raped her once, Lydia's pussy was too achingly sore afterwards to endure the softest touch of consolation.
Sometimes she threatened to tell Aunt Martha, to expose his dirty secret. He only laughed.
"If you told Martha any of this," he said, "she'd think you were a sinful dirty girl with a sinful filthy mind, and she'd get after you with a belt. She'd beat you till you couldn't sit down for a week, and then she'd beat you all over again, and she'd bring in the preacher to pray for your soul because you were a lying little bitch with a mind like a sewer. Martha doesn't know that people have to fuck to live. She hasn't let me put my cock in her cunt for so many years I've forgotten what her goddamned pussy even looks like.
"Anyway—she isn't as good as you are, little girl, so why don't you get down on your knees and suck my cock again? I feel another hard-on coming, and I want to spill my jism down your throat. Don't you stop sucking when I shoot off, either. You swallow every drop of my cum, or I'll get my belt and I'll whip your perky little ass black and blue."
And since she knew that he would have done precisely that, Lydia had no choice or defense. She descended from the bed, knelt to the floor between his widespread legs, and she took her uncle's cock in her mouth and sucked furiously until he swelled and jerked and fired off a salvo of thin, watery, bitter sperm. She swallowed his milk, swallowed it though she wanted to be sick, and after she'd sucked and swallowed, she sucked again, keeping him hard for yet another invasion of her tender, unwilling pussy.
When she was sixteen, Uncle George died. He simply collapsed on the job one afternoon, and it was all over. He'd even died too soon to collect any of the social security checks he'd been anticipating.
Aunt Martha didn't cry, for crying wasn't in her stock of emotions, and neither did Lydia. Instead, the girl sealed herself in her bedroom (Aunt Martha was gone to the funeral parlor and looked at the mirror, at the bed, at the room that would never again be defiled by Uncle George's brutal rapist demands. As a special treat, she undressed to the skin and, pussy aimed at the mirror so she could see every stroke, every pass of fingers, every deep, response-inducing plunge, Lydia masturbated herself to the most delicious climaxes of her life. Nearly as thrilling as that first time she'd felt Uncle George's cock go off inside her and had erupted in spite of herself.
She never dated in high school. Aunt Martha thought it unfit for a young girl to be spending time with boys, saying and doing God knew what, and, while he was alive, Uncle George backed her up. "After all," he used to tell Lydia on her bed, "ain't I givin' you all the fuck you need? Huh?" And his cock would jab vigorously in her tight snatch, emphasizing the question more strongly than mere words ever could.
There were boys who showed interest in Lydia, but she knew what they were really interested in. They might speak of cokes and burgers, of dances at the school gym, of movie shows at the town's only theater, but all they really wanted was to fuck her. Just like Uncle George. They wanted to strip away her clothes where no one could hear Lydia's cries for help, they wanted to feel her mouth slipping up and down their cocks all wet and hot and slurpy, they wanted to penetrate to the very mouth of her womb with their stiff driving peckers, to fill her belly with scalding, viscous cum, to make her cry and whimper and respond no matter how much she resisted— And she'd have none of it! Uncle George had used her like a breeding animal, but no man would ever abuse her that way again. No man would ever force her to betray the integrity of her body the way Uncle George had. She'd see to it, by God!
So it really started in high school, Lydia decided later. She wasn't allowed to go out with boys, but she could meet them in the wooded reaches of the school grounds or, when winter set in and it was too cold outside, in the sub-basement of the main building.
Of course, those early high-school sessions had been little more than practice runs for the full-scale, perfected brand of cockteasing she was capable of now. Sometimes it got out of hand when she was still learning the ropes, but not often, One noon, in the dark, cobwebby sub-basement, she had been stroking a boy's bare cock while he fingered her pussy and made her feel very good, and then—before she could stop her—he was upon her, sliding his tool into her snatch.
"Oh, stop, damn you!!!" she had screamed, a shrill wail that bounced off the walls of the dark room. The echo must have frightened him, because he jerked his dick out of her with such speed and friction that he shot off almost at once, his thick sticky jism dripping onto Lydia's legs and belly.
But that was a rare instance. High-school boys were so eager just to touch and kiss a girl that she had little trouble manipulating them. And it was so much fun, when she'd fixed the rules firmly in her mind. She delighted in allowing boys to use her body, to feel and kiss and play with her, and it was a red-letter day indeed when one brave lad volunteered to use his mouth on her pussy, to lick and tongue her wet slit until she erupted in a moaned climax that wrapped her legs around his neck and almost drowned him in sloppy cuntal fluids. Uncle George had never done that to her, though he'd been more than happy to accept oral favors from his young niece. In time, Lydia made it compulsory upon her men to worship her twat with their mouths.
But when it was over, when she'd moaned and sighed and pumped her milky liquor from her twat, she let them know definitely who was in charge. "PLEASE!!" they used to beg her, standing there with stiff cocks that longed for release, and sometimes she'd jerk them off with her delicate hand, always letting go just before the cock spurted, so that the boy had to finish himself, provide that necessary last stroke with his own fingers. It seemed to make everything perfect. Instead of being Lord and master of a quivering nubile maiden, the boy ended up jerking himself to a climax while Lydia watched with emotionless eyes and a brain seething in her contempt for men and their ugly cocks.
Occasionally she had to vary the procedure. A notorious high school heartthrob, quarterback of the school's football team, actually received a blowjob from demure Lydia Pembroke out in the woods. Not much of a blowjob, to be honest. She knew how to suck a cock—Uncle George had taught her, using his fists whenever she made a misstep—but with the young athlete, Lydia was strangely inept, biting him, gagging, little tears rolling down her cheeks. He too had ended up masturbating himself to orgasm while she watched, and it was a lovely sight indeed. At home that evening, secure in her bedroom, she frigged herself to come after come remembering relishing.
After high school there was no hope of college for Lydia. Aunt Martha didn't approve, and there wasn't enough money. "A woman's duty is to marry and have children, to serve her husband and propagate the species," Aunt Martha used to say. Bullshit! Lydia used to think. How many children did you and Uncle George have? And if you'd served your husband a little better, maybe he wouldn't have been so horny. Maybe he wouldn't have raped his little fourteen-year-old niece, not one time but a hundred times. Bullshit, Aunt Martha, and bullshit till it runs out your ears!
Lydia had her father's social security, paid till she turned eighteen or till she completed her education. She weighed the alternatives and, a month after graduating from high school, she moved out of Aunt Martha's house, caught the bus to Clarksburg, and enrolled in a business school there.
The old game took on new delights in Clarksburg, which was a much larger city than Sutton. Lydia grew a little taller-at nineteen she was five feet six and weighed a beautifully distributed 120 pounds. Her breasts were 34-Bs, high and nicely separated, peaking into delicious red points; her waist was a trim 21 inches, and her hips were a full and eye-catching 35 inches. She was long-legged, and the miniskirts that had just come boldly into fashion were perfect for Lydia. There were men in Clarksburg, and she worked her wiles on so many of them, so many! Lydia had entered her prime; she was a one-woman blue balls epidemic.
"You never go out with the same guy twice," her roommate and classmate at business school used to observe in the small apartment they shared. "I mean, Christ, Liddy—you're a knockout, you could prob'ly be a movie star if you wanted to be. Guys are crawling after you on their knees, for Chrissakes, good-looking guys, guys with good jobs and money. But you given them all the gate. And you just take it in stride. How do you handle it? Don't you ever think about settling down?"
Settling down? Lydia thought. Settling down? When there are millions of men out there, millions of men to lead on and then humiliate where it really hurts, in their goddamned cocks? Settling down, for shit's sake?
What did Kitty mean by settling down? Did she mean her own goal in life—learning to be a good secretary so she could go back home to Glenville and marry that garage mechanic, that dark, greasy-haired stud whose picture hung on the wall above her bed, who used to come up to visit on weekends, wearing a t-shirt with a pack of Camels rolled up in one short sleeve like something left over from a James Dean movie? Kitty talked of nothing else but that asshole. Presumably she was fucking him when she could, panting for the day when she'd be his by virtue of a preacher's say-so.
And when they did marry—Kitty and her Junie—he'd take her to his bed and do all those horrible things to her, and it was his right and privilege as her husband. He could fuck her, make her suck his cock, could stick his prick up her ass if he felt the urge. Being a wife was nearly as bad as being a fourteen-year-old girl living off the charity of relatives who included a vicious, horny beast of an uncle. She shuddered and changed the subject. She didn't want to think about men.
Lydia graduated from business school, top in her class, and she could take shorthand at breakneck speed, type like a whirlwind, file, answer telephones, do everything that a good secretary needed to do. She found a job almost immediately, at the state university in Morgan town, and there disaster almost overtook her.
It was during her third year at Morgantown, and she was a secretary in the department of Languages and Literature. It was a good job that paid her enough to live comfortably, and she enjoyed both the work and the surroundings. Morgantown was a city of 20,000 souls, and there were an additional 14,000 students at the university, over half of them males. She could have taken a different man each night if she wanted, but she willed herself to restraint. On weekends she went out with men and left them drained of their obnoxious male superiority, and through the week she kept up her strength by masturbating and remembering. Her pleasure came in healthy doses, until. . .
Until she met him.
His name was Jerry Tracy, and he was a first year instructor in American Literature. In his middle twenties, just a couple of years older than Lydia, not handsome, not pushy, not at all the macho type. He was almost disarmingly friendly. "Are you back again?" she'd ask when he entered the department offices for the tenth time in a morning.
"I just wanted to make sure you were still here," he'd say, smiling a smile that made little shivers climb her spine.
He wasn't like other men. He looked at her, and she could see interest gleaming in his eyes, but it was a different kind of interest, as if he saw her as a person rather than a sex object. She felt strangely comfortable around him, and after a few days she began to look forward to his stop-in visits. They went out for coffee when her breaks coincided with his out of class time, and when he asked her for a date, she almost gasped to hear herself say "Yes."
She could talk to him, Lydia discovered that evening, and it was nice. She'd never really talked to a man before. When he took her hand in the movie theater, her fingers and his seemed to intertwine like living, growing flowers, and a warmth flowed from Jerry into Lydia, a warmth that touched parts of the young woman she had thought unreachable by anyone, anything, except herself.
He came to her apartment on their third date, and he was a perfect gentleman. He kissed her, and his fingers skated lightly across one of her round breasts, but he didn't demand anything of her. Later that night, alone in her bed and masturbating to the memory of his kiss, she wondered if she mightn't be falling in ... in love, if she weren't finally opening her heart to another human being. The idea thrilled her with its unexpected surprise, and she kicked her twitching legs high into the air as orgasm swept across her body like a riptide.
A few nights later they sat in her apartment, sipping drinks, listening to music on her stereo. "I feel different when I'm with you," she said. "You probably don't know what I'm talking about, but I do. I'm like a whole, new person, just because you're sitting there and I'm sitting here and we're together. Why should that be?"
He smiled. "I'm sure I don't know. Who are you most of the time? When you're not with me, I mean?"
Lydia put down her drink and took a deep breath. Then she kissed him, very forcefully. Her arms locked around his neck and shoulders, and she pressed him with the curvaceous mounds of her tits.»Jerry's lips warmed in the kiss and he put his arms around her. One of his hands encircled her completely, slipping beneath her arm to cup, from the side, her right breast. She was braless under a loose silk shirt and her nipple hardened at the touch of his fingers, throbbing into the base of Lydia's brain. She moved her legs as the kiss continued, and she found that the crotch of her panties was sopping wet inside the flowing slacks she wore. And the warm presence of his body now, so close to hers, so close—oh, God, what was tingling in her head? Why did her heart beat so fast? Why were her loins flaming with need and desire? Why did her pussy drip sweet honey? What did she want?
"I don't even know who I am now," she said finally, sighing as their lips parted. She looked into his eyes.
"Let's find out," Jerry suggested. "Let's find out together, Lydia. All right?"
He took her hand and pulled her gently to her feet. Lydia's breath caught, deep in her lungs, somewhere near that racing, skittering, pulsating heart of hers. "Yes," she whispered.
She couldn't speak, could scarcely breathe, as he led her into the bedroom. If she opened her mouth at all, she was positive her heart would jump through her parted lips and bounce across the floor like a rubber ball. It was all so strange. She'd never felt this way before. Never.
When he'd undressed them both, Jerry sat Lydia down on the edge of her bed, beside him. His cock was sticking up, hard and hot, but she'd scarcely noticed it. More pressing, more urgent, was the slow sensual caress of his fingers and lips on the most responsive portions of her body. He kissed her mouth, then her breasts, lips rolling on her stiff jutting nipples. At the same time he petted the trembling curves of her legs, stroked her flanks, let his fingers glide softly over the swollen wet lips of her pouting pussy. If she could have gaped herself wide open then, she'd have swallowed his hand up her cunt. She knew it, knew that she wanted him, and the knowing made her shake and tremble all the more. Lydia eased against him, hungry for his mouth, hungrier for his hands, hungriest of all for his . .. for his . . . oh God, did she really want that? Did she really want him to fuck her?
She reached down, captured the tip of his erected pecker between her thumb and forefinger.
It was big, swollen with his own lusts and hungers, the flesh of his knob hot and slightly spongy in her caress. "Yes," she sighed, "yes, I want it! I want you! Take me, darling, take me! Take everything!!"
Lydia lay back, panting, and he moved with her, his lips by now on her tummy, tongue flirting with the edge of her beaver. As he licked the dark curling puff of hair, he stroked more insistently on her pussy lips, parting the tight petals with his finger, stealing inside to massage the erected bud of her clit. She closed her eyes. Hot fires ran through her body.
No one had ever touched her this way before, with the perfect, so perfect mixture of tenderness and desire. She'd never felt this kind of arousal even under the knowing caress of her own fingers. Hot milky girl cream oozed from her hungry twat, soaking Jerry's hand where he played with her.
She wanted him to eat her cunt, and she'd just raised her head to beg him for that particular pleasure, when everything went wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.
He had a finger in her pussy, tickling Lydia where she lived, and his lazy tongue glided through the curly forest of her pubic fur, but it wasn't Jerry making love to her. The face between her legs—the face that looked up, smiling—it was—oh, God in heaven—she saw the long-dead face of her Uncle George!
Lydia screamed and jerked. His finger slammed into her cunt because of her body's sudden reaction, and Uncle George's face was staring at her from down there. She studied it in horror, seeing all his well-remembered features—the balding pate, the uneven, yellowed teeth of a mouth she'd never kissed, never wanted to kiss—and it seemed that the voice which suddenly rang in her ears was Uncle George's, too. She couldn't hear what he was saying because her own screams were of catastrophic pitch and intensity. His finger sprang out of her pussy and she jerked away, crawling across the bed in panic, out of his reach, away, away, away from ugly Uncle George and the ugly fat cock with which he'd broken her cherry, the cock he'd come back from the grave to use on her again.
She screamed and screamed and screamed, evading his hands when he tried to soothe away her fears, and somewhere in the depths of Lydia's consciousness she knew that this wasn't Uncle George, that it was Jerry, that only a few minutes ago she'd thought herself in love with this man.
But not now. She recognized the deeper significance of her hallucination. He might not be Uncle George, but he was a man, and no matter how he tried to disguise it, he wanted from Lydia only the same things her hated uncle had wanted, had taken. "Lydia," she heard him whisper, and the voice was definitely Jerry's, but it didn't matter. Not now.
"Get out! Get the hell out of here! Never come near me again! Never! Never! H!" she moaned, curling into a tight little ball of huddled flesh the narrow space between the wall and the edge of her bed. She didn't even look up to watch him go.
The next morning she gave the university her two weeks' notice, and she spent most of those two weeks ignoring Jerry when he tried to approach her. He seemed to get the message, finally. Her last three or four days on the job she didn't see him at all.
Form Morgantown she moved north, this time to Pittsburgh, where she found a job with a large insurance brokerage. She returned to her teasing game with a vengeance, and Lydia thrilled in the knowledge that she had not lost the knack. Sometimes she thought of Jerry Tracy, of what it had nearly been, of what it had become after all, and the memory hardened her heart. Men! Damn them!!
Two years in Pittsburgh, and then it was on to Cleveland. How much longer would she stay here? She couldn't guess. Lydia was a valued employee of Midwestern Life Insurance. A good secretary, she knew as much about the business as most of the younger executives, and she was pretty enough to brighten up an office.
And the building was full of young trainees, all of them bright, personable, ambitious, eager to move up in the world of insurance. Young men who thought that seducing their vice president's secretary would be an excellent way to score points and improve their standing with the company. So far, in the ten months she'd been here, Lydia had responded to, then destroyed three of the arrogant bastards.
Richard Welby, all capped teeth and tight pants on a big cock. Fresh out of Ohio State, macho as a stud bull, but vulnerable where it counted-between the legs. And Greg Chastain, dark where Richard was blonde, rash where Richard was smooth. He'd been easy, too. They'd gone to a porno movie and he'd counted on the filmed antics of Tina Russell and Georgina Spelvin in quest of a hard cock as enough to make Lydia Pembroke drool with desire, to make her easy pickings for his pecker.
He was wrong, just as Richard Welby had been wrong, just as Keith Waters, still another of the bright young men, had proven himself wrong only this evening. They'd come in with bright dreams of conquest, they'd gone out with hard aching cocks Lydia didn't need, didn't want. And if she was alone now, alone in her bedroom, it was because she wanted to be alone, because she could serve herself better than any man could hope to. If only she could degrade every male in the world, just this way. If only . . .
Serious-faced, Lydia stared at her pussy in the mirror. She was sitting on a chair only a couple of feet from the polished glass, legs thrown across the chair's arm rests, her cunt gaping wide. She twined her fingers amid the delicate protrusion of pubic curls and opened herself a little further, sighing as the pussy lips twittered in response to her caresses.
Her coral-red vulva reflected in the glass, its surface slick and moist, gleaming at her from the mirror. And there, in the midst of the carmine flower, the hole of her cunt itself. She widened her legs, arching her pussy toward the mirror so she could see it better. Her cuntal mouth dilated and she looked at the reflection of her opened sex tunnel. Lydia began to stroke herself, grateful that fate had given her yet another night of revenge upon the male sex.
"Ah, yes, there, baby," she told herself, watching her twat in the polished mirror, watching her finger slide carelessly through the red furrow of her sex. Her clit was erected majestically from its little hiding place, and it glistened red, swollen, eager to be loved and fondled. Lydia closed a thumb and finger upon her clitoris, wincing at the initial pain of sensitive flesh cruelly grasped, and she squeezed her bud the way she'd squeeze a ripe pimple.
She nearly shot out of the chair as a million separate zings shot through her body, all of them emanating from that fantastically receptive button of flesh planted inside the gates of her pussy. She felt the hot juices begin to flow from her even before she looked at the mirror and saw them, thick as cream, oozing across her petting fingers. She puddled in that cum, soaked her fingers with it, greased herself for the digital journey up her cunt that she must make soon, soon—if she wanted to get any real relief this night.
"Who needs anything else?" she asked the dark-haired gin in the mirror, and then she shook her head, just as the mirror girl shook her head. "You and me, babe. Just you. .. and . . . meeeee!!!" And with that, Lydia bunched three fingers together, made them a stabbing wedge-shaped tool, a tool that she rammed into the mouth of her cunt, stabbing as deeply, as savagely as she could bear to fingerfuck herself.
She'd done it so many times now, and still it was a wonder to her the way her fingers jammed into her twat, the way they spread her lips but stopped just short of ripping her puss asunder. Up, up, into the depths of Lydia Pembroke those wedged fingers penetrated, and she writhed frantically in the chair. Her pussy turned this way and that, trying to suck up those driving fingers, welcoming them as she could never welcome the penis they imitated. Lydia's cuntal muscles ripped frenetically and her fingers squished in the milky girl-cum that leaked from her hole in greater and greater abundance.
"Fuck me," she panted to her image in the mirror. "Fuck me Lydia and fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuckme fuckme fuckme fuckme fuckmefuckmef uckmefuckmefuckfuckfuckfuck- fuck-ohhhhhhh-God! Baby nobody does it like you-nobody will ever do it like you-I won't let anybody else—you and me baby you and ... you and ... meeeeeeeeee ...."
Her pussy erupted, boiling hot inside, where her fingers stabbed through the tight sheath, scooped up the flowing cream, and her legs felt like they were on fire, all the way up, from toes to twat. And she was on fire everywhere else, too. Her tits, throbbing and pulsating, her eyes rolling in their sockets, her breath hard and raspy in her throat. She felt it all, every fantastic stimuli of that orgasm, but most of all she felt it in her pussy, in that hole between her legs, the snatch that could never belong to any man no matter how he begged for it, no matter how he lusted for it, no matter what slick tricks he attempted to use on her. They were all the same, those men, and she didn't need them, didn't want them, except as her toys, the playthings of her knowing maturity—turn them on, then turn them off... show them ... teach them ... humble them .. . destroy them ...
"Oh, Lydia!" she moaned aloud, and when she opened her eyes she was smiling at the girl in the mirror, who smiled back just as prettily, just as sexy, just as beautiful in her fulfillment.
It was time to go to bed. She had an appointment with her hairdresser tomorrow morning, and Saturday appointments were hard to get. The hairdresser was nice, as men went. Nicer. He was a homosexual, soft and sweet and nice-smelling, and she sensed no threat from him. In his hands she only became more beautiful. He helped her, made her more lovely, gave her the ammunition to bring down the rest of his species. They were like allies.
She rose from the chair, pushed it out of the way. Yawning, she moved toward her bed. It would be nice to crawl between those crispy clean sheets all naked and cunty, the way she was right now, weary with her release, and to let sleep drift in like a gentle flowing cloud. Ah, what better way to go to sleep than this, still humming from her orgasm, joyous from the humiliation of yet another man?
Keith. She'd put him in her memory book for sure. Nice, as nice went, but he was only a man. He only wanted her body, wanted to use her the way Uncle George had used her. Lydia turned off the lights and slipped into bed. She lay there in the darkness trying to recall exactly how he'd looked when he discovered she had no intention of fucking him. Oh, God, what a face he'd made! Like a constipated ape! She should wire her room, install a videotape camera and playback unit so she could record all her sessions and relive them any time she felt like it. But the equipment was expensive and, besides, she had a good memory. She could remember all the important parts without any mechanical aid.
He'd mentioned that she had a reputation for this sort of thing. Perhaps he'd been talking to Richard and Greg. Maybe they talked about her in the washroom. That executive sec who looks like a wet dream on legs but won't put out. Oh, she hoped they talked about her! Hoped they discussed her over their lunchtime drinks, cursing the fact that they'd been thwarted from fucking her. She wanted them all to know how much they were missing.
Perhaps, if another of the rising young men pm a make on her, she should go a little further. Suck his cock, say? Or even—Lydia squirmed—let him slip his cock in? Not to completion, of course, but just enough to let him taste the sweets of her body and hunger for them, a hunger that could never be sated. Wouldn't Richard and Greg and Keith shit if they found that someone else had been lucky enough to score that much where they'd struck out disgracefully? She liked the idea but she wasn't sure if she could go through with it. Not even for effect. The idea of having a penis inserted in her body was disgusting. Even now, safe in her room, she felt chilly and nauseous contemplating it.
Oh, this wasn't the time to be making such decisions! She should get some sleep, so she'd be all bright and chipper for her appointment at the salon. Confront the world of men when the time came. So many men, there at the office, all of them watching her day after day, all of them no doubt fantasizing how it would be to spread her legs and fill her with cock. Such a challenge! She wanted to destroy all of them, to deflate their cocks with her scorn and contempt. But for now— Lydia closed her eyes and slept the sleep of the just.
In a little bar off Euclid Avenue, in a booth far to the rear, Keith Waters stirred a glass of Paddy's and soda. Finally he looked up with a frown and announced to the two young men seated across from him, "Okay. You were right. I thought you were both holding out on me, but you're right. She's a cockteaser, and she knows she's a cockteaser, and I think she gets a certain sick pleasure from it." His voice level dropped. "After I left, I went to a gas station, filled my tank, then went into the men's room and jerked off. Do you know how long it's been since I've had to get myself off? Not since I was a fuckin' kid! My nuts are still aching. She got me up, big and hard, and I was ready to slam it in and fuck her till Sunday. Christ, when I think about it—"
One of the men lit a cigarette. "The way I see it," he said, "we have two choices. One, we could let her get away with it, maybe warn our better friends not to bother unless they want a terminal case of blue balls." )
Keith sipped his whisky. "And the other choice?"
The man blew out smoke. "We could teach her a lesson. I mean a real lesson. Jesus, I remember when I was at OSU, and Gloria Steinem gave a speech on campus—man, you couldn't get a piece of ass for weeks after that. All you heard was 'male chauvinist pig' and 'exploiters of women's bodies' and all the rest of the Commie crap. I still have bad dreams about it."
"It sounds pretty good," the third man put in. "Mighty fine to these ears. I'm all for it."
"Are you?" He blew out more smoke. "This isn't any candy-ass fun and games I'm talking about. It's serious business—sticking up for our kind—for men everywhere."
Keith shrugged. "Like I said, my balls are still aching, I think she needs a lesson. What do you have in mind?"