Chapter 3
Only once before in her life had Elizabeth Cantrell felt such a surging rush of life in her body, so much joy at being a woman, so much fear that it might all be a cruel punishment.
She could still feel the warmth of the young girl's beautiful body, the response of her own skin as it seemed to grow, almost, into the girl's smooth flesh.
It was a puzzling thing. The child had come to her, she had said, out of curiosity to "see something sinful." Elizabeth believed that Linus Burke might very well have accused her, or suspected her, of doing God only knew what. But, having lived for more than twenty years with Sam Cantrell, Elizabeth knew that any male of that peculiarly cruel church would suspect any woman of the same kind of thing. Their faith taught them that men were kings and women were thenchattels. It was right and just, even a biblical injunction, that they stick their dongs into the tender vaginas of girls and women. But it was sinful for women to do it.
No, that couldn't be right. Or could it?
Elizabeth laughed, looked at her warmly pink body in her mirror, and patted her belly, letting her hand slip down to the soft, silky, light-brown curls that pointed like an arrowhead of hair down to the warm, slickly oiled split at the botton of her body.
"You sweet thing," she said softly, letting one finger glide delicately into the humid cleft where her clitoris was quivering.
She thought swiftly, with an unexpected pang of delight in her pussy, of how sweet and soft and juicy the young girl had been. "And we really didn't do anything all that wrong," she murmured, pinching her nipples until they grew and hardened, glowing with life, with warm blood speeding to them through the delicate blue veins showing through the translucent skin of her swollen breasts. How good it was to feel her soft little hands between my thighs! But I don't think she came all the way here, a shy child like that walking into my home so boldly, just to ask-or see-what 'sinfulness' I might be up to."
There was, of course, the brother. At the thought of what Rachel had told her, she groaned and shuddered, her body glowing as she thought of brother and sister-brother and sister!-being so deep into sex with one another.
"We help each other, that's all," Rachel had declared. "Can't you see? We're scared to death. We can't talk to other people. I can't talk to the girls at school. Tommy can't talk to the boys. I hear," the girl said wistfully, "some girls can talk to their mothers about-well-about their bodies. About sex. Oh, Miz Cantrell, how I wish you were my mother! I could ask you anything!" And the warm child, so soft and appealing, had clung to Elizabeth as a drowning woman clings to a straw.
I know less than you do, child, the woman thought wryly. I never had a brother to help. Or to help me.
She had said, her voice thick with repressed desire, "I wish I had someone like your brother! Someone who needs 'help', as you call it, with his sex problems. But I know it wouldn't work. No way. I'm getting to be an old woman!"
That was when the girl had really kissed her. On the mouth. With the same probing warmth and slickness of tongue that that boy, so many years ago, had taught her. And had responded like a woman throwing herself at love. Scaring the little girl, probably.
"Where did you ever learn to kiss like that, child?" the woman had asked, her very guts in a twisting cramp of love and need from the animal wantonness of it. Thinking of it now, and how deeply it had burned into her, she felt a sharp throb of minor orgasm in her genitals. She knew that women-perfectly normal women, whatever that might mean-made love to each other. Sam had been an oaf. But he had also been a hypocrite. He had shrunk from any honest exploration into sex. But he had secretly purchased and stored any number of "marriage manuals" and supposedly serious treatises on sex which had given the most explicit details of all the ways, straight and kinky, in which humans might enjoy the great gift of sex.
If it truly was a gift of God. Elizabeth mused on it, the soft finger again seeking her throbbing little bud of passion.
What a terrible fool poor Sam had been. "I would have done everything for him that these ladies do," she said aloud, holding one of the secret books in her other hand, letting the leaves drift apart to show the brightly full-colored reproductions of man and woman in so many, many curious and provocative positions.
Here was one where the lady was on her back, fingering her pussy, while her friend, on hands and knees above her, stuck his penis into her mouth. The lady's cheeks were sunk in, proving that she was well and truly sucking the man. "Sucking him off," she said aloud. An old phrase, one she had known all her life.
I know all those words, she said to herself, and repeated them in the silence of her mind: cunt, cock, fuck, balls, prick, pussy, cocksucker. Where had she heard that last one? At school? Very likely. There has been a great deal of frankness, of explicitness, among the girls at school. She remembered who she had first heard say it. Willie May Cunningham. Talking about Theresa Jones.
"My guy heard that old Willie May is the best cocksucker in Crosley County." The older girl, aware of her audience, had looked around with studied nonchalance and then dropped her bomb. "But he says he don't believe it-he said I'm the greatest. That if I was to want to, I could move to Crosley and get ten bucks a crack for the kind of blow job I give him for free!"
It had been so thrilling, hearing so much about sex. "But I didn't learn as much as I wish I had," Elizabeth whispered to herself, lying smoothly, warmly naked, on her big, soft bed. "Damn Sam, anyhow! With all those books, with all that buried interest in fucking," and she shivered with an odd pleasure as she deliberately used that wonderful word. "Why couldn't he do those things to me?"
Another picture showed suddenly, as a leaf in the book moved. It gave her a pang in an odd place. The gentleman was fucking the lady in her asshole! Buggering her! And the book very seriously and carefully explained that the interior of the rectum was acrawl with erotic nerves, a hole every bit as responsive as that other, slicker, droolier hole above it.
"Oooooh, sweet Jesus!" Elizabeth groaned, and pressed her thighs together very hard, trying to smother that trickle of fire which seemed to crawl inside her thick, warm outer cuntlips. To have someone stick it in her butt! To feel what must be a most painful stretch. She had never, ever thought of it until now.
When she and that dear, sweet, wonderful young lover of hers were so wild, that time in the car, he had blindly struck into her gladly opened body, hitting a place that hurt but felt marvelous, before he shoved again and hit the right place. Had it been in her rectum? It may have been, for a split second. The next day, that awful day when he was dragged away, she had felt hurtingly wonderful all over, down there between her legs, between her rounded buttocks. But she had never really thought it out until today. Looking at Sam's books hadn't been much fun. Until today.
And all on account of that delightful girl.
She moved her finger and another picture showed. Two lovely photos, facing each other.
In one of them, the same couple were doing something else. The lady was still on her back, with her feet drawn back and her knees dropped apart until her crotch was stretched open. The man, bless him for his humanity and courage, was licking in it, his long tongue brazenly caressing the swollen vulva, the blood-swollen inner labia. And the woman-oh, God! How sweet! She once more had the man's penis in her mouth, but he seemed to have buried in her throat so deep that, to judge by the length proven by previous pictures, his cock must have been deep in the lady's throat.
"I would have done that for you, Sam," Elizabeth whispered. "If only you had been a little kinder."
She remembered how her soft, tender inner parts had been torn by Sam's savaging prick. "Lucky for you," Sam had said, when he had seen her bright blood and his grayish-white semen flowing down from her bruised pussy. "If you hadn't been a virgin, I'd have killed you." And even then, hurt and frightened as she had been, she had triumphantly thought: A lot you know, you dumb old fool! And at that time, she would not have licked a drop of his sperm from her finger if she had been starving, and his cum was the only protein left in the whole wide world.
But there had been times, later, when she had almost been able to love him. Even if his bed manners still remained those of a rutting boar-pig. Nothing could have removed her natural heat, short of killing her. And she learned how to be certain that Sam was awake, building himself up for a fuck. By his breathing, by his fidgety movements.
When she was sure, she would mumble an "excuse me," and go to the bathroom as if she had to piss. There, from a jar of cold cream, she would take a dollop and grease all along her slick channel, and on either side of her hole. She would also caress her clit a little. By that time, she would be on the verge of a good orgasm. Thus, when Sam turned and got between her legs, his big old cock hard as a hoe handle, she would twist and squirm, crying: "Oh, please! Don't hurt me!" and by so doing, would manage to touch his hard dick, even guiding it into her ready pussy.
She loved it this way. He would have thrown her out of the house, crying "Harlot!" if she had asked to hold his old prick, to "put it in" as she would have said. This was even better, in a way, although she did want to handle it. To look at it. To be honest, she had always had a deep desire to suck it. To feel that spurting power, that heat. To taste that thick, rich, salty juice. As she lay panting now, her cunt on fire with memories of the past and memories of this afternoon, she could almost feel that big organ, hard as iron, crowding into her. Stretching her clear to the mouth of her womb, banging into that hardy, smooth piece of muscular tissues. And, as his brutal fucking, which by this time she wanted deeply, bruised and rasped and frictionized the itching, responsive surfaces of all her cuntal areas, she would cum and cum, feeling free to scream bloody murder, since her husband would think he was hurting her, and would be tickled to death.
She shook herself. She had been lost in this sensual reverie so deeply that her two fingers had moved from her clit to her vaginal aperture, as far inside her as she could thrust them, and her inner cunt nerves were tingling. "I must have cum," she muttered, grinning.
She got up and walked near the mirror. Under the soft, light-brown hair that had tinges of red-gold in a good light, she saw how warm she had become, how the lips of her pussy bulged out. Just like that child's. After their kiss. They had kissed again like that, and she had thought of how it might feel to have that little girl's tongue going as deep and as hard into her vagina as it had gone into her throat. And, in that female symbolism of intercourse, she had seen herself doing the same juicy, hot favor for Rachel.
Some thread of ESP had sewn them together, had darkly informed each mind and body of the other's desire. It must have been so. They had gotten their legs locked together, their bellies locked and glued together, so that their redly quivering inner lips had met and clung. "It was like fire," Elizabeth breathed, holding her outer lips open and looking at the wetly shining pink flesh in the mirror. "Ohhhh! So wonderful!"
Like wild animals, they had pumped and rubbed. I never would have believed a woman could relieve another woman that way, Elizabeth said in her mind. You don't have to have a man's thing inside you! Involuntarily, she pumped her loins toward her image in the glass. "By Godfrey, I really did get hot," she chuckled. "I am hot!"
She went back to the bed to pick up the book, and found her place. Where the man was so happily pushing his tongue into the lady's warm cunt, which showed the slick, red-veined labia so plainly in the photo. That was a lovely picture, but it was the other one she wanted to see. The one of the two ladies. So young, so beautiful, so eager.
And they were sucking each other! The lovely bottom which was turned her way was spread side open. It had to be-the lady had to have her knees far apart so that her pussy wouldn't be too difficult for the bottom lady to reach. With her tongue. "Oh, my God!" Elizabeth groaned, stabbing her cum-slicked fingers back into her flowing cunt. "It's so beautiful! I wonder if it's wrong?"
But after all, she reminded herself, she and Rachel had only looked and touched and hugged and talked.
Damn it! That brought the strange question back again. Why? Why had that sweet, warm, marvelously sexual young person come to see her? What had happened? She had only been feeling free, trying to feel more free. Going around in an empty house naked, because Sam would have hated it. And feeling prankish, she had called the young girl to come up.
"Maybe she forgot to tell me what she really wanted," the woman said into the echoing lonesomeness of her room. It was so strange, on this day when so many strange things seemed to be happening. Her sudden urge to go naked, to feel her own breasts, to dwell on the sensual aspects of her past.
Oh, sure, she had always been a person of intense sensuality. She knew that, now. Sam had been imperfect, he had been impossible, but the mere fact that he had had a cock made him, somehow, someone of value to her life. "Maybe, in some ways, I loved him," the softly formed, warm blooded woman whispered.
And her heart cried out: Oh, Sam, you old villain! Why couldn't you have been good to me? Why couldn't I have had the freedom to use my body? The way God intended. To fuck and fuck and fuck until I was weak and sick and gloriously fucked out!
But even for someone like herself, bursting with the need for sex, chained by half a lifetime of shyness and fears, it was just too much to have such a child appear, out of nowhere rational, out of no dream that Elizabeth felt she had. But the book, that lovely book with the clear, colorful, beautiful photographs, the book said that women could love each other that way if they liked.
She had known the taste of her own pussy, all of it, the sharply dairy-like gatherings from high up on the inner portions of it, around her clit, the lightly flavored clear juice from far up inside her. Any woman has to know that. And she knew that Rachel would be the same. As they had touched, they had also tasted and smelled. Without lip-to-cunt contact. And without sneaking. Elizabeth, after she had first placed the side of her palm between that child's soft, lovingly wet cuntlips, had looked openly at Rachel and smilingly licked off the rich, clear pussy juice. And then they had kissed again, deeply, and young Rachel's eyes were bright with interest as she tasted her body fluids, so freely flowing in the arms of this marvelous new friend.
Elizabeth stretched luxuriously on the bed. Her head was buzzing from what she had thought, from what she and Rachel had done, for what the future promised. The picture in the book made her wish that either she or the girl had been less timid. To have sucked that young girl's fuck-hole, to have had her own sucked, might have been heaven. To remember what had happened long ago, between herself and that long-lost lover, even between her and Sam, had given her a sense of loss. Not the loss of the two men. One was lost far too long ago. The other, Sam-what could she say? That, as he was, he was no loss.
She wondered what time it was. Rachel had promised her something wonderful. She had promised Elizabeth her brother, Tommy.
When the woman had begged so warmly: "Tell me about Tommy. Tell me all about him. And about how you two help each other," the girl had turned and kissed her new friend passionately.
"Oh!" the girl cried, "You'll love him! And he needs you! He needs you so much!"
Words tumbled from her as she poured out the story of the affectionate understanding between them. She was up on an elbow, her lovely, firm young breasts nodding with each of her gestures, her eyes sparkling. "We don't have anyone to talk to!" That was her theme, told again and again. Not in extenuation. Not as a defense. To Rachel, nothing could have been more natural than to give Tommy whatever she had that he wanted. Even, and she made this very plain, to give him every freedom of her young, sweetly ready cunt. "But he won't let me do that for him," she had said, her eyes lowered.
"But he's going crazy for someone to really do those things with him," the warm-fleshed, full-blown child had said honestly. "And when you said you needed a man, or wanted a man, or whatever it was you said, right away I knew that Tommy was for you!" She fell on the lovely woman's soft breasts and kissed her rapturously. "If he's at home, I'll send him up here this afternoon!"
So she came back, Elizabeth Cantrell, forty-two years old, well-to-do if not rich, yearning for love she had never known, to the strange riddle of why the beautiful girl had appeared. And this might be as good a reason as any.
That she wanted to find someone to help her brother in a way he needed so deeply, and refused from his sister.
Yes, indeed. That may have been the reason.
She did not stop to think that there may be a very special invisible bond between very special people. That she and Rachel shared a gift, the gift of an understanding too complete for ordinary explanation. She did not think of the very powerful fact that people who need love very, very much, and who deeply need to give the very sort of love they dream of, may have a way of finding each other.
Why should she think of it? She had an explanation.
Once again, she thought she heard steps on her brick walk, and ran to the window. But no one was there.