Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Mg, MMg, fg, gg, etc.; pedo, pre-teen, yng teen; rape, preg, torture,
sandwiches, extreme caution

   THE DOOM THAT CAME TO DEBBIE by Silvio Stoker



   Intro: Horrors of a life of young girls, from the early childhood learnt
debauchery and sex.

   "'You're not afraid of your daddy, are you?' She was terrified, and she
was wearing only panties under her long T-shirt.  'Are you wearing the bra
I gave you?' She wasn't wearing a bra.  She cowered.  'Y-yeah.' 'Show me,
baby...' He lifted her shirt.  She was paralyzed.  He groaned when he saw
her naked breasts.  She looked away, teary-eyed.  'There's nothing wrong
with daddy looking at his little girl, is there?'" Liz, 11 y.o., and Lacey,
13 y.o., are natural born whores.  When Don sees Liz sucking off the
neighbors and finds out that she used to seduce other girls for a sick
pervert, he gets an idea...

   (This story from archive ' 2 my collections of this writer.  Access to
archives from page [0SilvioStoker.htm] in the same directory
...\favoritecollection\Silvio_Stroker)

   ===This story is a work of fiction.========

   T H E D O O M T H A T C A M E T O D E B B I E

   Written by Silvio Stoker



   I ANFANG



   I guess I should begin with my wife, with how I met my wife.  We didn't
have a church wedding, of course - I found Liz when she was eleven and I
was thirty-three.

   I had gone through a messy divorce and was drinking a lot at the time
(as at all other times), and to save money for booze I'd ended up living in
an exceedingly nasty part of town, occupying a little prefab cabin between
two identical cabins, the three structures threatening to slide into a
trash-strewn ravine at the edge of a gloomy and seemingly endless trailer
park, with another, smaller trailer park on the other side of this barren,
treeless gulch.

   Liz lived next door.  I'd heard from the few neighbors with whom I spoke
that the girl's father had sexually abused her for years, until caught and
sent to prison, and I started staring at Liz when I sat out on the little
deck that faced the other two cabins, sipping my bourbon.  She was awkward
and nervous, but awfully pretty all the same.

   About a week after I'd first caught sight of her, one Saturday morning
so early I hadn't even hit the bottle yet, Liz knocked on my door and asked
if she could come in.  I let her in, and the kid dropped her shorts without
saying a word.  If I'd been drinking, I would have jumped her bones. 
Instead, I kicked her out. The next Monday I was wandering down in the
ravine, drunk, and on my way back, for no reason other than one which the
fates may supply, I peered into the backyard of the cabin to the left of
mine.  There was a gap in the fence, and Liz was facing my neighbor.

   "You miss your daddy, huh?" His voice was heavy with sedatives, as
always.

   Liz was panting, her tense little hands holding her gray T-shirt up
above the tiny, asymmetrical breasts on her ribby chest, the child's
delicate face full of fear and a familiar despair.  Jim Norwood towered
over the terrified eleven-year-old.  He looked down at her as though he
could lift her in one large hand, like King Kong.  Jim gently fondled her
little titties.  Liz squirmed, a dark stain spreading in the crotch of her
grayish tights.  She had wet herself.  Her pale face flushed.

   Jim touched her lips.  Liz opened her mouth and sucked his thumb,
touching his massive, reddish hand with her trembling fingers, the gray
shirt again veiling her heaving chest.  His dirty thumb would have been an
appropriate penis for the slight proportions of her underdeveloped body. 
He let her suck it for a long time, then pulled her soiled tights down
around her skinny thighs.  Her knees were shaking.  The skin around her
hairless cunny was pink, irritated.  She lifted her T-shirt again,
clutching the gray cotton as the man fingered her slit.

   "You like that, huh, Lizzy?"

   "Y-yeah..."

   "How come your daddy didn't fuck you?"

   "H-he..."

   Jim grabbed her, covered her mouth and stabbed his middle finger into
her cunny.  She struggled for a second, quivering, then just cried as he
deflowered her.

   He took his bloody finger from between her legs and pulled up on her
shirt.  She raised her arms and he removed it.  Her upper body naked, the
child looked even smaller and even more vulnerable.  She was also
remarkably lovely, if pathetic.  The sunlight made her skin seem blindingly
white, like a redhead's, though her very long hair was the hue of India
ink. She squinted, her gray-green eyes wet with tears.

   "Take your pants off."

   Whimpering, she sank to the wet grass and struggled with her tights
while Jim took out his cock.  It was monstrous, almost the length of her
forearm and nearly twice as thick than her wrist.  Sobbing, the little girl
couldn't get her tights past her muddy, dark blue sneakers.  She pulled one
shoe off, and Jim bent down and yanked the tight garment from her other
leg, tearing it.  Liz was naked except for her left shoe, tears streaming
down her cheeks, writhing pitifully on the cold ground.  She stared at his
erection, then knelt and reached for it as though feeling around a dark and
unknown room for a familiar object.

   "Open your mouth, Lizzy."

   She closed her eyes and opened her strangely sensual little mouth, her
fingers wrapped around his gigantic shaft, waiting for him to put his penis
between her lips.  Instead, Jim twisted the urine-soaked tights in his big
strong hands, wringing them, the piss trickling to her face.  She opened
her miserable eyes and sobbed, but drank some, swallowing, the rest
dripping down her bony chest.

   "Your daddy ever fuck your ass?"

   Liz whimpered, then leaned forward and took the huge bulb of his cock
into her mouth, sucking and stroking him.  He let her suck him for a
minute, then threw her onto her back like a busted doll.  She tried to
crawl away, crying, but he caught her by her naked foot and climbed on top
of her, clamped his hand over her mouth and shoved his cock into her
bleeding cunny.

   She screamed into his hand as he raped her, kicking and quivering like
crazy as he forced his prick almost halfway into her, then went limp.  Liz
had passed out.  He kept fucking her, then pulled out and ejaculated onto
her chest and stomach.  She moaned, coming to, and he spat at her, stuck
his cock back into his pants and walked away, disappearing around the side
of his garage.

   Liz lay there, weeping, cupping her cunny with her left hand, then sat
up and wiped herself with her filthy tights, put on her gray T-shirt - it
said I WISH I WAS IN FLORIDA above a sunset and a bunch of boats, put on
her left shoe and struggled to her feet.

   She had to pass through my yard to get to her house.  I slipped away,
going into my cottage, and watched her through my window.  Liz, carrying
her torn tights, came through the gap in the fence I had watched them
through and crossed my yard, not crying anymore.

   Just then, her mother's old T-bird pulled into the driveway.  Liz
panicked and hid behind my juniper bushes.  I waited for her mother to go
into her house - she was an ugly slut with fake blond hair in ringlets -
opened the door and called out to Liz in a loud whisper.

   She hesitated, then ran to me and into my house.  I shut the door.  I
was scared and very aroused.  The pathetic child stood just a few feet
away, pulling down on the hem of her T-shirt with one hand, holding her
dirty tights in the other and staring at the floor.

   "Go take a shower," I said.  "I'll wash your tights."

   She just stood there, trembling, then lifted her T-shirt to her navel
and looked at me pleadingly with her big dark eyes.  Her cunny looked like
a wet pink rose.  I went up to her and kissed her eyelids.  Liz dropped her
tights and put her hand on my crotch.

   "No, honey," I whispered, taking her hand.  "Let's go wash you, okay?"

   "Don't you like me?"

   I kissed her mouth.  It was bitter, but she kissed back desperately,
using her tongue.  Her hand went to the bulge in my jeans again, squeezing
and stroking.  I kissed her neck, and Liz moaned, then fumbled with my
belt.

   "Liz..."

   "I'll give you a blow job," she said, her voice shaking.

   I swept her into my arms and carried her to the bedroom.  She was a
little scared, but seemed okay after I began to kiss her again and put her
on the bed.

   "You're beautiful, Liz," I whispered, taking off her sneakers and
fondling her feet.

   She took off her T-shirt.  She was shaking, but her eyes were whorish,
submissive.

   "W-wanna...  fuck m-my...  botty?"

   I kissed her, slipping my tongue into her mouth.

   "Lie back, Liz."

   "Y-you need...  some Vaseline, then...  okay?"

   "Lie back, honey...  I want to kiss you.  I won't hurt you."

   I sucked her toes, licked her pissy legs, and tongued her cunny.  She
squirmed and grunted as if she was constipated, then drew her thin thighs
up to her heaving chest and spread her cheeks.  Her little poophole was
sore and scarred.  I licked it, and Liz moaned.

   I wet my index finger in my mouth and gently slid it into her anus, then
lapped at her cunny.  She came, squealing.

   I hugged her and kissed her mouth.  Liz was panting.  She undid my
pants, extracted my erection, and sucked me.  I'm not very big - six inches
- but my cock was huge compared to her, and the contrast drove me wild. 
She sucked good, too, stroking the shaft into her tight little mouth and
drooling.  I lay on my back, groaning.  Suddenly she stopped sucking and
straddled me.  Saliva dripped from her chin.  Her dark eyes were wild,
feral.  Liz touched the tip of my of my spit-slick penis to her bottom, bit
her lower lip, and squatted down, squealing as the bulb of my cock popped
into her poophole.

   Tense and shivering, beads of sweat glistening on her pale forehead, Liz
slid about an inch and a half of my shaft into her anus, then moved very
slowly up and down, sliding maybe half an inch in and out of her rectum,
her hands on her butt, holding her cheeks apart, grunting, her eyes closed,
in obvious pain.

   She was insanely tight, whether her father had often done this to her or
not.  I put my hands on her lower back, my thumbs on her narrow hips,
gripping her, and forced my dick deeper, fucking her.

   "Oww...  oww...  aughhhh..  hhhaeh...  mh-hmmm...  no...  nooo...  OWWW!
AAAUUUUUGHHHH!"

   I had forced over four inches into her, filling her.  She shuddered like
mad, wide-eyed with terror, and I ejaculated, spurting again and again,
then pulled her to my chest, still inside her.  She was crying.  I caressed
her sweaty back, and then I heard the pounding on the door.  I had thought
it my heart.  Liz wet herself - and me - in fear.

   "M-my...  m-mom..."

   I almost shit myself.  I lifted Liz off me and tried to think, then hid
the terrified girl in the closet, fixed my pants, and answered the door.

   It was, indeed, Mrs.  Martha Lexington.  The bleached blonde was the
color of a boiled crawfish.  I flung open the door and glared at her.

   "You got my girl in there!" Her voice was like one of her long fake
fingernails dragged across a dry blackboard.

   I blocked the door, drew a deep breath, and felt my pockets for
cigarettes.  My Chesterfields had fallen out.

   "Would you happen to have a cigarette?"

   Martha Lexington lunged at me.  I grabbed her wrists, and she kicked and
screamed.  I gave her a push, and the filthy slut fell.

   Unfortunately, her faux-platinum head hit the sharp edge of a very large
rock that said JONES, the name of the previous tenant.

   Make that the tenant before the previous tenant.  I had to go.  I am an
educated man, and the look on Mrs.  Lexington's face informed me that I had
become a child rapist who had just murdered his victim's mother on the edge
of an unsavory trailer park.  The look on Jim Norwood's face, not twenty
feet away, also suggested the need for a swift departure.

   The child, however, was savory indeed, and as a part-time gentleman I
was loath to leave her orphaned and subject to the vagaries of a doubtful
social safety net.  So I yanked her from the closet, ordered her to dress
in the same soiled tights and hideous T-shirt, grabbed a few of my most
precious possessions, and bundled Liz into my battered and aging Korean
subcompact, watching the little girl reel in horror at the sight of her
slaughtered mother.

   I drove to the bank, withdrew my entire savings, and, practicing the
ancient art of focused emptiness, hit the highway, headed for nowhere.

   Almost as an afterthought, I remembered Rembrandt.  I made the exit,
recalled the dirt road that led to his pathetic hovel, and half an hour
after Mrs.  Lexington's accidental death I was deep in the virgin woods
that surrounded the old bootlegger's well-hidden but well nigh
uninhabitable and structurally unsound shack.

   Peering through one of his broken windows, he recognized me and emerged,
shouldering his Remington despite our acquaintance.  Rembrandt is not a
nice guy.  I did not need a nice guy, at that moment.

   He looked at the girl, and I could see him calculate.  I stepped from
the car and asked him if he could find me a place to hide out.

   "Kidnap 'er?"

   "Nope, killed her mother."

   He spat.  "Got dough?"

   "Yup."

   "I'll find you a place.  C'mon in."

   He looked at little Lizzy, sitting in the silly little car with tires
that probably wouldn't reach even her knobby knees and a big sticker on the
bumper that said CTHULHU LOATHES YOU.

   "Bring her," he said, grinning.

   I had never abused a child before - not counting the earlier event,
before her mother's manslaughter.  I wouldn't count that as abuse...  oh,
many would, I suppose.  But take into account that the girl had already
been deflowered and was strikingly corrupt.  I know, tell it to the judge.
Downloading kiddie porn differs from eating while children are starving in
Ethiopia.

   But I knew in the marrow of my bones that taking Liz into Rembrandt's
house would lead to something awful.  And I went along with it, figuring
that as a manslaughterer - is there such a word?  -- who needed refuge, I
had no choice.  But I went further than I had to.  When I reflect upon it,
I figure that I wasn't just doing it to please him.  I was doing it
precisely because I wanted to do something terrible.  I had already raped,
but only technically by my lights.  I had killed, but only accidentally.  I
wanted to go to hell of my own accord, with full awareness.  And I took Liz
along to keep me company.

   Rembrandt was in his early fifties then, but looked like he'd sent
several sons to fight in the Civil War, on the losing side.  His hovel
smelled like filth, but he was hospitable - a large jug of moonshine and
three dirty glasses soon appeared on the table strewn with yellowed
newspapers and empty jugs and other dirty glasses.  We drank, and I
wondered why he bothered bringing glasses that were just as dirty as the
ones that were already there...

   "AAUUWWWWW-hhhe-ww-hhh..."

   He took her by the hair, bent her over the table, yanked down her
tights, pulled out his prick, and stabbed it into her cunny hole.  I held
her little hands while he raped her.  Liz howled, writhing, snot and tears
streaming down her tormented face.  Rembrandt drew his dick from her cunny
and rammed into her rectum.  She wailed as he fucked her butt...  and then,
to our surprise, the eleven-year-old started to moan.

   He lifted her up and held her by the ankles.  She looked retarded,
slobbering.  Flailing her arms, she wiggled up and down on his dick,
grunting like a baby boar.

   "Fuck 'er cunt, Wally," Rembrandt groaned.

   I'd never sandwiched a girl before.  I whipped out my cock and he held
her thighs tightly.  Liz screamed.  It was hard to get inside her.  She
struggled like crazy, and I'd almost given up when the head of my prick
finally penetrated her little pussy.  Rembrandt held her arms and I forced
it in until I felt her cervix.  Then I held her thighs just below her
buttocks while he raped her rectum without mercy, relentlessly.  She dug
her fingers into my shoulders, yelping like a maniac, her spindly legs
jerking spasmodically.  I felt Rembrandt's rigid prick through the thin
membrane that separated her vagina from her anus, reaming her.

   He howled and came, and I put Liz on the table and fucked her tight
little cunny.  He put her hand on his half-erect penis and held her head,
and Lizzy sucked him, frantically stroking his wilted shaft.  Her pretty
feet shuddered and swayed like strange white branches in a breaking storm
as I ravished her still almost virgin vagina.  It was fantastically snug,
and contracted each time the bulb of my cock struck her cervix. Rembrandt
took hold her long dark hair and pissed for a few seconds, the thick, acrid
stream splashing against her face before she turned his dick away, bawling.

   "Stop fucking her," he croaked, restraining his bladder.  "Open your
mouth, you dirty little brat.  I want you to drink it."

   I held still as she aimed his soft penis at her parted lips and he peed
again.  He stopped and waited for her to swallow the yellow liquid, then
pissed until she was choking, held it until she could swallow again, then
emptied his bladder, urinating into her nose and tightly closed eyes when
she started to choke again, drenching her hair.

   Liz waved her legs desperately and rocked her hips, then tried to wrap
her legs around me, pulling me inside her.  I began to fuck her again,
stabbing into her cervix and slowly forcing my penis deeper.  She stroked
and sucked him again, and Rembrandt put her hand on her cunny.  She rubbed
herself until I gripped her thighs and stabbed my prick into her to the
hilt, piercing the tiny collar of her womb.

   Liz convulsed, then went limp, and Rembrandt rammed his cock deep into
her mouth and ejaculated just as I did, then dropped her head to the table.
I extracted my bloody penis from her cunny and took her in my arms.  She
was still breathing, gurgling.  I fondled her buttocks and carried her to
his filthy kitchen - there was no bathroom - and threw some water on her
face.

   Liz moaned, then started to retch.  I held her while she puked into the
sink, then helped her wash.  She clutched her little cunny and cried.

   "Haehhhh...  hhheghh...  hhaehh t-tt..  ghh...  poo...  hhaehh... 
p-poop..."

   I lifted her, put my hands on her bottom, and held her over the sink. 
She clung to my neck, her skinny legs dangling, and moaned as a stream of
semen and wet feces squirted from her botty into the basin.  I caressed her
buttocks, and Liz whimpered as several soft turds plopped out.  I ran the
tap and cleaned her poophole with my fingers, then carried her to
Rembrandt's messy bed and covered her with a rough blanket.

   "D-don't...  go," she whimpered.

   I kissed her pissy mouth.  "I won't.  You rest, okay?"

   "D-don't l-leave me!"

   "I won't.  I promise."

   "Promise?"

   "Promise.  I'll be right over there, with Rembrandt."

   "I...  l-love you."

   "I love you, too."

   I gave her another kiss, sucking her flickering tongue, and Liz reached
for my crotch.  I took her hand away and tucked her in, kissing her on the
forehead.

   So it was that I became entwined with my wife.  Rembrandt had
connections, and within a fortnight I was transformed into Don Hoffman, a
year younger than I had been before, with a crisp new Social Security card
and a Mississippi driver's license.  The two weeks' wait I spent at
Rembrandt's, watching him abuse my young bride, sometimes participating,
sometimes not, consuming vast quantities of potent hooch and smoking.

   Then, my new identity intact, I paid him five grand, got an old Corolla
for four, and drove a broken and renamed Liz west and south to the city of
my dreams - New Orleans.

   By a stroke of luck, Liz remained Liz, though the surname on her new
birth certificate and Social Security card matched my assumed one, Hoffman.


   Elizabeth Hoffman, eleven years old, was now the daughter of Donald
Hoffman, fugitive.

   I rented a two-room apartment on Esplanade, not far from where Degas
lived during his stay in the Crescent City, furnished it with antiques from
the shops along Magazine, which were cheaper than those in the Quarter...
and I found a job - editing manuscripts, mostly technical writing, which
allowed me to work at home on the iMac I had acquired.

   My real name is Theophilus Anfang, and I felt, then, starting a domestic
scene with a girl barely a third my age, that I was both at the very
beginning of my true self and closer to God than ever before.  Sin throws
into stark relief the divine nature hidden under our selves, and I
cultivated this faculty of resolution, seeking theophany like a member of
the ancient sect that held salvation to be drowning of the body in a
marinade of its own depravity.  Cuttlefish in their own ink.





   II NATURAL BORN WHORES



   Liz was an angel ninety percent of the time.

   The poet Alejandra Pizarnik once remarked - I think she was quoting
someone - that melancholy is at bottom a musical problem.  Things trickle
inside while the outside rushes by like a waterfall, unreachable.

   Despite a surname that hints at Ur, I seem to have a chronic inability
make a fresh start.  Here I had the opportunity to mold a maiden, but I saw
everything as already used - soiled.  Now, I am attracted to soil both
psychick and spirituall, but the seedling I had taken had grown in some
very strange earth indeed.

   Her father had taken her from her mother when she was four and gone to
live in a small town in Alabama.  He had been very sweet to her, mostly -
or that was how she remembered those years.  He would lick her and teach
her to suck him, compliment her constantly and buy her pretty clothes.

   Then, when Liz was six, her mommy found them and told him that she would
turn him in unless he moved back to Mobile and supported her, keeping his
hands off of Liz.

   That was when her daddy started hurting her.  He hated her mother and
drank a lot and when the woman wasn't home, which was often, he would put
Vaseline on his boner and fuck Liz in her botty.  Liz hated it.  It hurt,
and after one night when he put it in real fast, it hurt even when he
wasn't doing it to her. Liz told her mommy.  Her mommy beat her up.  They
moved from dreary ghetto to drearier ghetto, and she never went to school.

   When Liz was nine years old, the family had settled on the outskirts of
Atlanta.  Very early one morning, before she started on her chores - her
mom and dad made her do everything - she decided to take a walk.  It was
dawn, and she felt less afraid then, when there were no people out.  Her
mom and dad told her that people would hurt her and to keep away from other
kids; they were afraid she would talk.

   The trailer park was mostly black, and Liz was especially afraid of
blacks, 'cause she'd never really met one.

   Actually, she'd hardly met anyone, ever.  She wasn't allowed outside
during school time, and anyway her chores took up most of the day.

   It was very warm, almost hot already.  She was wandering down the main
road that ran through the middle of the trailer park when she saw a black
man coming her way.  Frightened, she left the road and walked between some
trailers and hid.  She waited for the man to pass, and was about to go back
to the road when she heard weird noises - female noises.

   Liz was aroused for the first time in her life.  The girl sounded very
young, six or seven years old or so, but the noises she made were different
from Liz's.  Liz usually cried when her daddy did it to her.  The girl was
crying, too - but her sobs were almost moans.  There were voices, too -
boys' voices.  Liz was scared, but crept between the trailers to see.

   That's how Liz met Lacey, her very first friend.  Lacey's cries sounded
like those of a little girl, but the child prostitute had turned thirteen
almost six months before their encounter.

   A small piece of dirty canvas was spread on the muddy ground between a
pair of empty old trailers.  The scrawny young whore was lying on her back,
her shoulders and tawny hair in the mud.  Despite her condition, Lacey was
very beautiful in a sick sort of way.  Tall and spectrally thin, with
scarred and blistered little titties no larger than nectarines and swollen,
fiery, erect nipples, she was two months pregnant.

   Lacey hadn't washed since Diego, her pimp, had failed to pay for the
water hookup.  Her flesh was the color of the inside of a white grapefruit,
covered with cuts and scabs and filth.  There were fresh welts around her
bony ankles and wrists, and she wore a studded dog collar around her
slender, badly bruised neck.

   Her unbelievably long legs were without curves, with knobby, scraped
knees and feet so skeletal as to be almost grotesque.  Her legs and lengthy
toes were spread wide apart, and her hands, several of the bony fingers
covered with band-aids, languidly caressed her skinny ass.  The nails of
her fingers and toes were insanely short, cut straight across.

   Lacey's hips were weirdly wide, but in the hairless space between her
legs was a cunny out of all proportion to her body - it was tiny, like an
infant's gaping mouth.  The labia were small and severely chapped, and a
viscous, slightly yellowish fluid trickled from the infected hole.  Her
anus was wide open, wet with blood, and when she slid her strange hands to
her thighs, Liz saw that the whore had been whipped with something that had
broken the tender skin of her buttocks.

   "Do it more...  please," Lacey whimpered with a lilt.

   The two boys were black kids, fourteen and fifteen.  The younger one was
sucking the other's cock and jerking off.  They had very athletic bodies
the color of the bruised under Lacey's collar, and were also naked.

   Hypnotized, Liz crept closer, her hand creeping into her shorts, but
they didn't notice her.

   "Pleeeease," Lacey whined.

   The thirteen-year-old held her cunny open.  It looked like the mutilated
vagina of a prepubescent, slimy with mucus.  The older boy held a shiny,
four-inch nail.  He slowly slid it into Lacey's urethra.

   "Auwwwww...  hehhh...  woahhh...  c-careful...  auwwwww...  yeh... 
oh... ohhhhhhh..."

   Lacey grasped her cut ankles, curled her toes and sobbed as the black
kid moved the nail in and out of her peehole.  He pushed it all the way
into the tight little tube and stuck three fingers into her anus.  Lacy
shivered stiffly and moaned, then wept again.

   The kid who was molesting Lacey came in his brother's mouth, groaning.

   Liz stepped closer, masturbating.  She had never played with herself
before.  She was in a trance.

   Liz tripped on something and fell, squealing.  The naked boys scampered
away like frightened animals.  Liz lay as if paralyzed, her hand still in
her shorts.

   "H-help me," Lacey moaned.  "Please..."

   Liz looked into the young whore's face.  Lacey was the most beautiful
creature she had ever seen.  Except for her almond-shaped eyes, which were
feverish, the irises a light gray with a dark rim, and dripping with sin,
Lacy had the face of a diseased child.  She possessed a delicate nose with
large nostrils, a weak chin, small, dirty, porcelain ears without lobes and
a heart-shaped mouth.

   Her lips were chapped like her little labia, and there was a nasty open
sore in the left corner of her mouth.  Her crooked teeth were the color of
butterscotch pudding, and her long tongue was like badinage on the sweet
hues of her origin, which was the Emerald Isle.

   Lacey hailed from a Dublin slum.  Her father was a whoremonger and
raconteur, wily and of a sinister brilliance.  Her mother, who was her
father's daughter, was a streetwalker.  They themselves came from four
generations of whores and ronyons, crafty men and sullen women who lived in
the stews, and Lacey's body was first sold when she was seven.

   Her father, Paddy, was a kind man at heart, but adhered to some rather
obscure family traditions.  One of these was that Lacey, as his eldest
daughter, would be educated, privately, and instructed in the arts both
erotic and fine-but she would also be savagely abused to keep her ego in
check.  He started to torture her when she was three, at the same time
attempting to instill in his daughter a fierce if deformed pride in her
profession.

   Her younger sister, Lucy, born to another of his sexual slaves two years
after Lacey, would be coddled and cared for until she was old enough to
breed for him.

   But it didn't work out that way.  The Dublin of today is not that of her
ancestors, and Paddy was caught, tried, and sentenced when Lacey was ten
and Lucy only eight years of age, long before either could bear his
children.

   The girls were sent to an institution and languished therein for several
months, until a young female intern contrived to help them escape. 
Cathleen kept the strange sisters in a damp basement for over a year,
practically starving them and forcing them to perform for her until it was
no longer a performance and both girls were addicted to each other's
bodies.

   When Lacey was twelve and Lucy ten, Cathleen acquired a new child.  Mad
with hunger, the sisters killed and ate it.  Their captor went insane and
strangled Lucy, and while Cathleen was in a murderous frenzy directed at
her younger sister, Lacey coldly and quietly escaped through the door that
had, as if by force of destiny, been left conspicuously ajar.

   Naked and bleeding, the twelve-year-old crawled through the dusk-wet
streets and was once again fingered by fate in the form of Fabian.

   A distant relative staggering home from the pub, Fabian was a procurer
famed for his young and submissive girls.  He put Lacey to work that very
evening, and for the next six months she spread her skinny legs for two or
three men a night.

   Miraculously, the prostitute grew both in height and beauty, despite her
years of torture and starvation.  A unique and perverted freak, she fetched
a higher price than any of his other whores.

   And then Barnaby stole her.  A wealthy and sadistic old man from
Savannah, he smuggled Lacey to the States and watched her suck his hounds
while he jerked his limp member, feeding her dog food and whipping her
several times a day.

   Again, destiny, and relentlessly so - one evening while she was lapping
at his shit-encrusted anus, Barnaby suffered a stroke.  Again she was in
the streets, and again she was found by a distinctly unwholesome character,
Ada Hamilton, an obese black woman who took the waif to her son's friends
and sold her.

   Lacey became the only white whore in that bleak section of Savannah,
sucking and fucking six or seven black men a night until they discovered
that she was sick.  She was very sick.  The sore appeared on her mouth, she
coughed blood, and the strange ichor began to ooze from her little slit.

   They gave her twenty dollars and threw her out.  Despite her evident
diseases, Lacey was raped several times, wandering the city - or, more
precisely, Lacey was able to seduce several men.  She needed sex like
others need water.  It was in her blood.

   She haunted the bus station, hunting men.  She didn't care what they did
to her; her father had taught her how to concentrate on the slightest speck
of pleasure she may have felt, even when she was suffering terrible pain.

   But she was sick.  She was very sick.  Most of the men she picked up had
nowhere to take her to, or were afraid of her.  She took them to alleys and
vacant lots, swallowed their semen, drank their urine, slept in abandoned
buildings, and got sicker, never washing, wearing the same stained shorts,
tight halter and clear plastic sandals.

   One rainy night, after she'd coughed a lot of blood in the restroom of
the bus terminal, a police officer got hold of her.  She was terrified of
being sent to an institution, but the cop and his partner took her to a
motel instead, and there they stripped her, strapped her to the bed,
stuffed her halter in her mouth and burned her titties with cigarettes.

   Then one of them stabbed something into her peehole.  It was one of the
few things no one had ever done to her.  Her urethra had been infected for
months, and the feeling of cold metal in there made her come like mad
before she passed out.

   Lacey came to in a dumpster.  She had been left to die, or they had
thought her dead.  She crawled from the garbage and dragged her naked body
towards the fluorescent light, where she collapsed.

   And yet again did Fortuna smiled cryptically upon the misbegotten lass.
She fell in front of an esteemed Mexican restaurant, where a wetback named
Diego was fired for disobedience only a few minutes before her nearly fatal
final faint.

   Thus was young Lacey scooped up and transported to a trailer park not
far from Atlanta, Georgia, where Diego's cousin Manuel, a man who held the
sacred green card, lived, and thus did Lacey become one of three Caucasian
hookers in a primarily African-American community of temporary dwellings,
eking out a meager existence for herself and her two patrons.

   For the ten months that passed before Liz met her, Lacey's life became
routine.  Like Liz, if she wanted time alone, she woke early - this was no
problem for her, since her tuberculosis kept her constantly suspended
between nightmares and a wakeful state that was only bearable if she was
drugged or tortured.

   Time alone, for Lacey, meant that she went into a panic and found men to
fuck her.  If there were no men to be found, there were boys, sticks,
fingers, dogs...  and women, though these were very hard to find,
especially young women, and most especially women who reminded her of the
sister she had abandoned.

   There were almost a thousand trailers, and Lacey was a regular visitor
at over twenty of them.  She was a sight, stumbling wide-eyed between the
trailers at dawn like a wanton wraith, her leaky butt barely covered by her
torn cut-offs, a stick figure seeking a cock to suck or sucking on a stick,
her offensive odor preceding her.

   Lacey mistrusted anyone who took pity on her, and gravitated towards the
three or four men who took care of her - Fidel, a thirtyish black Cuban who
fucked her throat, Miguel, a Puerto Rican who screwed his daughter while
Lacey shoved bottles into her holes, and Stan, a mild-mannered descendant
of freed slaves from Maryland.

   She was not a masochist, and under different circumstances she would
have been Stan's.  He did not pity her, but neither did he hurt her. 
Thirty-nine, stout, and inexplicably lonely, it could be said that he made
love to her.

   But he was dirt poor, and Lacey was as addicted to men with money as she
was to sex.  Not a lot of money - and whatever money Diego and Manuel had,
she never saw any - but she needed drugs, and was desperate to feel as
though she had a home, as miserable as the thing she called by that name
really was.

   Sometime around noon, Lacey returned to her trailer and sucked her
keepers awake.  What would happen to her if she didn't, Lacey didn't know.
Diego was usually the first to rise.  He would drag her to the bathroom,
which without running water was an abominable place, and use her as a
toilet.

   If he was hung over, which was most afternoons, Lacey would make
breakfast.  If he wasn't hung over, or his hangover was very bad, he would
beat her and rape her before she cooked.

   She would serve them their huevos rancheros, and if they didn't like
them or if they wanted to be mean, they would hurt her.

   Lacey did the dishes and whatever else they told her to do, and then she
went to work.  She had eleven regulars.  Most came once a week or so, but
three came every day and Herb arrived both at two in the afternoon and
seven in the evening, like clockwork.

   Herb hurt her and took pictures.  He fisted her rectum, spanked her
titties, stuck pins through her nipples and labia, and made her lick his
asshole for hours, until he was raving mad and demanded that she stick her
hand in his ass.  If she did, he came and hurt her some more.  If she
didn't, he hit her cunt until she passed out. In addition to her steady
customers, Manuel or Diego would bring others, luring them with the promise
of a prepubescent girl.  When they saw her diseased body, most of them
tried to get away.  After they paid, they could leave.

   Lacey had always thought of herself as sterile, but then she started to
get pregnant.  The first time it happened, they kicked her until she had a
miscarriage.  Then they realized that a knocked up kiddie whore was a
valuable commodity, and wanted her to carry it to term.  When she
miscarried, they kicked her so hard that they broke a rib.  When Liz met
her, Lacey was in her fourth pregnancy.

   After work, Lacey would make dinner, they would fuck her or torture her
or both, and all three of them would go to bed, drunk and drugged, until
Lacey got up and the cycle began again.

   Despite this sordid life, Lacey was spiritually very much alive,
surprisingly, and though her education had come to an end with Paddy's
arrest, when she was ten, that education had been remarkable and its
recipient remarkably receptive to it - Lacey was not only exceptionally
bright and intuitive, she was even a well-read young woman.  She missed
reading, something she hadn't done in three years - and she missed having a
friend.  Stan came close, but Lacey longed for a sister.

   When Liz appeared and the two boys who had been helping the desperate
whore get off fled into the dawn, Lacey was on the verge of orgasm.

   Liz knew instinctively that she had to help the strange child-woman
reach orgasm, but Liz was confused.  She had never even considered sex
except in connection with her father, much less with a girl.

   Lacey read the runes revealed in Liz's astonished face, and though
slightly cross-eyed, fixed the younger girl in a seductive and reassuring
stare.

   "Kiss me," Lacey cooed.  "Kiss my bum."

   Liz didn't know what 'bum' meant but figured it out when Lacey stroked
her skinny ass.  Liz quivered like she did before her daddy did her,
crawled towards the ghastly hole and kissed it.

   Lacey hadn't had a girl in a very long time, and no one had licked her
there for years.  She moaned and masturbated her urethra with the nail as
the little girl lapped at her anus.

   Liz was at once in heaven and incomprehensible torment.  Madly in love,
she slurped at the hole and slobbered, sucking her spit from the pretty
girl's poophole and sticking her tongue into it as deep as she could.  But
Liz needed to be fucked up the ass and didn't know what that meant.  She
had never felt that before.  She wiggled her butt desperately and tongued
Lacey's ass, her knees planted in the mud, fascinated by the teenager's
fingers sliding the long steel nail in and out of her peehole.

   Suddenly Lacey slid the nail from her urethra, squirting pink piss into
Liz's astonished face.  Liz clamped her mouth to the gory little opening
and drank some urine, then licked Lacey's peehole.

   Lacey came, hissing, her long limbs flopping in the mud.  Liz was in
love and wouldn't stop licking her until Lacey sat up and kissed her mouth.

   "You made me feel so good," Lacey whispered, slipping her cool hands
under her lover's tank top.  "So, so good.  I'm Lacey."

   Liz was trembling.  Her father hadn't kissed her for years, and he never
said things like that anymore, just raped her.  But Liz was scared of
strangers, and didn't know what to do.  When Lacey stroked her nipples, Liz
wet herself and started to cry.

   "Ooh," Lacey cooed.  "Are you sick there, baby?"

   She slid her fingers under the elastic of the child's shorts and gently
touched her trickle, feeling inside her slippery little slit.

   "Sick and wet," Lacey whispered, licking Liz's ear.  "Sick and wet
little virgin...  let's take these off so I can help you, okay?"

   Lacey pulled the frightened girl to her feet and pulled down her shorts.


   "Hold your cunny open for me, darling..."

   Liz parted her little pussy lips and a few seconds later Lacey's hands
were caressing her buttocks while her lips and expert tongue were on and in
her snatch.  One of Lacey's fingers - and it had gotten wet somehow - slid
into her anus and Liz came for the first time ever, clutching her new
friend's bare shoulders and moaning. Lacey pulled her into a squat and got
behind her, slipping her hands under Liz's shirt and kneading her tummy
while the fingers of her other hand, dripping with saliva, wormed in and
out of her poophole.

   " 'Ave to get you all clean for a cock," Lacey whispered into her ear.
"Get your sweet little pooper ready to fuck...  play with your pussy,
baby...  fuck...  fuck...  fuck my baby girl, yeah...  that's my baby girl,
yeah...  fuck...  fuck, yeah..."

   Lacey massaged her belly and Liz touched herself and the fingers diddled
her open anus and suddenly she was going poop and having an orgasm at the
same time.

   Lacey did something she hadn't done for any female except her sister. 
She knelt and ate Liz's poop, whimpering.  Liz stared at her, fascinated.

   They kissed, then, and Liz tasted herself.  They both lay down in the
mud, their heads and shoulders on the canvas.

   "So what's your name?"

   "Liz."

   "You'd be about nine?"

   "Nine and a half."

   They sketched out each other's histories and situations as the sun rose
red and harsh over the trailer park.  Then Lacey took Liz to meet Stan.

   Liz wasn't scared anymore.  She had a friend.  More than a friend - a
sister, an older sister who knew everything and would teach her and take
care of her...

   The stout black man let them in and all of a sudden Liz realized that
strangers weren't all bad.  Her parents had lied to her.  Stan let them
smoke from his big bong and Lacey celebrated her new sisterhood by taking a
shower with Liz.  She even brushed her teeth.

   Lacey took Liz to Stan's bed.  The man was naked, and Liz was frightened
- his dick was twice the size of her daddy's.  Lacey put her on her hands
and knees, lubricating and stretching her, stroking her slit and buttocks,
telling her how pretty she looked and how she needed a huge black cock in
her butt, and by the time he put the bulb of his penis against the opening,
Liz wanted it.

   Lacey kept caressing her softly, diddling her cunny and playing with her
nipples, and Stan slowly forced his prick into her rectum.

   Liz screamed, and Lacey pushed her face into a pillow and gently
squeezed her nipples.  Stan was careful and only fucked her to a depth of
four inches or so, but the pain was still unbearable, and Liz blacked out.

   When she returned to consciousness, Lacey was on her back and the black
man was buttfucking her.  Lacey was writhing in ecstasy as Stan rammed his
shaft all the way into her skinny white ass.  On impulse, Liz began to play
with her friend's breasts.

   "Suck them," Stan urged.  "Suck her tits!"

   Liz licked and sucked them, becoming aroused again.  Lacey moaned
savagely and held her head, and Liz took a titty into her mouth and bit.

   "Yeeeeessssssssssssssss!"

   Lacey came, thrashing her head from side to side, and suddenly they were
sitting up, Lacey was holding her, and Stan's dick entered Liz's open mouth
and spurted semen down her throat.  She didn't gag - she was used to her
father's.  She swallowed and sucked his slimy cock, licking Lacey's feces
from the glans.

   Stan stayed hard, and then she was on her back and he was in her asshole
again.  Lacy squatted over her face and Liz licked her nasty slit as Stan
fucked her, only this time she wanted it, needed it.  Lacey held her ankles
as he forced it deeper, deeper, so deep that she felt like he was in her
chest, and then Lacey's anus was against her lips and she kissed it like a
mouth and she was coming and Lacey twitched and all of a sudden wet, sick
shit splurted from the lubricated hole into Liz's mouth she was choking and
Stan sawed in and out of her hurting her and then he was in her mouth again
she was struggling but Lacey was holding her and then he ejaculated again
and Lacey let her go and petted her while she puked.

   Liz and Lacey saw each other every morning while their keepers slept. 
For the first time in years, both were happy.  They didn't just have sex -
they did other things, too: Lacey taught Liz to read, they even made
drawings of each other, wreathed with braided penises in soft pencil.

   Liz's father was drinking too heavily to notice that his little girl had
become a miniature woman.  He should have - she liked it when he fucked
her, now, and she had changed, utterly - his daughter had become a whore.

   Liz learned a lot of things.  She discovered that they lived off of her
mother - her mommy was a whore, too.  Liz's mother hadn't really expected
him to support them - she just needed him for security.  She clung to him.
He had been her first pimp.

   Lacey had her miscarriage in the fourth month of pregnancy, and Diego
and Manuel beat her and kicked her so hard that Lacey was unable to walk
for a week.

   Then, soon after Liz's tenth birthday, her parents told her they were
moving again.

   They had to run away together.  They could not be separated.  Stan gave
them fifty dollars and both of them squirreled away part of the money they
made from tricks - usually it went straight to the Mexican brothers, even
though they didn't know about Liz.

   It was part of Lacey's morality.  She had been raised to believe that
she needed to take care of the man or men who pimped her.  Now she would
betray them - but that was okay, too.  Hers was a fluid philosophy.  The
two young women, ten and thirteen, saved several hundred dollars in a few
days and Stan drove them to the bus station in Atlanta.  They had
fantasized about a lot of cities, but had settled on Memphis.

   Lacey had concealed her sores and bruises with make-up, but they both
dressed sexily - Liz like a little schoolgirl, in a skimpy flower print
dress that buttoned down the front, white socks and patent leather shoes,
Lacey in a fiendishly tight, short, dark skirt and a white silk top that
left her nipples visible and didn't cover her belly, which again was as
taut and sunken as sailcloth in a storm, though she did possess some
marmoreal stretch marks.  They had both slathered themselves with perfume,
and underneath their clothing wore only tiny, diaphanous g-strings.  Lacey
had inserted a tampon in her rectum to keep it from leaking.

   They masturbated each other during the ride, but Lacey got carsick and
had to go to the bathroom.

   Staggering through the bus, she saw a man stare at her with undisguised
lust.  She went to the toilet, puked blood, rinsed her mouth and went back,
sliding into the empty seat next to the man.

   He undid his pants, Liz slid to the floor, and a few minutes later he
was coming in her mouth.  He pulled her up by her hair and squeezed her
throat.

   "You fucking piece of dogshit," he said, and spat a gob of tobacco in
her face.

   Lacey's father had taught her that when men say nasty things to you, it
usually means that they're afraid of their feelings - the whore is superior
to them, and they can't have her.  He let her go.  She smiled and returned
to her seat, where she wiped her face with a Kleenex.

   In Memphis, they went to the brightly lit, hideous cafeteria in the bus
terminal and shared eggs and grits, then wandered over to Beale Street.  It
was a rainy afternoon, soaking Lacey's white silk, making her erect nipples
stand out, but there were few people in the streets.

   They walked and walked until they were soaked to the bone, holding hands
and smiling at men.  Without success, they returned to the bus station, and
there, without warning, fate struck again, as Lacey knew it would.

   Huey hung around in different Greyhound stations, never Chicago's,
driving, not taking the bus.  He had no interest in or need for motor
coaches.  He hunted runaways.

   Wet but happy to be together and away from their tormentors, the two
lovely but pathetic lasses sat in the TV chairs, watching the X-Files, when
the gaunt and immaculately dressed bald gentleman sat down next to Liz and
popped some coins into the TV.

   "He's looking," Lacey whispered.  "Touch him."

   Glancing about to make certain no one was watching, Liz put her hand on
Huey's for a moment, then withdrew it.

   "Good girl," the man said.  He had a deep, interesting voice, like dark
water sloshing in a poisoned well.

   "Wait five minutes, then follow me."

   They did as he said, and spotted his pearl gray suit across the street
when they exited by the main door.  He turned several corners, then
disappeared.

   Huey pulled up next to them in a black Eldorado.  They got in the back.

   He had never had such luck, and was consequently suspicious.  Usually
the girls were older, fifteen or sixteen, and the process of luring them
into his car was an arduous and prolonged one.  He liked virgins, and he
liked it if they were scared.  When he killed them, he always took them
somewhere where he didn't have to worry about their full-throated screams.

   Huey drove past the glass pyramid and across the mud flats and islands
of the Mississippi.

   "You girls run away from home?"

   "No," Lacey answered.

   And Lacey knew.  The realization that this man had murdered many young
girls came to her like a lucid vision.  It excited her, but it also put her
on her guard.  She didn't want to be killed, and she especially didn't want
Liz to die.

   "Were you waiting for a bus?" She saw his eyes in the rear view mirror.
They were like little round ice cubes in strong black tea.

   "Do you rape them before you kill them?"

   He almost lost control of the car, then reached for the glove
compartment.  But Lacey was faster.  She pounced like a skeletal puma.  The
Eldorado swerved as she got the gun in her hands.

   "Drive!" She didn't scream.  Her voice was like the eye of a hurricane.

   The man obeyed just in time, fishtailing, then tried to grab the little
pistol.

   "Don't," Lacey hissed.  "Drive...  I won't hurt you."

   A semi bore down on them, and Huey concentrated on steering for a
second, breathing hard.  But the strange girl-woman was already in the back
seat.  With the gun.

   "Listen, kid," the man said.  He was calm now, too, cool.  He was a cool
man.  That's why he'd never been caught.  "Give me the pistol."

   "I asked you if you at least rape them before you kill them?"

   "What are you talking about?"

   Huey thought they were decoys, that the FBI was after him.  The semi
sped down the highway and there were no other cars.  Would the FBI really
use little girls like this?

   "My friend's cunt is virgin," Lacey said.

   "Who are you?"

   "I'm Lacey.  This is Liz."

   "What do you want?"

   "What do you think?"

   "I don't know."

   "Your cock," Lacey said, leaning forward, suddenly whispering.  "We want
your cock.  And your fingers, and your mouth."

   "Give me the gun."

   They passed a sign that said GAS FOOD LODGING.  "Turn off," Lacey said.
"Let's have dinner."

   "Are you out of your mind?"

   "Yes," Lacey said, and laughed hysterically.

   "I'm not getting arrested."

   "I know you're not," Lacey said, still laughing.  "Let's get a room and
order some food...  and drinks.  Let's talk."

   "This some sort of trap?"

   "Trust me," Lacey said, and laughed again.

   Huey focused.  She was too obviously insane for this to be a trap.  This
was something other.  Truly other.  Alien.  He made the exit and pulled up
in front of the Red Roof Inn.

   "Give me the gun."

   "No.  You can take her with you...  but it's probably better if you go
in alone, don't you think?"

   "What?!"

   "You always take your victims with you when you register?"

   He stared at his passengers.  Liz had peed herself and looked terrified.
Lacey was unlike anything he had ever seen before.  Huey nodded and went
into the office.

   "Now give me the gun," he said when he returned.

   He didn't expect her to give it to him, of course.  To his amazement,
Lacey handed him the pistol.  To hers, Huey put it in the glove
compartment, and the three travelers went to room 212 in silence.

   Liz had changed during her months with Lacey, and her friend had
changed, too.  Lacey was less obsessed with sex, because she was satisfied
by her new sister's love and their adventures.  The man who wanted - had
wanted?  -- to kill them fascinated her, and she wanted to find out about
his art more than she wanted to fuck.

   Huey wasn't sexually interested in them anymore.  He didn't want to
murder them, either, unless he needed to.  They weren't his type.  But he
was curious, almost as curious as Lacey.

   He ordered pizza and beer, and the three of them talked into the night.
A wise criminal, he had never told anyone of his exploits, and now he
unburdened himself like a seasoned storyteller, divulging more and more as
his confidence in the weird 'sisters' grew.

   Ichabod Huey - he went by Huey - lived primarily in the Indiana dunes
near Chicago, on the south shore of Lake Michigan.  He had money to burn.
It was from an inheritance - he had been raised as a gentleman, educated at
Princeton, and married young and settled in Providence, Rhode Island.

   Everything was fine until his mid-life crisis, which hit him at
forty-four.  Childless, he fell in love with a seventeen-year-old girl who
worked at the newsstand where he bought his New York Times.

   He wooed her, and his wife left him when she saw him looking at the
teenager.  It was clear to her.  Suzanne was glorious and receptive to his
advances - he was rich, and she was lonely and friendless.  He bought her
presents and took her out, and six weeks after he first noticed her, he
asked her to dine with him at home and kissed her.

   He had expected several weeks of slow seduction.  Instead, Suzanne
started to sob and lifted her dress, shaking.  She cried when he fucked
her, and acted like a mechanical doll.  She let him buttfuck her and sucked
him submissively, obviously hating every minute of it.

   After he ejaculated, Huey made her tell him what was wrong.  Suzanne's
father had started screwing her when she was thirteen.  She despised sex,
was disgusted by it.  She had a sister who was fourteen, and was afraid
that her father would rape her, too.

   Huey threw Suzanne out and drank an entire bottle of Glenlivet.  He
called his ex-wife, but she wouldn't come home.  For weeks, he went to bars
and picked up women, eighteen-, nineteen-, twenty-year-olds.

   And then he saw Suzanne in the park.  She was with her sister, the
fourteen-year-old.  He went right up to them.

   Christabel was a carbon copy of Suzanne, with flowing auburn hair and
light blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a languid body.  But Christabel was a
virgin.  A frightened virgin.

   Suzanne told him to get lost, and Huey slapped her.  They ran off, and
Huey went to a bar and got plastered. He stalked Christabel, and the
defenseless girl finally agreed to go out with him.  Huey massaged her
mind. He told her that he could protect her from her father, that he would
take care of her.  Christabel went for it, and in less than a month, with
her consent, he ravished her, deflowering her splendid cunt and then,
without her consent, her virgin rectum, her mouth, her very soul.

   He enslaved her, and when Suzanne came to his home, waving a knife,
Christabel ordered her to leave.

   Christabel got to like what he did to her.  He turned her into a
submissive slut with no self-esteem whatsoever.  He got sick of her, then,
and was about to kick her out when he had an idea.

   He fixed her up all pretty and sent her to the park each day, and within
a week she had lured a fifteen-year-old virgin to his home.  They worked
slowly, and four months later Tina was almost as corrupt as Christabel.
Tina was petite and insanely masochistic.  They tortured her, and one day
they went too far.  Her breasts turned into pin cushions, Huey fucked her
ass while his wife fingered her brutally.  I the heat of sadistic passion,
Huey strangled the girl.

   It gave him pleasure.  He violated her corpse, wildly and repeatedly,
and when his lust was spent he found Christabel in the bathtub, her wrists
slit, dead.

   Huey screwed her body, then drank Glenlivet and thought deeply.  Should
he give himself up?  He disposed of the cadavers the following day,
weighting them and sinking them in Goose Cove Reservoir north of Boston,
and waited for the knock on the door.

   It never came.  Months passed, and a year later Huey moved to the
secluded house in the dunes and started his hunting career in the bus
terminals and train stations of America.  He didn't do it often, and he was
as careful as a photorealist.  He had houses in the Ozarks, the
Adirondacks, and the Blue Ridge, and in the course of four years he had
snuffed nine young virgins, fucking their asses and mouths but violating
them vaginally only after death, for the most part.

   He was fifty years old, and his other hobbies were chess - which he
played against a computer, having no friends - and landscape painting.

   Lacey told her story, Liz hers, and by the time dawn seeped through the
blinds of the Red Roof Inn, they were emotionally and psychologically
intimate.

   Huey drove them to his home.  In terms of comfort and possibilities, the
girls had lucked out.  Morally, they were doomed.

   The spacious house, white both inside and out, was a sterile pleasure
palace.  But the one thing they were forbidden to do was leave it - Huey
didn't want them to attract attention.  They read a lot, and made love to
each other.  Never to him.

   By the time they set out for their first kill, they were starved for
cock.  Lacey had recovered some, though breathing was difficult and she
still coughed blood.

   Huey decided on an exception to his rule of keeping his crimes distant -
he took them to Chicago, registering at the Ritz-Carlton under an assumed
name.  The location was ideal - there was Water Tower Place, an upscale
shopping mall, and the Magnificent Mile, that stretch of Michigan Avenue
preferred by the well-heeled.

   They worked slowly, with pleasure, chatting with this potential victim
and that, taking time out to enjoy the city.  Both Lacey and Liz were
suddenly mistresses of disguise, as though bred with silver spoons in their
mouths.  Despite her diseases and shocking thinness, Lacey seemed like a
wealthy and sophisticated young girl unless she focused her slightly
crossed gray eyes a certain way.

   After a week of enjoyable forays, they struck pay dirt in the person of
Monica Forrest.  They met her among the forsythia outside the Art
Institute. Fourteen, fashionable, and obviously spoiled, she was waiting
for her parents to finish looking at an exhibit.  The two demonic damsels
shared a joint with her, and Lacey whispered in her ear, suggesting that
they drop acid together.

   Monica led a sheltered but recently miserable life in Lake Forest, and
had never tried acid before.  Yes, she could cut school and take the train
down the next day, a Monday.

   She trusted them because they were rich.  Lacey and Liz met her at the
Northwestern Station the next day, and took her to the Ritz.  The game was
to get her to come willingly - to see if they could convince her to
volunteer all the way to the end.  It would be a daunting task, but Monica
was the perfect victim.

   Slender and feminine, with shoulder-length light brown hair and hazel
eyes, skin like butter in winter were there no annato seed with which to
tint the sweet cream, a big diamond on one of her delicate fingers and an
alluringly nervous body that would have been statuesque despite the
diminutive, ill-concealed breasts under her elegant black dress - would
have been, were it not that she was underweight.  Not gravely, as Lacey,
but still.  There was an enigmatic innocence to her - as if she were a
perfect, succulent fruit already crawling with malignant bacteria.  Lacey
picked up on it.  Some...  damage.  Lacey worried that perhaps the girl
wasn't a virgin after all.

   They drank Perrier at the Greenhouse, high in the lobby of the Ritz,
slipped her a tab of acid, took some themselves, and took the elevator to
their suite just as they began to trip.  They had told Monica that they
were cousins, and hinted that Lacey's father would probably be gone all
night - in reality, he had gotten another room, and planned to stay there
until Monica was corrupted, however many days that might take. Sequestered
in their suite, they drank Dom Pérignon and sat on the bed.  Monica claimed
to like art, despite having left her parents in the museum, and Huey had
bought some books at Rizzoli downstairs - the Surrealists, mostly.  They
floated on acid and looked at the reproductions, worming Monica's soul from
out her lovely head.

   Monica began to be ever so slightly afraid of Lacey, especially of the
sore in the corner of her lips, but as the drug took effect even that began
to fascinate her.  She stared at it, and suddenly the strange
thirteen-year-old took her hand.  Monica stiffened, but Lacey slowly
stroked her fingers, very gently.

   "You're very pretty," Lacey whispered.

   "Thanks," Monica said in a tiny voice, swallowing.

   "Are you a virgin?"

   Monica nodded.  She was scared, but not terrified.  They'd talked about
everything else, and she didn't want them to think she was immature or
something.

   "Are...  are you?"

   "Of course not," Lacey said, letting go of Monica's hand.

   Monica blushed.  It reminded Liz of a billboard she had seen in the
ghetto: VIRGIN IS NOT A DIRTY WORD.  No, it's an antiseptic word, an
appellation for exactly the kind of girl Monica was.  But under the veneer
was rot, Liz thought.  At least Lacey's diseases were on the surface.

   Liz was peaking.  She lay down on the luxurious bedspread, kicking off
her shoes.

   "I'm cold," the ten-year-old said.

   "Let's get under the blankets," Lacey suggested.

   Monica felt a flock of tiny black butterflies take off in her cunt and
fly through her empty stomach.  They were _girls_, though...  they were
being nice to her.  Why should she feel so weird?  Unlike Liz and Lacey's,
the intuition of the spoiled suburbanite was underdeveloped.  Nothing had
ever threatened her.

   She and Lacey removed their shoes and the three of them crawled under
the covers, Lacey subtly coaxing her into the center.

   Liz was moving.  It took Monica a couple of minutes to realize what she
was doing.  She was masturbating.

   The ten-year-old girl was playing with her pussy, writhing obscenely...

   Monica got up.  No one tried to stop her, and she put on her shoes. 
Then she realized that she didn't know the way back to the station...  and
she felt foolish.  She knew that boys sometimes jerked off together.

   Lacey started kissing Liz.  Monica stifled a sob.  She wanted to...  to
go, she should leave...

   "Would you get some more champagne?" Lacey was smiling.

   Monica got the bottle.  It was empty.  She opened another, and the adult
act of popping the cork...  strengthened her.  She poured, and Liz came,
squealing, and then it was over.  Monica sat down at the far end of the bed
and handed Lacey her glass.

   "Don't be scared," Lacey said soothingly.  "What're you scared of?"

   She didn't know.  There was nothing to be scared of, was there?  Liz
emerged from under the sheets with nothing on.  When had that happened? 
Monica was high.  Nothing, nothing, nothing.  Monica dug her fingers into
her thighs, then tugged down on the hem of her dress, staring at a run in
her expensive black stockings.  Liz let her get used to her nudity.  There
was nothing wrong with it, was there?  Nudity, nothing, nada.

   Liz poured Monica some more champagne, surreptitiously slipping a sugar
cube drenched with acid into her glass.

   The ten-year-old draped herself over - was she really her cousin?  - and
Lacey reached from under the blankets and softly caressed her flat chest.

   "Don't you ever play with yourself, Monica?" Lacey's voice was distant,
as if it were coming from a cool basement.

   "S-sometimes," Monica said, looking away.  She was afraid she would pee
herself.  She was trembling.

   "What do you think about, then?"

   "I don't know."

   Until recently, Monica thought about a lot of things when she... 
touched herself.  She used to think about guys, mostly.  Guys kissing her.
She'd never even been kissed, not really.  But lately she thought about
Laura Kramer, a pretty sophomore everyone said was a slut.  She imagined
being at a party with a bunch of guys and Laura, and Laura...  kissing
them, and then...  Laura would undress - Monica knew what Laura looked
like, she...  she watched her, in the showers after gym - and the guys
would unzip their pants and Laura would...  suck them, and Monica would go
into another room and Laura would come in and...  and kiss her, and she
could taste their...  stuff...

   Liz spread her legs, and the colors in the room were really bright and
the...  the girl's...  vagina...

   Lacey was kneeling, taking off her shoes.  Monica let her.  Monica
stared at the sore on her lips and slowly the heart-shaped mouth came
closer and...

   "N-no!" Monica pushed her away and started to cry.

   "Are you okay?"

   "Nnn...  y-yeah...  I..."

   "Lie down," Lacey whispered.  She had a strange...  a seductive whisper,
like Laura, and she...  she was touching her leg, her stocking and... 
there was nothing wrong with that, was there?

   "Wh-what are you doing?"

   "Shhhhhhhh...  nothing, Monica," Lacey whispered.  "You have very nice
legs...  so pretty...  perfect, they're...  like a model's.  You don't mind
if I touch them, do you?"

   "N-no..."

   "Am I making your cunny wet?"

   Monica whimpered and closed her eyes, and Lacey slowly slid her hand up
above her stocking and touched her left thigh, the bare skin...  close...
close to... u Monica closed her legs, then felt Lacey's lips on hers.  She
closed her mouth, and Lacey ran her tongue along her sealed lips for a
second, then slid her hand from between her thighs and was...  gone, she
had gone to her...  her cousin or friend there, right there on the bed and
was...

   Monica turned and watched as Lacey ate the ten-year-old out, inhaling
the cunt smell.  She was terrified and...  aroused, very aroused.  She
wanted to touch herself...  she got up and went and locked herself in the
bathroom and wept, then slid her hand under her elegant black dress and
slipped her fingers into her lacy panties and masturbated, reaching orgasm
almost instantly, thinking about nothing.  Nunca, niente y nada.

   She stared into her dilated pupils in the mirror, lost.

   She wanted to go home...  but she couldn't.  She was tripping her brains
out.  She stared at the tiles on the floor and thought about her mom and
dad and suddenly she couldn't think of anything that she liked...  she...
she loved them, didn't she?  They didn't love her.  They said they did, but
they didn't.  Not _her_.  They could love any other pretty and talented
suburban teenager equally well, as long as she...  _it_...  was theirs. 
They were all the same.  But _she_ wasn't _theirs_.  _She_ wasn't the same.
She was different.  No one loved her.

   "Monica?" Lacey's voice was like a little rivulet of dark red Crimean
champagne running down the basement floor like sparkling blood, sickly
sweet and intoxicating.  "Monica, are you okay?"

   No I'm not okay, Monica thought, hearing the rattle of the doorknob and
staring deep into her huge black pupils in the vanity.  The acid made her
expression seem like a stranger's.

   The fourteen-year-old put her fingers to her mouth, tasting the wetness
from _down there_.  'From my _cunt_,' she whispered to herself, inaudibly.
She leaned forward, her heavy breath steaming the mirror, and put her
tongue to its reflection.  The glass was cold.

   In a trance, Monica unbuttoned her dress to her navel.  Her breasts were
bigger than Lacey's, nearly the size of her fists and almost as firm,
almost hard, the nipples the diameter of nickels, with rosy aureoles and
rubbery tips like faded marigolds.  She had chosen her favorite bra that
morning, transparent black lace...  as if someone would look under her
dress...  because she had set out - fearlessly, she thought - on an
adventure, headed for a secret rendezvous, hoping like always for...  for
what?

   Monica felt foolish.  She had been hoping for something...  like what
was happening?  Not...  not like _this_, she had daydreamed on the train
about...  boys, about how the two girls would meet her and meet...  boys?
And that was why she wore the bra?  When she knew perfectly well that she
would never let a boy...  see...  well, not never, but...

   But Monica was...  was a bright girl...  'a woman,' she whispered to
herself as if _she_ were elsewhere, there, in the mirror, 'a young woman.'
She knew she couldn't choose her adventures.  She could decide where to
begin them, cut school and take the train to meet...  were they her
friends? But what happened...  that was different, accidental, _fateful_, a
matter of synchronicity and serendipity, destiny.  Protect herself, she had
to protect herself - from what?  What self?  Her daddy's little girl?

   Knock-knock, who's there.  "Monica?" Monica who?

   Her...  daddy's...  baby...  girl.  Monica hardly ever thought about her
mother.  'How was school today?' It was...  school.  I tried to pay
attention I did pretty good I got an A- in...  in the showers, staring at
Laura until Blair called me a lezzy in front of Lucy.

   Laura was fifteen, but she was...  mature, like Lacey.  She painted her
toenails, burgundy, and her body was...  beautiful, she was tallow-skinned
and very tall, sinuous...  she used to be athletic, in junior high, until
the eighth grade when she started...  to have sex, or everybody said she
had sex, and she did a lot of drugs.  Monica saw her in the mall once, near
the pay phones on her way to the washroom, and Laura was kissing, she was
frenching one guy, a dropout, and another guy was feeling her little tits
through her blouse, and Laura...  Laura smiled at Monica.

   Then, about three months ago, after school, Monica had gone down to get
a soda outside the weight-lifting room, and she heard three guys talking:
'Who hasn't?' 'She's such a slut.' 'I heard Dale got Gillian to watch him
fuck Laura up the ass.' 'Cool.' 'Gillian's a slut, too, man.' 'Fuck yeah.'
'Laura's pretty though.' 'You think so?  She's fucking anorexic, man.  All
she eats is come.' 'Dale said she fucking tried to lick Gillian's cunt.'
'She's dirt, man...  she's going out with a guy who's fucking _married_...
she's got a sugar daddy.  I saw them at the mall.' 'I still think she's
pretty.' 'Well fuck her then.  She'll fuck anything with a dick.' 'Anything
that moves, man.'

   But Laura didn't seem like that at all.  She seemed...  nice.  'She's
fucking anorexic, man.' Monica was skinny, too...  not as skinny as Laura,
but skinny enough to worry her father.  She weighed herself several times a
day.

   'She's got a sugar daddy.' Monica thought about her father a lot.  They
were close.  She didn't...  want to have sex with him or anything, at least
not...  not really, but she...  she wanted him to watch her have...  sex.
One night, when she'd smoked a lot of pot, Monica had gone down into the
basement to get her clothes out of the dryer and her dad's shorts had been
on top of the dirty laundry and they...  they had his come on them... 
She...  she tasted it, and somehow she started thinking about Laura, about
her father fucking Laura while Monica...  played with herself, and then in
her fantasy her father turned to her, his cock in Laura's ass, and said:
'You're so pretty, Monica...  you're so much prettier than this filthy
slut.' And then Monica...  comforted Laura, touching her...  titties...

   "Monica?" Lacey knocked lightly on the bathroom door again.

   "I'll...  I'll be right out."

   About two weeks ago, Monica and Laura had ended up in the showers
together again, only this time there was nobody else there, and Monica
sneaked glances at her, her long, wet, chestnut hair and her ribs and her
high, pert breasts with hard nipples that were the hue of rare steak and
her pointy hips and her pubic hair trimmed into a little oblong and their
eyes had met and Laura's were leek green and unbelievably nasty - not... 
not evil or anything, but lewd, and Monica thought about all the things
they must have seen, things she would never see...  And then Laura dropped
her soap, and Monica saw her shallow crack.  Laura's apricot-colored anus
didn't look...  it didn't look like she...  did those things, but her... 
her cunt...  she had shaved down their, she had hair only above it, and her
cunt was like origami worked from thick, soggy peach-colored paper.

   Monica had held her breath and Laura lifted the soap from the floor and
looked at her.  Her lips were parted and her eyes were...  they were
scared. Laura was scared that Monica would say something mean to her.

   Monica gave her a weak smile, and Laura dropped the soap again, dropped
it so that it slid towards her.

   Monica hesitated, then bent to pick it up.  She knew she had a nice ass.
She shaved the little hairs around it and kept her pubic hair short, and
she knew that Laura could see her slit.  It was practically dripping then.
She handed the soap to Laura, and Laura touched her hand, taking it.  Laura
went back to her side of the narrow room and licked her lips...  and then
her hand went...  it went down there...

   'Hey - Lucy - showtime!' Blair stood at the towel room end of the
showers, naked, and Lucy and a couple of girls appeared and Monica blushed
as if her whole body was blushing and tears came to her eyes.  'Slut and
sicko lezzy show,' Lucy yelled, and everyone was laughing.

   Monica was mortified, and after they let Laura through - no one would
touch her - Monica had to get a towel and they snapped towels at her and
made fun of her until she was crying hysterically and afterwards she went
to the nurse and said she was sick and her mother picked her up.

   That was two weeks ago, and that week Monica had pretended to be sick
and stayed home until her father yelled at her and she'd gone back last
Monday and they teased her and then she had cut two days, wandering around,
sitting by the lake.

   She played with herself...  a lot.  She's started doing it when she was
twelve, after she got her period.  At first she'd thought about being
touched, by boys...  nothing...  dirty, just...  being held, hugged, not
even with her clothes off.  Then, when she was thirteen, Monica had
accidentally thrown away her class schedule and gone through the garbage
they kept by the garage...  and found what she supposed was her father's
porn.  She wasn't turned on by it...  at first.  Gaunt, trashy whores in
slick little magazines.  They were supposed to be 'anal lolitas' and
'sandwiched schoolgirls,' but they were just small-breasted sluts in their
early twenties with pigtails, dressed in little-girl clothes.  Yet Monica
rescued the smut from the refuse and hid it under her mattress.  She looked
at it more...  and she started to like it.  Not the girls, really - they
were disgusting, really - but the idea that a girl could be like that.

   She knew she could never be like that, so...  empty, doll-like, so open,
like a sewer.  Some of the pages were stuck together and stained with
sperm. Slowly, Monica realized that the girl on those pages was the same
girl...  and the girl looked like her.  Not really, but...  there were
similarities.  The girl was a whore, and she had zits on her ass and her
eyes were cold and vacuous, but she had a similar body and the same hair,
and her dirty eyes were hazel, like Monica's innocent ones.

   Monica's father wanted to fuck her.  She figured it out, disbelieved it,
and then noticed how her daddy looked at her.  He would never actually do
anything to her, of course, but that was what he fantasized about - that
explained the lingerie he bought for her, telling her not to show it to her
mother, asking if she was wearing it.  That explained the jealous look on
his face when he saw her smiling at boys. Then Monica found his
semen-stained shorts and a few months later, when he was on a business trip
and her mother had gone to a cocktail party, she searched his study, not
really looking for anything, more porn maybe.  The drawers of his desk were
locked.  She looked on his computer.  She went to 'Find' and looked for
'JPEG image files' - there was almost a gigabyte.

   Shivering with excitement, she ran a slide show in several folders. 
These weren't twentyish whores.  These were kids, pubescent and
prepubescent kids, 'bc_series,' 'mclt.' And then there were worse things,
underage girls having sex, some of them raped, others looking like they'd
been brought up that way, with snuffed eyes.  She sifted through the
folders and found one marked 'mon'...  Monica?

   But it was protected by a password.  She tried to guess at it, but
failed.  Monica gave up, closed everything and shut down the computer.

   That was when she started to fantasize about her father and Laura.  She
felt very guilty about it, caught between lesbianism and incest, and felt
as though she was damaging herself - inscribing these things in her
sexuality somehow.  She was.

   Her father was often away on business, and Monica often sneaked into his
study, stared at the smut, and tried different passwords for the protected
folder.

   She also let her father see more of her, sometimes flashing her panties.
It was weird.  She wasn't thinking about him exactly, she was thinking of
herself...  down there.  She became obsessed with her body.  She wanted to
look like the girl he had stained with his semen - she was skinnier, almost
scrawny.  At thirteen and a half, Monica was five three, but had gotten her
weight down to less than eighty pounds.  At night, masturbating, Monica
struck poses like the girl in the magazine.

   Her father came to her room and spoke with her one evening when her mom
was away.  She smelled gin on his breath.  He told her that he was worried
about how she was losing weight.  When she said that she was fine, he
casually lifted her shirt.  'Look at you,' he said.  'My skinny little
girl.' He stroked her sunken belly for a moment.  She held her breath.  'It
looks very nice, honey,' he said, swallowing.  "As long as you're okay.'
When she was home playing sick, after the shower with Laura, almost two
weeks before she met Liz and Lacey, Monica crept fearfully into his study
while her parents were at work, trying passwords.  She _had_ to get into
that folder.

   She tried different birthdays, pet names, everything she could think of.
Ten days ago she put in 'mon' and her own birthday.  It was the password.
Trembling, Monica went to ViewerPro and ran a slide show of the files in
the subfolder 'mon11'...  and gasped.

   The pictures were of her.  She was passed out - had he drugged her?  She
was naked and titless, probably eleven years old...  yes, 'mon11'.  There
were pictures of her vagina, of her lying on her stomach with her legs
spread...

   Panting with fear and a strange fascination, Monica looked in the other
subfolders.  In 'mon-x12' her titties had budded - and her father was
jacking off on her.  In 'mon-x13,' she had a scrape on her knee - a scrape
she had gotten two months before - and he was touching her breasts and her
slit.

   Then there was 'mon-shwr,' with several subfolders.  The j-pegs were of
her in the shower, taken over several years.  There were hundreds of
them... and in some of them she was playing with herself.  Her father had
installed a spy camera in the shower.

   She felt violated, raped.  And he was too stupid to encrypt the stuff,
and used an idiotic password with her birthday.  Her father was _scum_.

   There was more, though not of her.  Of her father and teenaged
prostitutes.  Whipping them.  Fisting them. Monica shut down the PC, went
to her room and cried.  She wanted to run away.  How _could_ he do this to
her?

   Two nights later her mother went to a PTA meeting and her father came to
her room again.  Whiskey on his breath this time, not gin.  She was afraid.
He could tell.

   'Honey...  how much do you weigh?' He was really drunk.  'Eighty-seven.'
He sat down on the bed.  'You're not afraid of your daddy, are you?' She
was terrified, and she was wearing only panties under her long T-shirt.

   'Are you wearing the bra I gave you?' She wasn't wearing a bra.  She
cowered.  'Y-yeah.' 'Show me, baby...' He lifted her shirt.  She was
paralyzed.  He groaned when he saw her naked breasts.  She looked away,
teary-eyed.  'There's nothing wrong with daddy looking at his little girl,
is there?'

   She held her breath while he fondled her little breasts.  She hated
him...  and her slit was wet.  She sobbed.

   'Shhhhh...  you know I'd never do anything to hurt you,' he whispered.
He fingered her nipples.  They were stiff.  'Lots of girls...  love their
daddies...  and...  you're so...  pretty...'

   He drew her hand to his crotch.  Monica whimpered and felt warm urine
soak her little panties.  She couldn't look at him, and she was crying.  He
held her wrist tightly and undid his pants, then wrapped her hand around
his cock.  It felt a lot bigger than it had looked in the pictures.  She
felt nauseous.

   "Move your hand up and down on it,' he groaned.  When she didn't, he
tightened his grip on her wrist and moved it for her.  'Do as I say,' he
hissed.  'Yeah...  good girl...  that's it...  Monica...  don't get
scared...  I want you to...  suck it...  suck your daddy's...  cock...'

   Monica screamed and tried to escape, but he twisted her arm and pinned
her to the bed, covering her mouth with his hand.  She thought he would
rape her.  She kicked and tried to scratch him.  He straddled her, sat down
on her chest and seized both of her wrists as she shrieked.  He gripped
both wrists in one big hand, lifted her T-shirt above her titties, spat
between them and rubbed his cock against it, then came, grunting like a
feral pig.

   Then he let her go.  She curled up into a ball.  He stroked her back
under her T-shirt, which was up around her chest.  'Monica...  if you tell
your mother about this, you know what will happen, don't you?'

   'If you do I'll kill you, Monica,' he said in a quiet voice.  She wanted
to die He left the room.

   After her mother had returned and gone to sleep, her father entered
Monica's room again.  He was in his pajamas.  She was still crying, and he
had drowned himself in Chivas.

   She clutched the blanket, quivering.  He stroked her hair.  'Honey... 
I'm sorry.' She looked at him.  He'd been crying, too.  Suddenly _she_ felt
guilty.  'I'm...  s-sorry, too.' He hugged her, and Monica realized to her
horror that she was aroused.  He got between the sheets with her, and she
wanted him to kiss her.  But he didn't. 'My baby had a little accident,' he
whispered, touching her still slightly damp panties.  'D-don't,' she
whimpered.  'Please don't.' He ignored her, and fingered her through the
stained cotton.  'Lots of little girls love their daddies...  and you're
that kind of girl, Monica.' He slipped his fingers under the elastic and
touched her slimy gash.  She started to sob again, but spread her legs.  It
felt awful and good at the same time.

   He took his fingers from her slit and rubbed them against her lips. 
'Open your mouth,' he said.  There was threat in his syrupy voice.  She
obeyed, and he slid two fingers against her tongue.  'That's what you're
going to do to my dick, Monica,' he said.  'That's what your mouth is for.
Understand?' She couldn't even cry anymore.  He took her by the hair and
forced her head to his crotch.  His cock stuck out of his pajamas, thick
and hard, the head glistening with pre-cum.

   Monica put her hand on his balls, wrapped her lips around the bulb and
bit as hard as she could, squeezing and tearing his balls.  He made a sound
like an elephant in labor and beat his fist against her head.  She let go
with her jaw and fingers as the lights came on.  Her mother didn't
understand for a few seconds.  Then she fainted.

   Her father was puking, clutching his balls.  Monica grabbed her coat and
ran out of the house.

   It was a cold night, and she was barefoot and penniless and Lake Forest
is a tomb, late, anyhow.  She went to the lake and cried.  After a long
cry, she went home.  There was nothing else she could do. Her mother looked
like a grieving widow.  Her father was ashen.  They were sitting in the
living room, drinking highballs.  Monica tried to go upstairs.

   'Come here, honey,' her father said.  She stopped, petrified.  'Listen
to your father,' her mother said.  Weak-kneed, she staggered to the
armchair near the sofa on which her parents sat stiffly.

   'Monica...  we're never going to mention this...  this, again.  Your
father...  he didn't mean it.  He...  we...  we've been...' Her mother's
lips were trembling, the color of bad tuna.  Had he hit her?  'We've been
having...  marital problems, and...  anyway, you're...  you're a big girl,
and...and so we won't mention this again.'

   Slipshod, superficial emotional repairs were a family tradition.  For
the first time in her life, Monica felt utterly alone.  When her father had
been...  molesting her, she had at least...  had him.  Now she was a tiny
animal parachuted into the arctic waste.

   She tried to think of something to say.  'C-can't he...  see a
psychiatrist?'

   Her father's eyes landed on hers like a cudgel on the head of a baby
seal.  'We're not going to discuss this anymore,' he said.

   'H-he...  he took my...  pictures...  he...'

   'How _dare_ you snoop around in my...  you...'

   Her mother screamed as he lunged at her, but Monica was too quick for
his flabby frame and fled upstairs, locking herself in the bathroom.

   Locking herself in the bathroom, just as she had now.  Lacey was just
outside the door.  Monica could hear her.

   This was different.  The two strange girls, they...  _were_ they
cousins? They weren't...  forcing her to do anything, were they?  Tripping,
Monica felt a lucidity that nearly lanced her memory, one that she had
already begun to grow around, like some insistent succulent creeping around
a stone she could not swallow.

   "Monica?" Lacey was insistent, too.

   "I'll be right out, I promise, Lacey," Monica said.  She was feeling
better all of a sudden, saturated colors all around her, the acid, and...
and someone who wanted her, outside the door.  Someone who...  knew.

   "Okay," Lacey said cheerily.

   That night - was that a week ago?  - Monica had slept on the bathroom
floor, and the next morning, everything was back to normal.  Her parents
pretended that nothing had happened, and Monica had no choice but to follow
suit.  She could well imagine other courses of action, yeah, sure.  The
police?  Monica already had a reputation at school that she would never
live down.

   Flying on acid, Monica felt...  clear.  Perhaps the same form of Fortuna
that had followed Lacey like a bloodthirsty fate also followed her - Monica
had met these...  girls.  They had found her.  Lacey, tall and skinny and
irredeemably corrupt, reminded her of Laura.  She liked skinny.  Hungry. 
Hungry for something.  Monica opened the door, forgetting to button her
dress.  Lacey had gone back to the bed.  The ten-year-old had finished
masturbating and was sitting cross-legged, still naked, smoking.

   Lacey looked at Monica's breasts in the transparent black bra.  Monica
blushed, but didn't hide them, and sat down nervously on the bed.

   "Liz is a virgin in front, too," Lacey said, handing Monica a glass of
champagne.  "Can I ask you something?"

   Monica nodded, looking at the floor.

   Lacey took her hand again.  It felt _good_.  "What are you scared of,
really?"

   "I...  m-my...  my father, h-he...  he..."

   Monica burst into tears, and her story gushed out until all of a sudden
Lacey was holding her, kissing her, and she was kissing back, clumsily, and
Lacey started sucking on her tongue, unbuttoning her dress all the way, and
Liz was unhooking her bra...  and Monica was...  letting them...

   "Lie down, baby," Lacey whispered between kisses that were almost
savage. "God, you taste good...  kiss me...  kiss me!"

   Monica and Lacey tumbled to the bed, and Monica kissed her, responding
to the desperation in Lacey's voice and the need she felt, rising like
floodwaters...  and her breasts were bare and Lacey was kneading them, not
like her father but like they were _her_, like she really wanted her... 
she did, she wanted her, and Monica wanted Lacey, wanted her bad, sucking
_her_ tongue and Lacey was between her legs kissing her bare breasts, her
nipples, then her mouth again, and Lacey's skirt was up around her hips and
her pubic bone was rubbing against Monica's snatch, both their panties
totally soaked.

   Monica put her hands on Lacey's bony butt as if she were a boy and they
drooled into each other's mouths and suddenly Lacey raised herself up and
slid Monica's wet panties aside and masturbated her and Monica started to
come and two slender fingers slid into the slimy hole and tore her hymen
and she kept coming as Lacey fucked her with her fingers and flicked her
clitty with her thumb and she looked up at Lacey and Lacey was foaming at
the mouth like a freak, her eyes rolled back into her head, the front of
her blouse torn open, squeezing her tiny, damaged breasts and slowly Monica
came back down like a falling apple, a rosy apple that had burst in the
oven.

   Lacey ripped off her skirt and thrust her cunt at Monica's face, but
Monica recoiled and wriggled out from under her, afraid again.  She saw and
smelled the yellowish substance oozing from the deformed little cunny. Liz
came to Lacey's rescue, and Monica watched, stunned, as the ten-year-old
lapped at the malodorous hole and stuck her fingers in Lacey's ass.  The
thirteen-year-old came with a series of childlike screams, and then it was
quiet.

   "Do you realize what I did?" Lacey's voice quavered.

   "What?" Liz lay down and diddled herself.

   "I..." She put her bloody fingers to Liz's mouth.  "I took her
virginity!"

   Only then did it sink into Monica that she was now a woman.  But she
didn't understand the significance of that fact to her two new friends -
Lacey had _deflowered_ Monica.  Lacey had deprived Huey of his victim.
Lacey's intuition told her that the murderer was unlikely to forgive them,
and so they dressed and ran away, a trio, telling Monica what it was that
they had planned to do as they reached the Michigan Avenue bridge and took
a water taxi to the train station.

   They had spared her by their own lust, and though the idea that the
girls had considered blithely handing her over to a serial murderer shocked
Monica, the suburbanite was by now nearly inured to shocks, and she was
also addicted to the two girls.  They were like drugs.

   They went to the great hall of Union Station and sat on a long bench of
dark wood.  Liz expected Lacey to look for men.  But the seasoned young
whore had another idea.

   "Monica...  do you love your father?"

   "Yeh-n-nn...  uh, I don't know."

   "Would you like to go home?" Monica thought they were abandoning her. 
Tears welled up in her leek green eyes.  "I mean with us!"

   Monica's jaw dropped.  "We...  I...  my mom?!"

   "It'd be fun, don't you think?"

   Forty-five minutes later they were on the train to Lake Forest.  The
Irish child had changed again.  Lacey, a few months shy of her fourteenth
birthday, wanted to have a hand in her own fate.  That was _new_, and Liz
knew it.  Liz knew Lacey as well as if they were twins.

   Lacey's latest transformation had begun in Memphis.  The act of
betraying Diego and Manuel had given her a sense of self-esteem, and taking
the gun from Ichabod Huey had caused it to soar.  Eire had changed, yes,
her daddy Paddy had been arrested as a pander and pervert, and his daughter
had arrived in the New World.  She was to be the first generation of these
decadent O'Malleys to escape the twisted lanes of Dublin, and after a
hundred years of whoring, rise in station.  Huey had given her a taste for
riches, but kept her from cock.

   Lacey knew that she was dying.  But the destructive-protective instincts
that ran in her blood, usually limited to kin, she extended to Liz, her new
sister.  She wanted to make Liz a whore.  Not an ordinary whore, but an
upper class prostitute.  Lacey wanted what was hers by right, as the eldest
daughter of Paddy O'Malley - she wanted to become a madam before she died.

   Liz, as though adopted, a younger daughter, needed to be kept virgin in
her vagina until she was twelve.  But she also needed to catch up in her
training - she needed to be taught the proper Pavlovian responses.  Liz's
little body needed to understand that it was to provide men with pleasure
under any and all circumstances, that her mind was merely a device by which
to heighten their pleasure.  She could use it for herself - indeed, she
should; as a whore, it was her sacred duty to seek ever better
circumstances for the practice of her profession, treating every man as a
means to greener pastures, to moneyed meadows where she might graze among
objects that drew attention to her beauty.

   This was the difficult spiritual work of whoredom.  She must needs seek
contentment - and does not, indeed must not, ever find it.  Otherwise the
lady of the evening is no better than a married woman.  And whores _are_
better, at least O'Malley whores.  They are superior in that they are
simultaneously free of and more at the mercy of men.  But really they work
for God.

   Lacey took some more acid and gave the other two girls a sugar cube
each. A whore stands in better relation to matter than a common female. 
She needs things - those objects, yes, gewgaws and carbuncles, cosmetics
and fantastic finery, venues in which to taunt men with her easily fondled
but unattainable charms.  She can be penetrated again and again, but in
some sense is always virgin.  She needs things, but at the same time she is
in descent, dying as Lacey was.  Things fall from her hands.  She sinks
below the surface, ending up in substance, as we all do.  In the dirt.  But
an O'Malley whore has revelatory flashes of insight - she knows the dirt
into which she sinks...

   After thirteen years and nine moons in the bitter grace of God, Lacey
O'Malley understood her father's Philosophy of Love.

   Sinking below the world of things...  and yet rise she must, like a turd
in the dark, cold waters of materialism.  She must attain what her talents
and instincts are capable of - this man Bill Gates, if possible.  Men were
phallic mountains of gold, y plata, y cristales, and she must mount the
highest peak accessible to her abilities, from there to take wing, and yes,
to soar...

   "Fly!" Lacey shouted.  "Fly-yeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

   She had cracked up at last.  The train arrived in Lake Forest, and the
twisted trio slunk into a waiting taxi to be whisked to the ancestral home
of Monica in style and at breakneck speed.

   The sun struck seven, and a light like virgins' blood poured through the
hoary trees of the Forrest estate.  Their taxi reached the gate just as
Monica's father's Fleetwood slid towards it, and Lacey basked in the Great
Perfection.

   Richard Forrest, Monica's father, was a heel.  His Achilles' heel
covered his entire body mental and spiritual, and with each day the
patriarch sank and creaked and splintered like a vessel that was never,
ever seaworthy.  Born with a silver ladle in his throat, he prospered out
of inertia, and, after Harvard, had married Dolores, a dolorous cheerleader
without a trace of a brain in her bouncy little body.  He dribbled her, and
soon Dolores ceased to bounce.  She gave birth to Monica and died inside,
her skin kept fresh by the flutter of money and ever larger doses of
codeine, Valium and social causes.

   Forty-two years old, Richard used cosmetics and tanning booths, wore
clothes that exceeded in cost the per capita gross domestic product of most
nations in a single outfit, had few friends, and kept his sexual life
utterly apart from his business and social life, and from whatever his
family life really was...  except in the case of his daughter.  Extremely
conservative on the surface, his secret fascination with an imagined erotic
underworld and whatever he could find of it - young prostitutes - became an
obsession to him, and his desire for Monica was in some sense a need to
reconcile the two worlds - he wanted, even if unconsciously, to bring about
the moral ruin of his daughter.  He wanted to infect her.

   Finding whores was a problem for Richard.  For years, he hunted only
pornography, his tasted deepening and gaining in depravity.  He believed
that there was a hidden world that these photographs came from, and hoped
that it would find him or he would stumble upon it - but he moved in
circles where there seemed to be no entranceway to the secrets he sought.

   One night, when the chauffeur was on vacation and Richard drove his
Aston Martin to a meeting in the Loop and went out for drinks at Yvette
afterwards, he was walking to his car on Rush Street and saw Candy.  It was
his lucky break.  The fifteen-year-old had had a fight with one of her
boyfriends and was staggering down the street, stinking drunk.  He took the
frail strawberry blonde to a motel and fucked her brains out.  Candy had
friends, and Candy's pimp had friends, and Richard had found a supply of
drugged-out adolescents to pleasure him at moderate prices.

   But he wanted his daughter.  He wanted to destroy something, to be the
first to corrupt a young girl.  Darkness flooded him as soon as he saw
Monica's friends.  He saw what they were, and saw that she had lost her
virginity.  He wanted to kill her.

   The trio walked towards him as he teetered on the elegant doorstep. 
Wordlessly, he let them in. His wife was on her eighth martini, and he sent
her to her room, glaring at his deflowered daughter and the freakish pair
she had dragged home.

   And then the doorbell rang.  Richard answered it, and Ichabod Huey
loomed against the bloody sky.  Liz began to cry.  Lacey smiled.  Monica
was confused.

   "May I come in?" Huey was immaculately dressed in a gray flannel suit.

   "Who the hell are you?"

   Huey smiled his most disarming smile and pushed the broken father aside.
When Richard raised his pudgy fists, Huey let him see the gun.  Richard
swooned, yes, and sank into the very chair where his daughter had sat when
she realized that her mother would not defend her.

   "I've been thinking," Huey said, his bald head gleaming, lighting a
Wintermans and looking at Lacey's legs.

   "You and I...  and your 'sister'," (he looked at Liz, though not into
her eyes), "we're...  friends.  And you've betrayed me.  And you know
what?"

   Lacey stared at him until he stared back into her sinful gray eyes.

   "I want to stay friends," Huey said.  "I think we need to stay friends.
We don't fuck...  and so we're friends." Huey sat down.  The three
acid-headed young women were together on a sleek sofa, weary but wary. 
Richard Forrest felt...  fear, a gnawing, unreasonable fear that came
partly from the entry of another into his secret life - not the girls, he
had no respect for girls, but a man, a man who was apparently as wealthy as
he and...  sick, he was sick - there was a maniac in his house, and his
daughter's friends knew him, were...  were intimate with him!  Richard
Forrest felt fear, yes, pressing upon him like invisible claws.

   "So this is your house," Huey said to Monica.

   Monica nodded.  She knew that this was the serial murderer she...  she
was...  meant for?  Maybe it wasn't so bad.

   "H-how...  did you...  f-find me?"

   "You left your purse at the Greenhouse," Huey said, smiling.  "Did they
fall in love with you or something?"

   Lacey laughed.  "No...  I...  I popped her cherry with my finger...  and
I thought you'd be mad."

   "There are many fish in the sea," Huey said.  "I've never forgiven
anybody before, Lacey.  And I made a mistake.  You're like me.  I should
have known that...  when we met.  You...  you need, you deserve to have,
control over your own destiny.  You can't live with me.  But what if you
live alone...  I mean, with Liz?  Do what we planned to do, but do it
alone, and give me what...  what you don't use?  The cherries you don't
pop?" Richard Forrest turned the color of raw hamburger.  This...  this
lunatic, this scrawny little whore, had taken his daughter's virginity -
with her finger?!  His daughter - a fish in the sea?!

   Monica stared into the middle distance with dead eyes.  She was coming
down off the acid and began to realize where and what she was, what had
happened to her, what they were saying about her.  She was nothing to
them...  but...  her father...

   "Daddy?!"

   And Monica threw herself into his lap.  The act resembled a wedding.

   "Let's go," Huey said.

   "Let's go fishing," Lacey said brightly.

   Ichabod Huey obtained an apartment for the girls, renting a
three-bedroom condo off Belmont.  The location was carefully chosen.  The
area near the Belmont El is a haunt of runaways, and on weekends is swarmed
by young Goths from the suburbs who come to buy funky clothes at the Alley.


   There were risks.  The neighbors might notice that the strange
ten-year-old and her thirteen-year-old 'cousin' or 'sister' lived alone. 
But Huey had felt such a void after their betrayal that he wanted to trust
them, and Lacey accepted her responsibility.  She had never been trusted
before, and this arrangement was ideal - it provided the circumstances in
which to educate Liz in the arts erotic and fine, to pass the tiara of
depravity down, to die in orgasm.  At thirteen, Lacey O'Malley was at last
the mistress of her fate.

   She took her duties seriously.  Accordingly, as soon as Huey set out for
home, Liz and Lacey began their search for a fresh victim, not even
satisfying the cravings in their holes before they began to scour the
neighborhood for sacrificial innocents.

   It was not easy.  The Goth girls came to the seedy street in droves, but
almost always in groups or at least in pairs, protected by their numbers.
It took three weekends of loitering and looking before Liz spotted
Dominique and Michelle Graves.

   They were sisters, thirteen and fifteen.  Doubtlessly virgin and
obviously desperate for adventure, the two delicate and self-absorbed
maidens emerged from a dark green Volvo driven by their father.  Michelle,
the eldest, was anorexic, her skinny butt in insanely tight leather shorts,
her spindly legs in fishnet stockings.  She wore pointy boots and dark blue
velvet vest that drew attention to her bony chest and the beginnings of her
mature, diminutive, pear-shaped breasts.  Michelle looked like she had
trouble thinking about anything other than her beauty and what might be
done with it.  Her face was a mask of petrified innocence, with a wide nose
and a small, grim mouth.  Her skin was a baby-soft buttermilk, her eyes the
blue of wisteria.  Her eyes said 'take me' until someone tried, then broke
into an alluring riot of hysterical fear.  She fiddled constantly with her
long, straight, raven hair and glanced around to see if people were paying
attention to her.

   Dominique worshipped her sister.  Slender but not shockingly so, she
wore loose black shorts and a cut-off T-shirt.  Her bare midriff was
lily-white, the navel a shallow slit.  Braless, her budding titties under
tight black cotton, the tiny nipples hard in the cool of evening. 
Raven-haired like Michelle, her eyes were a darker blue, hyacinth, and
strangely fearless because naïve.  She imitated her sister, but didn't
really understand that any of their antics were sexual.  It was only
beginning to dawn on her that men wanted her.  Combat boots, no socks.

   Lacey was afraid that the girls' father was only looking for a parking
space, difficult on a Friday night.  They had to work fast.  The sisters
headed into the Alley, Liz and Lacey at their heels.

   "Hi," Lacey said, addressing the older of the two.

   Michelle wasn't afraid of females.  She gave the strange creature a
practiced smile that meant 'I am an insoluble mystery unlike any other.'

   "Is your father coming in here?"

   What?  Michelle stared at Lacey and Liz.  The tall, skeletal whore... 
intrigued her.  Part of the reason Michelle begged her father to take them
there every month was that the city was...  strange, mysterious like her.
This was not Naperville.

   "Um...  yeah...  why?"

   " 'Cause I saw you get out of the car.  I think you're cool.  I want to
get high with you."

   Michelle snapped shut like an oyster.  Mother of pearl, there, darkness,
hush.  Is she...  crazy?  "Scared?" Lacey's voice was laced with ice now,
the kind of ice that Michelle tried to form around herself, glistening and
impermeable, a diamond coat.  "This is my cousin," Lacey said, thrusting
the scantily dressed ten-year-old at the shocked sisters.

   "Our daddy's not home and we're lonely," Liz said, grinning.  "If you're
into it."

   Dominique took her sister's hand and squeezed it.  The child was scared
at last, but her fear made Michelle...  daring.

   "I...  I'd like to...  but...  my dad...  I can't." And all of a sudden
Michelle wanted to go with them.  She wanted very badly to go with them,
like a somnambulist with a queer fixation.

   "Let's go," Lacey said in her hypnotically seductive voice.

   "I can't!  I'm...  I'm f-fifteen, and my sister...  How old are you,
anyway?"

   "Thirteen," Lacey said.  "Leave your dad a message with the cashier. 
Say you and your sister got picked up by a bunch of businessmen and flew to
Shanghai."

   'This kid is out of her mind,' Michelle thought.  But...  but it was
like...  a dream.  It was like getting an irresistible invitation in a
dream, as if the earth had opened up beyond suburbia and asked them in,
glistening with jewels.  Michelle did not like Naperville.  She didn't like
her father, either.  She hardly knew him.

   'Why am I even considering this?  Dominique...'

   But Dominique was less scared now that her sister had somehow found the
courage to be curious.

   "I can't," Michelle said.

   "Woooo-woooo!  Ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch...  Woooo- woooo!  You're gonna miss
the ghost train, girl."

   Michelle looked into the Lacey's eyes - they were adult, as mysterious
as her own, the dilated pupils surrounded by light gray and a dark ring. 
Michelle didn't want to miss her chance.  Elvis Costello ran through her
head, faintly: 'line up for the ghost train, non-stop, through the city...
step right up and show your face, we only want the pretty ones.'

   Just then the sisters' father walked into the store.  Rob Graves did not
understand his daughters, who were psychosexually Siamese twins to him.  He
didn't understand much of anything other than the insurance business, and
his wife - their mother - had left him for that very reason.  It was her
genetic pool that spawned Michelle and Dominique, their adventuresome and
mystical portions.  From Rob they inherited only fear. Rob was short and
stout, with a weak chin and thin mustache, blue eyes and ruddy hair.  He
was dressed like a dork.  The store was as mystifying as his progeny.  He
caught sight of them and approached, gazing at the two strangers with a
mixture of revulsion and...  interest.  Idle interest, tinged with familiar
fear.  He was having an affair with the receptionist at work, Teresa
Jenkins, a thirtyish bleached blonde who was after his money.  She was
Rob's third dalliance, not counting his marriage.  He had always been shy.
Painfully shy.

   "Hi," Lacey said, assessing him.  "You're cute."

   His youngest daughter's umbilicus reminded him of a tiny crater on a
contour - is it - relief?  - map.  Plop plop, fizz fizz.  Her stomach was
like computer paper, its texture.  'Why am I looking at my daughter? 
Because this...  this slut looks her age,' Rob said to himself in
Nebraskan. 'And the other slut...  who _are_ these people?' He had never
been able to control his daughters.  'I cannot control my daughters,' Rob
affirmed.  Lacey was really weird.  She looked like she was about to burst
forth with something in iambic pentameter, then lie down and die.  Or is it
lay?  Like she was about to lay something.  Phanes' egg.  'I'm not feeling
well,' Rob intimated.

   "I'm not feeling well," he said.  "We have to get back to Naperville."

   Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh, what a relief it is!  Plop, plop, fizz,
fizz, ohhhh what a relief it is!  His wife's - their mother's - name was
Carolina.  'I feel like Hank Williams in the afterlife,' Rob Graves
conceded.

   " 'What shall we do tomorrow?  What shall we ever do?' The hot water at
ten.  And if it rains, a closed car at four.  And we shall play a game of
chess, pressing lidless eyes and waiting for the knock upon the door.'"

   The lights in the store glared malevolently, and all around him were
pale, lost girls shopping for black clothing and abnormal platform shoes.
One had safety pins in her cheek.  Some had boyfriends who regarded the
enigmatic maidens with an almost predatory air.

   Carolina left on the spur of the moment, really.  Where the deer and the
owl hoot mournfully, and the prairie dogs run out in front of speeding
cars, stupefied.  His wife's departure provoked the only raw emotion Rob
had ever experienced, and he never wanted to suffer such emotional reality
again.  Plop, plop, fizz, fizz!  There was never any question of her taking
the girls.  She had been missing for a week, appeared with one Brock in a
pink Mustang, and absconded with her collection of CD's and the dog, a bony
beast which resembled Michelle.  Carolina did not want their daughters. 
This was many moons ago, thirteen and a half to be exact, and Rob,
disturbed by this sudden intrusion on his vacuous domestic bliss, her
removal to parts unknown (and Brock, a man so masculine that tanning booths
shuddered from overuse...) had done the unthinkable, sold their split level
in Salt Lake and brought his daughters to Chicago.  And for no reason, or
only because everything in Utah reminded him of his wife.  Their mother.

   She did not want them because they would cramp her style, Brock's style,
salmon-colored Izod shirts and cheap champagne and Cancun.  Rob Graves had
shifted bases, because he did not want Carolina to find him, she was a bad
influence on his babies.

   Old drinks, Manhattans, gimlets, even.  They were a curse.  But he'd
done well for himself, and in a couple of years Michelle...  'What college
are you thinking about, Michelle?' 'I don't know, dad.' She never knew
anything.  But she didn't do drugs or anything.  At least, he didn't think
she did.  They didn't talk much.  What was there to talk about?  Marilyn
Manson?

   'What did that girl say to me?' 'I could really use a stiff drink now,
Charlie.' Ooh, he made Manhattans, Charlie did, and gimlets.  If you drink
enough of them your mouth tastes like your brain.

   "I'm really not feeling well," Rob said again.

   It was that girl's eyes.  Gray, mirific, disturbed, disturbing.

   Suddenly Lacey touched his arm.  He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt,
white as a sheet, and she caught his elbow in her bony fingers.

   "What you need is a whore," Lacey whispered.

   "Huh?"

   "I said, you need a stiff drink."

   "Uh-huh."

   Shit her eyes were nasty.  Svengali in a female body, and thirteen years
old.

   "C'mon, let's go have a drink."

   They walked out of the sinister store and Rob stared at the Dunkin'
Donuts.  It was full of runaways, too, even though they didn't let you
smoke anymore.  'The kids in this neighborhood are like bugs on
headlights,' Rob said to himself, gravely.  'Why do I bring my daughters
here?  Where am I going?  Why is a thirteen-year-old whore offering me a
drink?  Why am I accepting?'

   They needed to get to back to Naperville.  Lacey led him, her
ten-year-old sidekick, and his two children to the Café Voltaire, a theater
or cabaret that was there then, a place that looked like a cozy watering
hole out of _Blade Runner_.  The waitress was an exotic dancer who earned
extra money by having men lick her boots in the Dungeon around the corner.
Two hundred bucks an hour and she didn't even have to do anything except
order them around.

   Svengali - Lacey - ordered a plate of celery with hummus and made him
get martinis.  The guy who made them was a recovering alcoholic, a man who
got drunk by watching others drink.

   "Relax," Lacey whispered.  The table had little devils on it, or were
they images of Bacchus, or Pan.

   Rob felt really sick.  Lacey kept ordering martinis for him, and he
hardly drank at all, or at least he didn't think he did.  The bar was in a
high-rent neighborhood.  It was about to fold.

   Rob thought about insurance.  Lacey thought about cock and daughter,
cock and daughter, independence, liberty.  Dominique contemplated the
essence of fear.  Liz contemplated Dominique's bare leg.  Michelle was
aghast at her father.

   "Dirty, up, two olives, please, Gordon's..."

   God, Gordon's is a disgusting gin.  And yet, and and yet.  Plump olives,
stuffed with things, slices of garlic, jalapenos.

   And yet Rob Graves was incapable of noticing that at least one unit of
his saucy offspring was pretty much a woman, the other watching her for
ideas on how to arrive at that condition.

   "Tell me about yourself," Lacey whispered.

   Rob was at a loss.  He hemmed and hawed.  Lacey took off her sandals and
then her bony foot was in his lap, her long toes rubbing him...  unzipping
him and worming into his pants, his underwear...

   Rob wanted to stop her, but he couldn't, he stared at her, she was
licking her lips and her hand slid under her tight halter and played with
her tiny breasts, in a public...  place...

   Lacey picked up a celery stalk and sucked it, gazing at him
hypnotically, her toes stroking his penis like a child's fingers...

   Rob ejaculated, and Lacey swiftly moved her foot so that almost none of
his semen fell to the floor, catching it with her weird white toes, her
thick, cracked nails cut straight across.

   Lacey lifted her foot to her mouth and lapped up his semen, then smiled.

   Michelle...  Dominique...  his daughters...  and the other girl...  'how
old is she?' The waitress had seen and was smiling, too.

   Suddenly Liz leaned over and wrapped her childish fingers around his
wilting cock.  It stiffened.  She whispered in his ear.

   "Take her to the bathroom and put this in her...  you can make her
pregnant, if you want."

   Lacey stood and went to the toilet, looking at him over her shoulder. 
Her skirt was so short he could see the magical curves where the
thirteen-year-old's skinny buttocks narrowed to become her sinuous thighs.
Rob fixed his pants and followed her past the apparently aroused waitress.
He was mesmerized.

   "Have you ever fucked a kid before?"

   By the time he reached the washroom, the waif was naked.  She undid his
trousers, knelt, and stroked him softly, kissing the head of his cock.

   "N-no..."

   "I want your baby," she whispered, staring up at him, tonguing the tip
of his penis.  "Do you want to make a baby in me?"

   "Yes..."

   Lacey spewed a mouthful of slobber into her hand and transferred it to
his stiff prick, then turned around and leaned over the toilet.

   "Stick it in my bum, first," she said, seductively fingering the
vermilion opening.  "Fuck my arse, then my quim...  my cunt...  I want you
to hurt my arse, first, and then I want you to knock me up, sir.  It hurts
in my kid body.  To have your baby in there.  Fuck me, sir.  Please.  Get
dirty hurt in my arse and put it in my pussy to hurt me with your baby. 
Please, sir!"

   Rob had never had anal sex.  He had never even asked for it.  He stared
at the adolescent's skinny ass, the slimy hole, the tiny, pouting cunny.

   "Do it to me," she whined.  "I need a baby.  I need you deep in my
bum... here..."

   Lacey caressed her buttocks, and Rob slid his penis into her rectum.  It
was loose but she gripped him with her sphincter, and then he fucked it,
feeling her sick pleasure, her scrawny body squirming, her moans drowning
him in a sound as maddening as her insane eyes.

   He grasped her hips and tried to hurt her with swift, hard thrusts, but
it seemed only to make her come, howling, and then he pulled his penis from
her anus, stabbed it into her strangely small cunnus, and came. Lacey
milked him with the tight little muscles, then crouched and sucked him
again, taking him deep into her mouth this time and stroking his balls.

   "Stay hard, sir...  please...  we need to be certain...  in my cunny
again...  get a baby in me...  get your baby in there...  yes...  fuck
me... fuck...  make a baby...  fuck..."

   The whore sank to the dirty floor and kneaded the pale nectarines that
were her girlish breasts, then sucked her toes, gazing up at him, the lips
of her little mouth and fuckhole chapped and wet with mucus, her nostrils
flared.

   Rob mounted her and entered her again, her cunny, and Lacey's fingers
worked his pants down around his thighs and played with his anus, arching
her back.

   "Suck my titties...  suck my titties, sir...  fuck me...  harder... 
harder!"

   He chewed on her stiff nipples, making her jerk, her tawny hair in the
filth.  Lacey took hold of her ankles so that he could fuck her harder, and
Rob slammed in and out of her in a frenzy.

   "Suck your foot...  you...  slut..."

   Drooling, the girl obeyed, her eyes stormy and suffused with a suicidal
lust.  He stared at her tongue flickering between the skeletal toes and
came again, then kissed her mouth.  Lacey sucked his lips and tongue, and
Rob licked her sore, her face, her eyelids...  then started fucking her
again.  He felt as potent as he had after puberty.

   "Mmmmmm...  yes...  my bum...  fuck my butt like this...  please..."

   She guided him back into her bottom.  He got it to hurt by pulling all
the way out and shoving it back in.  Her bony back banged against the
bathroom floor and her legs flapped like broken wings, the pale feet waving
and her long, thin fingers buried in her mouth and cunt.

   "Baby...  m-meh...  mmhhh...  cunnnn...  cunt!  Mhhh..."

   He stabbed his prick into her womb again.  It was as if invisible silver
worms slithered into his scrotum and drew his seed to her ovaries.

   Rob released his semen and rolled off of her, almost crying, confused,
emptied.

   Lacey stood and helped him to his feet.  He didn't know what to say.  He
had never experienced anything even remotely like this.  He would have
married her if she'd asked him to.  She didn't.  She dressed, and they
returned to their table.

   Liz was openly flirting with his daughters.  The Graves family was as if
baptized by fire.  Michelle felt as though she could scrape the fear from
her bones like butter.  Dominique was on the verge of tears.

   Rob went back to the restroom and puked.  When he emerged, they were
gone.  His daughters were gone.







   III DOOMSDAY



   Michelle and Dominique were delivered to Mister Huey with their hymens
intact, and perished after only a week of torture.

   Lacey loved her new métier, and Liz loved Lacey.  After the sisters'
deaths, Ichabod Huey rented a pre-war apartment on Central Park West for
his minions, and the two young accessories to murder set about searching
for pubescents in Manhattan.

   They fucked a lot, though Liz retained her vaginal innocence, and Lacey
turned fourteen.  She found it easier to seduce men with her swollen belly,
but harder to hunt down victims for Huey.  Liz mastered the art, however,
and within two months a virgin from the Upper East Side was screaming her
head off in the Maine woods while Liz and Lacey tore out her toenails and
Huey deflowered her.  She begged to be killed, and soon was.

   Huey decided that it was safe for them to return to Chicago, then, and
rented a spacious condo in Water Tower Place.  The girls had been there a
week when a pair of window washers appeared outside.  Lacey, three months
pregnant, was enthused, and soon Marco, a thirtyish Italian, and Tommy, a
thirty-eight-year-old from Kankakee, were watching a ten-year-old eat out a
pregnant teen.

   Twenty minutes later, Marco and Tommy knocked on their door.  They
sandwiched Lacey, and suddenly she was screaming as though she were being
dismembered.  Marco and Tommy let her go, and the fetus Rob had made
emerged between her emaciated legs in a shower of blood.

   The window washers struggled into their clothes and ran away.  Lacey
O'Malley was dead.

   Liz stood paralyzed as neighbors responded in the wake of her 'sister's'
piercing screams.  Then the police came and took her away.

   Liz spent six months at Michael Reese Medical Center, like a horrific
insect getting coated in sweet amber.  She dreamt about different
reeducation camps, the kind filled with lithe men and little maidens who
had gone mad, but all around her were understanding doctors and beady-eyed
interns waiting to get set up in practice instead.

   A week after her eleventh birthday, Liz Lexington's mother Martha
appeared in the psych ward to retrieve her daughter.  How she was found is
a mystery.  Martha did not want her baby whore, but pretended to, and Liz
ended up living in the cabin next to mine, under my watchful eyes, until
that fateful Monday when our neighbor broke her hymen with his finger, I
fucked her, Rembrandt and I raped her, and the rapid chain of events turned
her into Elizabeth Hoffman, a creature that was something between my
adopted daughter and child-wife.

   "I was a child and she was a child in this kingdom by the sea, and we
loved with a love that was more than love, I and..." Liz, as I have already
remarked, was an angel ninety percent of the time.  And I, alias Don
Hoffman?  What I had done with Rembrandt was like blowing the nose of my
innate violence.  I hadn't any desire to hurt the girl.

   But little Lizzy wanted to be hurt.  She needed to be abused, or she
hurt herself.  I wonder what she would have been like if the psychiatrists
hadn't spent half a year trying to reform her.  All they succeeded in doing
was aggravating her guilt and swaddling her in shame.  Underneath, she was
raw and perverted, desirous, easily aroused.

   The eleven-year-old thought of me as her daddy and her lover and her
pimp.  A month after we moved into the apartment on Esplanade, Liz came
home with semen trickling from her poophole and her cunny.  She had gone to
the Meridian and seduced a couple of Japanese businessmen.  I spanked her
and dry holed her ass, and the next day Liz went out and got fucked again.

   "D-daddy...  put it in my botty..."

   Liz came when I buttfucked her, in pain.  Tenderness did nothing for
her. Sex was punishment, and the more it hurt her, the more delirious were
her orgasms.

   Afterwards, when she was crying and quivering like a tortured animal,
Liz wanted to be held and kissed and told that everything would be okay,
that I loved her, that I would never leave her.

   She liked to stick things in her cunny when I fucked her ass.  One
night, when I was reaming her rectum and she lay on her side, fucking her
other hole with a candle, I squeezed her throat.  Liz loved it, coming like
a little banchee, and we had found a new erogenous zone.  I was careful,
but by the time she turned twelve she had to smear whiteface on her bruised
little throat if we went out.

   For her twelfth birthday, I got her an Irish wolfhound.  I took lots of
pictures of her sucking the dog, her gray-green eyes wet with misery and
orgasm, a studded collar around her black and blue neck.

   What made her attractive was her pride.  Humiliation only caused it to
swell.  Liz wanted to be like Lacey - she never stopped talking about her
deceased friend and heroine.

   Two months after her twelfth birthday, Liz had her first period.  She
begged me to get her pregnant, but I wouldn't.  She was too small, and I
think she wanted to die like Lacey.  She looked younger than she was,
though her breasts were quite large, like peaches, in contrast to her
increasingly skeletal and sickly body.  I pierced her pale nipples.  She
kept her cunt clean-shaven, and was obsessed with her weight, stepping on
the scale after each of her frugal meals - rice and spirulina, grapefruit,
skim milk.

   She read a lot, mostly erotica, and started asking me to tie her up.  By
the time she was twelve and a half, we would spend hours each night
mutilating her still childish body.  Bound to the bed, whimpering and
shuddering like aspic, she hardly ever screamed as I cut and burned her
taut belly, writhing fitfully and urinating, coming when I masturbated her
between slaps.

   I bought her cosmetics and sexy but girlish clothes - short, plaid
skirts, flowery little dresses, pointy shoes with two-and-a-half-inch
heels, lacy lingerie, aquamarine necklaces and earrings.

   She kept house, cooking and cleaning, often naked or in her underwear
and heels.  I stopped letting her go out except in my company, afraid of
the trouble she would find - she was desperate to get knocked up - but even
when I accompanied her it was obvious that she wanted to be used by anyone.
Her sense of self consisted of her seductiveness and pathetic sexuality.

   If I didn't hurt her, she would cut herself with razor blades, frigging
her cunny.  Then, when she was almost thirteen, Liz started to damage her
urethra with a knitting needle.

   I took her out to Tujague's for her thirteenth birthday, though I knew
she would purge after the splendid meal.  She sneaked sips of wine and
stared around the restaurant, eyeing men.  And then Liz's wild eyes
alighted on Deborah Montgomery.

   The twelve-year-old beauty wore a sleeveless dress of dark blue silk
with intricate black embroidery, her long hair, darker than roasted
chestnuts, worn in tiny braids, with a few white rosebuds woven into the
fantastic tresses.  The bodice of her raiment was unbuttoned, and a hint of
her bare, pale, pear-shaped breasts glowed white between the austere
fabric. The sloe-eyed slave-girl had tried to hide the nasty bruises on her
wrists and upper arms with make-up.  Her face was a mask of well-trained
seductiveness and whorish misery mixed with adolescent conceit and
self-love.  The garnet choke she wore around her slender neck looked like a
slash, and she ate as though afraid that the man who stared hungrily at her
sexualized, long molested body would take away her crawfish etouffé and
rape her.

   He looked old enough to be her father, but wasn't - it seemed obvious
that he had never been with her before.  What made Debbie irresistibly
attractive was that, while the pubescent was obviously a prostitute, she
seemed to have retained a defiant and dangerous arrogance, enough of a
sense of self to take her like a virgin, to tear her apart anew each time.
The whore gave the impression that she was still innocent somewhere, in
some deep hole, and that she well knew the nature of her charms.  Debbie
looked like a certain sort of sex would transform her into a demon and she
dared men to find the secret orifice where this could be done.  Her dark
eyes were adult, somewhat sorrowful and indescribably dirty, and she had
the obscene hands of a child who has played with cocks since infancy.

   The man pawed her surreptitiously as she ate, and Debbie squirmed
submissively, knowing that he was the kind of man who was going to relish
her every scream.  When she finished her meal, she excused herself and went
to the powder room.  Liz knew what she was going to do there, and followed
her.  Debbie's dress was indecently short, and I studied her skinny, silken
thighs as the bulimic staggered to the restroom.  Despite her disorder,
Debbie's tight ass was shapely, inviting.  She had on three-inch heels, and
was apparently in pain, probably in her butt.

   Debbie's customer didn't see Liz, who was wearing a somber black dress
with nothing under it, and grew nervous when his quarry did not return for
almost half an hour.  My child-wife was the first to emerge.  She had
washed, but still stank strongly of female fluids and vomit.  Liz was
amazingly aroused.  She hadn't been with a woman since she lost Lacey.  I
took Liz's hand under the table and bent her middle finger back until she
whimpered.

   The young prostitute returned to the man, giving Liz and me a wanton
look as she passed.  I paid the check and ushered my girl into the crowded
street.  I wanted Debbie very badly.  I'd not made love to anyone since
meeting Liz.

   "She's coming over later," Liz said, her childish voice dripping with
desire.

   Liz did a striptease as soon as we got home.  I tied her to the bed and
gave her her birthday present, sticking a long, slender paintbrush into her
peehole and burning her inner thighs for the first time, then spanking her
titties and wiggling the paintbrush in her urethra.  After a few hours she
was lost in a half-conscious, erotic agony, quivering uncontrollably as I
replaced the brush with a thicker one and twisted her nipple rings.

   The doorbell rang, and I admitted Debbie.  She was a mess.  The man had
forced a beer bottle into her fuckhole, and she had passed out.

   I made hot buttered rum, untied Liz, dressed her, and listened to
Debbie's story, resisting the urge to rape her.

   Deborah Montgomery was born in Cut Off, an appropriately named hamlet in
the Delta.  Her parents started touching her before she could remember, and
by the time she was five her father was using her mouth and anus several
times a day.  When she was seven, they moved to New Orleans.  He made her a
woman, used her as a toilet, and let other men have her on the weekends. 
They never marked her, and always used a lot of lubricant.

   When Debbie was nine, her father was jailed for molesting a stranger,
and her mother overdosed.  Her father had taught her to fear the police,
and Debbie didn't know what to do.  One of the men who had used her began
pimping her, and one day Debbie ended up in a motel on Airline Highway with
a john named Boudreau.

   Boudreau was forty-five, fat, and cruel.  He pissed in her rectum, caned
her, and tried to fist her cunny, tearing her.  Then he abandoned her, and
Debbie came to in Ochsner Hospital.

   She escaped as soon as she could walk, terrified of institutions, and
caught the bus to the streetcar, dressed in shorts, a Mickey Mouse shirt
she had stolen from another girl, too tight for her, and sneakers two sizes
too big.  The old streetcar lurched slowly along stately St.  Charles
Avenue when she first noticed Wally.

   Wally was thirty-three, with very short blond bristles on his noble
head, dark circles around his deep blue eyes, a thin mouth, a beak-like
nose and huge ears.  He was wearing a gray linen suit that didn't go with
his haggard appearance, an immaculate white shirt and a blue silk tie with
a diamond pin.

   Debbie sucked her thumb and gave him a meaningful stare.  Everyone got
off when they reached Canal Street, and the nine-year-old followed the man,
who had returned her stare.  He walked to Pirate's Alley, and Debbie
followed him into a restored stairwell, quickly finding herself in a small
but ritzy apartment that overlooked the garden of the Cathedral, near
Faulkner's house.

   Wally kissed her wordlessly, took off her clothes, stripped, examined
her mangled cunny, and put his penis in her mouth.  She sucked and licked
and stroked until the man spewed gobs of semen into her wet little mouth,
then swallowed.

   "Can I pee?  Can I pee in your pretty little mouth?"

   "Pee in me, mister.  Pee in my mouth!"

   He had a big bladder.  Debbie choked and drank and aimed his penis at
her flat chest and gazed at him sexily, swallowing as much as she could. 
Then she licked his piss from the wood floor, wiggling her butt.

   Wally squirted KY into her distended anus and slowly slid his six-inch
penis into her botty.  She fucked him back, grunting like a constipated
little girl.

   "Suck me, kid," he said.  "Suck me."

   It began to rain beyond the tall windows, and the room sparkled with a
faint silvery light.  She cleaned his cock with her tongue, then sucked. 
He groaned, then pushed her gently away and jacked off.  Debbie stuck out
her tongue, and Wally ejaculated in her face.

   Then he pulled her to her feet, kissed her, and took the child to the
bathroom.  The apartment was littered with books, art books, mostly, and
interesting objects.  Debbie was happy.  So was Wally.  They bathed
together with the light off, the rainy glow flowing through the open door.

   Wally took care of her.  He bought her whatever she wanted, showered her
with gifts, educated her, and had sex with her every night.  He hurt her,
sometimes, but only because it excited him.  She got used to it, and after
a while she even got to like it.  He would gag her and tie her hands behind
her back, sew her cunny shut, stick fish-hooks through her soft little
nipples and stuff big dildoes into her botty.  He peed in her mouth a lot,
and often had her eat his poop.

   But that was sex, and it was separate from him being her daddy.  He
taught her to dance, got her to read smart books, watched art films with
her and showed her how to make fancy meals.  He put on her make-up and,
when Debbie was eleven, explained to her how good girls go puke after
dinner.

   Wally loved to watch her masturbate, and Debbie became addicted to it.
Her pussy was too loose for him, and she put things in it to come good for
her daddy.

   She wasn't allowed out of the apartment.  Then, several months before
Liz and I met her, after her twelfth birthday, Wally took her to the
aquarium and disappeared.  Debbie wandered around until she found his
building.  A stranger opened the door.  No, no such person, the stranger
said, he had just sublet the place from a Charlene.  Like a dream, it had
ended.

   Debbie drifted into Jackson Square, staring at the tarot readers and
crying while a brass band from Treme played "When the Saints Come Marching
In" for a large group of French tourists.  Debbie opened her purse for
cigarettes - Wally had said that smoking kept her weight down - and found a
wad of bills and a note.

   'Dear Deborah - sorry - it had to be this way.  I love you, but I don't
want to live with you anymore.  I'm gone.  There are two thousand dollars
here.  In the Faubourg Marigny, on Dauphine, is a bed and breakfast called
the Soleil Couchant.  The owner's name is Derek.  He'll give you a room -
your things are already there - and you can work for him.  Good luck,
Wally.'

   Weeping, she walked to the Faubourg, asking the way.  The Soleil
Couchant was more of a bar with rooms to rent than a B & B.

   Derek was a lean black man with long scars on his cheeks, like
herringbones.  He showed the girl her room, which had its own entrance off
the dingy street, and Debbie automatically put her hand on his crotch,
mewling.

   His cock was a thick nine inches.  She took as much as she could into
her drooling mouth, and the man forced it into her throat.  He was very
rough and mean.  He took her by the ears and fucked into her throat.  She
couldn't breathe, and when he came, his semen choked her and spurted from
her nostrils.

   Derek tore her dress off, stuffed her panties in her mouth and started
hitting her, her titties, which had started to grow.  Then he whipped her
until she wet herself and raped her rectum, dry.  It felt good when he came
in there, though.

   He took away her money and told her the rules.  Debbie would have her
own key.  All the money she made would go to him, but she would get an
allowance if she brought in at least two thousand a week.  She was not to
go out during school hours.  If she got into trouble with the police, she
didn't know him.  He didn't work there, anyway.  No one knew him.  If she
ran away, he would find her, rip her apart like a starved chicken, and feed
her to his dogs.

   So Debbie started whoring.  It came naturally to her, and Wally had told
her something of the art.  She worked hard, and had no trouble bringing in
two grand.  Dressed like a schoolgirl or in tight, torn cut-offs and a
halter, or leather shorts and a revealing wisp of lace over her little
breasts, she hung out near the entrances to the expensive hotels, avoided
the police, and lured one or two men a night to her talented mouth and the
sore, wet, scarlet but somehow still magically tight little hole between
her ivory buttocks.  No one wanted her loose cunny, but she knew that.

   She experimented with different pricing schemes, occasionally took a
wallet, and accustomed herself to the strange routine.  Most men were
gentle with her...  but Debbie discovered that she desired pain.  When men
hurt her, it hurt less deep inside, where her daddy and Wally were.

   Derek came to her room every Saturday morning, collected his money, and
raped her.  He was big enough to stuff her pussy, but hardly ever did. 
They got to know each other, and he wasn't so bad.

   Slowly she built up a client base, and learned that she was pretty
enough to not need sexy clothes - she could even charge more if she was
less obviously a prostitute, more romantic.

   Five months and over two hundred men later, Debbie was drowning in an
unfathomable loneliness.

   She rarely accepted offers to fuck all night, anxious to be alone in bed
with her lonely body.  It was as if she and the girl she masturbated were
two different creatures.  She lusted after herself.  She spent hours gazing
at her reflection, working her hand into her slimehole and forcing huge
objects into her anus.  She could get a wine bottle into her rectum until
only the neck protruded, her pale body soaked in sweat and shuddering with
unbelievable pain as she skewered her immature titties with long pins that
were thin enough not to cause much visible damage.

   She often abused herself until daybreak, fisting her cunny, cutting her
tongue with a razor, slipping a long, slender, slightly curved stick of
smooth metal she had found deep into her bladder, drinking her urine again
and again, and rubbing her clit until the grotesque little girl-penis was
raw and bleeding, swollen to the size of her little finger.

   She would hurt herself until she was in another world, sometimes passing
out, then caress her tormented body as though it was someone else's, using
lots of baby oil, crying and posing in front of the mirror, fingering her
peehole and finally frantically rubbing her aching clitoris until her
orgasm took her even further, tearing her from her still strangely virginal
body and throwing her into a nightmarish frenzy of far-fetched pleasure and
terrible pain.

   She would writhe on the floor, wet feces squirting from her anus as she
clawed at her slit, scratching her little girl-penis and digging her
fingernails into the tender flesh of her tiny titties, tearing at her cunny
hole, sobbing and squeezing her throat, sometimes masturbating her anus
until she came again, the cunt-like opening slimy and sensitive then,
spastic.

   Debbie would lie in her filth for a long time, then carefully clean up
the mess, shower, and reheat take-out on her hot plate, usually rich,
Creole food.  Then she would purge, vomiting into the toilet, or swallow
laxatives and go poop.

   She slept into the early afternoon, then groomed herself, again
fascinated by her reflection, and at around four she would go out,
sometimes to the library, sometimes simply wandering, already on the
lookout for men.

   She thought about suicide, but she was too scared to do it.  She talked
to herself constantly.  'You're going to have to lose some weight, Debbie.'
'You need cock...  you need a cock in your pretty little butt..."

   When Debbie went to Tujague's with a tourist she had picked up in the
lobby of a posh hotel, and Liz followed her into the powder room, it was as
if she had finally caught the elusive self she had lusted after, outside of
her body and beyond the leaky confines in which she had been trapped since
Wally left her.  She knew right away that Liz was the harbinger of her
fate, and fate was something she was interested in, especially her own.

   Staring at Deborah Montgomery and listening closely to the narrative of
her descent, I felt something akin to the imminence that marks the early
stages of love, and I saw that my feelings were by no means unrequited. 
Liz saw us make this subtlest of connections also.  Jealousy seeped into
her young, gray-green eyes, and she did with it what she did with most
things - transmuted it into a sexual emotion, one that was directed at
herself like a curved dagger.

   Debbie had never been with a girl before, let alone a pubescent
masochist with an eating disorder.  I was so aroused by the two skeletal
little ladies on my sofa that I wanted to prolong the erotic tension as
long as possible.  I rolled three joints, one for each of us.

   What made Debbie want me was my history - she saw the similarities
between herself and Liz...  and she wanted to be kept, like Liz, like Wally
had kept her.

   What made me want Debbie was...  everything.  Her freshness.  The
dissimilarities.

   After two years, I knew Liz inside and out.  Even when I found new ways
to hurt her, I knew where it would lead.

   Liz wasn't Lacey.  She wanted to be Lacey, and so she wasn't.  She would
never be Lacey.  I had listened to Liz's stories about her dead ideal until
I felt as if I had known the Irish child in the flesh.

   I wanted Lacey, and Debbie...  Debbie seemed at least as enigmatic. 
Liz, for all our pretense at matrimony, was a baby.  She belonged to me. 
Debbie would never belong to anyone, least of all herself.

   Not anymore, anyway - not after her father and Wally had betrayed her.
She was irreparably damaged, and quicksilver oozed from the wound.

   Debbie had never had a friend.  When I questioned her about her
biography, she gushed.  She was high.  _Hickehackebreit_.

   "Do you still miss Wally?"

   "Yeah...  a lot."

   "What do you miss?"

   "What he did to me...  my body."

   "What did he do?"

   "He made it hurt...  come.  He made...  her...  hurt...  so much."

   "Was he her daddy?"

   "Yeah...  he...  he sewed her...  her dirty little...  snatch...  shut
so...  so she...  she couldn't...  do bad things to him anymore...  with
her...  her...  hole."

   "Does she think about him when she does dirty things to herself?"

   "No...  she...  she does them to...  her."

   "Who?"

   "Her...  girl...  with her...  her stiffy...  she...  she has a... 
big...  boner, her...  her nasty hole nobody...  wants to put it in,
they... use her botty and she...  she needs it in her nasty hole."

   "What's her name?"

   "Jerry...  Geraldine, she's androgynous...  she's a whore."

   "Does Jerry want to go to the bedroom?"

   "Yeah...  she...  she has a boner."

   The three of us went to the bedroom, Debbie or Jerry navigating
pathetically on her ridiculously high heels.

   I put on some Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and asked them to dance.  Debbie
took off her shoes.  She was shivering, and I had the sense that she wanted
to stab herself.

   I smoked and drank shots of chilled vodka while the two waifs shimmied
in sinuous anorexic circles around the spacious boudoir.  Debbie stared
into my eyes as she removed her clothes, and when both girls were naked I
cut the music and swept cocaine into six lines on a round mirror.

   Debbie's girl-penis was at once fantastic and grotesque.  It protruded
from her mangled slit like a scarlet string bean.  She stood with her
delicate toes pointing inward and stroked her stiffy like a sick little
sissy boy, gazing intently at the scars and burns on Liz's taut belly and
emaciated thighs.

   I had both girls get into bed and snort the coke, touching Debbie's
turgid clitoris when she crouched down.  The whore thrust her butt into the
air and mewled.  Her anus was spectacular, the scarlet hole swollen shut
and surrounded by broken skin, the puckered opening snotty, flecks of feces
and little gobs of thick mucus clinging to the raw membrane.

   She shuddered when I touched it, and whimpered when I fingered her
cunny. The entrance to her still useless womb was a ragged nest of dry,
sore, scabrous folds of crimson skin, and the mutilated hole inside them
was a loose, pink tube, glistening with slime.

   Oddly, her buttocks and the rest of her body were flawless.  If she had
hidden her holes and her filthy eyes, she could have passed for a virgin.

   I put her on her back and stuck my fingers in her mouth.  She opened
wide and I played with her tongue, then slapped her titties.  Debbie
writhed like a seductive sacrifice, spreading her skinny legs and mauling
her mutilated genitals.

   "I want you," I hissed.

   She nodded, shuddering.

   "No, I really want you," I said.  "I want your body.  I want your mind.
I want your soul."

   "J-jerry wants you," Debbie whimpered.  "J-jerry wants you in her hole."

   She stuffed her hand into her vagina and convulsed.  I pinned her to the
bed and slapped her once on each cheek, then made her stand up.

   Then I tied Liz to the bed, legs and arms spread, stretched.

   Debbie was quivering, toying with her clitoris.  She was the entire
world to me at that moment.  She was Liz, myself, everything.  She was
Lacey.  I wanted her to be Lacey.  I wanted to run off with her, never to
return.

   "I WILL CUT OUT MY HEART TAKE IT INTO MY HANDS AND WALK TOWARDS THE SUN
WITHOUT STOPPING UNTIL I FALL DOWN DEAD," Harry Crosby wrote.



   --------------------------------------

   GIRL SEEKS PIMP A Story by Deborah Montgomery



   Jerry's daddy began fucking her butt on a regular basis soon after the
Thanksgiving holidays, when she announced that she was pregnant again and
her mom took off with a traveling salesman.

   He wasn't really her father - Geraldine Delvaux called all of her
mother's boyfriends 'daddy' because it seemed natural and, soon after she
started to have sex with most of them, Jerry discovered that many men liked
to be called 'daddy' when she begged them to fuck her.

   At fourteen, when she got knocked up for the third or fourth time and
her mom disappeared, Jerry was already a woman in some ways.  She still
played with her dolls when she was sad and sometimes wet the bed, but she
was seductive and in some ways surprisingly sophisticated.  She took care
of her little sister, she made gourmet meals, she drank and did drugs, she
could act in a mature manner, and she even had a few venereal diseases.

   Her lower body was womanly, with the wide hips of a creature meant to
procreate.  She had long, sinuous, and somewhat muscular thighs and calves,
pubic hair that resembled lambent flames licking between the legs of an
obscene statue, especially when it was wet, and wide, slender, almost
rectangular buttocks that framed a shallow crack, also downed with bright
red hair.  Jerry's anus was fiery and damp, easily aroused and always
available, and her cunt was the color of an infected wound.

   Flat-footed and flat-chested, Jerry's supple skin was as pale as skim
milk, but her upper body was perverse and pathologically frail, with weak
arms as thin as a lumberjack's thumb and the bone china chest of a stray.
She had nipples instead of breasts, as if a plum had been sliced through
the pit and mounted on her prominent ribs.  Her hands were skeletal,
clammy, and unsteady, with long fingers little thicker than straws, and
ragged nails bitten far past her fingertips.

   Jerry's face was striking, her big, bloodshot eyes the green of a
certain seaweed she loved, lips that were almost lilac, an aquiline nose
and heavy eyebrows that were darker than her hair, which was the hue of
chokeberry leaves in autumn.  It flowed over her narrow shoulders like warm
blood, and came to an end in the middle of her bony back.

   Men feared her.  Unlike most whores, Jerry rarely showed off her legs,
hiding them in tight corduroys of a somber color, and what people generally
noticed was her abnormality, her strange chest often barely concealed by
the gauzy rags she tied at her sternum.  The dark, heavy cords that hid her
lower body intensified the impression that the adolescent was actually
twain, an adult below and a child above.  Tolook upon her above the waist
was to see a disaster, a rotten maiden raised on urine and sperm, her dirty
eyes suffused with sick desires and malevolent despair.

   She possessed a strong, oestrous odor, as if she masturbated female
dogs, though Jerry rarely did things to animals after puberty.  She had a
habit of drifting off into wet daydreams in public, stroking her skinny
left forearm as if it were a penis, sometimes even fondling her swollen
nipples through the skimpy, diaphanous garments that covered them.

   Often, she sat in the window at Kaldi's, a dirty, splendid,
high-ceilinged old coffeehouse in the Quarter, sipping espresso and
caressing herself, vanishing into the washroom at infrequent intervals. 
Anyone watching her could guess what she did there.  On occasion, the
filthy child played with her feet.  She would take off her shoes and socks
and caress her freakishly long, pale toes, lost in a trance, her wet mouth
open, squirming, and then go barefoot to the toilet.

   But her depraved antics were worst when Jerry was accompanied by her
half-sister.  Not quite twelve, Christabel Delvaux was a blue-eyed brunette
with crooked teeth, budding breasts and long legs as thin as the arms of a
young faggot.  Christabel wore diabolically revealing little dresses and
seemed to be completely under the spell of her perverted sibling.  She
shared Jerry's pallor and was equally malnourished, but while the elder
child seemed to have a sense of her destiny and was apparently sensual,
Christabel gave the impression that her sexuality was that of a barely
pubescent slave.

   When Jerry was alone, she was sometimes approached by concerned adults.
The whore had learned to differentiate between the kind of concerned adults
who would take her to bed and do-gooders, the vile men and women with
little crosses at their throats and an alien morality.  But when Jerry was
with Christabel, the people obsessed with saving children stayed away or
went to call the cops.  The police were a problem.

   The eleven-year-old obeyed her sister or suffered, and hadn't been
rebellious for at least two years.  Christabel was in constant pain, and
wore diapers under her scant clothing.  Her tiny cunny was a gaping hole,
and she had to lubricate the opening with Vaseline because it didn't get
wet except when it was sick.  Christabel had never had a vaginal orgasm,
but she liked it in there when it was itchy and felt bad and stuff, and she
could come in her botty and sometimes even in her mouth.

   She had a nasty rash.  Her sister thought it was because she didn't
change her diapers very often, until it spread to her skinny thighs and
stomach.  Christabel had buttocks like baseballs, prominent above her
spectrally thin legs, but the open sores spoiled the erotic effect.  Her
translucent skin was very sensitive and soft except on her knobby knees,
pointy elbows and the heels of her perfect feet.  Unlike Jerry, Christabel
had high arches and delicate little toes.

   Her titties were quite high on her weak chest, and large for her age,
like little apples.  The man who tore her sphincter liked to torture her
nipples, and the tender buds had turned to hard, vermilion scabs. 
Christabel picked at them, and the bodice of her dress was often stained
with blood.  The blue of her submissive eyes was that of poor glass, and
Christabel's expression, while she did look like she had been reared in a
concentration camp, had a frightened innocence to it, as if she didn't know
what it was that men did to her.

   She had small hands, usually balled into nervous fists or clutching at
the edge of a table, and she often hooked her feet around the legs of a
chair when she sat, writhing because her botty hurt.  Christabel walked
with her shoulders back, her titties thrust forward, her arms swinging
stiffly at her sides like pallid nightsticks, her tense fingers wrapped
tightly around her thumbs.

   When Jerry took her out, which was rarely, because Christabel attracted
as much unwanted attention as dirty old men, she usually bought her a
banana.  They went to the Moonwalk or Jackson Square, and Jerry would make
Christabel sit in the middle of a bench so that she had nothing to hook her
feet around.  Squirming, peeling the present and sucking it like a penis,
Christabel sometimes relaxed a little, like she did in bed.

   Jerry had lost her virginity when she was eight, which was quite late in
her family.  Their mother, deflowered at age four, suffered prolonged
periods of melancholy which always ended in marriage and an attempt at
moral respectability.  Whatever her mother lacked in determined depravity
had apparently passed to Jerry.

   Besides her perverse nature, Jerry was also possessed of an uncanny if
misdirected intellect.  If men feared her because of her physical
abnormality, they were also often scared of what she knew - it often seemed
that the strange whore could read their minds, and afterwards the cunning
child seemed to reflect their souls in her cold green eyes.

   Jerry seldom bothered to find out much; men bored her unless they were
very interesting psychologically or sexually, which was rare.  Her talent
did not work with some women.  Jerry was most fascinated by those few women
her senses failed to dissect.

   If she was sadistic towards her sister, it was because of her
insufferable loneliness and ennui.  She wanted Christabel to be a whore,
the kind of demimondaine that she herself wanted to be and sometimes was.
But she knew that Christabel wasn't that, would never be that.  Christabel
was a child doomed to die in the gutter, and so Jerry was careful with her
love.  She did not desire the gutter.  Jerry wanted to die elsewhere, in
the arms of a beautiful and enigmatic female - she wanted to come to death,
to come in her brain while her body was devoured by orgasm.

   She had no respect for her mother.  Martha was a common prostitute with
Philistine pretensions, and the bourgeois phases were hard on Jerry until
she was old enough to ignore her.

   Martha gave birth to Jerry when she was fourteen, and had Christabel
three years later.  She was still fucking their grandfather then, but he
wasn't interested in very young girls, except as spectators.  Jerry's
earliest memories were of her mom begging granddad to fuck her in the ass.
These scenes made a lasting impression, and Jerry was resolutely anal.

   Granddad had had a vasectomy, and wasn't their father.  No one knew who
actually was - they weren't conceived during a moral phase.  Martha's
father died when Jerry was five, and soon afterwards her mother married
Jake Leduc.

   Jake took them to New Orleans.  He was wealthy and had good taste;
Martha at nineteen was a knockout, with shoulder-length chestnut hair,
Christabel's glassy blue eyes and the strong, small-breasted body of a
ballerina.  Jake was a monogamist, and was after Martha's masochism.  He
got her pregnant, tied her to the bed and tortured her until she had a
miscarriage.  Then he committed suicide.

   Martha blew the money he left her on drugs and started selling her body
again, but married Howard Larch when Jerry was seven.  Howard was in his
late sixties, was astoundingly wealthy, sported silver whiskers, and
treated the girls as strictly as if they were being raised in a previous
century.  He was faithful to Martha, whatever that means for an impotent
man, but liked to be surrounded by lovely young women.

   The loveliest was Laure Meyrink, Jerry's piano teacher.  Nineteen, with
white blond hair in a long, thick braid, skin like the softest feathers of
a young flamingo and peridot eyes, piano fingers, a tall, athletic body and
a penchant for dressing like a fin-de-siècle schoolgirl, Laure never smiled
and radiated an austere, asexual and icy virginity.

   Daddy dropped Jerry off at Laure's studio in the Garden District.  Her
first lesson had hardly begun when Laure ordered her to stand and put her
hands on the keyboard, lifted her skirt and slowly slid her cotton panties
down around her thighs.

   The seven-year-old held her breath as her teacher caressed her buttocks,
then gently slapped them.  It was as if she had expected it somehow, though
Laure was definitely one of the women she couldn't understand.

   "Take off your clothes, please," Laure whispered.

   Trembling, Jerry obeyed, somehow intuiting that undressing would be far
more erotic if she didn't turn around and knowing that what was going to
happen had to do with her anus.  When she was utterly naked she climbed
onto the piano bench and crouched low, her little feet hanging over the
edge, and put her head down against the keys of the piano, her right cheek
making the only sound other than their rapid breathing and the whisper of
Laure's clothing falling to the floor.

   She felt the wet tip of her teacher's tongue touch her anus and tried
not to moan.  Laure licked the little opening for a long time, and Jerry
felt her slit dampen.

   "I want you to relax, Geraldine, no matter what I do...  Now I'm going
to moisten my finger in my cunt," Laure whispered.  "And then put it in
you."

   Shivering, Jerry moaned in anticipation.  Laure teased her anus with her
fingertip, and the pleasure and anticipation were unbearable.  It was the
woman's middle finger, and finally she slid it into Jerry's rectum.  She
could hear Laure masturbating with the fingers of her other hand, and
tentatively touched herself for the first time.

   Laure's finger slid in and out of her tight anus as Jerry carefully
stroked her little slit and throttled herself, and suddenly the
seven-year-old came, shuddering and almost falling from the wooden bench.

   Laure slapped her, lightly, her cunny, then told her to lie down on the
bench, on her back.  The teacher's legs were long enough to straddle her
like that.  Jerry stared up at her.  The blonde's breasts were the size of
whole lemons, with stiff little nipples no bigger than a boy's.  Her cunt
was clean-shaven, the pink gash deceptively virginal.  She had unbraided
her hair and her face was flushed.  Her green eyes were tormented and
flashed with an inhuman cruelty.

   Laure let Jerry suck the dirty finger and lick her slit, then urinated
in her mouth, hissing.  The child choked and struggled.  Laure held her by
the hair and rubbed her slimehole against her face, came, released her, and
left the room.

   Jerry wept, her still tender mind trying to process the overstimulation
and sudden degradation.

   After twenty minutes or so her teacher returned, dressed in white
stockings, a dark blue skirt, and a cream blouse.  Her luminous hair was
once again in a tight braid, and looked as though she had never even had a
sexual thought.  Laure told the girl to clean up the piss and go bathe. 
Jerry just lay there, nude, weeping.

   "Do as I say or it won't happen again."

   Sobbing, Jerry did as she was told, and after she washed and dressed
they continued with her lesson.  Laure forced her to concentrate, and it
was only shortly before her student's father was due to arrive that Laure
spoke of what she had done to her.

   "Your mother is a prostitute?"

   "Yeah," Jerry answered.

   "Say 'yes,' never yeah," Laure said sternly.  "Slang doesn't become
you."

   "Yes," Jerry said.

   "You have a remarkable body.  I enjoyed doing that to you."

   "Yes."

   "I'd like you to practice with your finger.  Relax your anus, and then
grip it.  Grip and relax.  Understand?"

   "Yeah...  yes."

   "You want to keep that little muscle tight, especially if you begin at
your age."

   "Yes."

   "And I'd like you to drink your own urine...  and play with your vagina
while you do.  I want you to get to like that."

   "Yes."

   "Good girl," Laure said, and kissed her, using her tongue.

   They broke the kiss only when Howard Larch came to pick up his
stepdaughter.  Laure told him that Geraldine - she always called her by her
that, never Jerry - was a promising pupil and that she would like to give
three three-hour lessons a week.  Jerry's daddy agreed, pleased, basking in
the radiance of the teacher's icy virginity.

   --------------------------------------



   "I WILL CUT OUT MY HEART TAKE IT INTO MY HANDS AND WALK TOWARDS THE SUN
WITHOUT STOPPING UNTIL I FALL DOWN DEAD."

   "I want your body.  I want your mind.  I want your soul."

   Theophilus Anfang gazed upon the girl to whom he had given succor for
the space of two years, and at the woman he now wanted, sprung like
Aphrodite from Liz's little head.

   "Her...  girl...  with her...  her stiffy...  she...  she has a... 
big...  boner, her...  her nasty hole nobody...  wants to put it in,
they... use her botty and she...  she needs it in her nasty hole."

   It was a fugue.  Theophilus watched as Debbie began to caress the child.
Liz was scared shitless.  Theophilus looked into the mirror and saw
Debbie's eyes.  They were the eyes of a wingèd savage about to leap into
the abyss.



   -----------------------------------------

   DADDY A Story by Deborah Montgomery



   Laure Meyrink grew up in old money, spoiled and solitary.  Her mother
was French, from Le Havre, but they were estranged from her side of the
family.  Laure was not told why, but when she was thirteen there was
something of a rapprochement with the Gautiers and her cousin came to spend
the summer with them in the Garden District.

   A brunette, big-boned but underweight, with pert, B-cup breasts,
freckles, and dark hair on her pale arms, Giselle Gautier was not a girl
that Laure would have considered beautiful.  But there was something
intensely erotic and perhaps even perverse about her fifteen-year-old
cousin - in her mischievous gray eyes, in the awkward movements of her long
limbs, in the way she often licked her sensual lips and in the fearful,
submissive look that came to her face whenever Laure's father glanced at
her.

   Karl Meyrink gazed at Giselle often when they had lunch at Commander's
Palace, upon her arrival.  Laure noticed that her mother grew increasingly
nervous and melancholy, and then she saw that her cousin had taken off her
shoe and was touching her father's ankle with her white, stockinged foot.

   Laure had only rarely had erotic thoughts until that moment, formless
imaginings when she was half asleep, and the thirteen-year-old had barely
begun to masturbate.  She hadn't even menstruated yet, and the infrequent
sexual feelings in her body confused her and always came accompanied by a
terrifying and poisonous guilt.

   That night, after her cousin had gone to sleep in the guest room, Laure
locked herself in her bedroom and undressed before the tall mirror of
Venetian glass, studying her still almost hairless pubis, coltish legs and
the tiny buds that had begun to grow on her ribby chest.  She was very
worried about her late development.  Lanky and graceful, Laure knew that
she was dangerously beautiful.  Her hair alone turned heads, and the
peridot eyes set in her pink complexion were bewitching even to her.

   She couldn't believe that Giselle had done that to her father, and in
front of Babette, her...  her mother...  Laure saw again the pale,
stockinged foot against her father's hairy ankle, the sick, submissive look
in her cousin's dirty gray eyes...

   Laure lay down in her four-poster bed and diddled her slit, slowly,
touching her soft nipples and quietly moaning as guilt and shame seeped
into her languid body.  She imagined her father in his swim trunks, and
Giselle's feet, bare, as white as plain yogurt, her little toenails as pink
as a newborn pig, gently rubbing his crotch, her cousin's face like a
molested child's, like Katie's...

   Katie was a twelve-year-old who lived in an apartment building down the
block.  Laure wasn't allowed to play with lower class kids, but she
sometimes did.  Katie had auburn hair and was very pretty, except that she
was strange...  that way.  Laure was afraid of Katie's father, and whenever
he appeared, Katie's...  Katie's sexy little body tensed, and her furtive,
wild, blue-gray eyes took on the same look that Giselle's had, as if she...
she was being forced...  to do something...

   Laure envisioned Katie watching Giselle...  her feet...  and Laure's
father...  took his...  his penis...  and Laure put her arms around Katie,
from behind, and whispered: 'You do this for your daddy, don't you, Katie?'
and Katie got all tense and...

   Laure came, guilt flooding her with the orgasm.  She lay still, then, a
tear trickling down her rosy cheek.  o Laure rose, put on her robe, and
went to go pee - but she heard voices from her parent's bedroom and froze
outside the door.

   "...think about your daughter..." Her mother was crying.

   "I haven't done anything to Laure."

   "She-she...  I should never have written to...  them..."

   "It's your family, Babette.  It's time you came to terms with..."

   "Are you insane?  They _raped_ me!"

   "They didn't rape you.  You wanted it.  I've met your father and..."

   "I'll leave!  If you dare touch my niece again, I'll leave!"

   "Leave, then," her father said angrily.

   And then Laure's father stormed out of the bedroom and slammed the door.
He towered over his daughter, flushed with fury, then closed his eyes and
breathed deeply.  Laure felt half-naked in her white silk robe, frightened,
totally confused.  Karl Meyrink was dressed in a red robe, his tanned,
chiseled face glowing darkly under his tousled silver hair.

   He opened his lupine eyes and looked at her apologetically.  Laure was
petrified...  she...  she didn't want to walk away, somehow.

   He put his finger to his lips and led Laure to her bedroom.  She felt a
mixture of horror and...  anticipation.  She knew that he wouldn't hurt
her. They weren't very close - he was a busy man, and both sides of the
family were bred in a sort of respectful distance - but she loved her
father, and knew that he loved her.

   Karl was fifty-five then.  He had married Babette when she was eighteen
- he had been thirty-two.  He was an imposing figure, distinguished,
well-educated, and disturbingly handsome.

   He sat down in an oaken chair at the foot of his daughter's four-poster
bed and Laure nervously climbed into the rumpled white satin of her
adolescent romantic lair.  He had bought her the bed.  He bought her
everything she asked for, over the objections of her mother.

   "I think it's time you and I had a serious talk," he said.  His voice
was refined and...  sexy, low.

   Laure wondered if he could...  smell...  what she'd been doing.  She sat
so that her coltish legs and flawless, aristocratic feet were visible... 
and he...  he looked at them, but not into her eyes.

   "I'm going to be very honest with you, Laure, and I know that some of
what I have to say will be...  disturbing.  But you're...  you're an adult,
now, I think, and you...  you know that I love you."

   "I love you, too," Laure said.

   "I know you do...  and I know that you respect me, as I respect you.  I
respect you enough to tell you the truth.  I'd like you to promise that you
won't tell your mother about our conversation."

   Laure promised.  She suddenly didn't care about her mother.  She cared
about him, about the way he was looking at her, the way he made her feel.
Laure stretched out on the cool sheets, letting her robe fall open
slightly.

   "I made a mistake, marrying Babette," her father said slowly, looking
away.  Laure wished he wouldn't look away.  "Except that she...  made you."
He sighed, then continued.  "I first met your mother when she was your age,
five years before our wedding...  the mistake.  When your mother was
thirteen, she...  she was like your cousin, Giselle.  I...  I knew her
family because...  because whenever I was in France, I would visit them
to...  to meet young girls."

   "What do you mean?"

   "I mean I was - I am - sexually attracted to pubescent girls."

   Laure's mind reeled.  _She_ was...  in puberty, and...  and he was
telling her this - why?  She felt...  warm...  upset...  Laure shifted
uncomfortably, aware of her body...  her...  her beauty.

   Her father looked at her, and the thirteen-year-old felt as though she
were being smothered, but simultaneously Laure had a strong urge to... 
expose herself to him, her...  her body, her...  hole, her wet little hole.
It was out in the open now, his secret, and the way he sometimes looked at
her...  he was looking at her like that now.  She couldn't breathe.

   "Lie down on your back," he whispered.  "Close your eyes."

   Laure did so, still holding her breath.  She felt her father climb into
bed with her.  He untied the belt of her white silk robe and opened it. 
Laure clutched the sheets, as stiff as a corpse, the color draining from
her body.

   She shivered as he began to touch her, her chest, her tummy, her budding
breasts.  She felt like a doll, an abandoned doll stuffed with rags that
had been soaked in some somniferous poison, her cunny drenched, raw.  He
fingered her nipples and stroked her very gently, her lower belly and her
thighs.

   "Spread you legs, Laure," her father whispered.  "Spread your legs for
me."

   Laure started to sob and opened her trembling legs.  She couldn't
believe he was doing this to her...  and she was...  letting him...

   "Shhhhhh...  good girl.  You're all wet for your daddy, aren't you? 
You're wet for your daddy's cock."

   He wasn't touching her anymore, but she could feel him looking at her
genitals.

   "Daddy's going to fuck you, Laure.  Daddy's going to put his cock in
your wet little pussy hole.  Get up.  Get up, Laure."

   The poison doll sat up, sobbing, not looking at her father.  She felt
like a flooded house swarming with marauders, brutes, malevolent boatmen,
each of them with her father's mask-like face tied to their faceless,
hollow heads, and there were two of her, both naked, one fleeing and the
other lying there and waiting for...  for his penis.

   "Come here," Karl said.  She didn't recognize his voice anymore.

   He took off her robe and led her to the tall mirror of Venetian glass
and stood behind her, looming like an evil shadow.  He was nude.  She had
trouble standing.  She put her hands on the massive frame of the mirror to
steady herself.

   "Look at yourself, Laure.  You're two different people now, aren't you?
Kiss yourself, Laure."

   She shivered, then touched her lips to their reflection.  Tears of
humiliation streamed from her frightened green eyes.

   "The other Laure will be waiting for you.  This Laure is a whore.  My
whore.  I'm going to teach you to be two people, Laure.  The ice cold
virgin you pretend to be and an insane, insatiable, inhuman whore.  Do you
understand?"

   Laure's long, adolescent legs turned to water and her father grasped her
hips firmly as she lost control of her bladder and warm urine trickled down
her thigh.  She felt his hard cock against the small of her back.

   "You're beautiful like this, Laure," he whispered.  "Look at yourself."

   He turned her sideways and put her hands on his erection, then turned
her face toward the mirror.  She saw her lewd pose through a veil of tears,
her immature, defenseless body beside her father's strong, bronzed form,
her trembling hands wrapped around the massive shaft of his uncircumcised
penis, her pink, delicate feet in a puddle of urine.

   "Kiss yourself some more, Laure."

   Crying, she let go of his penis and pressed her lips to the cold glass,
clutching the frame.

   "Not like that.  Like a whore, Laure.  Use your tongue and pay attention
to what you look like.  Wiggle your ass.  You want your father to fuck you
in the ass.  That's it...  yes...  that's very sexy, Laure...  yes...  look
at me over your shoulder...  good girl...  now touch your crack...  good
girl...  good, baby...  stick out your tongue...  mmh-hmm...  come on,
Laure, seduce me...  seduce your daddy..."

   Laure felt as though the poison rags had caught fire in the flooded
house, and the oily surface of the water was in flames...  but the boatmen
didn't burn, she did, both of her did, the urine stinging her cunt and the
tender skin of her thighs.

   She stared unseeing over her shoulder and wiggled her bottom, holding on
to the frame of the mirror with one hand, caressing her buttocks and
fingering her anus with the other.  Tears of shame and despair flowed from
her peridot eyes and nausea rose in her dry throat.

   "Okay, now dance around the room, Laure.  Fuck-dance.  You need your
daddy to put his cock in you.  You need to turn him on.  You need to show
him that you're not his little girl anymore, that you need cock.  Show him,
Laure.  Show him what a whore you are.  Show him."

   Her body seemed unbearably heavy, like a cluster of old lead letters
sinking in ink and lunar caustic, as if everything they had ever said to
each other was dead.  This was her father, glaring like a rapacious
gondolier at her shame and humiliation, and this was all he had ever wanted
of her, to demean her, to spoil her soul, to squeeze it from her body like
shit.

   "You can do anything, Laure.  Lie down on the floor...  or use your bed,
Laure, make love to the poles...  you wanted that bed, baby...  I thought
about fucking you when I bought it for you...  I think about fucking you
all the time.  I want to fuck you, kid.  I want to make you pregnant. 
Dance for me, Laure.  Dance for daddy."

   Laure felt as though she was being buried alive.  He lifted her into the
bed and put her hands on one of the oaken poles that held the canopy.  He
made her slide her hands up and down on the smooth dark wood, stroking it,
then moved her knees apart and touched her slit.  It was as if he was
fingering the trunk of her nerves, rubbing salt into a wound.  She cried
out, and her father covered her mouth with his hand.

   "Shut up, whore.  Shut up or I'll stop."

   Laure vomited, her puke splashing against the parquet floor.  Her father
backed away, put on his robe, and started walking to the door.

   "No...  d-don't...  don't leave me..."

   She was as cold as death, her entire body slick with sweat.  He threw
done his robe and looked at her.  Laure rubbed the pole and wept, vomit
dripping from her chin.

   "Go look at yourself, you pathetic whore."

   Laure struggled to her feet and staggered to the mirror, crying.  He
stood behind her again.

   "Kiss yourself, Laure." She did.

   She felt like a douche-bag, and stopped crying.  She couldn't cry
anymore.  Why hadn't her mother heard?  Was her mother gone?  Mommy...

   "This is what Babette was like when I married her," her father said
quietly.  "Her father started using her when she was seven.  She liked it,
Laure.  He made her like it.  By the time she was your age, when I met her,
she was a depraved slut.  Her vocabulary consisted of 'put it in me, put it
in my mouth, in my ass, my cunt.' She even had sex with dogs.  I buttfucked
her while she sucked their dicks."

   Karl picked up his robe and took out a pack of Dunhills, lit one, and
sat down on the bed.

   "But she started feeling guilty about it...  like you feel right now, my
precious daughter.  I married her because I admired her depravity and
because I wanted a baby girl.  But when she had you - she'd had babies
before, but they were her father's - Babette changed.  She wanted you to
grow up differently.  And I approved - that way, you'll split in two, like
I'm doing to you now.  Laure, virgo intacta, and Laure the daddy-fucking
whore."

   He ashed on the floor.  "I don't want you to end up like her.  You're
far too beautiful.  I want you to be both a tormented slut and the kind of
daughter my associates envy - brilliant, arrogant, talented...  prefect,
Laure.  I want you to be perfect.  I want men to drop dead when you look at
them.  Understand?"

   Laure nodded, bewildered, her back to the mirror.

   "Now clean up the mess you made and take a shower.  And I'd like you to
shave your pussy from now on."

   He put on his robe and left.  Laure was all cried out.  She put on her
white silk robe and went to fetch a bucket and rags from the hall closet.
Her mother hadn't left - she was crying like a little girl, and Laure could
hear her father spank her.

   Laure wiped her urine and vomit from the floor and went to shower. 
Piercing screams emanated from her parents' bedroom, muffled by the heavy
door.

   Laure's brain felt broken, and her body seemed strange, a stranger's. 
She cut herself, shaving her slight pubic hair, and thought about suicide.
When she emerged from the bathroom, her father called out to her.  She
wasn't allowed in her parents' bedroom, and entered with trepidation. 
Laure almost fainted when she opened the door.

   Babette Meyrink, was thirty-two years old, the age Karl had been when he
married her.

   Laure's mother's small breasts were pierced with thick gold rings, her
nipples the hue of blood oranges.  Wires tied to the rings ran to iron
hooks in the ceiling, and Babette's quivering, girlish legs were spread,
the skinny ankles cuffed to the floor.  She stood on her tip-toes,
shuddering.  Her wrists were bound behind her back.

   Laure had never seen her mother naked before.  Babette had shit herself,
and her youthful body was dripping with sweat.  She was sickeningly pale,
and her taut, agonized body seemed almost tubercular.  Her hairless cunt
was wet, the labia pierced with six gold rings.

   Giselle, her fifteen-year-old cousin, was sucking Karl's penis.  Babette
was staring at them, and didn't even notice her daughter, as if she was in
a dream.  It was a nightmare.

   Giselle was naked.  She had the weak, awkward body of a lanky little
boy, but her pert titties were succulent, with sore, swollen nipples the
size of large Greek olives.  She was on her knees, and the milky skin of
her back and boyish buttocks was...  inviting, like the soft, vulnerable
body of a very young girl.

   Giselle whimpered as she stroked and licked and sucked the
fifty-five-year-old's prick, and under her horror Laure felt a pang of
jealousy that was suddenly transmuted into a perverse and submissive state
of arousal that sickened her.

   Laure looked at her mother and saw a woman she had never seem before. 
Babette was visibly in pain, but it was just as obvious that she _wanted_
to be, that watching her niece service her husband both horrified and
aroused her, as it did her still innocent daughter...  her mother's eyes,
green, like Laure's, were the depraved, ravenous, morbid eyes of a pitiful
masochist, and the ghostly pallor of her tense, leaky, abused body was a
sadist's living god, as if her skin was the white flag of some unknown and
impossibly distant land.

   No one spoke, and Laure stood unsteadily and gazed at Giselle as the
fifteen-year-old played with the man's testicles and slurped noisily at his
stiff penis.  _The man's._ Was this her father?

   Suddenly her cousin stood and came toward her.  Laure was petrified. 
Giselle's gray eyes held the same unnatural light as her mother's.  Her
freckles were like black grain cast onto the bare underbelly of some
slender sea creature, and drool dribbled from her chin.

   "Viens, ma cousine," she whispered.  "Come make love to your papa."
_Puh-pah_, she said.

   When Laure didn't move, Giselle kissed her on the lips.  The
fifteen-year-old had a strong, sour smell, and her mouth had a strange
taste, slightly bitter.  Giselle slid her tongue into Laure's mouth and
removed her robe, then rubbed against her, fondling her buttocks, her hands
slimy and unpleasantly cool.

   "Feel my cunt," Giselle whispered in her strong Norman accent.  "Feel
it."

   Giselle guided her cousin's trembling fingers to her snatch.  It was
soaking wet, bald and slippery.  Giselle licked her ear.

   "Feel it, baby," she whispered.  "Stick your finger in.  Come on.  Stick
it in my cunt."

   Laure was masturbating her cousin.  She pushed her middle finger into
the teenager's pussy hole.  It was surprisingly tight.

   "Oui...  yessss...  come on, cousine...  come..."

   Giselle led Laure to her parents' bed.  Her mother moaned.  Laure saw
that Babette's bony back and buttocks bore the marks of a severe whipping.

   Laure climbed into the bed, trying to keep calm.  She couldn't.  She
felt like she was being peeled.  Her father slowly approached, and Babette
began to cry - because she couldn't see her daughter get raped?

   "Your daddy's going to fuck you now," her father said quietly.  He put
her hands on the brass bar of the headboard, his cock slapping her tightly
closed thighs as he bent over her.  "Hold on, darling...  this is going to
hurt."

   Giselle caressed her, her tiny titties.  Laure clutched the bar.  Her
father pried her legs apart and spread them.  She stared at him, shocked.

   Then the pain tore through her, as if he was shoving a torch into her
womb.  He gripped her thighs and forced his prick into her hole, hard,
hitting her cervix and fucking her, ripping her little vagina open with
swift, deep thrusts, stuffing his penis into her uterus, hurting her,
brutally raping her barely pubescent body as if she was one of the street
kidshe hunted down in the Quarter.

   Laure howled in pain, jerking like a tortured urchin, still clinging to
the brass bar, and then her father took hold of her ankles and started to
stab at her tiny pink anus with the head of his cock.

   Giselle helped him, stroking him, guiding his penis into the screaming
girl's virgin rectum.  Laure struggled, letting go of the bar and flailing
her arms.  Grunting, her father forced himself deep into the bleeding hole,
fucking it, getting the entire eight and a half inches into her intestine
and rocking her body, twisting his cock in her bottom.

   "Now your mouth," he growled, pulling his penis from her anus.

   Laure was vomiting, writhing like a poisoned rat.  Giselle gently
shifted her, bringing her face to his filthy shaft.

   "Suck it," her cousin hissed.  "Suck your daddy."

   "Suck," he ordered.  "Suck it, slut."

   Choking on her vomit, Laure opened her mouth and her father forced his
prick in against the back of her throat and ejaculated.  She gagged and
gurgled, drowning, and then he let her go.

   Her father's semen and clotted puke spilled from her mouth to her
parents' pink silk sheets.  Laure collapsed, delirious, and only felt her
body again hours later, in her own room, alone.

   It hurt so much that she couldn't think, and she saw nothing except
vivid images of his erect penis smeared with her feces and blood.  Of her
mother's stretched nipples attached to the ceiling, her striped back, her
skinny ass.  Giselle's smell was in her nostrils, and her cousin's demented
eyes fixed her like an insect.

   Laure drifted in and out of nightmares and physical pain until dawn
seeped through the gauzy curtains of her bedroom.  Her father was standing
by her bed, naked.

   "Noooooooooooooooooooo!"

   "Yes, darling," he said softly, and then he was inside her again, in her
burning snatch, sawing in and out of her, telling her to rock her hips,
hurting her, her hole, ravishing what was left of her soul...

   ------------------------------

   "I want your body.  I want your mind.  I want your soul."

   A fugue - Theophilus studied Debbie as she began to caress the child. 
Liz was scared, straining at the wires tied tightly around her skinny
wrists and ankles, rocking her narrow hips.  Theophilus stared into the
mirror.  Debbie's eyes were those of a wingèd savage about to leap into the
abyss.

   He imagined the window washers arriving on the other side of the mirror,
gazing at the gaunt girl stroking the scarred stomach of his child-wife.

   To Debbie, the terrified body bound to the big bed was one of her own.
Debbie had at least four bodies - her mouth-body, the hole that kissed and
drank and puked and sucked; the pee-pee-body, her little girl-penis, the
tiny stalk that stiffened when the pretty little peehole she drank from
hurt; her cunny-body, the lonely fuckhole she would soon be able to have
babies in; and her botty-body, where it hurt the most and she needed it the
most.

   The thing in the mirror wasn't a body; it was Debbie, it had no body, it
was waited outside hotels for someone to hurt its bodies and take care of
her, like the man did when he put the bottle in her cunny.

   Debbie liked the man who had tied up the sick girl and was watching her.
He wanted her.  He would take care of her, like he took care of the sick
girl he tied up.  She wanted to be taken care of like that.  She wiggled
her bottom so he would want her more.

   Debbie liked the little girl.  She liked how scared and soft it was. 
She touched its cunny.  The man put his arm around Debbie and showed her
how to hurt the sick girl's peehole.

   The girl started to cry and the man stuffed Debbie's underwear into its
mouth.  He was so nice.  He didn't care about the sick girl anymore, he
cared about her.  He even played with her little girl-penis for her.  She
gave him a sexy look and stuck her hand in her cunny hole.



   -----------------------------------

   DEBORAH MONTGOMERY A Story by Deborah Montgomery



   Theophilus Anfang took his child-wife Elizabeth out to Tujague's for her
thirteenth birthday, though he knew she would purge after the splendid
meal, like the good girl she was.  She sneaked sips of his wine and stared
around the restaurant, eyeing men.  And then his child-wife's wild eyes
alighted on Deborah Montgomery.

   The twelve-year-old beauty wore a sleeveless dress of dark blue silk
with intricate black embroidery, her long hair, darker than roasted
chestnuts, worn in tiny braids, with a few white rosebuds woven into the
fantastic tresses.  She had left her dress unbuttoned to draw attention to
her sexy little titties.  They're almost ripe and pretty soon she'll be
able to get knocked up all the time and hurt-come with her milky little
titties and her whore baby.

   The sloe-eyed slave-girl had hidden the nasty bruises on her wrists and
upper arms with make-up.  They were from a john who makes her hurt-come
slamming her against the wall and kneeing her in the stomach and when she
gets his baby he can do that too.

   The garnet choke she wore around her slender neck looked like a slash.
Theophilus liked that because he likes to strangle his child-wife and
Deborah wants to be strangled too.

   She binged on crawfish etouffé.  She throws up after dinner like a good
girl, and lately it seemed like there was very little difference between
eating and puking.  Like with all of her holes, things go out of her throat
as often as they go in.

   The man who looked old enough to be her father kept whispering to her
about what he was going to do her after dinner, and Deborah was excited...

   -------------------------------------



   I finished the vodka and did another couple of lines of coke, watching
Debbie molest Liz.  The bedroom was blurry.

   I had never been in the presence of such absence.  Debbie was holier
than Swiss cheese, and I felt as though I were disappearing into the nutty
grottoes of her pallid form or formlessness - it was like being in the same
room with the moon.

   She caressed the child and hurt its urethra for hours while I wandered
through the house, looking for more alcohol.  Finding a bottle of mezcal,
nearly full, I sat in the chair by the foot of the bed and watched her
work.



   -------------------------------------

   THE MAN A Story by Deborah Montgomery



   I suspect that Ann knew that I had fallen sexually in love with her from
the moment I first saw her -coming through customs in the chrome
wheelchair, her sad blue eyes searching the faces of those awaiting
unfamiliar passengers, reading the welcome signs that some held.  It was a
week before her thirteenth birthday, and a stewardess accompanied her with
two suitcases containing my niece's belongings.

   She was paralyzed from the waist down, her parents had perished in the
accident, and she had only just begun to recover psychologically.  Her
chestnut hair was in bangs, her arms bare.  Her eyes were limpid and
unutterably cold, her delicate skin like water lilies, blush.  She wore a
dark blue dress, black herringbone stockings and patent leather shoes on
her useless legs, amethyst earrings and a large amethyst teardrop dangling
from a black velvet rope around her slender neck.  She was quite tall for
her age, and could have passed for an adult.  Ann's body and expression
reminded me of the women depicted by Delvaux - statuesque, wide-eyed
somnambulists wandering naked through abandoned temples and melancholy
train stations, lost, lonely, seemingly immortal and without the company of
men.

   She didn't look at all like my estranged sister, and I had never met
Ann's father.  It was the girl's other uncle, my unknown brother-in-law's
brother, who had contacted me after the accident.  He was dirt poor and
couldn't possibly take care of Ann.  I was wealthy and had no commitments.
Never having married, I had no experience with children at all and dreaded
the orphan's arrival.  Any dread disappeared as soon as I laid eyes on her,
replaced by a morbid fear of my own lust.

   I had reason to be afraid, and the erection I got when I lifted Ann from
the wheelchair and put her in my bright red Miata confirmed this.  My
conversion to hebephilia had been gradual - I had liked small-breasted,
youthful women as long as I could remember, and had had several
relationships with such creatures since I lost my virginity in college,
between long periods of morose celibacy.  These affairs ended quickly
because I am solitary and neurotic by nature, if neuroses can be considered
natural.  My last such emotional entanglement was seven years ago, when I
was thirty-one, and since then I have sought sex, pure sex, with pubescent
girls.

   My last real affair or emotional attachment - an impurity - was in 1992.
I was hanging out in a peculiarly scuzzy bar in Roscoe Village, the Four
Treys.  A psychotic nineteen-year-old DePaul student, Carol, had begun to
annoy me, and I was on the lookout for another waif.  Instead, I met Vadim.

   I had never been seriously attracted to a boy, but got a hard-on as soon
as this one sat down next to me.  It was August, and Chicago was unbearably
hot and humid.  Vadim was sixteen years old, blond, blue-eyed, scared, and
could easily have been mistaken for a pubescent tomboy, with long
eyelashes, girlish but sensual lips, and a languid, feminine body.  The
bartender told him to get lost.  I downed my whiskey and followed him into
Damen Avenue.

   He blushed when I asked him if he wanted to come home with me.  We took
a taxi to Lakeview - I don't drive when I'm drinking.  Vadim was like a
very nervous young girl only dimly aware that she's already a prostitute,
still clinging to the shreds of her innocence.  I poured us a pair of
generous shots of bourbon and invited him to sit next to me on the massive
leather sofa that dominated the living room.  He was suitably impressed by
my house - furnishing it with antiques, filling it with books, and
decorating it with paintings had been my primary occupation during those
periods of celibacy I have already mentioned.

   Vadim was dressed in tight cut-offs, a white tank top, and Birkenstocks.
It was strange, chatting.  I mean, he knew I had invited him over to fuck
him.  He drank suicidally.  I did, too - I was as nervous as he was.  He
had come to America from Leningrad only two years before.  His father was a
shady businessman, his mother a housewife.  They had thrown him into the
street when they learned he was gay.  He was living with a man in Lakeview,
but was likely to be tossed out soon.

   I drank my fifth shot and kissed him on the lips.  He kissed back shyly
and kicked off his sandals.  I asked him if he wanted to go to the bedroom.
He nodded.

   Vadim was on the verge of tears.  I began to regret the entire sordid
event until he stripped.  Except for his stiff little penis, he had the
hairless body of a twelve-year-old girl, and a delicate one at that.  From
his soft little feet to his bony hips and tender, erect nipples, Vadim was
very nearly a hermaphrodite.

   I sighed and went to the bathroom for the KY jelly I had bought for
Carol's skinny little ass.  Vadim was sobbing like a virgin, but his
five-inch prick was fully erect.  I handed him the tube of jelly, made him
get on his hands and knees, and told him to grease his asshole. 
Whimpering, the boy lubricated his tiny pink anus.  I put some KY on my
cock and slowly slid my seven-inch shaft into the kid's rectum.  It was
tight, and the sweet little faggot writhed in pain, squealing and clutching
the yellow silk sheets.  I fondled his breasts and fucked him as gently as
I could, then forced him to suck me off.  He swallowed my semen and lay
down like an odalisque, silent.  Overcome by guilt, I went back to the
living room, poured myself some more bourbon, and lit a Chesterfield,
sinking into the sofa and thinking about sex - not pornographic thoughts
but aborted little meditations as useless as my niece's legs.

   When I returned to the bedroom, the boy had apparently just finished
masturbating and was licking the come from his hand.  He looked vulnerable,
childlike, hurt.  I stuck my tongue in his mouth and played with his little
penis, then sucked him, caressing his thighs and fingering his slimy anus,
stroking his tiny balls and pinching his nipples.  He reacted like a girl,
lying on his back with his legs spread and moaning softly.

   "Say 'fuck me,'" I whispered.

   "Fuck me," he whimpered.  "Please...  fuck me..."

   "'Fuck your little girl.'"

   "Fuck me...  fuck your little girl...  please...  fuck me..."

   He had a slight Russian accent.  He grasped his ankles.  I slid my cock
into his asshole again.  Vadim's eyes were utterly submissive, the blue of
a baby's.  He sucked his thumb and fingered his nipples while I slowly
fucked him in the ass.  I took hold of his skinny ankles and started
fucking him hard, watching him squirm like a sacrificial virgin.  His uncut
penis was as stiff as a frozen frank.  I found a fast rhythm, and after
maybe ten minutes he was wiggling and moaning like a beautiful young whore.
He touched his penis and ejaculated.  I climbed onto his chest and jerked
off.  He stuck out his tongue, and after a few strokes I spurted across his
eager face.

   I licked my come from his face and his semen from his slender torso,
kissed him, and asked him if he wanted a cigarette.  Vadim smiled and came
with me to the living room.  We smoked and made out, drinking more bourbon,
and fell asleep on the couch.

   When I woke, Vadim had already put on his clothes.  He was crying again.
I hugged him, and in a few minutes we were kissing passionately again.  He
sank to his knees and gave me a blow job, looking up at me like a desperate
little girl.  I came in his mouth.

   I had to piss, and I wanted him to drink it.  I had never done that to
anyone before, but the strange boy seemed to be the perfect pathetic
adolescent with whom to fulfill this fantasy.  He stared at me, and what I
was going to do dawned on him.  I didn't have to say anything.  He opened
his mouth.  I aimed, and Vadim drank, what he couldn't swallow soaking his
tank top and cut-offs.  He choked and doubled over, and I pissed into his
golden hair and onto his back.  Then I went to the kitchen to make coffee.

   I heard the shower, and reflected on the fact that he was probably
grateful for what I did - his clothes drenched with urine, he wouldn't have
to leave.  I knew already that he didn't want to leave.

   Vadim stayed.  Not only did he move in with me, he was devoted to me. 
For the first couple of weeks, I was glad to have him around.  Then I
realized that I went a little further each time I tortured him, and that
the activity was likely to take him in the grave and quite possibly land me
in prison.

   Exactly a month after I first saw him in the bar, I ordered him to
leave. I gave him five thousand dollars, resisted his kisses and pitiful
entreaties, and had the locks changed after his departure.

   A few days later, throwing away the things he had left behind, I found
the letters.  I wouldn't have looked at them - I couldn't read them because
they were in Russian - if some photographs in one of the envelopes hadn't
caught my attention.  Caught it like the plague.

   They were of a young woman.  Very young, but a woman.  Vadim had
mentioned that the only female he had ever had sex with was his cousin,
when she was twelve and he was fourteen.  That would have made her only
fourteen when in the pictures.  He had said that his cousin had become a
call girl, but Vera didn't look it.  She had the same blue eyes and
delicate features that Vadim possessed, but her hair was dark or dyed.  Her
body resembled her cousin's, but Vera lacked Vadim's fragility and didn't
look at all submissive.  Instead, she seemed self-centered, strong,
conceited, and dangerously sexual.

   I masturbated to Vera's photographs.  I considered hunting down Vadim
and flying to Leningrad, which had reverted to St.  Petersburg by then.  I
even looked for the masochistic boy one night on Halsted Street.  I bought
a Russian dictionary and tried to decipher his cousin's letters.  Drunk, I
wrote her one of my own.

   I couldn't remember what I'd written to her when I signed for the
grayish air mail envelope with Cyrillic writing, a drawing of a bunch of
cornflowers, my name and address in the Latin alphabet, written in her
hand, and the little red sticker showing its registration.  I was as happy
as a high school kid who had just gotten his first date.  I put off opening
the envelope and went out for a bottle of champagne.  I bought two, skipped
back home, and slit it open.  Her writing was like a draftsman's, though I
later learned that most Eastern Europeans have amazing handwriting.  The
art has not atrophied, as it has here.





   Dear mr.  Hoek,

   Thank you for the writing to me.  My cousin not answer letters and I
begin to worry.  I am happy he is good and not with parents.

   I so happy you like pictures.  I try take more and send you.  I go red
when you invite me in letter.  I like.  I think you come visit here in
Peter.  If you come, you stay with me.

   I write more but my english not so good.

   love, Vera





   I stared at the word 'love' as if it were pregnant with meaning and
wondered what my drunken little brain had gushed to the girl.  I drank the
champagne, wrote another intoxicated letter, and after another few
overlapping exchanges of similar invitations and encouragements, found
myself on an Aeroflot plane bound through Sheremetyevo for St.  Petersburg.

   Something was rotten in the state of Russia.  The old regime had not
quite been swept away when its cretins crawled into the cream that formed a
listening film over a formidable abyss.  As arranged by letter, I took a
room at what was supposedly a luxury hotel and awaited my dream girl.

   Vera was late.  I was to learn that she was always late.  I paced the
room nervously, smoking a truly abysmal cigarette with a drawing of a coal
miner on it, and started the whiskey I had brought for her.  I wondered
what I was doing, flying halfway around the world to meet a
fourteen-year-old hooker who drank whiskey.

   But I wasn't disappointed.  She arrived halfway drunk, dressed in a
short leather skirt, black stockings, high heels, a black silk jacket and a
frilly black lace thing that left her slender midriff exposed and
accentuated her delectable little breasts.  She was slutty, but strangely
sophisticated, and acted a lot older than she was - and yet she looked even
younger than her fourteen years, twelve or thirteen.

   I poured her a whiskey, expecting to chat, but she downed it in one gulp
and tongue-kissed me.  She smelled like semen...  and it turned me on. 
Purring, she slid to the floor and deftly undid my pants, sucking me as she
stripped down to her stockings and garter.  Her skin was the color of brie,
her breasts not quite handfuls even for her little hands, soft and somehow
utterly whorish, like the rest of her.  It was like having sex with a blue
movie, cold and beautiful and unutterably heartless.

   "Lie down," she whispered with her heavy accent.  "Lie down...  I fuck
you."

   I lay back and Vera removed my pants and boxers, then mounted me,
guiding me into her shaved cunt, reaching behind her butt and stroking my
balls.  She wasn't tight, but not very loose, either.  Her stomach was
taut, muscular.  I caressed her buttocks and Vera fondled her breasts
showily.  I touched her anus.

   "Nyet..." She grabbed my wrist and took my hand away.

   "I'll pay you," I whispered.  "I want to fuck your ass."

   "No!" She was angry, and my cock began to wilt.  "I do not do this."

   "Okay...  get out then," I said.

   She gave me a hateful look, got off of me, and began to dress.  She was
gorgeous.  But I wasn't aroused by her anymore at all.  It wasn't
lovemaking, of course - she was a prostitute, and I was a client - but then
to find her so strangely limited...  I didn't even want her butt at that
point.

   "Sorry," I said.

   "Two hundred dollar," she said.  I gave her a pair of hundreds, and
another as a tip.  She gave me a cool smile.  "You want, I bring girl who
like it...  in ass."

   I poured us each a whiskey.  I had flown here for nothing.  I felt like
banging my head against the wall, but the walls looked like they would
collapse.

   "Young?"

   "As young as you want."

   "Not real young...  I mean, like you."

   "Okay," she said coldly.  "Tonight?"

   "Sure...  how much?"

   "Nice girl, three hundred, all night."

   I nodded.  She downed her whiskey and departed.  I felt evil and
uncommonly desperate.  I sipped whiskey and stared out the window, smoking
the nasty cigarettes, then lay down and napped, naked, until there was a
knock on the door.

   Vera had brought two girls and a jar of Russian petroleum jelly.  Both
girls were very pretty, miserable and apparently accustomed to their
misery. She asked me to pick one.  I chose both, and asked her to stay,
too. A thousand dollars, package deal.

   Yelena was thirteen, with long, light brown hair, blue-green eyes that
reminded me of ruined villages in a diorama about the scorched earth
policy, and a frail, undernourished body that nonetheless gave the
impression of weight, as if she had mercury running through her veins.  Her
skin was grayish but soft.  She spoke some English.  She was heavily
perfumed, with an undertone of urine.

   Galina was not quite twelve, flat-chested, with short, mahogany hair and
frightened gray eyes.  Tense and scrawny, with a sickly pallor, she started
to undress, unveiling wide hips and a slight pot belly, unless she was
pregnant.  There were bruises on her arms, and her slender buttocks were
covered with pimples.  Galina's cunny was bald and puffy.

   I asked Vera to undress and to undresss Yelena.  The thirteen-year-old's
breasts were perfect, like limes, with sore, tumescent nipples.  Her snatch
stank of urine and sperm, and there was actually semen dribbling from her
raw little slimehole.

   I kissed her, and Yelena stroked my hard-on, then touched it to her
dirty gash.  I told Vera to tell her to lie down and make Galina lick her
cunt.  The eleven-year-old obeyed, grimacing.  Yelena lay like a zombie,
staring at the ceiling.

   "Tell the little one to grease her and stick her hand in her snatch."

   Vera looked at me with distaste and translated what I had said.  Yelena
sighed, and Galina did as she was told, slowly, stretching the older girl's
cunt with her trembling fingers.  Yelena whimpered when she worked her hand
into the hole.  I turned the thirteen-year-old on her side.  Her anus was
the hue of hibiscus, and had obviously been penetrated often.  I lubricated
my penis and told Galina to take her hand out, then kissed Yelena's
asshole. She moaned in surprise and pleasure, drawing up her right leg and
putting her arms around it, sucking her knee.

   I fingered the filthy hole, and the girl squirmed wantonly.  She
shuddered when I stuffed my prick up it, then fucked back, moaning.  She
wasn't acting.  She enjoyed this.  I put one of her hands on her breast and
the other on her cunt, and Yelena played with herself while I reamed her
rectum.  It was surprisingly tight.  I put two fingers in her mouth and
fucked her deep while she sucked them.

   "Come," I hissed.  "Come, baby."

   Wide-eyed, frantic, she rubbed her slit and kneaded her titty, then
jerked violently for a few seconds, flushed, and wailed.

   I pulled my dick from her ass and grabbed Vera.

   "Suck it," I ordered.  "Suck my cock."

   "No!" She struggled.

   "Suck it, whore!"

   She scratched me and got away, grabbing my clothes and running to the
bathroom.  Galina was terrified.  I pinned her to the bed...  and Yelena
covered the eleven-year-old's face with a pillow.  The child kicked and
gave a series of muffled screams.  I grabbed her ankles and stabbed at her
bruised asshole.  It went in on the third try.  I fucked her brutally, then
yanked my cock from her.

   Yelena, wild-eyed, went down on me.  I grabbed her head, slammed my cock
against the back of her throat and ejaculated.  She went limp, then started
to choke.  I spurted several times, then let her go.

   I collapsed on the bed - and Yelena embraced me, coughing.  I held her,
and listened to Galina weep.  After a while Vera emerged from the bathroom,
dressed.  Her eyes were an ashen blue.  She poured herself a whiskey as I
began to kiss Yelena once more.

   Yelena climbed on top of me and pulled me into her cunt.  She fucked me
slowly, almost tenderly.  I came in her slippery vagina, and we drifted off
to sleep.

   Since then, I fly to St.  Petersburg every month or so.  I have fucked
perhaps two hundred underage girls since 1992.  Vera is twenty-one years
old now, married to a "businessman." Yelena died of AIDS two years ago, at
eighteen.  Galina vanished at fifteen.

   I am, surpisingly, still HIV-negative.  I speak passable Russian now,
and my trips there are the central motif of an indolent life.

   Driving my crippled niece to her new home, my spacious Lakeview
apartment, I wondered when I would have my next opportunity to visit my
favorites - Svetlana, a twelve-year-old brunette, and Sasha, a
thirteen-year-old blonde.  I had a new responsibility in Ann, and, being a
gentleman when not in Peter the Great's capital, I intended to take it
seriously.

   She stared straight ahead as I drove through in the heavy traffic on
Belmont.  I stared at her silhouette.  She had a weak chin, but was
otherwise of aristocratic appearance - high cheekbones and forehead, a
serious little mouth, deep-set, melancholy eyes, an aquiline nose.

   "Have you been out of London before?"

   "Yes," she said quietly.  "France, Italy...  and around England. 
Scotland, too."

   "I don't know if you'll like Chicago."

   "It's ugly."

   "Most of it...  there are some nice places.  I'll take you there."

   Tears welled up in her stunning blue eyes.  "You don't have to take me
anywhere."

   "I want to." She looked away.  I turned down Broadway and into my street
and found a parking space.  "I'll carry you up, and bring your things and
the wheelchair later."

   I got a hard-on again, carrying her.  I guess it was her vulnerability
and the fact that she was the age I'm into but not a whore.  I wondered if
her vagina...  functioned.  I put her in the plum-colored velvet couch and
offered her some juice.

   "May I have some wine?"

   "Did your parents let you drink...  wine?"

   "If I say yes, you'll think I'm lying." She gave me a hard look.  I
opened a bottle of Shiraz and poured us each a glass.

   "Are you tired?"

   "No...  I'd like to take a bath."

   I nodded and went to fill the tub, imagining her nude, then carried her
to the bathroom.  I was horribly aroused by her...  by her helplessness.  I
very nearly offered to undress her.

   "Can you manage?"

   "Yes...  thanks." She was as gloomy as a dark, wet washrag drying on a
desolate mountain.  "Leave me alone."

   While she bathed, I carried her things upstairs and put them in what
would be her room.  After perhaps half an hour, she called out my name.

   "Mister Hoek!"

   I went to the bathroom.  She was sitting on the edge of the tub, her
long legs extended.  She hadn't dressed, but wrapped herself in a big white
towel.  I got a raging hard-on...  and she saw it.  Fear seeped into her
fine features, and her eyes were flooded with a strange sadness.

   "You can call me Jeremy," I whispered.  She was trembling.  "Have you
been molested, Ann?"

   She clutched the towel to her damp body and started to cry.  I ran my
fingers through her hair, then touched her lips.  Sobbing, she opened her
mouth and sucked my middle and index fingers, tears streaming down her
face. I stuck my fingers deep into her mouth, then withdrew them and opened
her tense fingers, pulling the towel away.

   Bawling, she covered her breasts.  I took her wrists and lifted her
arms. Her titties were perfect, like tiny snowballs, with pale, soft
nipples.  There was peach fuzz between her skinny thighs.

   "I won't hurt you, Ann."

   "L-let me...  go..."

   I released her wrists.  Her hands flew to her breasts again.  I undid my
pants and pulled out my stiff cock.

   "Suck me," I said quietly.

   Whimpering, she took my shaft loosely in her unsteady right hand and
took my penis into her mouth.  She had obviously done this to someone on
not a few occasions.  I came quickly, expecting her to swallow.  Instead,
she looked up at me, her blue eyes pink and suffused with suffering, tears
trickling down her sublime young face, opened her mouth and let my semen
spill down her chin.

   She was shivering with fear, clasping her tiny breasts.  I kissed her,
lapping up my seed.  She kissed back, then, pathetically.  I swept her into
my arms and carried her to her bed.

   "D-don't...  pleeeeease...  don't..."

   "Don't what?"

   "H-hurt...  m-me...  pleeeeease..."

   "Did your daddy hurt you, Ann?"

   She nodded, sobbing.

   "What did he do?"

   "H-hurt...  me..."

   I parted her useless legs.  Her cunny was a pale pink, like her nipples.
It was also wet.  I fingered it gently.

   "D-don't...  hurt...  m-me...  please..."

   I stroked her little slit, then slid my middle finger inside.  There was
no hymen.

   "D-don't...  hurt me...  h-hurt me..."

   She clawed at her titties, howling.  "Do you want me to hurt you, Ann?"

   She opened her mouth wide and arched her back, gasping.  I slapped her
lightly between her legs.  My niece had an orgasm, shuddering.  I spread
her legs all the way open, wondering how her hole could get so wet when she
was paralyzed.  I fingered her drooling slit, then hit it, hard, with the
heel of my hand.  Her upper body convulsed, and Anne covered her cunny with
her hand, whimpering like a wounded dog.

   I sucked her nipples, and my niece started to rub her gash.  I took her
right tit into my mouth and bit.  She howled, jerking convulsively, then
jammed three fingers into her pussy hole, crying.

   "Stick your whole hand in there," I hissed.

   "Eeeeoooowwwwwww-haehhh-haehhh...  auwwwwwwwww...  haehhh... 
owwwwww..."

   I spanked her titties while she forced her hand into her vagina.  She
didn't try to cover her breasts, instead clutching the bedspread, bawling
like a baby, snot dripping from her nose.

   I got an extension cord and some KY, made her take her hand out of her
fuckhole and tied her wrists to the headboard.  She didn't resist, just
cried.  I lifted her lifeless legs, greased my hand, and worked my fingers
into her cunny.  I was glad that the building was old, with thick walls,
but I was too obsessed to care about what could be heard through the
window. Ann shrieked as I tried to force my hand in, then shit herself.  I
thought she would be too small, but suddenly my hand popped in, tearing
her. She retched, choking on her vomit.

   I pulled my hand out and let her puke, turning her on her side and
fingering her anus.  It was loose for such a young girl.  I folded her legs
under her, lubricated my penis, and sodomized her.  She squealed, her upper
body writhing pathetically.  I fucked her hard, pulling out all the way,
her brutalized rectum gaping like a sore throat, then ramming my dick back
up her, deep, to the balls.  Now and then I paused to slap her swollen
pussy.  She was delirious, thick strands of vomitous spittle dripping from
her mouth.  Blood trickled from her cunny.

   I raped her ass for hours, first with my cock and then with my hand,
until she passed out, and poured myself a glass of wine, sitting like a
fist-sized stone cold meteor that has fallen in Death Valley, into
Badwater, o nadir, smoking.

   '... ... ...I suspect that Ann knew that I desired her and had fallen
sexually in love with her from the moment I first saw her -coming through
customs in the chrome wheelchair, her sad blue eyes searching the faces of
those awaiting unfamiliar passengers, reading the welcome signs that some
held... ... ...'

   I didn't know what to do with her.  I thought about killing her.  She
was cold, shivering and sweating.

   "D-daddy...  daddy..."

   "Ann?  I'm not your daddy..."

   "D-daddy...  f-fuck...  me..."

   "Ann?"

   "F-fuck...  me...  fuck your baby..."

   I dragged her to the bathroom and put her in a cold shower.  She cried
and howled and bled.  I carried her to bed and covered her with blankets,
then went to sleep myself.

   Ann was awake when I woke, weeping.  She wasn't bleeding anymore.  I
kissed her, and she shivered.

   "I'm sorry," I said.  I really did mean for the words to carry some
weight.

   I went to the kitchen and looked for some juice.  Finding none, I made
myself a citron pressé and drank it, adding not a grain of sugar and using
tequila instead of water to dilute it.



   -----------------------------------------------------



   "I want your body.  I want your mind.  I want your soul."

   I drank mezcal and watched the stunningly skinny, sickeningly pale and
obviously insane creature my child-wife had seduced fondle Liz as if she
were masturbating one of her many selves.

   'My real name is Theophilus Anfang, and I felt, then, starting a
domestic scene with a girl barely a third my age, that I was both at the
very beginning of my true self and closer to God than ever before.  Sin
throws into stark relief the divine nature hidden under our selves, and I
cultivated this faculty of resolution, seeking theophany like a member of
the ancient sect that held salvation to be drowning of the body in a
marinade of its own depravity.  Cuttlefish in their own ink.'

   Again, it was as if Debbie had been hatched from Liz's skull, some
fertile residue of her worship of Lacey, a homunculus dislodged, a dream
come to devour her.

   'The Dublin of today is not that of her ancestors...' No, nothing is. 
The water in the toilet is not what it was before you took a piss, and the
girl when you look into her eyes is not the girl alone.

   "Debbie?"

   The whore ignored me, diddling Liz's tiny clit and moving the wooden
paintbrush in and out of her inflamed urethra.

   I handed Debbie a razor blade.  She didn't see me but took it, and began
to slice my child-wife's taut white tummy, slowly.  Liz screamed into her
gag, shuddering.  I had tied the wires very tightly.  She couldn't move
except to quiver.



   ------------------------------------------------

   REMBRANDT'S HOUSE A Story by Deborah Montgomery



   Rembrandt was in his early fifties then, but looked as though he'd sent
several sons to fight in the Civil War, on the losing side.  His hermitage
reeked of human waste, but he was hospitable - a large jug of moonshine and
three filthy glasses soon appeared on the low table strewn with newspapers
clippings, empty jugs and many other dirty glasses.  We sipped his
firewater greedily, and I wondered why he bothered bringing glasses that
were just as dirty as the ones that were already there...



   ------------------------------------------------



   I gave Debbie the other, thicker paintbrush, expecting her to use it
instead of the thin one, but the whore slid both brushes into Liz's
peehole.

   Liz jerked and shuddered, then puked, so that I had to take the whore's
underwear from her mouth.  There was little in her belly to vomit, and soon
she was breathing again, rasping.  I think she knew that she was going to
die.

   Debbie's skin was cold and wet, and she didn't react to my touch.  Her
face set in an expression of fierce concentration, as though she were a
jewel that was trying to see, she tried to work her pinkie into my wife's
urethra.  Liz's sunken midriff flowed with blood.

   After six months of almost nightly torture, my child-wife merely
whimpered and gurgled.  There were no screams.  Her gray-green eyes were
wide open, and Liz was long gone from her long-suffering body, somewhere
near the ceiling perhaps, where the many candles I had used in the boudoir
had left a dull wash of creosote on the once white plaster.

   I wanted to end Elizabeth's agony - but it was no longer agony, and
Debbie obviously wished to prolong it for as long as possible.

   Debbie's body - bodies - were eloquent, articulate.  I could see her
float slowly into Liz's slit stomach, leaving only her orifices and deft
fingers above the dying girl.  The Debbie in the mirror was now Liz, and
the whore was dissecting it.

   I sipped my mezcal and made plans for a glorious future, staring at the
crack between Debbie's dimpled buttocks, as though it were a wet and
welcoming opening that had suddenly appeared in the surface of the moon.



   Copyright (C) 1999, Silvio Stoker.  ALL Rights Reserved

   ==============================================

   This story is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used
fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

   ********************************** Wish to read more texts of this
writer? To load archives, pass to a file [0SilvioStoker.htm] in the same
catalogue. Or on my homepage Sergdriver
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fascinating stories of other writers and mine too!
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