Chapter 3
Pat Emory looked at the world with what she considered to be unprejudiced wisdom. At twenty-two, Pat was on the way toward being an outstanding student in the school of Business Administration. She was consistently on the Dean's List. Pat considered herself to be a completely independent person, fairly recently matured into an adult human being who knew that what society considered right and wrong did not necessarily apply to an individual such as herself.
She was a small girl with a full body and, as she walked to the strand with Jean Loras, she wore large sun shades under the hanging curtains of hair which hid most of her face. The effect was exotic. Her sun-browned, lush body strained the tight bikini and brought admiring stares from the guys who had staked off a sizable portion of Lundy Beach for the use of the group from College Hill.
A dozen surfboards were in evidence, some sticking into the sand as if marking the boundaries of the area chosen as the students' own. To the south, a fishing pier jutted into the sea, black pilings crossed. The beach was quiet. It was five miles to the carnival atmosphere of the Lundy Beach Amusement Park. Here, building had been sparse so that the area immediately behind the chosen section of beach was unsettled. There were only sand dunes with tall sea oats between the strand and the road.
Some eager beavers were out in the water, even with the end of the pier, waiting for a good set of waves. As Pat and Jean topped the dune and started down the tracked sand toward the area where the students were gathering, several surfers found a wave and came flowing shoreward until the wave died under them, frothing into whiteness. Some wiped out, others kicked back over the dying wave to paddle out again.
Pat didn't see her date. As big as Tom Jack Murray was, he would have been easy to spot. He hadn't made the scene. She led the way toward a group consisting of several girls and three boys and spread her beach towel carefully before sitting down. She moved with an innate grace, a fluid femaleness, which drew and kept the attention of the three boys.
There was a cooler of beer. Pat accepted a can, popped it, drank deeply to savor that first good, cool taste and then tapered off, nursing the beer. Jean Loras, she noted, accepted a beer shyly and sipped at it, looking around as if she were doing something naughty, as if she expected someone to shake a finger at her and smile fondly. The innocent abroad in the great big cruel world, that was Jean. Pat didn't understand how people like Jean functioned. They went through their lives fearful of stepping out of the straight little path laid down by parental ruling, by directives from school officials, by the accepted code of society.
Pat felt a little sorry for Jean Loras. A girl like that, adult enough, probably nineteen, tall, fully developed, pretty, wasting the best part of her life being a prude. It was almost shameful.
Tom Jack and Ernie Harper came over the dunes, surfboards on their heads. David Wofford, in last year's long-legged swim trunks, followed them. He didn't have a surfboard. He wore his glasses and carried a tube of sun-tan oil. Pat jumped up and ran up the slope to meet the boys.
"like wow!" Tom Jack said, his eyes taking in the browned portions of Pat's anatomy revealed by the bikini.
"That's what I like about him," Pat said, smiling at Ernie. "He's so beautifully articulate."
Tom Jack grinned happily. He still couldn't believe his luck at lining up a girl like Pat for the Labor Day orgy. He wished that he could pull a Joshua in reverse and command the sun to speed up its movement across the sky, to get the day over so that the action could start. Tom Jack liked girls. He didn't understand why he seemed to scare so many of them off. He wasn't an ugly guy. He knew he didn't come on like Tony Curtis or someone, but there was nothing really wrong with him. He was solid man, six-three, two hundred and thirty-five pounds. He'd been able to cut his beer gut down to size during the summer while he worked on his dad's construction crew. He had broad, rippling planes of muscle and his face was rugged and manly. His nose was bent a little after playing four years of college football and he had a few minor scars here and there.
Tom Jack was a senior in the school of Physical Education. He had been drafted by a team in the American Football League to play professional. However, he'd stayed on at the school to finish a few required courses so that he could have his degree before he went off to join the pro football team.
T.J. didn't understand why, as a football player, a rugged individual and not exactly a dunce, he didn't have more luck with the girls. Take that little blonde last year. He'd asked her to be his drag on the first Labor Day weekend organized by Ernie Harper and then she'd spent the whole three days running like hell while all the rest of the guys were making out. He hadn't even been able to scratch with Tina Franklin, and when a guy couldn't make Tina, something was bad wrong. Tom Jack didn't understand it, but he wasn't worried now. He had Pat Emory. He'd asked her to be his drag and she'd said yes and she wasn't running. He knew from the college grapevine that Pat had liberal views on almost everything, including the subject which interested Tom Jack most. He thought the damned day would be endless.
"Come on, muscles," Pat said to T.J. "Let's dampen our bodies."
"Sure. You wanta try the board?"
They were walking through soft sand just above the high tide mark, Tom Jack's weight pushing his big feet deep as he towered over Pat. Ernie Harper ran ahead and was already in the water, paddling his board through the suds toward the other surfers. David Wofford was shambling awkwardly, self consciously, toward the group just abandoned by Pat. Jean Loras waved to David with a pleased little smile.
"Let's just wade in and swim," Pat said.
Tom Jack put the surfboard down.
"Race," Pat yelled. She started swimming and beat Tom Jack into the water. He lumbered through the shallow, sudsy surf into the smooth flow of waves and saw her head on top of a crest ahead of him. He threshed the water powerfully and caught her about fifty yards from shore.. A surfer flew past them, moving smoothly toward the strand. T.J. was breathing easily. Pat was gasping.
"Wow," she said. "Am I out of shape."
"Not in my book," T.J. said, feeling witty.
"Thank you," Pat gasped. The water had wet her hair and for the first time Tom Jack got a good look at her face as she floated on her back, rocked by the smooth, crested waves. It was a damned nice face, rounded, dark browed in contrast to her blonde hair. Tom Jack treaded water and looked at her and felt himself grow just thinking about her. Man, she had nice ones, jutting up from her chest defiantly, tight in the skimpy bikini top.
"Tow me back to shore, muscles," Pat said, still breathing hard. "I'm shot down." Tom Jack put his hand under her chin.
"Hey," she yelled. "Don't throttle me."
"Sorry," he said. He lowered his arm to her waist. Her head rested on his shoulder as he swam on his back with powerful leg thrusts. When he kicked, he would make contact with her body. He damned sure would not be able to go out of the water for a while. What he felt for Pat was there for all to see, bulging tightly and massively in his tight trunks. He was sure of himself for once, but he didn't want to take any chances. He didn't let his readiness touch Pat. He didn't want to scare her off with premature evidence of his intentions.
His feet touched bottom, smooth sand marred by pieces of shell. He stood up. The water was to his neck in the trough of a wave. When a wave came, he let it float them up and over. He held Pat with his big hands cupping her tiny waist. She was too short to reach bottom.
Tom Jack had the shakes. He had a woman under his hands, tiny waist, girl softness under his palms, his fingers feeling smooth skin above the bikini bottom. He almost lost his footing and she threw her arms around his neck and for a torrid moment he was pressed hard and huge against her. He was relieved when she didn't say anything. Next time a big wave came he pulled her close, bear-hugging her smallness to his hard chest, feeling her large breasts crush against him. She squealed as they rode high over the wave and she didn't try to pull away. His strength was pressed tightly against the small portion of her stomach covered by the bikini bottom.
Pat Emory looked over T.J.'s shoulder toward the beach. No one was paying any particular attention to them. There was a lot of beer drinking going on. The kids were laughing and horsing around. A few couples were in the water, but none near her and Tom Jack. She let herself be swallowed up in T.J.'s embrace.
Coming to the beach with Tom Jack was in the nature of an experiment. Pat had never really gone for the jock strap type because most of them, like Tom Jack, had muscles between their ears. She usually preferred a more sophisticated type, a man somewhat like Ernie Harper, perhaps. But she'd always preferred the gentlemanly type. She gave her virginity to one such type when she was a freshman at the university and since then she tended to select other men like the polite, well groomed boy who had entered her never-before-used body as they panted in the back seat of an automobile. Tom Jack represented a radical departure for her. He was the primitive type. She suspected that a man of Tom Jack's size would be developed rather interestingly in certain places. The hard push against her stomach confirmed that suspicion. She was curious about Tom Jack. Would he try to be rough? Would he be lightning quick? Would all that power lend itself to a long, drawn out time of loveliness?
Quite calmly, feeling no stir of passion, she decided to test him. She threw her legs around his waist, pressing her womanhood against his stomach. He had been gradually pushed back into shallower water. The waves were now frothing as they pushed past. She eased her body down, leaning back in his arms, laughing and squealing as the water rushed past her head, until she pressed her spread-legged womanhood directly over him. She moved her hips and felt great length and hardness. Tom Jack panted at her, mouth open. She moved teasingly against him, smiling upward into his face.
"God, Pat," Tom Jack gasped. His whole body was quivering. She continued to tease him until his eyes gleamed with need and then she broke away quickly to swim for a few strokes before he caught her. He gathered her in his arms, his hands closing over her full breasts under the cover of water.
'Tat," he choked.
She let him have a good feel of her breasts and then she slipped away again, her body made slick by the water. She put her hand against his chest and held herself away from him.
"People are looking," she said.
"So what?" He tried to grab her again.
"So, cool it, big man. The day is young." She smiled a promise at him. "Look, you'd better swim it off. I'm going in for a beer. O.K.? "
"Aw, Pat." He was not willing to let her go. "Stop it," she said sharply. "Don't paw the merchandise."
She waded ashore and ran lightly up the strand to fall, breathing hard, onto her towel. Tom Jack was swimming furiously out toward the surfers. It was a long time before he turned to come back. When he lumbered ashore there was no outward evidence of his excitement. He sprawled beside Pat on the sand and emptied a beer chug-a-lug. He grinned at Pat in a way which was supposed to be knowing and intimate. To Pat it seemed childish and inane.
"I think I'll borrow your surfboard now," she told him. "Sure."
She paddled out past the breakers, letting the sea clean away Tom Jack's touch. She wondered if she had made a smart choice in parking off with Tom Jack. She shrugged mentally. It would, she thought, be quite an experience. A man of Tom Jack's size and energy would be something else. Tom Jack certainly made a girl feel small and wanted and feminine. She stopped that thought guiltily. She didn't need anyone to make her feel feminine. She was very feminine. She had sensitive breasts and a responsive body. She had been damned successful in proving her femininity many times. Damn, what was wrong with her that she felt she had to prove it? She didn't have to prove anything.
She stopped paddling when she was even with the end of the pier. The surfers had moved further out, waiting for a big one. She lay on the board, stomach down, her breasts aware of the weight of her body on them. For the thousandth time she told herself that she worried too much. She knew what she was doing. She was a mature human being. She didn't tell the world how to act. The world could return the favor. Someone was always trying to tell her how to behave.
When Pat was a sophomore, the woman who lived in the sorority house called her in and told her that she would have to stop her promiscuous activity or face a session with the Dean of Woman and probably expulsion from the university. It made Pat furious. They had their nerve, damn them, but it was their school. That didn't mean that she had to stop living her own life. It did mean that she would have to be a bit more discrete. She took her sexual activities underground, hiding them as if she were ashamed of them when she wasn't at all.
She was never ashamed of anything. From that first time, when she spread her nice legs for the gentlemanly junior in the back seat of his car, she wasn't ashamed. She liked sex. Oh, she went through a period of self analysis after losing her virginity. She waited about two weeks before trying it again because she didn't achieve orgasm that first time. It was good. It was fun. It hurt only a little and before the boy finished she was doing wonderfully, feeling gorgeous things happening inside, knowing first hand the feeling she had only heard or read about in the past.
She knew she was different when it was over. She felt grown up for the first time. She felt as if she had finally, through her first act of intercourse, entered the world of adults. They would never be able to take that feeling away from her, try as they might. She thought about it a lot during the two weeks following her first man. She talked with several girls about sex and found that they liked to talk about it. In fact, she began to notice things she'd never noticed before. There was a definite difference between girls who had tried sex and those who hadn't. In fact, it seemed that the major difference in girls was not whether they were rich or poor, cool or great, but in whether or not they had had a man. She knew that her first act of sexual intercourse set her apart from girls like Jean Loras. She felt a dozen years older.
But she waited two weeks. She was afraid that first night it happened. She had to tell herself that she was in love with the junior boy before she could find courage to let him remove her panties, press his hand intimately into her lap, mount her, puncture her, take that nebulous something which she had been expecting to save for marriage. She was also a little afraid the second time it happened, but she had that wonderful feeling of maturity and she opened her body again, with a different boy, and found that a girl can learn to love sex.
Sex, Pat Emory told herself, was a nice exchange of sensations between a boy and a girl who liked each other. Sex was natural, pleasant, wonderfully satisfying. Sex was a private choice and if a girl wanted to enjoy it, that was her business.
Why, then, did she have to think about it so often?
She floated on Tom Jack's surfboard and watched the other surfers take waves to go skimming past her. She just lay there and thought about it. Sometimes she came close to admitting to herself that one large reason for her behavior with boys was a continuing drive to be assured of her very femaleness. She almost admitted, sometimes, that it pleased her more for a boy to want her than for the boy to actually have her. His want showed her that she was a woman. But she refused to think along those lines very often, because sometimes such thinking reminded her of the time when, as a small girl with budding breasts, she was challenged by an older girl to prove that she was indeed a girl.
Young Pat Emory had four brothers and she could lick three of them. She cried herself to sleep the night the little league coach told her emphatically that she could not play on the little league team, that girls were just not allowed. She couldn't understand why they wouldn't let her play. She could out-hit her brothers, throw the baseball as far and as fast as any boy on the team and she could outrun most of them. But they wouldn't let her play. Then the older girl told Pat that she was really a boy with long hair and Pat, furious, stripped off her faded blue jeans and her t-shirt to prove that she was, indeed, a girl.
God, she hated girls like that! She didn't know about such things at the time, of course. She just wanted to prove to the hateful girl that she was a girl. So she let the girl feel of her body to prove it. She felt the girl's hands touch and tease and she had a funny feeling in her small breasts. She was deeply frightened by the strange feelings. The girl touched and probed secret places in her small body for a long time and then she made Pat touch her. The girl had a thick growth of woman's hair. When she pressed Pat's small hand between her fully developed legs and moved her body against it, Pat's hand came away moist. It was a confusing experience. Later, when Pat found out about girls like that, she hated the older girl who had taken advantage of her. She loathed the girl and all like her with unreasoning fury because she had had such funny feelings when the girl was playing with her body. But she wouldn't admit that her own feelings on that long ago day were the reason for giving her soft, matured loveliness on a somewhat indiscriminate basis. She would not admit that she needed reassurance, that she took boys because by taking them she proved that she was, truly, a thoroughly feminine person. She told herself that she was a mature, emancipated woman who liked sex.
Thinking about Tom Jack as she floated on the surf board, she thought the coming evening would be rather interesting. Judging from the feel of him as he pressed against her there in the water, as he snorted and pawed the surf, she might have quite an exciting time. Tom Jack made her feel so small and feminine.
She found a wave, roared in with that breathtaking speed which comes from a good ride and beached the board. Tom Jack was making eyes at Jean Loras, and David Wofford was scowling at the big man in a quiet, frustrated way. Jean was giggling, flustered by the unwanted attention. Pat sat down on Tom Jack's broad back and ordered a beer. It was quick in coming.
It was mid-afternoon and it was getting drunk out. Some of the boys, Pat saw, were already trying to play grab ass and some of the girls were not objecting too much. She laughed wryly. If the sun didn't go down soon, Lundy Beach might have even more to talk about than last year.
Ernie Harper circulated among his clan like a proud papa, beaming on the groups which had formed, laughing, joking, cheering things along. Pat smiled at him as he passed and he waved at her jauntily.
Ernie felt powerful and good. It was his party. He'd planned it and formed it and chosen the people and it was shaping up to be a good one. Old Tom Jack was snorting already. It looked as if he'd been playing feelies out there in the surf with Pat Emory. Only David Wofford and Jean Loras threatened to put a damper on the play and he'd have to see to it that they were isolated later on when things got going.
Tina came down after the whole crew was beached with beer coolers and blankets and she looked damned good in a one-piece bathing suit. Ernie watched her sway toward him. She had a beautiful smile, full lips, blue eyes squinted against the glare. He wanted her with an ache in his gut. He looked at his watch. Three o'clock. The day had a long time to run.
Tina had succeeded in controlling the need in her body, at least for the moment. She felt alive and good walking in the sun. She took a cold beer to add to the two she'd had back in the motel and let Ernie put his arm around her as they stood together and watched the surfers ride the waves.
Along the fishing pier, a scattering of Lundy Beach residents were mixed with the tourists. The residents looked askance toward the portion of the beach staked off by the college people. They shook their heads at the liberal scattering of beer coolers along the beach. Men who had talked about the activity of the college kids over the last Labor Day weekend felt a tightening in their loins and knew envy for the boys who chased the long-limbed, golden young girls and screamed laughter and pointed beer cans to the bright afternoon sky. Women whispered to each other in scandalized tones and wondered what the younger generation was coming to.
Lundy Beach Police Chief Jack Petty drove his Ford police special down the soft asphalt of the beach road and checked the cars parked in front of the new motel. They were low slung cars, Mustangs, Corvairs, Renaults, Volkswagens, a few more expensive sports models; young people's cars with racing stripes and a surfboard or two strapped on top. There was no movement around the motel. They were on the beach. He stopped for a moment in the parking lot drive and cut his engine. Over the sound of the wind and the surf he could hear strong young voices raised in a song. He walked out past the jut of the pier house to look at them, scattered in a loose grouping over fifty yards of the beach. They were loaded for bear, beer coolers everywhere. He only hoped that they would confine themselves to the area and not go wandering all over the beach. He hoped that they would be a little more discreet in their love-making this year. Hell, Lundy was a family beach. It wasn't good for the beach to have people stumble over a coupled pair of college youngsters while out for a midnight stroll on the strand.
Petty knew that the kids would leave pecker tracks here and there before the weekend was over and he didn't give a damn as long as they did it in reasonable privacy. It wasn't his job to police the morals of a bunch of spoiled kids. But he had his orders. If things got too rough, too flagrantly open, he was going to haul in a few of them: Then there'd be some real squeals from upstate. Some of those kids were from rich homes. He didn't know what the hell their parents thought the kids were doing at Lundy Beach, but he'd bet his bottom dollar that not one mother out of the whole batch would believe it if Lundy Beach police hauled in her little daughter on a co-hab charge.
Jack Petty didn't doubt that there were good kids in the group. The boys were mostly in good shape, tall, tanned, lithe. There wasn't a really bad figure anywhere in the group of girls. He shrugged. Things changed. A few years ago it would have made a statewide scandal, the things those kids did when they came to the beach for one of their weekends. Now college weekends at the beach were a nationwide institution and no one seemed to care. It was almost as if the country sanctioned promiscuous sex among its young people.
Things change, Petty thought again. In Sweden they have trial marriages and stuff like that, at least according to the men's magazines. Maybe the new generation looked on things in a different way. He didn't know and it wasn't his concern. His concern was to keep the kids from shocking the family type business which made Lundy a thriving resort area. Of course, the kids themselves made for good business, even if they did buy their beer upstate. They'd eat a lot of meals and spend money here, and the beach needed such a lift with the season ending. The movers and shakers of the town, all businessmen, realized that. Still, they had to look out for the feelings of the families who were taking advantage of the last long weekend of the dying summer. If those kids did some of the things they'd done last year, a few of them were going to end up in his jail. He'd made it clear to them, through posted notices in their rooms, that they were responsible for damages and that a decent code of behavior would be enforced. If they got out of line, he'd haul them in.
CHAPTER FOllR
Ernie went back to the motel with one of the supply teams. It was dusk. The evening was wonderfully soft and warm. The beer supply was dwindling on the beach, most coolers empty. There was the reserve hoard in Ernie's bathtub. Some slightly wobbly volunteers filled coolers and Ernie got his guitar out of its case and tested its tune.
Back on the beach, he sat on a driftwood log and plunked. The guitar was a Gibson classic. Its soft tones were almost lost in the continued mild roar of the surf and the bubbling voices of the group. He plunked the nylon strings harder and hummed. Driftwood fires were going and the smell of cooking hamburgers was pleasant on the salt air. Ernie looked down at Tina, sitting on a towel with her back against the log. He sang to her, softly, sweetly, with a hint of weakness in his voice when he had to reach for high notes. Tina hummed along with the song, a sad, folk type tune which ended in heartbreak for its characters.
Ernie wondered sometimes why all folk songs were so damned sad. He didn't feel sad. He did the folk times because most of them could be played with three simple chords. With the guitar, as with almost everything Ernie did, he was an amateur. Becoming truly proficient on the instrument would mean too much hard work and Ernie didn't care for hard work.
He noted with wry amusement that his little group consisted of the three couples who were somewhat bound together by sharing two adjoining rooms. Tom Jack was stretched out on his stomach in the sand and Pat Emory was using his back for a pillow. Jean Loras sat in a lady-like pose with her feet curled under her, looking somewhat embarrassed that David Wofford wanted to hold her hand right there in front of all those people. Pat Emory's bronzed body glowed in the light of the fire and Ernie saw T.J. feel her leg a little bit. He grinned, expecting to see ole T.J. snort and paw the ground at any moment.
As he sang, Ernie looked at Pat Emory with a trace of curiosity. Quite a dish. Small, delicately formed, yet very, very plush. That damned bikini she wore was enough to make any stud paw the ground, much less ole Tom Jack.
"Hey, Teen," Ernie whispered, leaning to put his mouth close to Tina's ear. "Wanta make any bets on the length of time it takes ole Tom Jack to get Pat out of here?"
"Fifteen minutes," Tina said, looking up at him with her angel's face screwed into amusement.
He glanced up. Tom Jack was sitting up and Pat was leaning back into his lap, looking up at him from behind her slightly frazzled curtain of blonde hair. Ernie laughed.
"Ten," he said. "Loser chug-a-lugs." He opened a fresh beer for himself and for Tina.
Ernie won. It was exactly seven minutes before Tom Jack rose, rippled his huge muscles and lifted Pat to her feet. They walked up the beach away from the pier with Pat small against T.J.'s hugeness, his big arm holding her lopsidedly against him. They didn't even get out of sight before they cut back across the dunes toward the motel. Tina made a face and sat up straight, turned the beer high and killed it with large swallows.
Tina felt a voyeuristic excitement as she thought about what Pat and T.J. would be doing in a very few minutes. She looked up at Ernie and her pink tongue came out to moisten her lower lip. Ernie grinned at her and she felt butterflies in her stomach. She compared Ernie to T.J. She felt a tickle of sensuous curiosity. She'd never dated Tom Jack. He looked like quite a guy, too. Well, maybe before the weekend was over But first there was Ernie. Somehow she couldn't get over the feeling that something had to happen with Ernie. He was her kind of guy. He played it loose and easy and if only he could-
Tom Jack's arms jerked uncontrollably, as if from severe cold. He felt Pat's warmth as he circled her small waist with his arm. He stopped her in a hollow between two dunes, after leaving the flat strand, and jerked her into his arms. Her mouth was open, wet, ready. She let her breath hiss out quickly as he crushed her to his chest. He picked her up off the ground and his massiveness pressed against her pelvic hardness and her feet were hanging with her toes pointed down.
"Don't break me," she said, when he came up for air. But her voice was soft and silky.
He let her stand down so that he could bring one big hand up. It covered her breast and she let it stay to mold and press as she tilted her head again and sought his lips.
"Let's go on to the room," she said, a few torrid seconds later.
"Yeah," Tom Jack replied. "Let's go on to the room and, uh, wash our hands."
Pat frowned. He was such a child, really. He was still afraid to admit to himself that they weren't going to the motel room to wash up, not by a long shot. She understood, though. He was afraid of scaring her off. Well, there was no danger of that, unless he went crazy or something. She knew what she was doing. She felt his hugeness and she was curious and she was turned on but good. She thought that being with Tom Jack would have to be some kind of ultimate. She knew he'd fill her as she'd never been filled before. She liked the idea. She wanted him. His size and his strength made her feel small and delicate and wanted, and it was nice to be wanted. She was a woman, a desirable woman.
He didn't talk as they walked across the road, climbed the stairs to the stilted deck and, with quick, backward glances, went into the room which she shared with Tina and Jean. She didn't think there was any danger of either of the girls coming in so early. She knew that Ernie Harper had seen her and T.J. leave, so Ernie would be watching out to keep people from butting in on them. David and Jean were so wrapped up in each other they'd be content to sit on the beach and hold hands and look into each other's eyes for a few hours. Then David would kiss Jean shyly good-night when he brought her back to the room.
"Lock the doors," she told T.J., standing just inside the room. The drapes were open. While T.J. fumbled nervously with the door bolts, she pulled the drawstring and shut out the night. The room was lit by overheads and bed lamps. She turned off the overheads and was turning to go into the bathroom when T.J. caught her, crushing her to him in a bear hug, his breath harsh, his eyes gleaming.
"Give me just a minute," she said, before his mouth closed hers in a wet, demanding kiss, "I want to wash my hands."
He held her tightly. There were some necessary things to be done. Pat was a very practical girl. She didn't take risks. She'd never been that carried away.
"I don't mind dirty hands," Tom Jack said, his voice low.
He held her with his big hands cupped under her rump, lifting her, bending her body into a bow of protruding pelvic mound, making movements with his hips which made that hardness touch and push and tell Pat that in spite of her practicality, she was in a fine state of arousal. She liked the feeling. She was proud to be a passionate woman. She thought that she was probably as passionate as any woman, more passionate than most.
"I'll just be a minute," she said patiently.
He wouldn't let her go. She was as helpless as a moth in a net. He picked her up to carry her to the bed.
"Dammit, I said give me a minute," she hissed. He put her down and she went into the bathroom. When she came out she was nude. Her lower stomach and her breasts were as tan as the rest of her body. Tom Jack was standing in the center of the room, his hands slack at his sides, worrying that he'd done something to make her change her mind. His mouth opened when he saw her, as she swayed seductively toward him, naked, willing.
"Gaa," he said meaninglessly as she reached her arms up to go around his neck. She pressed her nudeness against him. She couldn't breathe in his embrace. He was going to crush her. She pounded on his chest and gasped as he loosened his grip.
"Easy," she whispered, feeling a special fondness for him. The poor guy wanted her so badly he could hardly stand it.
She let her body go limp as he picked her up in his arms and carried her lightly to the bed. He leaned down and placed her gently atop the spread. She could feel the rippled pattern of the spread against her bare back. She thought idly about turning down the spread in favor of the smoothness of sheets, but decided against it as Tom Jack jerked hurriedly out of his trunks.
She gasped with shock when she saw him. She was more than a little frightened. It seemed a physical impossibility for her small body to accommodate him. He sat on the edge of the bed, leaned down on one elbow and put his hand on her breast. She was proud of the fact that her breasts were sensitive. When she looked down at the length of his body to measure again those incredible proportions, she saw that his feet were sandy.
"Clean the sand off your feet," she said in a seductive voice.
"Gummmm," Tom Jack said, taking a good portion of one breast into his mouth. She tried to forget the sand on his feet, to let the sensation of warmth ooze through her body from his eager mouth.
"I have to sleep in this bed," she said, her voice no longer seductive. "Clean the sand off your feet."
Tom Jack couldn't believe that she was serious. How could she be worried about a little thing like sand on his feet at a time like this? He cared only for the fact that he felt violent trembles of lust through his body. His heart was pounding and there was a continual throbbing of awareness in his lower regions. He was tasting woman, sweet, healthy, smooth skinned woman under his mouth and he could smell the warm woman odor of her and feel the heat from her body as his hand brushed down an expanse of tanned stomach and cupped the golden triangle of hair.
"The sand," Pat said harshly.
Tom Jack grunted and sat up on the side of the bed. He picked up his trunks and wiped at his feet then threw himself back at her, putting his weight on her with one of his legs moving between her soft thighs to feel the heat of her. His only worry was in doing it too quickly. He was hot, hotter than he'd ever been in his life and he didn't want to go like some jack-rabbitty kid the minute he touched her. He wanted this night to be real good. It wasn't often that he had a girl as nice as Pat Emory.
Three sweet nights with her! She was small and soft under him and she let her legs be pushed apart. He raised himself on his knees and she cocked her knees up on her heels and lifted her rump up to feel that first touch. He felt the hot, moist opening. He knew that he, too, was exuding the oils of love. He felt violent. He felt as if he could eat her alive. He wanted her with a devastating finality which hurt him with its intensity.
He was large between her legs, all muscle and man. Her warm inner thighs were touching his sides and she had to spread herself wide to take his body. She liked that moment, that last split second before the act began. It was affirmation of womanhood, that uplifting of rump to help entry, that touch, that first, slow, sliding heaven of penetration. She was tremendously excited, she knew. She was really hot, very passionate. She was a woman fulfilling the function of woman and she knew how to do it well.
He hit softness. He tensed himself. He couldn't hurry it, although he wanted to hurry it more than anything in the world. But she was small and he'd hurt one small girl by hurrying. He had to be careful, careful, but, oh, God, how good! It was so good he couldn't stand it. He had to have it now, not a second later. His breath was burning in his lungs and his heart threatened to come out as he lunged, feeling only that desperate need for completion. He drove himself deep because he had to feel all of her. He lunged fiercely and cruelly, heedless of her softness.
Pat had been waiting. She felt him touch, felt the slow parting of her outer tissue layers, felt firmness press aside her wonderfully nerved ring of muscle around the gateway to her inner warmth, and then he plunged and it felt as if he'd taken all of her with him in one sharp blow of stabbing pain. She cried out. She tried to pull away from him, away from the hurt, but her small body was covered by his huge body and he was hurting hell out of her.
"Damn," she gasped, her voice sharp. He had taken all the pleasure out of it. She couldn't pull back. Her movements made it easier for him to move into her and she realized with panic that the first cruel penetration had not been a complete one. He came at her again, coming and coming until she screamed with pain. He filled her, glutted her small body. She felt as if he would split her.
"Stop it," she cried, "you're hurting me."
He was so huge. He "was still coming, penetrating past all decency, stuffing her. She felt as if a hot iron had been buried inside her and she moaned in pain and fought him. It was like trying to stop the advance of a glacier. She fainted when he made the first solid contact, pelvic bulges meeting. When the blackness faded, she was being wracked with hard lunges which drove him into her body, pile driving, pounding, forcing, hurting her.
"Stop! Please stop!" Tears ran down her cheeks. Fear made her weak. He was going to really hurt her. She cringed away and he drove deeply into her softness and she couldn't stand it. She beat at his head with clenched fists but her puny blows had no effect on him. He was an animal, a bull. He would split her. She knew pain and fear. She sobbed and came near fainting again. But in coming close to the edge of blackness she allowed her body to relax. He was holding her in a bowed position, his hands under her small rump, rising high on his knees to make strength for his lunges.
She could do nothing but take it, take it, take it.
She was sobbing, but the pain was not so severe. She was crying real tears, but there was no pain, just a tiny explosion of sensation at the completion of his pile driver lunges. Gradually, tenseness, but of a different kind, came back to her body. She tried a movement within the clamped tightness of his hands under her buttocks and he touched her internal organs with each lunge and she felt totally, irrevocably possessed. Never before had she been so completely dominated by maleness. It was all of her, her body, her mind, her heart and she moaned exotically as her awareness soared into fire and she arched to meet the great blows. She took him into the oiled, loving recesses of her and toyed with him and felt him huge and hard and lusciously deep and all-possessing. He was gasping and covering her mouth with hungry lips and she felt fire glow and become hot and, unbelievably, she could take even more of him by throwing her legs high.
The force of his release could be felt throughout her body. It was a muted thundering which saturated her insides and gave her that last boost. She clung to him, took his tongue and loved it with her own, pressed her whole body achingly upward and let bliss take her with tiny, muted explosions. The last of his massive pulsing fed her passion as he was welded into deepness and it was there, that blinding glow of pleasure which made her body a living instrument of ecstasy. Then it was over and she was weak and dizzy and she found it hard to breathe. He fell atop her with all of his weight and she wanted to scream again because, bliss gone, the pain was back. He had hurt her, all that man. It was too much. No woman could stand it.
He raised himself to look at her. "That was a good one for a starter," he said, grinning proudly.
She felt despair, then anger. Wasn't he satisfied? She wasn't one of those all night jobs. When she went she went, and that was that. She was a passionate woman, so passionate that when she was satisfied she was satisfied so thoroughly that she didn't need a second helping. And with him, a second time was unthinkable. She felt as if things were broken loose inside her.
"I'll be back in a minute," she said, pushing out from under him.
She was messy. She picked up her bikini on the way across the bedroom. She stayed in the bathroom a long time, weak, angry and a little bit afraid. He was waiting for her, she knew. She would be sore for days and she wasn't about to compound the damage with more of the same. She put on the bikini and peeked out the door. He was lying on his back. As she feared, he was ready again. She averted her eyes from the cruel implement of his passion and thought how to escape him. She waited until he had closed his eyes and ran across the room. She had the bolt open and was ready to step out the door when he caught her.
"Hey, where are you going?"
"Let me go," she said, her voice filled with hate. He was an animal, huge, rutting, cruel. The thought of letting him use her again was sickening.
"Hey," he said. He pulled on her and she clung to the door frame, near panic.
"Let me go, you son-of-a-bitch," she hissed.
"What's with you?" His voice was plaintive. "Don't go now, we're just getting started."
"Animal," she spat, striking out a him. Her slap rang loud in the silence. He let her go. She faced him defiantly, small, hate making her strong.
"Hey, Pat," he said. There was a red blotch on his face where she hit him. "Don't do that."
"Don't touch me," she said. "Don't you ever touch me again."
He was puzzled. His rugged face was screwed up as if her words had been physical blows. "What did I do? Yours was good, wasn't it?"
"If you touch me I'll scream."
She ran rapidly across the highway. The glow of the driftwood fires along the beach seemed to offer warm, cozy haven. She stopped running when she reached the strand and tried to control her breathing. She hurt. She walked down to the fire where Ernie was playing his guitar and sat down on the edge of Tina's towel.
Tour lipstick is smeared, darling," Tina said.
Pat looked at Tina blankly, rose without a word and walked away to join another group consisting mostly of girls.
"What's with her?" Ernie asked Tina.
"Conscience, maybe," Tina said. "Methinks the innocent child has sinned."
"I like sin," Ernie said. "Shall we join the sinners?"
"You shock me," Tina said, smiling. It was coming closer and closer, another opportunity, one last try to see if Ernie couldn't possibly be the man she was looking for.
Tom Jack stalked into the firelight, his face sullen.
"The playroom is vacant," Ernie whispered to Tina. Tina smiled.
Tom Jack opened a beer, gulped it, opened another and emptied it only slightly slower. He looked around belligerently. An animal, was he? That bitch hadn't thought so for a while. She'd loved it, animal or not. Animal, huh? He'd show her. He'd show all of them. He killed the beer and reached for another and there was a tightening in his loins when he saw Ernie and Tina leave the fire and walk together over the dunes toward the motel. Tina wouldn't talk to Ernie that way. That Tina was a hot piece, he'd heard. He'd been meaning to try her for a long time.
"Why so glum, big man?" David Wofford, looking owlish in his glasses, was getting a beer from the cooler. Tom Jack hadn't noticed David and Jean Loras. They'd moved away from the fire into the darkness. He could just see Jean leaning on her elbows looking at the stars, her nice breasts outlined against another fire down the beach.
Even Jean wouldn't talk to David the way Pat had talked to him.
Jean didn't look like she'd be a hot piece, like Tina, but Tina was Ernie's girl. He couldn't move in on ole Ernie. David Wofford was another matter.
Tom Jack started thinking about how it would be with Jean. He thought it might be good. Jean was a big girl, tall and big hipped. Maybe that was the trouble with Pat. Maybe she was just too small. He thought Jean might like his brand of man. But, hell, ole Ernie had said not to cause any trouble this time. There were plenty of other girls. Might be better to start working on one of the unattached ones and leave David's gal alone.
He killed another beer, got to his feet with his head beginning to buzz, lumbered down the beach and found a fire surrounded by several unescorted girls. He picked out a big redhead and sat beside her and she cut him dead. They thought they were so damned smart, all of them. He tried to join in their discussion, but they were talking about the civil rights movement and they were all for it. T.J. didn't think white men should let the niggers run things. When he said so, they looked at him for a moment and then went on talking. He left that fire and found another one. At first a girl talked to him. She had a good figure, big tits pushing out.
"Hey," he said, after another beer, 'let's cut out of here and go somewhere."
"What, and leave the party?" But she was smiling at him.
"We can make our own party," he said, shading his voice suggestively. He drank beer and grinned at her knowingly and she looked at him coldly.
"No, thank you," she said. Just like that. "No, thank you."
Well, frig 'em. Frig 'em all. He didn't have to beg. He was man enough to get what he wanted without begging. He walked swayingly back to the fire where David and Jean were lying on a blanket and sat down beside them. He put his hand on Jean's leg down below the knee, just being friendly, and she cringed back as if he intended to rape her. Damned silly bitch.
He'd show her. He'd show all of them.