Chapter 4

When she awoke the following morning, Debbie found herself tightly wrapped in her bedcovers. She was totally naked, and she was completely alone.

For awhile she merely lay there, reliving the best parts of the previous night. Her body shivered with delicious remembrances. And then, after awhile, shame began crawling into her.

How dare she enjoy something as vile and as heinous as that which her uncle had done. Not that she thought of her virginity as any great treasure. The tutors her uncle had brought had been careful to teach her there was no great advantage to virginity. In fact, aside from lightly mentioning the fact that it really was a hindrance, they hadn't gone into the subject at any great length. Until the previous evening, she had been totally ignorant about sex. Not even her girl friends had been willing to discuss it with her.

But she had read the Bible. She knew that what had occurred between her uncle and herself could be classified as a form of incest. And incest was wrong. He had taught her to enjoy something totally evil.

He had professed there might be a possibility of marriage. How could there be? Would the state allow such a marriage to take place? More than likely he was lying to her to assuage his own conscience for what he eventually did to her.

Tears of shame began to drip down her cheeks. The fearsome gargoyle who had ruled her life for the last twelve years had finally announced that she was his slave. She was his to do with as he pleased. And though he'd left the way open for her to run away, she knew full well she never would. She hadn't the courage.

Her entire life had been a sheltered life of utter dependence. Even when she'd lived with her real family she had been dependent on her parents, and her brothers and sisters. She still had vague recollections of the distant past, when there had never been enough food, and the only clothing she wore was that which her sisters had outgrown.

Her uncle had been right about the misery her family had endured. He'd claimed that her parents had been good at reproducing, but now that looked back on that dim recollection she couldn't quite decide just how they'd managed it. There had been nothing but constant fights and arguments.

Now that she thought about it, remembering misty thoughts, the one bright spot in the lives of her family had always been the arrival of the tall, dark, portly man with the presents for everyone. He even used to bring candy for her.

And then one morning she awoke to find herself in the man's car. He was smiling at her, telling her she would have to live with him because her family was no longer around. He kept faked newspaper photos, and when she became older, she understood her entire family had supposedly been involved in some kind of fire. But she had never been satisfied with the answers her uncle had given her. She had been afraid to question him too much. He had always presented such a towering image of terror—at least since she'd come to live with him.

More than once she thought back to the way he used to smile at her and fondle her tiny body when she'd still been living with her family. And suddenly, from the day after she'd first come to live with him, he'd turned almost frigid. The smiles were gone. His visage had become stern.

There were many servants in his large house. They were all warm to her, making her feel important and good. She'd had food, clothing, and all the physical comfort anyone could want. But she'd never had love. She hadn't had it with her family, and it was still missing when she came to live with her uncle.

Last night, when he had shamefully deflowered her, he had professed to love her, but she wondered. It had to be lust, not love. Men who loved women didn't do to them what her uncle had done to her.

She had read many of the books in his library, and her favorite had always been Camille, about the lady who let her body be used by men she didn't love because there was no other way for her to survive. And she was in the same position as Marguerite Gautier now. Like the lady of the camellias she was a mistress, to be used until the user tired of her. Like Camille, she had whatever creature-comforts she needed, only things were modernized. She had a new car, and on the dressing table she saw the batch of charge cards allowing her to purchase whatever pleased her.

Debbie had always been a romanticist. Now she realized she would have to become a realist. Like Camille, she would have to prepare for the future, when no one wanted her. She was young, beautiful, and desirable, now. But it wouldn't last forever. Since her uncle had given her charge cards rather than cash that could be saved against future hard times, she would have to purchase items she could convert to cash at a later time; jewelry, of course.

Going to the bathroom, she saw the place was neat and clean. There was no sign of the ravishment that had taken place the previous night. Her glasses were sitting on the counter where her virginity had been brutally torn from her body. There were new, clean towels hanging on the racks, including a red bath towel, as if to let her know her virginal white towel had been stained forever.

She refused to step into the shower, but rather took a bath. And it was in the tub that she saw the dried bloodstains wash away from her inner thighs. It was also in the warmth of the bath water that she felt the ache between her thighs, reminding her of what had happened. How could her uncle love her, having done this to her?

She soaked in the hot water for more than a half hour, and the pain slowly, very slowly, eased out of her body. When she rose from the tub she found she was able to walk normally. The little ache still remaining would slowly go away, though the rent in her soul felt as if it might never heal.

She dressed in a white blouse and plaid skirt. Then she spent nearly fifteen minutes brushing her long, lustrous brown hair. She noticed there were no circles under her eyes. She had slept only too well after having been made to enjoy the rape. In that respect she had to admit her uncle was a very talented man.

Going down to the breakfast room, she feared she might run into her uncle, but realized it was much too late in the day for him to be home. He had many financial interests to look after, and couldn't be expected to wait for her to waken from the heavy slumber his lasciviousness had brought about.

It was nearly ten thirty when she finished breakfast. Then she went to the hall closet where she kept her simple blue cloth coat. But the coat was gone, and in its place was a full-length ranch mink. At least her uncle was generous in his appreciation of her body. He didn't consider her to be some cheap tart, to be had for fifty or even a hundred dollars. She knew her uncle had attempted to hide the sordid part of life from her, keeping the idea of cheap whores as much out of her mind as he could. But she read the newspapers. She knew about prostitutes. True, she hadn't known exactly what it was men did with the bawds they picked up. She hadn't even been able to imagine what it was they did, until last night.

Now her eyes had been violently opened, and opened wide. She felt as if she knew everything. She was woman of the world. She had something in common with all those cheap whores. The only difference between them was price. She was an expensive whore.

Putting on the coat, she went outside to where the Toronado sat in the large, horseshoe-shaped driveway. Getting into the car, she started it up and drove directly to the nearby town.

As she parked the car, she realized she was on her own for the very first time in her life. There were no tutors, no chauffeur-bodyguards, not even a female "companion." She walked along the sidewalks, looking into store windows, wondering what she should buy. She didn't wonder too long. She came to the large jewelry store and stared at the various precious stones mounted in gold and platinum. And she saw the digital watch, enchanted by the changing liquid-crystal numerals. It was an expensive watch and nothing like the cheaper ones she'd seen advertised in the papers. It had a lavish jeweled setting.

Going into the store, she approached the short man behind the counter and inquired about the watch. He assured her it cost nearly five hundred dollars. She told him she wanted it.

Ten minutes later she was walking out of the store with the watch on her wrist. And that was when she bumped into him. He was as tall as her uncle, but much, much slimmer. His hair was black, but slick and he couldn't have been more than twenty five years old, if that old. He wore a dark overcoat, and though it wasn't an expensive one, it was well-tailored.

"I beg your pardon," he murmured. "I should watch where I'm going."

"Oh no," she said, smiling at his handsome face. "It was my fault. I was so caught up in looking at my new watch ... "

She extended her wrist and he removed a glove in order to hold it.

"It's quite beautiful," he acknowledged.

Debbie didn't know what else to say. She stared at him, and he looked right back at her. Then he said, "I think we should at least know one another's names. I'm Larry Haroldson."

"I'm Debbie," she answered.

"Debbie what?"

"Debbie Martin."

"Well Debbie Martin, suppose I take you to lunch?"

Lunch? She had just eaten. Besides, it wasn't anywhere near noon.

"I 'm really not very hungry," she told him.

"Neither am I," he smiled. "It's just that you're too beautiful to let get away too quickly. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"Sure," she nodded. "I'd like that."

And she did. She liked being called beautiful. She liked Larry Haroldson. She liked the way he smiled and made her feel warm all over. His smile even drove away the pain between her thighs, replacing it with a feeling she had first come to know last night.

He took her to a nearby restaurant and talked, but she didn't listen too much. She felt that tingle in her groin begin to enlarge, and all she could think about was, what would it be like to feel this man's penis between her cuntlips.

What a terrible thing to think!, she thought, mentally chastising herself. Was fucking the only thing in her mind? Couldn't she be interested in a man for his companionship? After all, were men so basically different from women in the need for company?

"I'm a C.P.A.," he was telling her. "I have nearby, but I had to go see a client. I was just on my way back when I bumped into you."

"I'm glad," she said, smiling. "Can I see your offices?"

"I'd be more than happy to show them to you," he nodded. "But on one condition. You have to let me take you to supper tonight."

"I ... I don't think ... not tonight."

"Look, this is Thursday. Would it be presumptuous of me to ask for a date for Saturday night? No, no, don't answer that. A woman as beautiful as you has to have a date for this Saturday night. How about next Saturday night?

How many Saturday nights had Debbie spent alone in that big house? More than she ever cared to remember. Yes, she wanted to go out, to see what other people did on Saturday night.

"I'd be more than happy to go out with you then," she nodded.

"Good. What time shall I pick you up?"

"Eight, I think. Eight would be fine."

"Okay, what's your address?"

"Look, suppose I meet you on the corner right outside this restaurant."

"A woman of mystery? Terrific. That being the case, after I show you my offices, I'm going to spend the rest of the day with you, trying to learn as much as I can about you."

Debbie felt her heart leap. This good-looking man really liked her. How wonderful. How marvelous it was to be free and see and do things herself. Why had her uncle tried to protect her from the world? The world was accepting her.

Perhaps he wasn't interested in protecting her so much as he was in hiding her from the rest of the world. Perhaps he was afraid that once she got a taste of the world she might not really want to go back to him after all. It was possible he knew she might meet the right man, and that man might sweep her off her feet, and she wouldn't need her uncle any longer. Yes, now that she thought about it, it made a lot of sense.

Larry Haroldson was the very first man she'd met since driving out into the world by herself. Yet he interested her. And if the first man was the right man, a woman didn't need to look for other men. And Debbie classified herself as a woman, and no longer a mere girl, even if she was only freshly turned seventeen.

She went with him and saw his drab offices. They weren't overly impressive, still, the man earned his living from them. Who was she to sneer at the way any man honestly earned a living?

He took her to lunch at one o'clock, and then took her on a long drive out into the surrounding country. He talked a mile a minute, and she found it difficult to concentrate on everything he was saying. Even so, she enjoyed listening to him. And she saw the way he looked at her, which made her cunt dribble all the more. She couldn't help herself. After the way her uncle had awakened her senses, she found herself more and more alert. Her cunt tingled, and her mind dwelled on what it might be like to be fucked by such a man.

She was too much of a lady to let him know what went on in her mind. And she was convinced he was too much of a gentleman to even think about such a thing with her.

Fucking, she decided, could be a beautiful thing when done with the right man. When done with someone as gross and disgusting as her uncle, it became an animalistic rutting.

There had to be other ways her uncle could have introduced her to sex. He could have hired one of those gigolos with a slim body and a somewhat shorter, thinner penis to deflower her. She was certain a gigolo could have done the job causing her much less pain, shame, and embarrassment. But no, the fat bullfrog had to go and do it himself. Not that he smelled bad or used his weight to crush her. But that such an immense bulk had pressed itself against her slender, firm young body was almost too much for her mind to accept. The more she thought about it, the more she hated her uncle. He had used love as an excuse. The truth of the matter was he had felt lust. It was the same kind of lust that had driven him to use all those other women she'd seen going into his bedroom all those years. Now he didn't have to go out looking for women. He had a ready mistress. He had her.

It was five-thirty when Larry Haroldson parked his Pontiac in front of the restaurant where they'd first gone to have coffee. He had wanted to take her home, but she had a car of her own, and she'd insisted that he take her back to the restaurant.

"I had a nice day," he told her. "I really enjoyed being with you."

"And I enjoyed your company very much," she replied.

Before she had quite realized what was happening, he was leaning over and kissing her lips with a certain amount of heavy pressure. As she understood what was happening, she discovered she was kissing him back, letting her tongue lightly tickle his lips, as if promising him things she certainly had no intention of offering at this point.

When she got out of the car, she stood waiting at the curb until he drove off. Then she went to her own car and sadly drove home.