Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Title: SKIN
Part: Completely
Author: Silvio Stoker
Keywords: MMfg ff ped caution
Summary: Renée buried her face between the back of the seat and the
man's soft sweater, breathing hard.  He stroked her hair, and the
ten-year-old slowly slid her hand towards the stranger's groin, still
uncertain whether he would let her touch him there, her heartbeat drowned
out by the roar of the plane.  Henry gasped when the girl began to grope
him, his fingers tightening around her head.  Squirming, Renée rubbed it
through his trousers.  Her mother and the passengers across the aisle were
asleep.  He came in his pants, and the kid squeezed his wilting cock with a
milking motion, whimpering softly.  She'd taken off her sandals, seducing
him, her lonely little body desperate for love.

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   S K I N

   Written by Silvio Stoker



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   x x x





   Renée buried her face between the back of the seat and the man's soft
sweater, breathing hard.  He stroked her hair, and the ten-year-old slowly
slid her hand towards the stranger's groin, still uncertain whether he
would let her touch him there, her heartbeat drowned out by the roar of the
plane.  Henry gasped when the girl began to grope him, his fingers
tightening around her head.  Squirming, Renée rubbed it through his
trousers.  Her mother and the passengers across the aisle were asleep.  He
came in his pants, and the kid squeezed his wilting cock with a milking
motion, whimpering softly.  She'd taken off her sandals, seducing him, her
lonely little body desperate for love.  He'd never seen such a dirty girl -
at first he thought he was dreaming, and even when she started touching him
he couldn't believe it.  Her mother was a disturbingly beautiful redhead,
and Renée was beautiful, too - her eyes were a queer turquoise, already
mysterious in an almost womanly way, her pink skin as soft as a baby's,
slightly damp.  He'd started staring at her pretty little feet - and the
child kicked off her sandals, aware of his arousal, wiggling her toes. 
She'd touched his hand during the movie, surreptitiously, and he still
thought it was an accident.  Renée went to the toilet twice.  He stood up
the first time, but the second time she put her hand on his leg and climbed
over him, looking into his eyes.  Her hair smelled like lilac blossoms,
long and silken, sort of mahogany.



   Renée was raised to be a whore.  Her mother was a sickly but sexually
attractive kid with a habit of hitchhiking - born in a squalid Budapest
orphanage, Sebestyen was adopted by religious parents but ran away from
home when she was eleven years old, hitching rides with West German
truckers (this was before the Wall fell), sniffing glue and selling her
soft young body for hard currency.  Unbelievably beautiful and rotten to
the core, the redhead was also curiously resilient.  Almost twelve when she
met Werner, Sebestyen had retained her beauty despite her habits.  Redheads
are rare in Hungary, and Werner Maier was smitten with the skinny thing. 
She walked up to him at a dingy gas station in Györ, halfway between
Budapest and the Austrian border.  It was the dead of winter but the waif
was bare-legged, her bony crotch barely concealed by a short skirt the
color of lime sherbet, her upper body hidden by a heavy wool jacket, jet
black.  Werner was not a truck driver - he'd married a Hungarian girl the
summer before, when he was visiting a friend on Lake Balaton.  Marika had
gone to the toilet, and Werner was leaning against the door of his
Mercedes, smoking.  He was forty-two years old, and he'd been in a mid-life
crisis for a couple of years.  Marika was barely nineteen, a svelte
brunette who already bored him.  He'd married her on a whim.  Sebestyen was
not a whim.  In less then a second Werner was possessed by her - her
peridot eyes and copper hair, her corruption.  He'd only been to bed with a
child once, also in Hungary - a twelve-year-old Gypsy whored by her
dissolute father.  The Gypsy was terrible in bed, like a rag doll. 
Sebestyen was different.  The eleven-year-old was already dripping with
depravity.  No, it wasn't a whim - it was instant obsession.  Werner
abandoned Marika at the gas station in Györ and hustled Sebestyen into his
sleek sedan.



   Pulling back out onto the empty highway, the reality of what he'd done
hit him hard.  He couldn't get the girl out of the country.  Marika would
find him - she wouldn't even have to look; he led a stable existence in the
wealthiest part of Munich, Grunewald.  She'd sue his ass off.  Sebestyen
sniffled, shivering, her coltish legs covered with goose pimples.  The kid
was exquisite, a walking dream.  She was high as a kite - she'd been hurt
the night before, in Budapest, and had hitched a ride with an Austrian that
morning, hoping to be offered a place to sleep.  The trucker had fucked her
and kicked her out in Györ.  She knew the dismal city well.  She'd gone to
see her friend Friderika, a teenager who shared her habits.  Friderika had
found a pimp.  They popped pills and played with each other until the pimp
came home, saw Sebestyen and raped her, hard.  She'd slept for a few hours
and slipped away.  He'd locked her things in a closet, so she'd stolen some
of Friderika's clothes.  She had nothing now, but she'd had nothing before,
really, only her body and the foster parents she hated - and the road.



   Reason slowly returned to Werner.  He decided to leave the highway, have
his way with the waif, and go back and find his wife.  It was dusk.  They
drove down a narrow road through the snow-covered countryside.  Werner
found what seemed like a secluded spot, cut the engine and ordered
Sebestyen into the back seat.  She obeyed, kicking off her tacky mules and
taking off the jacket.  Suddenly he felt sorry for her.  He wanted to kiss
her, but the kid had a telltale sore at the left corner of lips - Sebestyen
had a sensual mouth the hue of beefsteak tartare, slightly crooked.  Her
face was delicate and aristocratic despite her degradation, her snowy skin
like sweet cream.  He rummaged in the glove compartment for condoms while
the girl shed her clothes.  Sebestyen liked to strip in front of strangers
- but she was scared.  She'd begun to understand that her frail, hairless
body attracted violence.  She'd been raped the very day she ran away from
home - she'd let men put it in her mouth, but she was still a virgin down
below.  She knew that the man who'd made friends with her in Buda that
afternoon wanted to have sex with her, but she'd expected tenderness.  He
tied her to his bed and hurt her for what seemed like forever.  Sebestyen's
foster father had spanked her when he drank, undressing her and calling her
names.  When Sebestyen was nine years old, he started touching her
genitals. The girl was easily aroused even in agony, gushing urine.  One
evening Sebestyen met a man in the local park.  She wet herself when he
embraced her, and the man took her to his apartment to wash her clothes. 
She was scared of him, and it made her slimy.  But he didn't hurt her - he
licked her between the legs and taught her to suck him, teasing her anal
opening while she slobbered over his penis, sobbing.  She only knew that
girls fell in love and got married.  He tasted like pee, and she thought it
was a toilet thing, sucking him, whimpering when he wormed a wet finger
into her anus.  Sebestyen was needy there, and then he went in her mouth,
wiggling his middle finger in her rectum.  She choked on his semen,
quivering, and the man masturbated her to orgasm, a weird warmth keening up
her soggy gut.  He kissed her and carried to the bathroom, holding her
while she emptied her bowels.  Dying of shame, Sebestyen started to pick up
men, slowly learning that this was love and that girls like her were
filthy. Her foster father found out and beat her up, and she ran away.  No
one except her stepfather had ever hurt her until that fateful day. 
Bleeding, she tried to go home - but something about Sebestyen attracted
tragedy, and she ended up with another man who taught her that girls like
her got gifts for getting hurt.  He gave her drugs and fancy dresses and
introduced her to foreigners.  She ran away again, but she couldn't go
home. She'd found out what she was, and for almost a year she'd been in the
streets or on the road, sometimes staying with men for a week or two.  She
always left - it didn't hurt that much anymore unless they wanted it to,
and sometimes she wanted it, but Sebestyen still had a soul.



   Werner Maier watched her strip, then climbed into the back seat. 
Sebestyen knew that she was beautiful, and her little white body trembled
with perverted pride and precocious desire.  She smelled like a mixture of
fear and hunger, feral.  She'd been sick for some time and didn't expect
him to kiss her, staring at the rubber he held in his hand.  But Werner was
awed by her beauty and pulled her into his arms, dropping the rubber.  She
was cold and clammy, but her mouth was almost hot.  The girl's saliva was
viscous, sort of sweet.  Sebestyen squirmed in his lap, sucking his tongue.
She was flawless except for her tortured fuck tube and anal area, the
rosette surrounded by a recent bruise.  The swelling on her ribby chest
could hardly be called breasts, and her pubis was utterly bald,
protuberant. She stared into his eyes, straddling him, her pale feet on the
leather seat, slender.  Sebestyen started to masturbate, trying to get her
twat wet before he raped her.  She was usually slippery, but not when she'd
been hurt.  Werner freed his cock and took hold of her haunches.  Breathing
hard, the girl guided him into the sticky hole, gasping as the bulb slid
inside.  He cupped her buttocks and forced her to fuck him.  She was tight
despite the damage, and her agony aroused him.  Digging her fingernails
into her palms, she began to buck, shuddering when he hit her cervix. 
Werner lowered her to the seat and slammed her, gripping her ankles and
grunting.  She went limp, moaning pitifully as he rammed his prick in to
the root and came.  He lay on top of her, then slid out and sat up,
satisfied.  She looked so sad.  She wasn't crying, but her defenselessness
and her submissive misery moved him - and the idea that she let anybody do
this to her aroused him.  He sensed somehow that Sebestyen didn't belong to
anyone.  She wasn't the Gypsy, enslaved by her father.  She was barely in
puberty and had no one to protect her.  She was all alone unless she was on
her back like this - or on her knees.  He wanted to see her on her knees.



   "Turn around," he said in a hoarse whisper.



   Sebestyen knew some English and German, mostly the necessary vocabulary.
She slithered into a crouch on the warm green leather, her back to him, and
lifted her bony butt.  She usually carried lubricant in her purse, but her
purse was in the pimp's closet and this didn't seem like the sort of man
who would use it, not now while she was new to him, anyway - she'd been
with men who liked to watch her play with herself.  Holding her breath,
Sebestyen ran a trembling finger into her crack, half hoping he would hit
her.  He didn't - and then she felt his tongue.  She hadn't been licked
since she'd gotten sick, and hardly anyone ever rimmed her.  Sebestyen
whimpered and spread her cheeks.  It was her favorite feeling, and she
hadn't expected him to love her.  Werner lapped at the musky hole,
drooling. Sebestyen tentatively touched her twat, and when he didn't stop
her she sighed and sank into an auto-erotic trance, rocking, fingering her
inflamed clitty and playing with her nipples, sucking her thumb.  Suddenly
he wanted to pleasure her, fascinated by her obscene display.  He took her
hand and urged her to finger her anus, licking and stroking her slender
middle finger, touching it to the slick hole.  Gurgling, the girl snaked
her finger inside.  Werner kept a tube of lubricant in the glove
compartment even though Marika hated anal sex.  He forced her into it.  He
stepped out of the car into the cold, opened the front door and fetched the
KY - Sebestyen didn't need to be forced into anything, not physically.  The
slightest pressure sufficed.  It was like the pairing of a horseman and a
well-trained mare.  Werner thought of Marika's disgust for his desires as
he stood in the bitter chill and watched the child masturbate - he didn't
even know her name.  Marika was at a gas station in the middle of nowhere,
probably calling her relatives.  Knowing her - probably calling an
attorney, too.  She'd never been like this girl.  No one was like this
girl. Werner stripped in the snow and climbed back into the back seat.



   Sebestyen was scared again - she kept frigging her poophole, too afraid
to look, wondering what he was doing.  One of the men who'd liked to watch
her play with herself had hurt her the most - he'd whipped her and spanked
her between the legs.  She'd stayed with him the longest - she'd been
drugged out, and he reminded her of her father, hurting her until she went
pee.  Only he loved her, and Sebestyen responded to that sort of love. 
He'd made her stick things in her cunny, and whenever she threw a fit he
fucked her in the ass.  Most men wanted to do that to her, and Friderika
had said that it was because their wives or girlfriends wouldn't let them.
Women who didn't submit to men were like another species.  Sebestyen hadn't
thought about getting married since before she was raped.  Why would anyone
marry her when they could fuck her for a few forints or a place to stay? 
Men wanted to pimp her - like Friderika's friend - and in a way a pimp was
like a husband, but Sebestyen knew that Friderika was miserable.  He took
her money away, and he beat her.  He didn't love her - and he wouldn't love
Sebestyen.  She wasn't sure what love was.  She thought that it meant when
a man wanted her again and again forever and ever.  She hated it when they
got sick of her.  That was why she ran away.



   Sebestyen slid a second finger into her rectum and felt the German man
climb back into the car.  Then she felt the cold lubricant.  That still
meant that he might hurt her - and then she felt his penis push against her
dilated sphincter.  She tensed as he slid the head through the sore muscle,
but once the bulb was inside her, her perverted rectum practically sucked
the greasy pole into her bowels.  He entered her slowly, and when Sebestyen
realized that he wasn't trying to hurt her, she gave a guttural groan and
took him deeper, fucking him back, bleating.  His cock filled her colon,
and suddenly Sebestyen let out a series of yelps, her rectum milking him,
moaning.  Werner grabbed her hips and shoved it into her in short sharp
thrusts, deep and hard.  The kid was coming, shaking her tail and
shuddering, and Werner flooded her shitter, shoving it in to the hilt.  He
stayed inside her, and Sebestyen reached between her legs to caress his
scrotum - she was bleeding a little where her sphincter had torn the night
before - but the pain ran deeper, to the very bottom of her being.  The
head of his cock was in the curve of her intestine, but it felt like he had
lodged it in her heart.  It hurt, but it hurt more when men slid from her
rectum after orgasm - the man who had whipped her sometimes stayed inside
her when they slept, and Sebestyen sometimes slid an oiled cucumber into
her colon to get to sleep, or her hand.  Friderika had fisted her once, and
Sebestyen dreamt about doing that to a girl, feeling around in the dark
like Friderika had.  She'd sucked her friend's finger's afterwards, tasting
her own depths.  Friderika wouldn't let her try it.  It felt good - it hurt
too much to come, but she thought about it when she was lonely.



   Werner was surprised at his stamina.  Sebestyen fondled his balls, and
he didn't wilt - he could feel her need, and he'd never been with anyone as
beautiful - her back and buttocks were mysteriously lovely to him, her hair
falling like molten copper across her weak white shoulders.  She slid
forward slightly and started to fuck him, whimpering.  Werner reached under
her ribby chest and slid beneath her, still in her bowels, wishing that the
roof of the car were high enough for her to squat-fuck him.  But her
arousal intensified his, and it felt good just to be in her butt - he ran
his fingers along her ribs and rubbed her nipple while she rocked back and
forth, moaning rhythmically.  Fingering her twat, Werner grasped her
throat. Frightened, the kid went rigid, her torn sphincter tightening
around his rock-hard cock.  Squeezing her slender neck and rubbing her
clit, Werner pushed her against the back of the seat and reamed her. 
Rasping, Sebestyen lifted her leg and let him rape her.  He let go of her
neck and fucked her rectum with frantic thrusts, then used her mouth.  She
gagged, and Werner worked his cock into her tiny throat.  A stream of urine
sprayed the seat as he fucked into her esophagus.  He ejaculated and
released her, then dragged her from the car and kicked her.  One of her
ribs snapped with a sickening crack.  Werner rubbed snow in her face and
hit her again and again, knocking out two of her teeth before his
inexplicable fury was spent.  He'd ruined his life for her.  He thought of
Marika's innocence and stared at the unconscious child.  Blood seeped into
the snow.



   He could have killed her - he wanted to, almost needed to - but Werner
vomited and climbed back into the car, sobbing.  He'd never done such a
thing.  He could leave her and go back to Györ...  but he didn't _want_
Marika.  He wanted this child - and he'd destroyed it.  Werner looked at
the half-dead whore - she was still breathing.  He found a blanket in the
trunk and wrapped her in it - his mind moved like molasses in gelatin, ugly
- but couldn't he take her to a doctor?  He could say that he'd found her
like that...  _I've ruined my life_, he said to himself - but he had to
save her...



   Fate had it that he found a Doctor Kerenyi who had once specialized in
illicit late abortions - the Doctor was retired now, and Werner had learned
enough Hungarian from his now abandoned wife to understand where it was
that the villagers directed him.  The Doctor lived at the edge of the awful
village, and it was obvious to him that Werner was responsible for the
child's condition.  But Doctor Kerenyi needed money, and whatever
mysterious power Sebestyen had over men worked on him despite the damage -
the Doctor was drunk, and soon Werner Maier was sipping Tokay near a stone
fireplace, negotiating a price.  Werner would drive back to Munich and
return in a month.  Doctor Kerenyi would keep her, against her will if
necessary.  Werner had ruined his life and needed another, but by evening
he was cruising the streets of Györ, looking for Marika and hoping that he
would not find her.  He did find her - and Marika agreed to return to
Munich.  She reminded him of an animated mannequin.  The day seemed ghostly
to him, and he wondered if he'd ever met Sebestyen, whose name he did not
know.



   Sebestyen was miraculously resilient - by the second week of her stay
with Doctor Kerenyi, she was sucking his cock.  Her body healed, but her
mind did not - she wasn't sure about what had happened, either, only that a
man had been in her heart.  Werner would never have returned if it hadn't
been for Doctor Kerenyi's call.  He owed the man money, and a month after
the rape Werner Maier returned to the dilapidated village, paid the bill,
and fetched Sebestyen.  They made love, and to his horror Werner discovered
that he was in love with her.  He rented an apartment for her in Budapest,
and for two years she lived there as his mistress.  Marika suspected but
didn't investigate.



   Sebestyen was a witchy child - and though Werner tortured her, she
really had him by the balls.  He lavished her with fine clothes and jewelry
and drugs, and by the time she turned thirteen the young woman was
terrifyingly alluring.  At times she seemed mindless, one of the undead,
playing with her Doberman's penis as if sucking doggy dick were the same as
picking a flower.  When Werner was away she seduced men, sometimes several
at once.  But Sebestyen was startlingly intelligent.  She learned English
and German and wrote profound letters that sent him scrounging for an
excuse to see her, and his marriage to Marika fell apart despite the
woman's docility.  At age thirteen, Werner obtained a divorce and smuggled
Sebestyen out of Hungary.  He had never been happier in his life.  And on
the very day that he brought her to his home in Munich, Sebestyen
disappeared.



   She'd only used him to escape, and having stolen a fair amount of his
money, the girl went to the Hauptbahnhof and boarded a train for Hamburg.
She'd heard about St.  Pauli, and it seemed like a place to start.  But -
start what?  Sebestyen was guided by some insane instinct.  She truly had
no idea what she wanted - needed; she only knew that she was in need.  She
ended up at the Atlantic, a white hotel on the Aussenalster, sleeping with
a man old enough to be her great-grandfather.  She knew that he would make
her pregnant before he laid eyes upon her, and so it happened.  Sebestyen
slept around, a dirty little daughter growing in her little womb.



   Renée was born in Paris, where her mother was living with a dissolute
descendant of the Czarist aristocracy.  Aleksei was devoted to Sebestyen,
but even he was unprepared for the pleasures that awaited him.  Sebestyen
was stunning when she was pregnant - still a child, her breasts were no
bigger than the silver balls old men play with in the parks of Paris, her
belly the size of a pumpkin.  She drank her own milk and sucked her toes,
begging Aleksei to buttfuck her.  The baby came in May, delivered by a
Parisian version of the despicable Doctor Kerenyi, who besides taking his
exorbitant fee also took the young mother away from her Russian princeling.




   Doctor Théophile Legrasse (Sebestyen called him Theo, and he called her
Sebastianne) had retired at the age of fifty to devote himself to sin.  A
psychiatrist and abortionist, Theo had a thing for perverted young women.
They are rare, and Sebestyen was the rarest imaginable - at fourteen, she'd
learn to turn her lust on and off like a searchlight, and she aimed it at
Legrasse full blast.  Lying in bed with her newborn baby, Sebestyen asked
if he wanted to taste her milk.  The doctor sucked her titty and sodomized
her while she held the infant, and Sebestyen begged him to come in her
mouth.  He did, and the depraved mother spat his semen onto the tiny
creature, baptizing Renée.  The Doctor took the baby and slid its foot into
the fourteen-year-old's vagina.  Sebestyen stared into Theo's eyes, sucking
her left nipple and moaning while the Doctor fucked her with her baby's
leg. Renée was barely two weeks old.



   Doctor Legrasse - Monsieur le Docteur - was not a brute but a refined
sadist, slipping from secluded torture chambers through Right Bank society
and back again, chameleon and eel.  As a medical man, he knew what he could
and could not do to his sinister Madonna with Child if they were to
survive. Watching the wildly beautiful whore hurt her daughter delighted
him to no end, and she and Theo were married after a few years of such
sinful bliss as Sebestyen had never known before.  She seemed monstrous to
him at times - her weird beauty was almost unbearable and seemed to
increase with every crime, as if she fed upon filth.  There were moments
when the young Madame Legrasse was hideous, as if he had gotten a glimpse
of hell through her gossamer allure.  But she never failed to arouse him -
he kept her needy, discovering that Sebestyen's anus secreted a peculiar
slime, like cunny-milk only sweeter.  At first she satisfied herself in the
bathroom, but soon Sebestyen was his - she couldn't come unless he was
hurting her.  She was still promiscuous, but mostly because it turned him
on - as if her life in the City of Light were a movie and her husband the
writer, producer and director.  Sebestyen Legrasse had fallen in love, or
in such love as she was capable of.



   Theo was disinterested in infants except as an aphrodisiac for his young
wife; he protected Renée from her mother and had the girl educated by
tutors, some of whom he seduced.  Sebestyen was scared that she would be
too old for the Doctor someday; she didn't realize how deeply her depravity
fascinated him.  But Theo had his limits - Sebestyen tried to stay within
them but chafed under the Doctor's strictures.  Her little girl was a lot
like her, and by the time Renée was nine they were making love, the child
masturbating her mother's cervix while strangers used the
twenty-three-year-old's mouth.  Doctor Legrasse gave in to Renée's
corruption, and Sebestyen celebrated her daughter's tenth birthday by
lubricating her tight little rectum and fitting it with a butt plug.  Renée
had inherited her mother's brilliance and beauty, and the ever larger knob
in her bittersweet anus brought out her perversity.  Already submissive,
the child learned about love.



   Théophile Legrasse bought a penthouse in New York because he loved the
strange energy of the city - a pallid girls deprived of nature, depraved.
Sebestyen wasn't jealous of his lovers, but Renée missed her stepfather,
and mother and daughter were often in Manhattan.  Renée had been trained to
behave herself in public, and the flight with which our story began was her
first experience with someone other than the Doctor - she'd watched him
with her mother, and she'd seen a lot of fuck films and magazines, but
nothing had prepared her for the excitement of seducing a stranger.  She
was still a virgin except for her face, but her little butt felt empty
without the plug, flying, feeling the man's penis through his pants, her
mouth watering.  It was the first thing she'd ever done that she wasn't
allowed to do; her mommy and daddy had warned her not to be dirty when they
were away, and Sebestyen was asleep beside her.



   Henry Wharton had never been with a child.  He'd dreamt about it, and he
stared at little girls in a way that had almost gotten him into trouble now
and then.  The man's nervousness surprised Renée - she felt filthy, and she
wanted him to stick it in her mouth and ass - her mommy had started
masturbating her rectum with a dildo, flushing her colon with warm mineral
oil until Renée slid the lucite member into her anus, groaning, fingering
her overgrown clitoris and quivering in orgasm.  Renée knew that her
stepfather would do it soon - but she wanted this stranger, squirming, her
silk panties soaked with nectar.  He was so different from the Doctor!  Not
only his smell - tobacco and sandalwood soap, desire - his touch was
delicious to her, unfamiliar.  Renée had been told that sex between adults
and children was wrong - a child devoid of guilt is not erotic, Doctor
Legrasse reasoned - but the ten-year-old had no idea that there were other
ways of doing things: making love or marrying and even simple affection
were foreign to her.



   Henry kissed the little animal on the lips, and Renée melted in his
arms, whimpering.  She'd never given herself before - her stepfather _took_
her, kissing her and using her mouth, masturbating her rectum.  Renée
sucked the stranger's tongue, trembling.  She came without touching
herself, sucking in her breath and slipping a slender hand between her
legs. Wide-eyed, Renée slid the silk aside and diddled herself with a
practiced motion, mewling.  The kid had crossed into another world, and
Henry was left with his fear and the dark plane hurtling through the night
sky above Labrador, the child's mother shifting in her seat, the flight
attendants in the kitchen preparing breakfast as dawn broke, the man fixing
Renée's dress as the girl drifted into sleep, covering her with a blanket,
the smell of steaming coffee slowly overpowering the aroma of prepubescent
ambrosia, over Goose Bay, the other passengers tangled in hairy dreams,
waking with cottonmouth as Henry rose to go to the toilet and wash his
aching cock.



   Once they took the Concorde, Renée reading about the Flat Earth Society.
Curvature of Earth.







   x x x







   Alexis Jennings was barely eleven years old when Jack Bates first saw
her.  He hadn't really befriended her father - Paul Jennings supervised the
evening shift, and Jack was the telemarketing manager - but Paul had
invited him over, and Jack had accepted.  Jack accepted because he wanted
to stare at Paul's wife.  He'd seen Genevieve at the office, and the woman
was a walking dream.  Twenty-eight years old and six feet tall, slender,
with pale blue eyes and hair she dyed jet black, small breasts and a
sensual mouth, she was the sort of creature Jack constructed in his
imagination but had never bedded.  Something about Genevieve was strangely
adolescent, and yet she seemed sophisticated, too, smart, slightly nervous.
Jack adored her at a distance.  What she was doing with Paul Jennings was
beyond him.  Paul was a loser, like most any telemarketing supervisor.  In
a way, Jack was a loser, too - but he'd recently come into money, and he
had taste.  He'd already given notice.



   Jack bought a bottle of wine - Rioja - and pulled up in front of the
Jennings' bungalow.  Alexis was sitting on the stoop.  Paul had mentioned a
daughter, but Jack had never seen her.  She was tall for her age and pale
like her mother, with the same pale blue eyes, only her long hair was
auburn.  She was wearing khaki shorts, white socks, sandals, and a
chartreuse T-shirt.  Her face was disturbingly intense, obviously the face
of a lewd little genius, with cold eyes and salmon lips, heavy eyebrows and
a coy smile.  Still flat, with coltish legs.  She stood when Jack
approached and said hi, not shy at all, and Jack glanced at her skinny ass
as she turned to lead him into the house.  Jack Bates liked looking at
young girls.  He liked to look at them more and more, though it wasn't yet
an obsession.  He was thirty-eight.



   Dinner was meat loaf and mashed potatoes.  Paul was already tipsy, and
Genevieve was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, timid - and barefoot. 
Jack had a thing for feet, and the woman's feet were fabulous, visibly soft
and perfectly formed, pallid, her toes long and straight, the pink nails
well cared for.  Jack couldn't help staring, and when they moved to the
living room for more wine and music - Dylan - he realized that Genevieve
was aware of his attention - and so was Alexis.  Jenny and Alex, Paul
called them.  both of them needed to be whisked from the squalid little
bungalow, spirited off into luxury.  Paul got out a bottle of whisky.  The
Dylan was from the 'serve somebody' phase - Paul was into Jesus.  It didn't
seem like his wife was.  Not at all.  There was something incredibly erotic
about the woman - and about her daughter, too.  The more Jack stared at
Jenny, the more seductive Alex seemed to become - jealous of her mother,
maybe.  The eleven-year-old soon took off her socks, and Jack realized that
she was begging for attention.  Jenny gave Jack a weird look - nervous,
knowing - and suddenly Paul took his wife's whisky away.  Jack saw that
Jenny was afraid of her husband.  Uncomfortable, he looked at the kid. 
Alex was sitting an almost obscene pose, the crotch of her khaki shorts
tight, her hands on her feet.  Her face was almost feral.



   Drunk, Jack asked Alex about school.  He wanted to find out where she
went to school - he wanted her.  The child knew it, too, and told him - and
Jenny noticed.  Paul was too drunk to notice anything, teetering between
aggression and blackout.  Jack prayed that Jenny or their daughter would
show him out, not Paul - but Paul stood up unsteadily and led him to the
door.  Looking back at the sordid living room and the two beauties, Jack
said goodbye and departed.



   Alexis Jennings was in sixth grade.  She was sick between the legs,
addicted to masturbation.  Her daddy had molested her since she was six,
getting drunk and taking off her clothes to spank her.  It didn't happen
often - Jenny didn't have a job, and he only did it when the kid's mother
wasn't home, visiting her sister - but Alex was afraid of her father.  She
felt filthy, whimpering when he slapped her buttocks and spread her legs,
whispering to her how dirty she was and fingering her gash until it got
wet, moistening his middle finger in her mouth and teasing her anus, slowly
slipping it into her aroused rectum.  Then he took his cock out, and
sometimes he touched her with it, her twat, threatening her virginity.  He
put it in her mouth, too, making her suck it, then sticking the tip in her
slit and squirting.  Alex hated it - but she loved him, and her little body
got confused, daddy-come dripping from her cunny.  Crying, she sometimes
wanted him in there, hurting her, dreading her mommy's absences but longing
for them, too, for her father, frigging.  He hit her mommy and called her a
whore, and Alex could tell that her mother liked it, and Alex could hear
them fucking, Jenny begging him to put it in her butt and bawling.



   One day Alex was walking home from school when a man offered her a ride.
She knew what he wanted, but she got into the car, shivering.  The man
drove her to Hereford Road - she was ten then - and kissed her.  Alex had
never been kissed, and she melted in the man's arms, moaning guiltily,
letting him masturbate her through her thin cotton panty and crying when he
took out his cock.  It was so different from her daddy's, longer and uncut,
clean, and she was ashamed, sucking him, his hand between her skinny legs,
the panty soaked, drooling.  She spat out his semen and came when he slid
his fingers under the elastic to diddle her, finding her clitty and feeling
her shudder, probing her slippery pussy and stretching the hymen, lifting
her skirt to look at her.  She struggled when he yanked her panty down, but
he wouldn't let her go, and then he was inside her.  Alex went limp, and
the man raped her in the back seat of his Buick, slowly, getting her used
to the sweet agony of having a cock in her hole, hurting her, then coming.
She whined as she felt the warm fluid flood her fuck tube, feeling it gush
against her cervix and squirt out around the invading shaft, digging her
fingers into her palms and clenching her sphincter, her little shitter
aroused, shuddering.



   Her daddy saw the damage the next time he molested her.  He slapped her
and spat in her face, then sodomized her.  The kid passed out the first
time he stuffed it into her colon, but since then she liked it in there,
the fullness, even the pain.  Alex pretended that he loved her like the man
had, or she thought about her mommy - about how her daddy wanted her more
than he wanted her mommy.  He didn't kiss Alex or call her pretty or
anything, he only punished her.  Her mother knew that he abused the girl.
Jenny had been abused a lot as a child, by her stepfather, and Paul was a
lot like him.  Paul treated Jenny like a daughter, and they never talked
about what he did to Alexis.



   Alex didn't have any friends, but she did well in school; she was
bright, and even though she had trouble concentrating, she was ahead of the
rest of her class.  It was almost summertime, and the kid dreaded vacation,
the long days with nothing to do.  She loved her mommy, but they weren't
close.  Genevieve was distant, withdrawn, ashamed of what she let her
husband do to their daughter.  The day after Jack came over for dinner,
Alex couldn't stop thinking about her father's boss.  Other than the
stranger who deflowered her and her daddy, the eleven-year-old didn't know
any men.  She daydreamed about the stranger sometimes, masturbating in her
bed at night, naked, sticking two fingers in her twat and remembering the
tender things he'd said before he raped her.  Alex played with her
poophole, too, moistening her fingers in her pussy and fingering the
opening, thinking about her father.  Her rectum hurt after he reamed her,
and when her mommy was home he ignored her.  She knew that what he did to
her was nasty, and that what she'd done with the stranger made her a slut.
Frigging her pooper with three fingers and rubbing her clitty, the kid
came, quivering.



   Her daddy was never romantic.  Alex knew what romance was from books and
TV, and it was nothing like what was between her mommy and daddy.  But Mr.
Bates - her daddy's boss - was _romantic_.  She'd watched him staring at
her mother - Alex's daddy never looked at anyone like that, longingly, and
her mommy had been excited, touching her feet - so Alex had taken her socks
off - so he could look at hers, too - so he did!  Alex wondered if Mr. 
Bates would be romantic if he knew how dirty she was.  Her hole had started
drooling, and by the time he left even her shitter was moist, slimy like
when her daddy spanked her, tight, the tiny opening twitching when he
spread her cheeks and touched it with the tip of his penis, pushing against
the clenched muscle, sticking his cock inside.  It hurt so much!  The sore
rosette burned when he slid it in, her little body rigid, his dick going
deeper, damaging her, perverting her little pooper, filling her rectum with
fire at first, then sperm.



   After school, Alex often hoped to see the stranger, the scarlet Buick,
but after meeting Mr.  Bates she hoped for him.  He'd asked her where she
went to school!  Dressed in jeans and a loose lavender T-shirt, white socks
and track shoes, her long auburn hair in braids, Alex left the building,
her heart pounding.  _He'd asked her where she went to school._



   Jack Bates had called in sick, and all day he'd struggled with whether
or not to try to meet Alexis Jennings; he smelled trouble, but despite
Genevieve's despair when Paul took her drink away, and the fear in the
woman's eyes, and the bad meat loaf - the dinner was the most erotic
experience he'd ever had.  The eleven-year-old was obviously aware of his
intentions, and he couldn't get over it.  Jack imagined leaving with them
after his last day of work - not quite two weeks away - taking them to some
exotic island and - and what?  _Screwing them_?  Jack had been married.  He
even had a son he never saw.  He hadn't liked being married.  He'd tried to
keep the marriage together until he realized that trying to keep it
together was instinctive.  He'd never loved his wife.



   Jack drank Irish coffee in the afternoon and drove to the kid's school.
He didn't have to do anything, did he?  Just - see her...  He had trouble
finding the school, and when he did, kids were already flowing through the
massive doors.  Maybe she'd gone already?  And then he saw her again.  And
she saw him.



   They were both nervous when he unlocked the door of his Honda - and his
cock got hard.  Alex looked ravishing, but she was sadder than he
remembered her, obviously abused.  Jack hated Paul.  He'd always hated
Paul. The child's pale blue eyes were knowing, her skin like sour cream in
the afternoon light.  He drove towards her house, bantering about the
weather.  It was warm.



   A little afraid - she noticed his hard-on - Alex pretended to be in a
movie.  She wanted to say 'I knew you'd come' or something romantic like
that, but she felt shy - and ashamed.  She remembered the things her daddy
had said after she let the stranger rape her, and wondered what would
happen if her father found out that she was doing it again.  Mr.  Bates was
even nicer than she remembered him, smiling at her.  Teachers smiled at
her, but only because they had to.  Mr.  Bates made her feel _sexy_.



   "Want to get some ice cream, maybe?" Jack felt foolish.



   "Sure," Alex said, shyly, shivering.



   He drove to the Tastee-Freez - to the drive-thru window, not wanting to
be seen with her.  Did it matter?  Everybody would think she was his
daughter!  Jack parked the car and gave her a sundae - she'd asked for
butterscotch - and he smoked, rolling down the window, lost.  The little
girl ate greedily, and he tried not to look at her, regretting that he'd
picked her up, wanting her, not wanting to want her, feeling evil.



   He dropped her off a block from her house.  Alex was confused.  He - he
_loved_ her, didn't he?  Like the stranger had?  Then why didn't he do
anything?!  She was so ashamed of herself, wanting him, wet, her daddy hole
slightly dilated, dewy.  Maybe he loved her mother?  But Alex had seen the
bulge in his pants!  He needed to rape her like her daddy did, deep and
hard, holding her down and sticking his dick in her ass, coming in her
rectum...  But Mr.  Bates said goodbye and drove off, and he didn't even
look at her as she walked home, hungry.  Maybe she wasn't pretty enough? 
Her panty was damp, and her poophole felt warm, empty, the raw entrance
moist when she clenched her cheeks and rang the doorbell.



   Genevieve had never been unfaithful to Paul Jennings.  She hardly ever
left the house - Paul didn't leave work until four, and he'd hurt her all
day, fucking her up the ass.  She didn't like sex - not with him, anyway -
but she'd never been with anyone except him and her stepfather.  Jenny was
six when her stepfather stuprated her, making her suck his cock and
sticking it in her cunny hole, coming, flipping her over and fucking her in
the butt, brutally, using her mouth, then putting it in her pussy again. 
He'd raped her all day, then disappeared.  She was afraid of men after
that. She was sixteen when she met Paul, working at McDonald's after
school. He got her pregnant and married her.  He was a Christian, and he
punished Jenny for being a whore until she thought she was one.  Part of
her liked what he did to her.  At twenty-eight, she still felt like a
child, loving him, lying in bed and playing with her butt until he beat her
and shoved his cock into the tender opening, her rectum perverted by the
bulimia she'd had since adolescence, laxatives, her slender fingers
stroking her slit while he reamed her, whimpering.  If he didn't do it, she
got dirty - Jenny was attracted to her daughter, and she tried to stay away
from Alex, dying of shame, watching her husband pervert their little
girl...



   Men looked at Jenny sometimes.  She couldn't breathe when they stared at
her - but Jack Bates was different.  She'd seen him at her husband's
office, and he excited her.  There was something about him that was like
Paul - fatherly, dominant - but something about him was unlike anyone she'd
ever met - or the way he'd made her feel at dinner was, anyway.  Paul never
treated her like a lady.  She didn't feel like a lady, but sometimes she
fantasized about being - well, glamorous.  She'd dyed her hair black.  He
beat her up, calling her a whore and hitting her between the legs.  Her
genitals were small and juicy, her pubic hair dark red.  She diddled
herself sometimes, sticking a candle in her cunt and clawing at her
titties, panting, playing with her clitoris and finally fingering her ass,
pushing the candle into the collar of her womb and coming.  She thought
about the first time Paul fucked her, taking her to a seedy motel and
making her strip, slapping her, getting her to tell him about her
stepfather and fucking her doggy style, teasing her anus with his thumb. 
Jenny was anal.  Paul called her a whore and put his penis in her rectum.
Since she'd had the kid, he never screwed her like a woman anymore, only
her asshole.  In a way, her back door was for boys - men - but her daughter
made her wet in front, and Jenny hid it from herself.  She hardly ever
drank, but he'd let her drink when Jack Bates came over dinner.  It made
her horny - and Jack had stared at Alex, too.  Paul would never admit to
abusing Alex.  Jenny was ashamed of it - but it excited her to think that
her husband hurt their baby.  It excited her to imagine Paul molesting her,
too.



   Jenny let Alex in and went to her room.  She wondered whether Alex had
seen Jack Bates - the man had asked what school she went to.  Jenny felt a
mixture of arousal and fear, locking the bedroom door and undressing in
front of the mirror.  She was embarrassed about her girlish breasts, the
tiny cones no bigger than eggs, mostly nipple, high and far apart on her
ribby chest, near her underarms.  Jenny loved her body, but she didn't
think anybody else did.  She loved it - but she was ashamed of it, and she
was ashamed of herself for thinking about Jack - about another man.  She
was a married woman, even if she felt like a teenager - not even a
teenager. Age seven when her stepfather raped her, she hadn't known what it
meant, only that it hurt, but when she was nine or ten she realized that it
was her fault, that she was filthy down there.  Her younger sister was a
flirt.  Jenny warned Patricia about being pretty, but Patty never had any
problems.  Patty had gone to college and married a rich, handsome man... 
Jenny closed her eyes and caressed herself, thinking about her
brother-in-law.  Peter didn't like her.  Fingering her clit, Jenny imagined
undressing in front of her sister and Peter, spreading her slender legs
like she did for Paul, showing then how wet she was.  All alone, Jenny
wiggled her little white butt, pretending that Peter was watching her -
would he hit her?  Peter and her sister had two children, a boy and a girl,
eight and five years old...



   Suddenly the doorbell rang.  Jenny gasped and grabbed her robe - what if
Paul found her - frigging...  But it wasn't Paul.  She'd opened the door
without looking through the peephole.  It was Jack Bates.



   Alex had come into the living room, too.  Jack coughed and said hi - and
Jenny let him in.





   x x x







   It all started around the time a tornado wrecked the trailer where the
Slades had been living since Sarah and Terry got divorced - or the part
that's worth telling did - or the part that can easily be told.  Nothing
has a clear beginning except in the Bible and similar books.  Even storks
bring babies from somewhere, and it matters whether the fireplace is lit
when they fall down the chimney into childhood.



   Sarah had two daughters and a son - Chloe, Billy, and little Lisbeth. 
Chloe was kind of a slut.  She was barely eleven years old - her birthday
was two weeks before the tornado destroyed the trailer - but she let boys
look between her legs and could even be talked into taking her panties off.
She wouldn't let anybody touch her pussy, but Phil Logan and his cousin Ken
had persuaded her to play with herself a couple of times.  Chloe had a
crush on Ken, but he was sixteen and wouldn't be her boyfriend.  Phil was
fourteen.  He wouldn't be seen with her, but when they were alone he said
sweet things to her, and Chloe liked him a lot.  She wasn't stupid, and she
knew that he didn't really like her - but he kissed good, and the girl was
easily aroused, and he got her high.  He didn't rush her, either.  The
first time he only showed it to her - he didn't even jerk off.  He had a
real girlfriend, and Chloe was jealous, but she didn't have titties yet and
not too many boys were interested in her.  Men were - her Uncle Steve made
her strip in front of him, and one of her teachers looked up her skirt a
lot in third grade - but Chloe was embarrassed around grown-ups, especially
since Steve made her bend over.



   He was really drunk when he did that, and it didn't happen often.  He
didn't touch her, but she heard him unzip his jeans and knew what he was
doing.  He promised not to hurt her, whispering, rubbing his thing - she
got excited when she shed her clothes, shaking so hard she could hardly
unbutton her blouse.  Chloe had a complexion like ice milk, her skin nice
and soft - baby soft, redhead skin.  Her hair was the hue of a brand new
penny, cut like a boy's.  Chloe was a skinny kid, gangling, weak even for a
girl.  She started to sob when he told her to take off her panty.  He never
took his penis out until after he made her turn around, but she could see
the bulge in his jeans.  She was frightened, showing him how dirty she was
- she was drooling down there, ashamed of her filth and its fishy smell. 
Actually she was very immature and the moisture had only a slight odor -
but to Chloe the whole world stank when she spread her legs.  She felt sick
- she knew that the wetness meant that she wanted him to rape her.



   She'd found out about fucking a few months before her Uncle looked at
her cunny for the first time, when she was nine years old.  Her friend
Nancy's sister Gail had gotten raped by a bunch of guys.  Chloe had seen
one of the guys - he lived in the trailer park.  His name was Harold - and
he'd stared at Chloe during the summer, especially when she wore her crop
top.  Gail got pregnant, and her daddy wouldn't let her get an abortion
'cause he was Christian or whatever.  She let Chloe feel her belly, and
once when Nancy wasn't there Gail asked Chloe if she wanted to see her
titties.  She was only twelve years old, but she seemed almost like a
grown-up to Chloe.  They'd made friends, though - and Chloe felt a creepy
kind of chemistry that made her uncomfortable.  She nodded, and Gail took
off her maternity dress.  Chloe had seen her mommy naked - but Gail was
even prettier, or she looked prettier to Chloe 'cause of the way the girl
looked at her, lying there in only her panty, eight months pregnant. 
Almost titless before the rape, Gail was a baby-faced blonde with big blue
eyes and crooked lips the color of lox.  Chloe was scared of getting a
called a lezzy, unsure of the older girl's intentions even when Gail began
to play with the swollen boobs.  They were the size of a sliced tennis
ball. Staring into Chloe's emerald eyes, Gail squeezed some milk out of her
left nipple and sucked on it, spreading her legs.  Chloe had started
masturbating when Gail got raped, sticking a pencil in her hole and
thinking about Harold - and sometimes about Harold and Gail.  Chloe held
her breath, watching Gail suck her titty - and then Gail asked her if she
wanted to taste it.  Chloe nodded and guiltily took the girl's nipple into
her mouth.  Gail ran her finger's through her friend's red hair, writhing,
and Chloe realized that Gail was playing with herself.  The nine-year-old
needed to frig, too, but she didn't dare, drowning in Gail's desperate
moans and drinking her milk, stroking her belly and feeling the baby kick.
Gail whined, holding Chloe's head and coming, then let her go.  Gail looked
dreamy, and Chloe glimpsed her gash before the girl fixed her panty, her
fingers slick with fragrant slime.  They didn't speak, and a week later
Gail died in childbirth.



   Uncle Steve would tell Chloe to wiggle her butt, and sometimes Chloe
felt funny - like she wanted him to rape her bottom hole.  Chloe knew that
Uncle Steve wanted to stick it in her cunny, but she didn't know that girls
like her needed another kind of love - the pose humiliated her, and she was
ashamed of the need she felt in her shitter.  Sometimes he told her to
spread her cheeks.  Chloe obeyed, bawling, letting Uncle Steve look at her
little rosette.  When Chloe was ten, he started to ejaculate across her
back and butt.  He called her a whore and said that if he wasn't her Uncle
he would fuck her brains out.  He never touched her when he got her naked -
and in a way Chloe wanted him to.  She hated him, and she didn't want to be
his whore - but she felt like a whore, and the more he humiliated her, the
more she wanted him.  She felt awful afterwards, wiping his semen off and
staggering to the bathroom.  Sometimes she did it with a toothbrush, but
she was scared that he'd see what she'd been doing - her hole got sore and
it hurt to frig it, and she was worried that he'd know what she'd been
doing and fuck her even though he was her Uncle.  She knew she couldn't
have a baby yet, but she wished he could do what the rapists did to Gail.
Chloe wanted to be bedridden, her belly full.  Harold had been arrested,
but he was released on a technicality - Chloe wanted him to stick his cock
in her.  Uncle Steve had to get drunk to get her to strip, and he wouldn't
rape her.  Harold had a handsome face and a hard, wiry body.  Chloe would
walk past his trailer, trembling, his cruel stare making her skin crawl. 
She didn't look at him unless he had friends over - the guys who raped Gail
- but their eyes met a couple of times.  He'd be sitting with his buddies,
drinking or doing drugs.  Chloe fantasized about going there at night,
getting dragged into the trailer and told to strip.  Only Harold would
touch her.  She'd wiggle her little butt, and he'd grab her and stick it in
- only it went up the wrong hole.  Chloe had seen her Uncle's cock.  She
tried not to look at it, but she'd seen it, and she knew how much it would
hurt.  The pencil hurt, and so did the toothbrush.  But the more Uncle
Steve looked at her from behind, posing her and jacking off on her butt,
the more she felt the shameful need in her rectum.



   She'd never been spanked, but Gail's daddy spanked his remaining
daughter.  Nancy said that he'd hurt Gail, and when Chloe asked her about
it she said that he'd put his finger in her pooper, punishing her.  Chloe
asked Nancy if he'd ever done it to her, and she said yeah.  She was really
embarrassed about it, and Chloe got excited, listening to her low whisper.
They were in the abandoned building by the river, on the other side of the
trailer park.  Nancy was even prettier than her sister - she had the same
crooked lips and long wheaten hair, only her eyes were gray.  They were
close friends.  Both of them were ten then, and they talked about Gail a
lot - Nancy always looked away when she talked about her sister, and Chloe
wondered if Gail had ever asked Nancy to touch her.  Uncle Steve had
threatened to tell Chloe's mom that her daughter was a dirty whore if she
ever told on him - but Chloe told Nancy then, and Nancy started crying. 
Chloe embraced her, and Nancy said that her daddy had done things to her
sister.  She was scared that he would hurt her, too - he spanked her for no
reason, and he'd done that to Gail.  Chloe asked her what he'd done, her
arms around Nancy, aroused but afraid to kiss her.  Nancy said he'd raped
her sister.  Gail had run away and ended up with Harold's friends.  They
raped her, too, and Gail went home.  Nancy couldn't stop crying.  Chloe
held her, sniffing her hair and nuzzling her neck.  She felt warm, and
wondered whether Nancy felt warm, too.  Nothing happened, but when they
split Chloe played with her poophole for the first time.  She didn't think
of it as sex - sex to her was about getting raped and maybe knocked up -
but she couldn't stop thinking about Nancy's daddy spanking her friend and
fingering her botty.  Chloe wanted to be punished like that.  She wasn't
sure what it had to do with being pretty - Chloe knew she was pretty, and
the teacher who looked up her skirt told her so - but she didn't have a
daddy to teach her a lesson.  Nancy felt bad about it, but Chloe couldn't
stop thinking about how Gail must have felt after getting raped.  Chloe
didn't have the guts to go to Harold's trailer.  She dreamt about dressing
up and sneaking out, going to see Harold and getting hurt and having her
daddy hurt her afterwards.  She had to go potty after playing with her
poophole, and she wondered if Nancy did, too - it felt sick, and all she
could think about was being held and feeling a penis slip past her slit to
the other place, pushing into her there, slowly sliding into her, hurting
her.  Chloe didn't know if boys would do that.  She didn't feel sexy,
fingering her anus until she could get the handle of her hairbrush in
without it hurting too much, moaning, squatting on the bathroom floor.  She
put it in her mouth afterwards, sobbing.  Chloe had heard about blow jobs -
sucking didn't seem like sex, either; it was dirty, like playing with her
poophole - it tasted gross, too, the greased handle redolent of her rectum.
A boy could go pee, couldn't he?  She'd seen her brother pee, but he was
little.  She tried to picture her Uncle Steve peeing, or Nancy's father. 
Chloe sucked on the brush and came, diddling herself.



   Chloe and Nancy met the Logan cousins in the abandoned building about a
month before the tornado hit.  Ken and Phil went there to smoke pot, and
one day Phil was there alone and Nancy left and Chloe stayed.  Phil let her
try some pot, and Chloe let him look up her skirt.  It was different from
showing it to her Uncle - he didn't make her take her panty off, and he
said she was pretty like the teacher had.  He showed her his cock, too, and
a few days later he kissed her and asked to see her pussy.  Chloe wanted
him to rape her, but he put it in her mouth.  She felt like a toilet.  Phil
told Ken, and the next day they both did it.  Chloe cried a lot, but she
liked it in her mouth.  They took turns, and sometimes they did it for an
hour or more, until Chloe felt like a sleepwalker, sucking and swallowing
and staggering home, sore, slipping into the trailer and praying that her
mommy wouldn't be home.



   Sarah Slade was hardly ever home, and either a neighbor or Uncle Steve
watched the kids.  Billy was nine and Lisbeth was seven when Chloe turned
eleven.  Their father had left when Lisbeth came along.  Sarah worked at a
cosmetics factory, a frail creature with auburn hair and Sarah's emerald
eyes.  She was twenty-eight that summer.  Seventeen and a virgin when she
met Terry, Sarah was awkward and shy.  Intelligent but uneducated, she
wanted desperately to go back to school, get out of the trailer park, and
get away from her brother.  Sarah suspected that Steve abused her daughter,
but she couldn't think about it.  Sarah was scared of Steve.  She'd been
abused by their stepfather.  It started when Sarah was twelve years old,
and Steve knew about it.  He told her that she couldn't tell, and by the
time Sarah was thirteen her big brother would get into bed with her, coming
into her room after their stepfather left and making love to her.  It was
different from sucking daddy off - she loved Steve.  She wanted to have his
baby.  When Sarah was fourteen, he explained to her that there was a way to
do it that wouldn't make her pregnant.  Sarah tried to commit suicide after
Steve sodomized her for the first time.  He stopped kissing her, and for
over year Sarah's evenings consisted of sucking her stepfather's cock and
waiting for her brother to violate her.  She pretended to like it - and
after a while she learned to love it, lubricating her perverted little
rectum and rubbing her clitty when he reamed her, his hand covering her
mouth to keep her quiet.  Steve went off to college, and Sarah was left
with their stepfather and mother, a zombie.  Sarah started working at a
newsstand when she was sixteen.  Terry, a regular customer, was old enough
to be her father.  One day he waited for her after work.  Sarah had never
been to bed with anyone outside her family - she thought that no one would
want a girl who'd done those things.  Terry treated her like a child -
gently.  When her stepfather found out that she was seeing someone, he used
her rectum for the first time.  Sarah ran away and moved in with Terry, and
when she turned seventeen they were married.



   At first it was idyllic - but a year after Billy was born, when Sarah
was nineteen, her brother showed up.  He moved into an apartment nearby,
and before long Sarah was Steve's lover again.  Terry didn't fuck her in
the ass, and Sarah couldn't bring herself to ask him to.  He knew about her
stepfather, but she'd never told him about her brother.  Sarah took
laxatives to keep her weight down, and her brother's dick felt better than
ever before, especially if he did it when she had the runs.  Terry began to
suspect her of infidelity.  She tried to stop seeing Steve - but Sarah was
addicted to their guilty pleasures.  When she was pregnant with Lisbeth,
Terry wouldn't fuck her.  During her previous pregnancies, she masturbated.
With Steve around, Sarah went to her brother's apartment and begged him to
take care of her.  She felt like a little girl, lubricating her daddy hole
and grunting, riding him, groaning in orgasm.  She didn't have any
self-respect, and no one respected her - least of all her brother.  Lisbeth
came along, and Terry met another teenager and divorced Sarah - she moved
in with Steve, but he got sick of her within a week.  He humiliated her in
front of his friends, and one of them hurt her.  His name was Darrell.  He
was married, but he set her up in the trailer and found her a job.  Sarah
belonged to him.  He could do whatever he wanted.  She drank his urine and
fisted her twat, ate her feces and sucked her toes while he shoved a bottle
up her shitter.  He knew how far he could go, and he was often away.  She
went to work and raised the kids, and one day he disappeared.



   Sarah went through a series of boyfriends - mostly brutal, older men. 
She kept them away from her son and daughters, and by the time Chloe met
the Logan cousins, Sarah was drugged out and miserable.  Her brother came
around, but he didn't do anything to her anymore.  She wanted him to, and
she fantasized about what he did to her daughter.  Submissive and strangely
passive, Sarah dreamt about being carried off to a harem or whored or sold
into slavery.  But the turmoil in her bulimic body was almost invisible. 
She was very attractive despite her habits - her hair pre-Raphaelite, her
figure almost boyish, with small but succulent breasts and firm buttocks,
long legs and fabulous hands and feet, piano fingers and slender toes. 
Sarah had a terrible secret - around the time Chloe started sucking cock,
Sarah had left her bedroom door unlocked, and Billy had come in while she
was hurting her titties.  Sarah was stark naked.







   x x x





   Karen looked away, but even so she felt the familiar tightness in her
belly - only it was unfamiliar, because the man wasn't her father.  Her
knees turned to water, and her fingers felt cold even when her cousin
squeezed her hand, cold and clammy.  She heard the candy drop into her
brother's bag, then hers.  If her cousin hadn't pulled her away, whispering
thank you, she wouldn't have known what to do.  Karen turned to look at him
again when they reached the sidewalk - he was still standing in the
doorway, smiling.  Karen smiled back, coy, her heart racing - it was a
smile she practiced in the mirror, inviting, but her eyes were as sad as a
sullen sea, stagnant.  Her cousin practically dragged her to the next
house. Kyra was eleven, almost two years older than Karen, and she was as
fiery as Karen was watery - Kyra was a redhead, and she'd dressed as a
devil, her tail drawing attention to her tight little butt.  She was tall
for her age, and Karen was small for a nine-year-old - exactly four feet
tall, shorter even than her brother, who was only seven.  Bobby didn't even
have a costume - their mother hadn't had time to make one, and Karen had
made her own.  She was a witch, and the black costume contrasted brought
out her sickly pallor.  Karen was a stunning kid - her skin was like
buttermilk by moonlight, her eyes huge and almond-shaped, azure.  Long,
silken, inky hair framed a face as delicate as her underdeveloped body, and
her expression was often disturbingly adult.  She couldn't be called pretty
- her beauty was too dramatic, almost melancholy - and lately she looked
starved.  Her Aunt Kim, Kyra's mother, was always forcing her to eat. 
Karen had a slight belly, actually, but otherwise she was incredibly
skinny, skeletal.  She felt like a freak - but she spent a lot of time in
the bathroom, masturbating in front of the mirror.  Her mother had caught
her doing it in bed - Karen was addicted to it; she rubbed herself raw, and
she'd even started sticking her finger in the sore hole, sometimes a
toothbrush, hurting it a little.  Her cousin had told her that boys put
their pee-pees in there to make babies - Kyra used to tell her a lot of
things, but since Kyra had started to get titties (they were still tiny,
like espresso cups turned upside down) they'd drifted apart.  They still
did things together, like go trick-or-treating, but mostly 'cause Aunt Kim
made her daughter take care of Karen and Bobby.  If Aunt Kim hadn't made
Kyra spend Halloween night with them, the eleven-year-old would have gone
to the haunted house with her friend Francesca.



   "He's so creepy," Kyra said.  She meant Mr.  Thayer, who had shut the
door.  Yeah, he was - and that's why Karen had wanted to trick-or-treat
along Hickory Street.  Mr.  Thayer was creepy in the way Karen's father was
- only Kyra didn't know that her Uncle Bill did things to Karen.  No one
knew except Karen, and she'd never tell - her mother had asked her whether
her daddy ever touched her, after she caught her diddling herself.  It
wasn't that Jennifer Bergen was aghast at masturbation - it was the way
Karen looked, crying, her skinny legs spread obscenely wide, quivering, her
cunny obviously sore even in the faint light from the hallway.  Jennifer
knew that there was something wrong with her daughter - Karen wet the bed
sometimes, and a neighbor claimed that she'd hurt his dog with a stick -
but it took Jennifer a couple of days to ask Karen about Bill.  Jennifer
had divorced Bill when their daughter was four years old, but Karen spent
weekends and part of the summer with him.  Jennifer knew that Bill liked
young girls - but she'd never been able to face it; it was far too
horrible, because she'd loved him...  and part of why she loved him was
because he reminded her of her father.  Jennifer had been in love with her
daddy.  He didn't do anything dirty to her when she was little - he hardly
ever touched her, in fact - but he liked looking at her, and by the time
Jennifer was Karen's age she realized that she gave her daddy a hard-on. 
He spanked her sometimes, and she figured out that he did that because he
wanted to look at her.  When she was in puberty and her mommy wasn't home,
she walked around in her underwear a lot even though she knew it meant a
spanking, and her daddy would grab her and pull her panties down and spank
her, hard, sometimes so hard she went pee, puling, his penis straining in
his pants, pressing against her pubis.  When Jennifer was twelve, he
started sticking his finger in her rectum.  She hated it at first -
Jennifer was a dreamy girl despite her depravity, and she'd begun to get
interested in guys, and her father made her ashamed of her filthy little
holes; she fantasized about older men but it was always romantic - not even
sexual, really.  Her pussy would get sopping wet when he spanked her and
she played with it a lot, but when Jennifer imagined herself falling in
love, she saw herself as pure - like her mother.  Part of her hated her
mother.  Her mother was always telling her to sit properly and act like a
lady.  Jennifer wanted to be a woman - but when men stared at her a certain
way she got the shivers, and she'd stared back at them a couple of times,
leaking, and when her friend Linda told her about blow jobs, Jennifer said
yuck but couldn't stop thinking about sucking cock.  She wanted her daddy
to stick his dick in her mouth.  She'd never heard of anal sex, but by the
time she turned thirteen she was coming in her daddy's lap, crying,
crawling off to the bathroom afterwards, constipated, convinced that no one
would ever want her because she was sick - her daddy called her a dirty
slut, teasing her twat before he touched her anus, sometimes moistening his
finger in her slimehole before he slid it into her rectum, her movements
almost masculine when he masturbated her, the musky little opening slightly
sore and very obviously perverted, so needy, cloudy fluid seeping from her
slit when she came and he spread her legs to slap her.  Utterly submissive,
she hooked her naked foot around his ankle, offering him her crotch.  She
went rigid, howling when he hit her.  When her breasts got bigger, he
sometimes took off her bra and turned her over, slapping her little titties
until she lost control of her bladder.  Jennifer held her hands at her
shoulders, her fingers digging into her palms, her head back, bawling like
a baby.  She was a skinny kid, and her boobs were barely bigger than her
fists, far apart on her washboard chest, adolescent even in adulthood.



   Somehow she kept her mask in place, perhaps because her mother switched
jobs and was home more often.  Jennifer's father didn't abuse her then, and
by the time the girl entered high school her punishments were very rare. 
She'd lost her friends, and she lived in dread of the showers after gym -
alone, she was obsessed with her body, sticking her finger down her throat
after dinner, caressing her protuberant hips and pert, upturned breasts,
trimming her nails and pubic hair and bathing - but she was ashamed of her
desirable little derriere and dangling labia, and the looks she got
embarrassed her.  There was another bulimic girl in her class, a beautiful
blonde named Cathy Walker, and Jennifer imagined her lying in her vomit -
and Jennifer wondered if the other girls knew what they did, and one day
Diane Jones, a full-breasted fifteen-year-old, stood at the end of the line
of lockers where Jennifer was changing and jeered at her - rubbing her
vagina in a parody of masturbation, Diane put her finger in her mouth and
mimicked a retching sound.  Everybody laughed, and Jennifer pretended to be
sick the next day - and as it happened, her father didn't go to work.  Her
mother did, and maybe half an hour after her mom left her dad was in bed
with her.  He'd never gotten into bed with her before.  She was in her
underwear, and she'd been playing with herself - her finger was still wet.
He hardly ever kissed her, and suddenly he was sticking his tongue in her
mouth.  Jennifer wrapped her legs around him, whimpering - and her father's
penis brushed against her thigh.  He was going to rape her.  She touched it
for the first time, tentatively, then wrapped her fingers around the shaft,
rocking her hips and whining.  He let her touch the tip to the thin cotton
covering her cunt, then grabbed her by the hair and forced it into her
dripping mouth.  Jennifer gagged, her fists flying to her shoulders as he
fucked her mouth, and then he was tearing her panties off, still sticking
it in her throat.  She didn't realize what he was going to do until he had
her in a crouch and she felt his cock push against her little poophole. 
Her sphincter tightened, but she didn't struggle - she went rigid, like
when he slapped her between the legs.  He stabbed at the tiny opening until
it popped inside, slick with her saliva.  She couldn't take it, clawing at
the sheets and crying, but her daddy slid it deeper, slowly stuffing it in,
and then he was reaming her, holding her hips and thrusting hard, his huge
cock filling her little colon.  She tried to fuck him back to get it over
with, grunting in agony and finally in orgasm, his semen gushing into her
intestine.  He slid out and abandoned her, the hole gaping like a gory
mouth.



   It didn't happen again for more than a month.  She drifted through her
freshman year of high school, despised by everyone until she made friends
with Cathy Walker.  There was an erotic undertone to their relationship -
they never talked about their bulimia, but Jennifer guessed that Cathy did
it with her daddy, too.  They talked about boys, though.  It was empty
conversation - neither of them had the least possibility of finding a
boyfriend - but Jennifer learned a lot from Cathy, and it helped her
pretend to be normal.







   x x x







   Lauren was seven years old when she sucked it for the first time.  Uncle
Bill had told her it got big because it was full of love - and Mr.  Tulk's
pee-pee got big sometimes, too, when she stayed after school.  Lauren knew
that her Uncle Bill loved her - he asked her to sit in his lap a lot, and
he took her potty.  She wasn't allowed to tell 'cause she was a big girl
and could go by herself, but whenever she stayed with him he'd take her to
the bathroom and look at her trickle.  Her mommy had told her not to diddle
it, and Lauren felt dirty at first, squatting on the toilet naked and
tinkling - but she liked it when he licked her there, and he showed her
pictures of a little girl playing with her pee place.  Her name was Lolita.
She was nine years old and sad because her daddy wasn't home.  She played
with her poophole, too, and one day Uncle Bill asked Lauren to do that. 
Lauren didn't look like Lolita because she didn't have a daddy and nobody
had ever loved her in there.  Uncle Bill poured baby oil all over her -
he'd warmed the bottle beforehand - and Lauren pretended to be Lolita while
he took pictures of her.  Lauren looked really sexy and Uncle Bill went inn
her mouth.  He took baths with her, and Lauren played with his pee-pee and
gave him blow jobs - it was a secret 'cause girls were only supposed do
that with their daddies, and Lauren's mommy would be mad if she knew that
Uncle Bill was her boyfriend.  Lauren was scared of her mommy - Melanie was
mean to her sometimes.  Melanie was only fifteen when she had Lauren, and
she'd started drinking again.  Her brother didn't mind taking care of the
kid while Melanie slept around.  She was seeing a married man - he gave her
money - and Lauren was in the way.  She didn't suspect what was going on
even when the girl began to wet the bed.  Melanie beat her up, and by the
time Lauren was eight years old she had lost control of her body.  Uncle
Bill had started hurting her with his pee-pee - he showed her pictures of
Lolita with her daddy, and Lauren was just like her - it hurt in her
poophole, but Uncle Bill loved her.  He made egg nog and posed her for the
Polaroids, but he always took her to the bathroom to fuck her because it
didn't have a window and no one could hear her cry.  She liked sucking him,
and he taught her to be sexy - Lauren was a lovely child, her silken hair
the color of Coca-Cola, her blue eyes dreamy despite the abuse.  A lot of
men wanted to rape her, and ordinary trip to the supermarket could become a
nightmare.  Once, when her mother was looking at magazines and Lauren went
hunting for her favorite cereal, a man tried to talk to her.  Lauren wet
herself, and he went away.  She started crying, shaking uncontrollably,
ashamed and scared of her mommy - Melanie heard her and dragged her to the
car.  She made Lauren wear her wet clothes for the rest of the day.  Uncle
Bill liked it when Lauren went pee.  He even had her do it in a bowl once,
and then he made her drink it.  He showed her the pictures - she was
unbelievably beautiful, kissing a pink plastic penis and playing with her
poophole, peeing in the plain glass bowl and sipping the bright yellow
urine, looking into the lens.  He went in her botty and put her in the
bathtub.  Lauren was the prettiest toilet he'd ever seen, cupping her hands
in front of her face and begging him to pee, tears streaming down her
delicate face, swallowing, sticking out her tongue.  It hurt to be pretty,
and Lauren was constipated all the time - he used her mouth a lot and made
her play with her cunny, but Lauren was a baby and he never put his cock in
her fuck tube.  Sometimes he'd squirt in there, and he showed her pictures
of Lolita's father hurting her in front - the nine-year-old went crazy when
he did that, gritting her crooked teeth, her knuckles white against the
midnight blue bedspread - but Uncle Paul only did it Lauren's mouth and
daddy hole.



   Melanie was often late, picking Lauren up at school, and sometimes Mr.
Tulk would watch her until her mother came.  Lauren could tell that her
English teacher loved her, but he didn't scare her as much as Uncle Paul or
the man in the supermarket.  He'd started touching her in February, when
she turned eight, and Lauren liked it - he let her sit in his lap like
Uncle Paul had before he started having sex with her, and at first he only
rubbed her belly and stuff.  She couldn't breathe, trying desperately not
to pee.  He slipped his hand into her blouse before spring vacation,
fingering her left nipple.  Lauren squirmed, and they started kissing. 
Henry Tulk came in his pants.  He'd molested a girl before - like Lauren,
the child had been abused, but Lauren was different - she suffered, but she
was abnormally wanton, too.  He talked to her mother, telling Melanie that
the Pooles' trailer was on his way and he could take her daughter home from
school.  Lauren had an accident the first time he gave her ride - alone
with him, she was certain that he would hurt her.  Uncle Paul fucked her
really hard when she went pee, and Lauren was panting, her rectum moist
with fear and arousal.  Mr.  Tulk had tried to find out who did things to
her, but Lauren would only cry.  He took her home - she already wore the
key around her neck - and told her to go change.  Lauren was confused.  She
expected to be raped, and her dirty little body needed to be held down and
hurt.  She rubbed against him, crying, groping for his cock.  Suddenly she
was on the floor, on her back.  Writhing, her navy blue skirt lifted and
her soaked panty around her ankle, Lauren gasped.  He covered her mouth
with his hand and forced his eight-inch cock into her cunny.  The child's
fists flew to her shoulders as he deflowered her, fucking three or four
inches of the thick shaft into her before he came.  She was unconscious,
and Henry Tulk slid from the bleeding opening and pondered the future.



   He was not an evil man.  He had done evil, but he was not the Devil
incarnate.  The trouble was that Lauren Poole attracted evil.  Henry
revived her, cleaned up the mess, carried her to the bathroom and tried to
think.  As luck would have it, Melanie was very late and had not yet come
home when he made up his mind.  He wasn't evil, but he was devious.  He
made the ravaged child tell him about her Uncle Paul.  When Lauren didn't
answer, he broke one off her fingers.  Mr.  Tulk left her in the tub and
sat on the sofa smoking, waiting for Melanie to come home.  His plan was
very simple - he would tell the woman that he brother had raped Lauren.  He
could either go to the police - or she could share the kid.  He'd met
Melanie Poole, and he suspected that she would succumb.  There is a certain
light to rape which gives one visions, and Henry Tulk felt clairvoyant.  If
the woman had allowed her brother to molest the girl - and it was
impossible not to see that Lauren was abused; one of the other teachers had
begun to consider calling the authorities - then Melanie would not be
averse to a business arrangement.  Perhaps she wouldn't even require money
- he didn't have much.  To convince a mother to permit the abuse of her
child was one thing.  To present her with a fait accompli was another - and
Melanie Poole was as wicked as they came.  These thoughts were lubricated
by liquor from the kitchen cabinet, and until the woman returned he was
certain that this was the right course.  The only other possibility was
murder, after all.



   He was wrong - he didn't even make the suggestion.  As soon as he saw
Melanie's face, he knew that he was wrong.  She was an awful mother, but
the house stank of crime, and no one would hurt her baby.  He strangled her
instead and was about to kill her daughter when he got another hard-on. 
Lauren would later remember only unbearable pain.  She was gorgeous under
torture - accustomed to agony, she stayed conscious until he shoved a
candlestick up her torn cunny.  It was as if another being in Henry Tulk
had been lanced and sprayed the world with abominable lust, and when the
police broke down the door he was a raving maniac.  Tranquilized, he told
them about Lauren's uncle - Bill Poole was nabbed, Lauren lay in the
hospital for over a month, and the horrors that had engulfed the girl
receded for a time.



   She responded surprisingly well to therapy, was placed in foster care,
and by the age of ten was barely recognizable as a victim of prolonged and
severe abuse.







   x x x







   Lori could feel his breath on her lower belly.  His hands were on her
hips - not holding her but feeling her, his thumbs and forefingers above
the elastic of her favorite panties, pink cotton with a few faded flowers,
lavender.  She'd worn them because she knew that he might take her shorts
off.  They were around her ankles, and her left foot still bore traces of
his saliva, cool, almost cold now, slightly sticky, still wet between her
slender toes - she'd almost lost her balance when he lifted her foot.  He'd
sucked on her toes, then asked if she would take her shorts off - he had to
help her 'cause she was shivering.  She wasn't shy, exactly, but she knew
that what she was doing was wrong; she was ashamed of herself.  Her fingers
tightened around her T-shirt - she held the shirt at her collarbone, her
arms parallel to her shoulders, elbows out - and her tiny nipples were wet,
too.  Mr.  Morrison had licked her chest - he'd done that the last time -
running his tongue between her ribs, then circling her nipples, sucking
them - they were the size of tiddly winks and even softer than the
surrounding skin, tender, the color of watermelon candy.  He said they were
pretty, and Lori was very sensitive there - her sister had titties like
little anthills already, but Lori was barely nine years old.



   Lori Atwater felt awful about lying - her mommy came home between
five-thirty and a quarter to six, and if she asked what Lori had done after
school, Lori looked away and said that she'd been playing with her friend
Lauren.  Lori's mommy knew that Lauren was her daughter's imaginary friend
- Lori didn't have any real friends, only her boyfriend, and nobody knew
about Mr.  Morrison.



   Sometimes Mr.  Morrison didn't seem real, either, afterwards - he'd
asked her to be his girlfriend the first time she went to his trailer,
sneaking around the back way 'cause she knew that he wanted to do things to
her.  She passed the trailer every day, walking home from school with her
sister.  Cindy was eleven, two and a half years older than Lori, and Mr. 
Morrison stared at her first - they didn't look like sisters; Cindy was the
tallest girl in sixth grade, a blue-eyed blonde already obsessed with boys
- she hadn't even been kissed yet, but she'd strut around the pool in her
little bikini with Mary Rogers, a twelve-year-old who had done some
modeling in the spring and let everybody know it.  Cindy had soft, pink
skin and long, honey-colored hair, and unlike her little sister she was
athletic.  Lori was a sickly weakling who wore hand-me-downs - even her
favorite panties had been Cindy's and didn't quite fit - and she looked
lost, lily-white, her gray eyes hidden by glasses that Mr.  Morrison took
off before he touched her.  She liked kissing him - she'd been molested in
second grade, a year before she made friends with Mr.  Morrison.  It made
her feel dirty, but Mr.  Morrison was nice to her - Mr.  Taylor had been
nice to her, too, taking her to the zoo while Cindy took swimming
lessons...



   Mr.  Taylor was their neighbor where they were living then, in another
trailer park - he had a niece Lori's age, and he'd brought her with when he
talked to Lori's mother.  At first he'd take all three of them to the zoo -
Cindy, Lori, and his little niece - but he soon realized that Cindy was not
the sort of girl he could talk into taking off her clothes - Lori was.  She
wasn't stupid, but she was lonely and needed attention.  Mr.  Taylor was
patient.  He happened by whenever Cindy was doing something else.  He'd
take his niece and Lori to his house and take pictures of them in their
underwear - he told them not to tell because he wanted to surprise their
parents (in Lori's case, her mother, who'd left the girls' father when Lori
was a baby) - he said the pictures for a clothing catalog.  His niece told
on him, but by that time Lori's mother trusted Mr.  Taylor and wasn't
suspicious when he showed up alone to take Lori to the zoo.  They didn't go
to the zoo.  Lori had been warned about strangers, but Mr.  Taylor wasn't a
stranger.  She began to suspect that the pictures weren't for a catalog,
but she wanted to believe that they were - Cindy's friend Mary had started
modeling, and Lori wanted to be like her 'cause her sister always talked
about how beautiful Mary was, and everybody said Cindy was pretty.  Nobody
ever said Lori was pretty.



   Mr.  Taylor made Lori feel pretty, and she _was_ pretty in a way, lying
on his bed in the lacy things he had her wear - she couldn't take them home
'cause her mom would know she'd been posing, but while she was there she
felt like a princess.  Sometimes she looked away, as if there were
something lurking behind the exaggerated friendliness in his dark brown
eyes, but she liked sitting in his lap, and no one had ever hurt her.  One
day he gave her a glass of wine and asked her to pretend to be a grown-up,
lying in bed waiting her husband to come home.  He told her to make up a
name and she said Lauren, because she'd always wished her mother had named
her Lauren, and he pretended to be her husband, coming home to find his
sexy young wife sipping wine in her underwear.  He asked her if she knew
what it meant to be sexy, and she said that her sister was sexy - boys
liked looking at her.  Mr.  Taylor said that Lori was a lot sexier than
Cindy.  If he was her husband, he'd want to have a baby with her.  The wine
went to her head, and he got into bed with her and put his hand on her
belly.  He asked her if she ever thought about getting married - Lori said
no, 'cause she never had; she didn't have a daddy, and Mr.  Taylor asked
her if she wanted a daddy.  Lori needed a daddy.  Mr.  Taylor touched her
between the legs, stroking her slit through the thin white silk.  She
whimpered, confused by the wetness there.  She'd never played with herself
- her mommy had told her not to diddle it when she was a toddler, and she
knew it was naughty.  She thought she would pee, but it felt nice - and
then he hugged her.  Lori melted in his arms, limp.



   Mr.  Taylor would come by every Saturday - she called him Uncle Tom in
front of her mom - and Lori had to lie about the zoo or the movies or
wherever it was he said he was taking her - and his niece, who was never
there.  He mentioned the different animals they'd see, and Lori felt bad
about lying.  It was easier to lie when she'd thought that he'd surprise
her mommy with the pictures, or pretended that he would - now Lori knew
that her mommy would never see them and couldn't even pretend anymore
'cause they were dirty.  Lori was scared of him, even though he made her
feel good sometimes, licking her trickle.  Mr.  Taylor played her poophole,
too, and she liked that a lot even though she was embarrassed about it.  It
didn't hurt, but it felt funny - he dipped his finger in Vaseline and
wormed it into her botty - and she had to go poop afterwards.  Mr.  Taylor
took her to the bathroom.  Lori felt like a baby, climbing on the toilet
backwards.  He touched her after she went, and Lori whimpered, wiping her
little slit with toilet paper and trembling.  She was ashamed of her
wetness - Lori was easily aroused and needy, especially after she went
potty.  He'd shown her magazines about girls like her, and he posed her
like the pretty girls in the pictures - the camera was always focused on
her crotch, and sometimes Mr.  Taylor told her to touch her trickle or
spread her cheeks.  She liked looking at the magazines - her favorite model
reminded her of Mary Rogers, her sister's friend, only the girl in the
magazine was younger and didn't have titties yet.  Lori had started
masturbating - she felt guilty about it (guiltier even than when she was
Mr. Taylor, because he told her what to do), but she had trouble sleeping,
tossing and turning, tormented by her lies and the unfamiliar feelings
between her legs - she thought of it as her pee place, but Mr.  Taylor told
her that big girls made babies there.  Lori was too little to have a baby -
she liked it when he licked her cunny, and she diddled it a lot, but girls
her age needed love lower down, in their daddy holes.  Lori was shy about
her butt, but when she was on the toilet she didn't have to look at Mr. 
Taylor - she'd pretend to be Lauren and think about the girl in the
magazine.  Lori had a nice ass, and Mr.  Taylor taught her to be sexy like
the ten-year-old in the pictures - the model's name was Marcie, and Lori
practiced the lewd poses Marcie used to get her daddy to love her, diddling
her baby hole and wiggling her butt.  Marcie already had peach fuzz, and
she was really pretty there - her daddy put his dick in her cunny, and when
Marcie was lonely, she frigged it with her middle finger.  She had tears in
her eyes - they were blue, like Cindy's and Mary's - and her hole hurt
because she wasn't old enough to make babies.  She was lonely in the
magazine, all alone, and she lay in bed waiting for her daddy - Marcie was
shy about her botty, too, but she couldn't have a baby yet and still needed
to be loved like a little girl.  Crying, Marcie held her poophole open -
her daddy and his friends had fucked her in there, and Marcie was sore. 
They put it in her mouth, too - Mr.  Taylor made Lori suck his fingers, but
Marcie let men put their penises in her mouth.  Lori didn't like it at
first, but Mr.  Taylor made her do it.  She cried when he took off his
clothes, cowering on the big bed.  He always gave her wine before he
undressed her, and it made her sleepy - but he made her hold his thing and
showed her another magazine - it had pictures of Marcie playing with her
daddy and another man.  Marcie looked crazy, sucking their cocks - she had
bruises between her legs and her bright blue eyes were suffused with misery
and fear.  She hugged her legs when they used her cunny and poophole,
taking turns fucking her face and botty and baby hole, and the last few
pages showed her showing off afterwards - she looked like a broken doll,
but she was still beautiful, begging, displaying her dripping openings and
staring into the camera, drooling come.  Lori licked Mr.  Taylor's penis
like a popsicle, then sucked it.  He told her to spit and showed her how to
stroke it, and then he squirted in her mouth.  Lori learned to swallow, and
about a month before the Atwaters moved away he put it in her poophole. 
Lori had just gone potty and felt sick 'cause he'd made her drink two
glasses of wine.  He stuffed a sock into her mouth and had her hold her
legs like Marcie did.  Lori almost passed out from the pain when he
penetrated her, but it felt good to feel him deep - she hurt inside, and he
fucked her where she hurt, slowly filling her and flooding her with come,
licking her after he came, a pillow under the small of her back, black
silk, semen seeping from her lubricated colon.



   Cindy Atwater noticed that her little sister was acting weird, but she
didn't tell their mother - Lori had always gotten into trouble, and Cindy
had her own little life, swimming lessons with Mary Rogers and flirting
with boys, being in sixth grade and going through puberty.  Cindy wasn't
stupid - but she had no imagination.  Her little life was already a
sequence of music videos and prepackaged desires, like their mother's. 
Cindy suspected that what was wrong with Lori was sexual, and like their
mother she didn't want to know about it.  The eleven-year-old's sexuality
was like a cookie-cutter Harlequin romance crossed with Nancy Drew, almost
asexual on the surface, sterilized even in its suggestiveness.  Puberty was
sort of scary to her, especially because her friend Mary Rogers was more
mature, not only physically but in ways Cindy didn't want to think about -
she'd noticed how Mary responded to stares.  Cindy liked to flirt with
boys, but Mary Rogers was aroused by everything - including men.  Cindy and
Mary went to the pool a lot, and there were always men there, not only men
with families but dirty old men, and even some of the men with families
stared at them in a way that upset Cindy.  Mary didn't seem upset - and
part of what upset Cindy was that a lot of the men paid attention to her
friend and not her - not that she wanted attention from dirty old men!  But
the electricity made Cindy aware of how beautiful Mary was - not only her
face (Cindy had always thought she was prettier; Mary was a brunette, even
if she did have similar blue eyes...) but her body, too, and one night when
Cindy was thinking about a boy they both like, Bobby Watson, Cindy pictured
Bobby kissing Mary...  Cindy rarely masturbated - it seemed dirty to her -
but the image of what Mary might look like naked, in bed with Bobby... 
Cindy had seen Mary naked, in the showers at the pool, but she didn't
really look at her - or she tried not to.  Mary looked at _her_, and a
couple of times there was something in the older girl's eyes that upset
Cindy more than the men or her own discomfort, something - sick.  Cindy
knew that there were girls who liked girls - lezzies - but she couldn't
imagine Mary being like that.  Mary was like her, pretty and popular... 
They talked about boys, too - and sometimes talking about sex made Cindy
slippery, and then she would wonder whether Mary was wet, too, and whether
Mary masturbated.  Cindy tried not to think about those things - she
thought about going on dates, which she wasn't allowed to do yet, and
getting married - but sometimes, at night, when she couldn't sleep, she'd
fantasize about Bobby and Mary, trying to think about Bobby but ending up
obsessed with Mary's body, with the way Mary moved when men were watching
her, the look in her eyes.



   The Atwaters moved to another trailer park, and Lori didn't see Mr. 
Taylor anymore.  He'd sensed that her mother was getting suspicious and
simply stayed away after sodomizing her, though he did drive past their new
trailer once (actually a decrepit trailer that was a lot cheaper than the
one they were living in before).  Lori was a mess.  Her botty hurt for
about a month - she held her poop in because it hurt to go potty, and when
she had to go the pain reminded her of his penis pushing into her rectum;
Lori had almost passed out, her screams muffled by the gag, but when he
slid it deeper she felt like the pretty girl in the pictures, hurt in a way
that made her wild, whimpering as warm semen spurted into her bowels, his
dick wilting in the smoldering wetness.  He'd licked her afterwards, taking
the sock out of her mouth and tonguing her cunny while she cried,
quivering, clobbered to the depths of her being, dying for love.  It hurt
so much!  Her whole body belonged to him, and Lori was lost in agony like
Marcie - she couldn't stop thinking about the magazine where Marcie was
alone, lonely, lying in bed.  But Marcie had a daddy to rape her - Lori had
been abandoned, and even Mr.  Taylor didn't love her.







   x x x







   Rachel Smith was spoiled rotten, and it was difficult for her to adjust
to the discipline at St.-Germain.  She was homesick - she missed her room
and her things and her parents, especially her father.  She'd chosen the
school because Rebecca Brown went there; Rachel didn't really know Rebecca,
but everyone admired her, and Rebecca was Rachel's idol - they were both
brainy and beautiful, and Rachel had been watching the older girl since
second grade.  They'd hardly even spoken - not the two of them, anyway,
without others there.  Twice, really - once when Rachel was in fourth grade
and Rebecca in fifth, and again when Rebecca said she'd be going to a Swiss
school.  Rachel asked her about it.  She hardly heard what Rebecca said -
it had taken Rachel a week to find the courage to approach Rebecca.  Rachel
had even practiced her questions, finding out about St.-Germain from the
guidance counselor.  Rachel knew that you couldn't get a crush on a girl -
not if you were normal, anyway.  She liked boys - or she liked it when boys
looked at her, at least - and at first she pretended that she liked Rebecca
because boys liked her.  Rachel was thirteen and hadn't even been kissed
yet, and she thought about kissing when she touched herself - kissing, and
undressing.  Puberty was spooky, and ever since she'd become aware of the
effect she had on men...



   Rachel was eleven when she realized that her father paid more attention
to her when she dressed a certain way or sat in certain poses.  He'd always
looked at her, of course, but it had never made her uncomfortable because
she hadn't known anything about the birds and the bees.  He looked at her
body.  She took ballet lessons, and sometimes he'd stay for practice, and
when he had the addition built - her practice room - he'd watch her at
home, too.  He gave her everything she wanted, and Rachel knew that he
loved her more than anything in the world.  Her first fantasies were about
her father, and when her friend Ashley told her about sex, Rachel tried to
picture her father doing that to her mother - making her.  Rachel couldn't
imagine her dad doing it for any other reason.  She loved her mom - but she
was jealous of her.  Rachel knew that you couldn't do those things with
your daddy - and when she was eleven years she thought it was disgusting,
anyway - but she loved going shopping with him, and she loved it when he
tucked her in.  He didn't do anything dirty then.  What there was between
them was subtle.  It infuriated her to think that he did dirty things with
her mother.



   When Rachel was twelve Mr.  Nelson began to pay attention to her.  He
was her English teacher.  Men had stared at her before - dirty old men she
never saw again - but she saw Mr.  Nelson every day, except on the
weekends, and he wasn't dirty or old.  He was her father's age,
thirty-eight, and he looked kind of like the man in the Camel ads.  Rachel
knew that you couldn't get involved with a man - by that time she'd heard
things about girls who did, older girls, teenagers - but she thought about
Mr.  Nelson all the time, especially when she couldn't sleep.  Sometimes,
when she was falling asleep, he'd turn into her father.  Her nipples were
in bud, but she didn't have breasts.  Boys didn't look at her, and anyway
the boys at school seemed so young.  Men looked at her all the time.  She
was stunning - too dramatic to be called pretty - very pale, a vein visible
at her temple, with big dark eyes and delicate features, her chestnut hair
long and thick and silken, tall for a twelve-year-old, slender but
muscular, willowy and graceful.  Rachel was in love with herself and looked
it, lost in her own world - but by the time she turned thirteen there was
something wrong with her.  She was ashamed of her desires and the filthy
things she did after her daddy tucked her in - he kissed her on the lips,
not sexually - not overtly, but it was sexual to her - and now and then
Rachel would be naked, knowing that he could lift the blanket and look at
her.  She didn't dare to use her tongue, trembling, her guilty little cunt
leaking nectar.  A couple of times she touched it while he was kissing her,
and once she let the covers fall, quivering, her right arm around his neck,
his gaze wandering to her chest after he kissed her.  There was nothing
there - nipples, raw and erect, far apart, forlorn.  She cried after he
left.  Rachel was horrified by her flatness, and when a boy made fun of her
at school she stayed home the next day, playing sick.  _Flatlands_.  She
subscribed to a lot of fashion magazines and found small-breasted models -
and she started looking around, and one day a girl named Diane made a face
at her.  Rachel was mortified.  Rebecca Brown had breasts.  They weren't
big, but they were perfect, slightly larger than lemons, succulent.  They
were the sort of breasts Rachel wished for - but she realized that she'd
never have breasts like that.  She wouldn't have breasts.  Her hips had
widened, but nothing grew on her ribby chest except her nipples, abnormally
long and oversensitive, swollen, obscene.  She felt like a freak, and when
she wasn't playing with herself she couldn't imagine making out, the
embarrassment she'd feel when a boy unbuttoned her blouse.  Ashley already
wore a B-cup bra, and when Mr.  Nelson stared at Ashley, Rachel burned with
jealousy, inadequate.  Sometimes Ashley envisioned Rebecca fooling around
with a boy, taking her top off.  Rachel masturbated a lot, even in the
washroom at school.  She stopped taking ballet because of her lack of
breasts, and wouldn't be caught dead in a swimsuit.  She wanted her daddy
to make it better.  She fantasized about taking a trip with her father and
Rebecca.  They would drive up to Maine, but it would be like the Labor Day
weekend when there weren't any rooms anywhere, only daddy would find one
with only one bed.  Rebecca would take off her top to show Rachel's daddy
her titties.  He'd say they were ugly.  Rebecca would start crying, and
instead of having sex with her, he'd strip Rachel and suck her nipples. 
She'd grasp his penis and put it in her.  He'd be scared to get her
pregnant until Rachel wrapped her legs around him and whispered that she
wanted to have his baby.  Rebecca would play with herself while Rachel did
it with her daddy, and afterwards Rachel would kiss Rebecca's breasts and
tell her that they weren't that ugly.



   Rebecca Brown went off to Switzerland soon after Rachel asked her about
the school.  She didn't want to go there then - she didn't want to leave
home - she only wanted to find a reason to talk to Rebecca.  Rachel was
thirteen then, and she meant to stay at the school they'd been in, a
private academy for rich kids.  Rachel went to music camp that summer, and
when she returned to Boston that autumn her father stopped tucking her in.
She didn't understand at first, but slowly she realized that her daddy was
worried about her.  One of the counselors at camp had tried to talk to her
- he thought she'd been molested - and Rachel had almost died of
embarrassment when she figured out what he was getting at.  She felt like
he could see inside her - and it was awful.  The other kids at camp avoided
her, and suddenly Rachel understood why - she was weird.  Her perversity
was obvious - her seductiveness around the male teachers, her furtive
stares at the other girls, even her odor.  Rachel wore perfume, but even so
she smelled like a sensuous nightmare, squirming whenever her mind
wandered, wanton, her dark eyes unfocused, dreamy.  She told the director
that the counselor had touched her.  He hadn't, but the man was dismissed.
By the time Rachel returned home, she was obviously disturbed - she spent
most of her time in a trance, masturbating, locked in the bathroom or lying
in bed, leaking.  When her daddy didn't tuck her in, she started walking
around in her underwear whenever her mother wasn't home.  One day her
father told her to put some clothes on.  She burst into tears, and after
that Rachel hated him.



   She got caught shoplifting in the dead of winter.  She didn't need to
steal anything - he still bought her whatever she asked for - but she
needed attention.  She took a ring at a jewelry store, slipping it into her
pocket when the clerk looked away, and she'd forgotten that she'd paid
there by credit card before.  Her father was furious.  He paid off the
jeweler and wouldn't speak to her - and a week later Rachel got caught
stealing panties at an expensive boutique.  Her father picked her up at the
police station, livid.  Rachel cried all the way home.  Her daddy dragged
her to her room, hurting her arm.  She didn't hear the horrible things he
said, sobbing - and then she was on her belly, bawling.  It wasn't so much
the spanking as being exposed that made her slimy, but the slaps excited
her, too - the hurt, the helplessness, the way he held her in his lap,
lifting her skirt and yanking her little panty down.  He hadn't seen her
lower body since infancy, but in his fury he didn't even notice how
desirable she was.  She'd been playing with herself in the fitting room,
frigging her filthy little hole, and the yellow silk was soiled.  One of
the policemen had made her show him the 'stolen merchandise'.  Rachel had
almost gone pee, lifting her purple skirt in front of the officers, puling.
The cops sniggered, and one of them said 'we won't be returning those to
the store, will we'.  Her daddy had never hurt her before, or even
humiliated her.  She'd never dreamt that he would - she still wanted him to
fuck her, and her snatch was sopping wet - but she'd always fantasized
about being loved by him.  She'd let Mr.  Nelson look up her skirt
sometimes - and he'd made her feel irresistible, as if anyone who got a
glimpse of her hidden treasure would fall in love with her.  She'd been
wearing panties when he looked, of course, and it was only for a second, in
class - but even so it was overwhelming.  She liked looking at herself in
the mirror, too, admiring her vulva - she'd never even seen a picture of
another girl's crotch and didn't realize that her habits were obvious. 
Despite her virginity, Rachel's vagina was as raw as a child prostitute's,
pouty, her snotty clitoris swollen, almost penile.  Her daddy pulled the
panty down lower, slipping one of her shoes off, undressing her.  Rachel
dropped her leg, writhing, her little white buttocks reddening as her daddy
slapped her.  He knew that she'd reached menarche but hadn't expected to
see hair.  Then he put his hand there.



   He was still angry, and his fingers explored her lovelessly.  His
daughter was a thief, and it occurred to him that she might have lost her
cherry, too - a delinquent, a dirty little whore.  She'd slid her middle
finger into her vagina before, but her daddy's was three times thicker,
alien, invading her.  Rachel responded to humiliation.  She hated him - but
she needed him, too.  The kid's crack was incredibly inviting.  She didn't
know about anal sex, but being inspected in that pose made her aware of her
bung - Rachel went rigid, whimpering, curling her toes, still wearing one
of her shoes, the other foot in only her sock, white, her skinny legs
spread lewdly apart as he probed her.  Satisfied that her hymen was intact,
her father touched her anus, feeling the sphincter tighten, his cock
stirring in his pants.  Rachel shuddered, dying of shame.  She didn't
struggle.  She felt his erection against her pelvis, and she didn't even
want him to love her anymore.  She wanted him to fuck her brains out. 
She'd never been aroused back there before.  It didn't feel good.  His
finger was slick with sap.  It felt worse than when the cops had looked at
her crotch, her snatch defined by the damp silk.  She clenched her cheeks,
dripping.  Her daddy had a hard-on.  Rachel held her breath, nauseous.  He
wanted her - and her rectum felt soggy, as if she had the runs.  She
wiggled a little, whimpering, and he slid his finger into her ass, slowly.
She gasped at the discomfort, so different from the way it had felt in her
cunt, so nasty.  The slight pain turned to pleasure almost instantly,
unbearable.  Her bowels were full.  Her daddy was playing with her poop. 
He wanted to put his pee-pee in there - in her botty.  Rachel groaned in
orgasm, twitching like a fish in crabgrass, then started to cry.  She could
never look at him again.



   Her daddy lifted her from his lap and lowered her to the floor.  She
knew about blow jobs.  Sobbing, Rachel crawled between his legs to suck his
cock, wrapping her fingers around the shaft like he said to.  It was big
and it tasted faintly of pee.  He came almost as soon as she put in her
mouth.  Rachel choked on his semen, spitting it out, panting.  She felt
like he'd stuffed her down the toilet.  She curled up on the rug, crying,
and when she got up he was gone.



   Rachel wet the bed sometimes, weeping.  No longer graceful, she began to
gain weight.  She hated her body - it disgusted her.  Her daddy didn't love
her, but whenever he punished her he'd get an erection and use her mouth.
He didn't kiss her anymore - he felt guilty, but he blamed her for seducing
him and Rachel blamed herself.  She did drugs and failed two of her
classes, and in February her mother came up with the idea of sending her to
a boarding school.  Rachel's mom suspected her husband of molesting the
girl.  She wanted to get rid of her, and Rachel remembered St.-Germain. 
Her grades weren't good enough to get in anymore, but the Smiths had money
and made a large donation to the school.  Rachel was accepted and began to
dream about Rebecca Brown and Switzerland and being away from her father.
Part of her wanted to be pretty - she'd made friends with a couple of the
boys who sold drugs at school and gave them blow jobs.  They liked her, and
a lot of boys wanted to fool around with her.  She was still embarrassed
about her breasts - they could almost be called breasts, not quite
cupcakes, more like shallow saucers - but mostly she was ashamed of her
lower body.  She let boys play with her titties but wouldn't take her
panties off unless she was high, and even then she wouldn't let anybody
fuck her.  She fantasized about getting fucked - sometimes she wished they
would do it despite her protests - but the more her daddy did things to
her, the more Rachel wanted it in the butt; he masturbated her rectum when
he spanked her, and by late spring she was sticking a candle in it to get
off, grunting.  Her daddy saw that her anus was sore and assumed that she
let boys fuck her in the ass, but he didn't rape her.  Rachel never spoke
when he molested her.  Sometimes his penis smelled like her mother's
slimehole, and Rachel wished he would stick it in her cunt.  She wanted his
baby, and imagined telling her mom that daddy had made her pregnant.  But
mostly Rachel wanted to _be_ his baby.  She had her own bathroom and spent
hours locked inside, lubricating a candle and sticking it in her botty,
playing with her nipples and pussy hole.  She looked at her fashion
magazines, cutting out pictures of flat-chested models, and in March Rachel
made herself puke for the first time.  She didn't want to be fat.  It felt
good, too, afterwards, and by summer she'd become bulimic, obsessed with
her body parts - her protuberant pubis and hips, her silhouette, studying
her ribs in the mirror, masturbating.  Rachel preferred masturbation to
being with her boyfriends - she liked sucking cock, especially her daddy's,
but being alone was better, her skinny body surrounded by sexual ghosts.

   The music camp was on Cape Cod.  Her roommate hated her, and Rachel
spent most of her free time wandering around, alone, lonely.  She avoided
the showers like the year before, skipping dinner to wash when there wasn't
anyone there - but one day a girl named Nadine came in while she was
showering.  She was twelve, a year younger than Rachel, but she looked much
younger, an puny creature with copper hair cut like a boy's.  Her cunny was
bald, but she had cupcakes and a cute little butt, and Rachel almost came,
watching the kid wash.  Nadine got picked on, and Rachel tried to make
friends with her.  Nadine wasn't rich like the other girls - she was there
on a scholarship.  Rachel fell in love with her, and by the beginning of
August they were touching, holding hands.  One night they sneaked out and
went to the abandoned boathouse about a mile from camp.  Nadine was nervous
at first, and Rachel had bad breath - but they were both horny, and the
older kid kissed good, whispering in her wet little ear.  It was different
with a girl - Rachel wanted her too much to feel weird about it.  She took
Nadine's shorts off and asked her to lie down on the sleeping bag they'd
bought.  Panting, the twelve-year-old let her friend take her panty off,
and Rachel ate her out, drooling, lapping at the kid's cunny and teasing
her poophole with the tip of her pinkie.  Nadine didn't want to do her, but
Rachel was used to being unwanted.  Nadine wouldn't talk to her the next
day, and in the evening Nadine's parents picked her up.  She quit camp.



   Rachel spent a week at home before her father took her to the airport
and waved goodbye at the gate, gloomy.  He didn't touch her that week,
either, and the thirteen-year-old cried in the plane, already homesick. 
One of the teachers picked her up in Geneva, and Rachel arrived at
St.-Germain in time for orientation.  Despite its name, it was a secular
school - girls only, all of them wealthy, shipped off to study in French
and English for four years.  Rachel kept an eye out for Rebecca Brown, but
she was a sophomore and wouldn't get there for a week.  It was an idyllic
setting, on the lake, and there were two girls to a room in the dormitory.
Rachel's roommate was from New York, a fourteen-year-old freshman named
Anne Weinstein.  She was gorgeous, even taller than Rachel, with a terrific
wardrobe and long, sinuous legs.  She had deep blue eyes, bangs, a
beautiful butt and small but succulent breasts, and she smelled like
lily-of-the-valley.  Her skin was the color of Miracle Whip, and Rachel
wondered if Anne was bulimic.  Anne spent a lot of time in the bathroom and
slept in her underwear.  Rachel tried not to stare when her roommate got
ready for bed, but it was hard not to - Anne wasn't as skinny as Rachel,
but she definitely had an eating disorder.  Anne got under the covers and
got out a book, and Rachel changed in the bathroom, picking out a black
silk bra and panty, excited but scared.



   Rachel had expected everyone to hate her, but a lot of the girls were
more or less strange.  Anne was nice, and Rebecca was friendly, too -
Rachel's idol arrived on Sunday with her dad, even prettier than she'd been
in Boston, her long bond hair in a bun, an emerald choke around her
swanlike neck.  She'd turned fifteen, and she was very athletic. 
Discipline was strict - there was a lot of studying to do - but Rachel
tried to apply herself.  She found Anne's laxatives about two weeks after
classes started and understood why her roommate looked sick after supper.
Rachel ran the tap when she puked, but she knew that Anne knew her secret.
Sometimes Rachel listened at the door when Anne was in there - she ran the
tap, too, but now and then Rachel heard her roommate whimper and even the
sound of wet feces gushing into the white toilet.  Rachel masturbated at
night, trying to be quiet - one of the teachers was attracted to her, but
he wasn't the type to do anything, and mostly Rachel fantasized about her
father...  and Anne.



   Rachel sat down on the edge of Anne's bed at the beginning of October.
They were still dressed, doing their homework - Anne was barefoot, though,
wearing a charcoal skirt and black silk blouse.  Her feet were fabulous
even though she wore high heels a lot, the toes spaced far apart, long and
slender, her ankles bony.  She had piano fingers and clipped her nails
short, and Rachel could smell her body under the lily-of-the-valley, the
slightly acrid odor of depravity.  Rachel had on a cotton dress the color
of moss and white stockings.  She had short fingernails, too, but her hands
weren't as nice - she didn't think so, anyway.  They were sort of
childlike. She had nice feet, though, the toes not as long as Anne's but
straight, too, still soft.  She didn't dare sit too close to Anne, trying
to act casual, but Anne could sense her excitement and looked
uncomfortable.



   Anne sat down on Rachel's bed the next evening - after they were already
in their underwear.  Rachel was sorry she'd gotten under the covers.  They
talked about clothes, and Rachel complimented Anne on her lingerie - a lacy
cream-colored bra and revealing thong.  Anne said hers was nice, too -
crimson silk, the panty so tiny that it couldn't clean a pair of glasses -
and Rachel lowered the blanket to her waist, looking down at her tiny
titties, touching the bra.  Her mouth was dry.  "Really?"



   "Yeah.  Is it silk?" Anne shivered slightly, tentatively touching the
strap of Rachel's bra.  "You're so skinny." They avoided each other's eyes.
Rachel got goose-flesh as the girl's fingers grazed her ribs, barely
touching.  Holding her breath, Rachel sat up and ran her finger's through
Anne's hair, shivering.  She was nervous - Anne wasn't Nadine but an
adolescent, a sick young woman who took laxatives to look sexy.  Rachel
caressed the nape of her neck, and Anne met her gaze.  Unlike Nadine, Anne
desired her.  Her mouth was watering.  She swallowed, running her slender
fingers along Rachel's ribs, slowly pulling her close, snaky, caressing her
back and quivering when their lips touched, moaning softly when Rachel
responded to the kiss by cupping her buttocks.  Anne tongue swirled around
her roommate's, her cool fingers answering Rachel's caresses.  Rachel let
Anne take the lead, trembling as the older girl slipped her thumbs under
the elastic of her little panty and slid the silk down around her thighs,
coaxing her onto her back and pulling Rachel's panty off entirely, climbing
on top of her like a boy.  Anne kissed her again, aggressively, then knelt
beside her and exposed her breasts, sticking out her chest.  They were
tiny, but Rachel was totally flat by comparison.  Anne took off her panty
and slithered against the younger girl before Rachel could see more than a
flash of thatch.  Writhing, Rachel undid her dainty bra and sucked Anne's
tongue, Anne's titties rubbing against her ribby chest.  Slithering lower,
slick with sweat but strangely cold, Anne licked the girl's nipple, sucking
on it and stroking her taut stomach, playing with her umbilicus.  At last
Anne dove between Rachel's legs, slobbering.  Rachel ejaculated - Anne
thought it was urine at first, lapping at the dilated hole and drinking the
cloudy fluid.  Rachel's discharge was bitter and had a nasty odor, but Anne
didn't care.  Her own body was a malodorous reliquary or sacred latrine,
corpselike unless aroused but almost always aroused - sick since infancy.
She'd never even been with a boy, much less a girl - but Anne was dripping
with sin; her father desired her, and like Rachel she was depraved long
before puberty, addicted to masturbation and desperate for her daddy's
attention.  He rejected her, and like Rachel Anne developed unnatural
desires - only Anne's were entirely solitary.  Anorexic by the time she
began to menstruate - her periods were irregular and painful - Anne played
with her peehole.  It hurt.  Anne hurt herself.







   x x x







   Tanya touched her left nipple with the middle finger of her right hand,
teasing the tender circle of sepia flesh, flushed - she felt awful, or part
of her did.  Her father had made her sit next to the man, and it made her
feel like a prostitute.  But this man was different - he hadn't touched
her, and another part of her had wanted him to.  He was a foreigner, and he
seemed almost as uncomfortable as she was with what her father wanted her
to do.  Tanya was ten years old, and she loved her father.  She was ashamed
of what she did - she could still taste his semen despite having brushed
her teeth afterwards.  He'd been angry with her because she hadn't seduced
the foreigner, and Tanya knew that the way to relieve a man's anger was by
making him feel good - she'd swallowed it like always, and he'd sent her to
her room.  Part of her had wanted to stay with him - she needed to be held,
but he was drunk and wouldn't love her.  Sometimes he hurt her - she was a
skinny kid, and anal intercourse was extremely painful to her.  She'd
thought of it as punishment at first, but lately the pain was laced with
pleasure - he lubricated her perverted rectum with sunflower oil, and his
penis wasn't very large.  A few months before the foreigner arrived, her
father had made her love another man for the first time.  She felt like she
was being buried alive, but she was aroused, too - the man used her mouth,
only he wasn't gentle like her father was, and his penis was huge; she
remembered wondering whether he had a big family because it was so big. 
Tanya was an only child.  The man fingered her, fucking her mouth, and she
was afraid that he would rape her - Tanya was still a virgin in front, and
his finger hurt, horribly.  He went in her mouth and left the room - she
thought it was over, cupping her cunny and crying.  But he came back.  He
came back with a bottle of sunflower oil.  He had her hug her legs,
lubricating her little fuck tube.  He meant to rape her after all.  Her
drunken father hadn't been able to resist the offer of twenty dollars. 
Tanya howled as the man oiled his penis and teased her twat with the lip of
the bottle, trying to decide if he wanted to deflower her like that before
he fucked her, studying her sweet young body.  She was beautiful,
terrified, hugging her legs, twitching when he touched her swollen clitoris
with the bottle.  Twenty dollars was a lot of money to him.  The child's
anus was visibly aroused.  He slid the slender neck of the bottle into her
rectum - and heard his wife's high-pitched voice.  She was arguing with the
girl's father.  The man froze, then wilted, furious and afraid.  Why hadn't
he gagged the girl?  He took the bottle out of her butt and hurriedly
dressed, then disappeared.



   Tanya Ivanovna Shishkina was still a virgin.  Her father hadn't meant to
sell her virginity so cheaply - he couldn't control himself after he'd had
a few tumblers of vodka.  He loved his daughter.  He felt guilty, and
whenever he was sober he tried to do right by her - she still went to
school, and if she did poorly she was spanked, and her skinny ass was
irresistible.  He didn't want her to become a prostitute - but he needed
the money.  Her mouth was five dollars, and five dollars went a long way in
Odessa in 1991.  The foreigner was a good catch.  Ivan Mikhailovich Shiskin
had turned a shed into a pair of guest rooms which he rented out, meeting
the Kiev and Moscow trains with a sign offering a week's stay for three
dollars.  The rooms were tiny but clean - Tanya was a good girl, and she
took care of the housework.  The foreigner couldn't read the sign, which
was in Russian, and paid him three dollars a night.



   Tanya circled her nipple with the moist tip of her finger, shivering. 
She was naked - she always slept naked, partly because she sometimes wet
the bed and they didn't have a washing machine, and she didn't own much
clothing.  Her father had bought her a new dress - because of the
foreigner. His name was James.  He was an American.  Tanya knew some
English, but she was too shy to talk to him.  It was a very pretty dress,
puce, and she knew that he could see her panties when she was sitting in
the gray chair, before her daddy made move to the couch.  The man spoke no
Russian.  They drank and watched TV, but the reason he stayed so long was
because he liked looking at her - he looked away when she looked back at
him, though.  Maybe he loved her.  Tanya knew that she was dirty.  The
other kids at school avoided her, but she'd made friends with a teenager
who lived in the apartment building down the street.  Her name was Lena,
and she'd run away from her stepfather when she was twelve.  Lena lived
with an old man named Boris Denisovich.  Borya wanted to do things with
Tanya, and the ten-year-old let him touch her.  She was frightened because
she'd never loved anyone except when her father told her to, and she felt
guilty about betraying her friend.  But Lena told her that it didn't
matter. Lena said that Borya did things to a lot of girls.  Tanya asked her
if he loved them, and Lena laughed at her.  She said that there was no such
thing as love.  Tanya told her that her daddy had said that he didn't fuck
her cunt because that would be for her husband.  Lena said that girls like
her didn't have husbands.  She was a whore, and Tanya would be a whore,
too. Nobody would want to marry a girl who slept with her daddy.  Tanya
told her that lots of men wanted to love her.  Lena said that they only
wanted her because she was young and pretty.  Tanya read romantic novels
and dreamt about belonging to a wonderful man - Lena made her sad. 
Sometimes, when Ivan Mikhailovich was sober, he told his daughter stories.
Tanya loved him - she loved sucking him, too.  She would go into a trance,
slobbering, and sometimes he masturbated her - her rectum.  She was sick,
and her pee-pee hurt.  Lena looked at it and got her some medicine.  Lena
asked if she wanted to see hers, and Tanya had to lick the older girl's
cunt, crying.  Tanya had a crush on Lena, but she didn't want to have sex
with her - Lena didn't love her, and she tasted bad, like rotten fish.  But
Tanya could feel her friend's need - it wasn't like her father's, male, but
it was hypnotic somehow, and Tanya went into a trance, lapping at the
teenager's twat and tentatively tonguing her anus.  Lena begged her to lick
her butt, frigging, and Tanya sucked at the musky hole, spreading Lena's
cheeks and drowning in her lover's moans, drooling.  Lena came, clawing at
her cunt, and kicked Tanya out.



   It was all so awful.  Tanya stared at the other kids at school - she was
in fourth grade, and none of the other girls seemed to suffer like she did.
Lying naked in bed, her mouth redolent of her father's semen, Tanya thought
about James.  She wondered if he knew what she was like.  Lena had said
that men could tell that she was her father's whore.  Tanya wept when the
teachers yelled at her - she was smart, but she had trouble concentrating.
She couldn't sleep.  Her Uncle Stepan went in her mouth, too, and her daddy
took pictures of her sucking Stepan's penis.  Stepan loved her, but she
felt like a toilet, and she was ashamed of being photographed with her
Uncle - Stepan's friend Nikolai developed the pictures, and she had to love
him, too, her Uncle taking pictures of her in bed with her daddy and
Nikolai, crying, dripping with come.  Nikolai wanted to take pictures of
her father fucking her, and Tanya went crazy, trying to crawl away.  Her
daddy took pity on her, and they let her go.  She knew that she had to do
what her daddy said, and Stepan and Nikolai acted like he did, and it
wasn't so bad.  But other men were different.  Sometimes they felt sorry
for her, and her father beat her if she didn't get them to want her.  She
couldn't breathe, lifting her dress, letting them know that they could take
her to the bedroom.  Sometimes her father helped, telling them that she
sucked cock, spreading her legs.  But he was afraid of men like James, men
who might tell the police, and then she had to seduce them.  It didn't take
long unless they didn't like little girls, but it seemed like forever to
Tanya, and if they didn't want her, she wept - a man spit in her face once,
and even some of the men who loved her treated her like trash, talking
about her as if she wasn't there, giving her father five dollars for her
mouth or ten if they wanted to use her rectum.  Tanya felt like she was
being torn apart - part of her was desperate for the fullness, fucking, and
if they didn't like her she needed it deep and hard, hurting.  Part of her
loved them, leaky, and part of her flew away, needing to be hurt more,
harder.  Her father made them promise not to penetrate her vaginally, but
sometimes they rubbed it there.  Tanya was totally anal, but it felt good -
her daddy had told her what it was for.  Her husband would rape her there,
and the tiny opening was her secret treasure.  One of the men who reamed
her had teased her twat with the tip of his penis until she started to push
back against it, shuddering.  She was slippery, and the bulb slid inside,
stretching her hymen.  She squealed, and the stranger ejaculated.  He
kissed her afterwards, and Tanya melted in his arms - she wanted him to
carry her off, and for a few hours she was his, floating, falling in love.
He left, and Tanya remembered what Lena had said.  Tanya was a whore.  No
one would marry her.  If anyone raped her - and she'd wanted the man to
rape her; she wanted it more than anything in the world - they would
abandon her, unless she found a man like Borya, a pimp.  Her father was a
pimp, too, only he didn't even love her enough to rape her.  He had lied to
her about finding a husband - she was a prostitute.  She wanted it in her
mouth and poophole - and she wanted it in her pussy, too.  She frigged it
with her finger.  It was as if her body didn't belong to her - as if her
blue eyes were birds hovering over a cadaver...  she masturbated a lot,
squeezing her throat and rubbing her clitty raw, touching her pee-pee and
slipping her middle finger into her fuck tube, frigging it.  She played
with her poophole, too, especially in the tub - she squirted bath-water
into her botty.  Nobody had ever licked her there, and Tanya couldn't stop
thinking about Lena begging her to do that.  Tanya licked her daddy's, too,
but he was a man - Lena was like a little kid, and men had slid their dicks
into her daddy hole since she was seven - into her soul.  Boris buttfucked
the fourteen-year-old several times a day, and she got sandwiched, too.  He
was tender, though, the violence in him restrained, like a fighter idling
on a runway, and Tanya liked it when Borya touched her.  She was scared of
him, though, mostly because she knew that some of the girls he did things
to had disappeared.  Lena said that they were adopted, and Tanya fantasized
about it - Lena said that really beautiful girls got lucky sometimes.  They
were sent to Germany or Japan.  They didn't get married, but they could be
like daughters.  Tanya thought that meant that they didn't get raped in
front, but Lena said that their daddies raped them all the time.



   James O'Clair tossed and turned in the tiny guest room.  He'd been
visiting his niece in Kiev.  Shannon was spending the summer working for
something like the Peace Corps, a starry-eyed idealist - she was smart, but
naïve.  She was stunning, too, nineteen, tall and slender, small-breasted,
with long blond hair and bright green eyes.  They got drunk one night and
ended up in bed together.  He felt guilty about it, and in the morning she
asked him to leave.  He got on the train to Odessa, intending to find a
hotel, met Ivan Mikhailovich at the train station and let himself get
talked into staying with him - by gestures, basically, because James spoke
only English.  He regretted it when he saw the room - it was the size of a
closet - but the regret vanished as soon as he laid eyes on Ivan's
daughter. Tanya was obviously abused, but her anguish only added to her
beauty - the ten-year-old had the face of a fallen angel.







   x x x







   I remember the first time I put it in my mouth - it was during spring
break.  I was in kindergarten, and my mommy and daddy went on vacation -
they went to Italy - and they took me and my little brother to Uncle Tim's.
I was only five years old and I missed my parents and everything, but I
really liked Uncle Tim and we spent a lot of time with him, especially in
the summer.  He was my mom's brother, and he lived on an old farm - he
wasn't a farmer or anything; he taught photography at the junior college.
My dad didn't like him, but he and my mommy were close - they were
roommates in college until my mom married my dad.  I loved my daddy - I
guess all little girls do - but I was...  well, I guess I was growing up.
It sounds stupid; I mean, I was five and a half - but we grow all the time,
don't we, especially at that age.  I'd learned to read, and I got dressed
by myself, and I felt a lot older than my little brother.  Billy was three.




   It wasn't all peaches and cream, though, growing up - I liked being a
big girl, getting dressed and everything, but I missed taking baths with my
daddy.  He didn't touch me or anything - I mean, not like that - but
sometimes his thing would get big - not really hard, but bigger - and maybe
a month before spring break...  I touched it.  I was only playing.  He took
my hand away and told me never to touch it, and he was mad at me, and he
never took a bath with me again.  The weird thing was that he made my mom
leave the door open when we took baths.  I guess he suspected...



   My mommy was only nineteen when she married him.  She was really pretty
- I've seen pictures of her in her first year of college (she dropped out
when she had me).  A picture is worth a thousand words, and I wish I could
show you pictures - I was really pretty, too.  I still am, but - well, I
guess you like little girls, or you wouldn't be reading this - I was even
prettier as a little girl.  I'm a redhead, and when I was little I wore my
hair in pigtails.  I have green eyes and gorgeous skin - it's still nice,
but the thing I like about little kids is their softness, and even in the
pictures I look baby soft.  I had a few freckles then, but I didn't play
outside very much and they went away before puberty.  Anyway, everybody
said I was pretty, and I was, and I have the pictures to prove it.  Puberty
was a long way off.



   My mommy was messed up.  I didn't know that then - or I did...  I mean,
I felt it, but I didn't know about drugs or anything like that, obviously.
She had gray eyes like my brother, and their hair was blond - my brother's
sort of strawberry blond, my mom's white blond, and she was really pale
like me.  My daddy was a lot older than she was - older than her father,
Grandpa Jones (he died when I was three) - and...  well, I guess daddy was
like a father to her, if you know what I mean.  It's hard for me to
remember when I realized things; I got to know my mom really well when I
was old enough to understand, but when I was little I just noticed stuff,
and I didn't put two and two together - not when I was that young, anyway.
I have a good memory, though, and I went through therapy and thought about
being little a lot.



   Anyway, sometimes mommy gave us baths when daddy wasn't home.  She'd
shut the door then, and she'd get naked.  I knew about drinking 'cause
daddy didn't let her drink.  He'd go on business trips, and she'd smell
like booze, and she'd say it was bath time.  She was twenty-four that year,
but she had the body of a teenager - her breasts were only a little bigger
than lemons, and they looked like they were still growing, but they
weren't, of course, the nipples raw and really long when they got hard. 
She didn't exercise, but she kept her weight down - she was sick, anorexic
- and she looked...  well, weak.  To me she was just my mommy, but in the
pictures you can tell that there was something wrong with her.  She acted
sophisticated when we had guests, but sometimes you can see that daddy hurt
her - she looks lost, and in the album of their trip to Italy it's obvious
that she'd been abused - she's sort of adolescent-looking...  it's hard to
describe.  She just has this aura or something, childlike but kind of
nasty.



   I liked taking baths with her.  I guess daddy had told me not to touch
my trickle when I was really little - but she said it was okay.  She
touched my brother's pee-pee a lot, but bath time was innocent in a way -
it didn't happen often.  I remember looking at her cunt - it seemed so big
compared to my cunny.  She had bruises from when daddy hurt her, too - she
bruised easily, like me.  She told us not to tell daddy about bath time,
and I think Billy was too little to tell; if daddy had asked, he would have
said something, but daddy didn't ask.  Anyway, Billy didn't tell - and I
kept it a secret; it was my first secret, and even though I didn't really
understand it, I already understood that there are some things you don't
tell daddy, and when he yelled at me about touching his thing I looked
away. I remember looking away.



   Uncle Tim picked me and my brother up the day our parents left for
Italy, and when we got to the farm he grilled hamburgers - it was really
warm, and I even remember what I was wearing - 'cause he stared at me.  A
picture is worth a thousand words - and the truth is stranger than fiction.
I was a sexy kid.  The memory is kind of blurry, but I know I liked how
Uncle Tim looked at me.  My daddy liked me - he looked at me, too, and his
thing would get big, and when he told me not to touch it...  it was like he
was being mean to me, and I looked away 'cause I connected it to taking
baths with mommy, I think; I knew it was dirty - I didn't know it was sexy,
but it happened in the bathroom, and I knew that boys peed with their
things, and I wasn't supposed to touch mine, but mommy said I could...  Her
cunt was so different from my trickle that Billy's pee-pee seemed more like
what I had than hers; hers was like daddy's, rich and strange.



   I guess Uncle Tim could tell that I was a dirty girl.  I had on a tank
top, dark green, beige shorts, white socks and sneakers.  He kept staring
at me, watching me eat my hamburger.  I felt sick, sort of like when my
daddy got mad at me.  He didn't look at me like my daddy did, though - his
eyes were sort of like mommy's at bath time, only brown, and he was... 
well, a he.  I lost my appetite, and when I put the hamburger down he
started touching me.  I had to pee - and he put his hand on my leg,
caressing my thigh, and Billy went away, and it was like I was going to be
carsick.  It's not that I didn't like it, it's just that I could feel him
wanting me and didn't know what it meant; even when mommy took baths with
us it was sort of like playing...  I was really small, and he wasn't like
my daddy at all - he wouldn't get mad at me, but he wasn't my mommy,
either. I'd known him since I was a baby - but he was different then,
almost like a stranger, stroking my inner thigh, softly, breathing hard.



   "Does your daddy do this, Ashley?" I couldn't look at him.  I couldn't
breathe.  I was afraid I'd have an accident - I wet the bed sometimes, and
I'd had an accident in kindergarten once.  I wanted to close my legs,
quivering, his fingers creeping into the leg hole of my shorts, touching
the edge of my panty.  "It's okay," he whispered.  Then he took his hand
away.



   Uncle Tim tucked us in - and that night I felt uncomfortable for the
first time, changing into my pajamas.  I was old enough to dress myself,
and daddy didn't watch me anymore.  I'd never thought about it - but I did
then, Uncle Tim turning to look at me while he took off my little brother's
clothes.  I put on my pajamas - they were pink, flannel I think - and
crawled into bed, and Uncle Tim kissed me on the forehead like always - and
then he kissed me on the lips.  It was just a little kiss, but I knew he
did it 'cause things were different.  I didn't know what was happening, but
I knew it was something I couldn't talk about.



   Tim was twenty-nine, tall and skinny like mom, wiry I guess.  He had
girlfriends over sometimes - students, mostly - and the next day he took us
to breakfast with a girl named Cindy.  She wasn't a student of his, though
- she was barely in her teens.  She seemed almost like a grown-up to me, of
course, but I remember the look the waitress gave him.  They didn't hold
hands or anything, but it was obvious that they were involved - I didn't
know how, but their was chemistry between them, and I really liked her.  I
didn't like it that he didn't pay attention to me, though - and I realized
that Cindy did things to get his attention.  She'd stick out her chest -
there was hardly anything there, but she wasn't wearing a bra and her
nipples were really obvious - and she took off her sandal 'cause she said
she had a stone in it, only she was showing off her foot.  It was
beautiful, like everything about her - she was sort of a waif, with wild
blue eyes and light brown hair down to her shoulders.  She was a freshman
in high school, and she wanted to be a model.  He asked her if she'd told
her parents about posing for him, and she said no.  I can still see her
conceited little face.  Her lips were crooked, and it made her prettier
somehow, a little mole by the left corner.  Cindy was really nervous and
practically cowered when we got in the car - he touched her, fastening the
seat belt.  She had on cut-offs and a skimpy halter, and she was sick like
my mom - her ribs showed, and her thighs were hardly thicker than her
calves, the cut-offs hanging from her bony hips like rags.



   We weren't allowed in the studio when Uncle Tim was working.  Billy and
I played on the porch, and when they emerged for lunch, Cindy looked
different - she'd been crying.  We ate in the living room - sandwiches -
and Uncle Tim asked me if I thought she was pretty.  I said yeah, and she
smiled.  He said she was a good model, and Cindy drank his compliments like
a dying houseplant, and I felt jealous for the first time.



   She left after lunch - she lived up the road - and Uncle Tim took
pictures of me and my brother.  We played Monopoly - Billy was too little,
so I sort of played for him - and around three or four it was my brother's
nap time and Uncle Tim and I were alone.  I was wearing the same clothes
I'd had on the day before - the dark green tank top and khaki shorts, only
I was barefoot.  He asked if I was sleepy, and I said no - I wanted to be
with him.  I felt weird - he started staring at me again - but I wasn't as
scared as the day before.  He took me in his lap.  I'd sat in his lap a
lot, but it definitely wasn't the same - I felt like I was going to be
carsick again.  He'd been drinking, and his breathing was heavy - he put my
arms around his neck and pulled me towards him, my legs on either side of
his hips, and I felt his thing through my shorts, in his jeans.



   "It's okay, Ashley," he said in a hoarse whisper.  "Does that feel
good?" I didn't say anything.  It did feel good - but I didn't like it. 
"Do you know what that is?  Good girl - it's okay - " I guess I squirmed,
but he held me, rubbing the bulge against my crotch.  I got the hang of it
- I didn't feel so bad when I was wiggling, and we did it for a long time.
He kissed me, too, then let me go.



   When Uncle Tim tucked us in that night, he kissed me on the lips again -
and maybe half an hour later he came back, after my brother was asleep.  He
kissed me awake - kind of like licking my face - and then he put his hand
between my legs.  I just lay there with my legs open, half awake.  He took
my hand and put it on his penis.  It was sticking out of his boxers.  I
held it - I'd seen my daddy half erect, but Uncle Tim's was huge and really
hard - and he kept petting me through my pajamas.  I don't remember if he
asked me to rub him or if I just did it 'cause he was rubbing me.  He
unbuttoned my pajamas and touched my trickle, moistening his finger in his
mouth.  I squeezed his pee-pee, squirming, spreading my legs really wide
and whimpering.  His thing was throbbing - my eyes were closed - and
suddenly he was squirting come.  I didn't know what it was, of course - I
thought he was peeing - and he started teasing my poophole.  I didn't close
my legs.  I gurgled, I guess.  It felt great, his finger feeling my botty
and pee place, his come on my hand and soaking into my pajamas, his loving
me.  Uncle Tim kissed me on the mouth again, taking my top off, and then he
licked me all over, lapping at my trickle - tonguing me, his drool
trickling into my crack.  It was terrific - I didn't come; I was too
little, I guess - but I went pee, and by then I knew that it was okay
'cause I thought he'd peed on me.  He hugged me and carried me to the
bathroom, and then he did it in my mouth.  I was really sleepy, in the tub
with him, and Uncle Tim told me he loved me and asked me to suck on it, and
I liked it a lot - I wanted to make him feel good, and somehow I knew I
needed to get it to squirt.  He started groaning, holding me, and let me up
a little when he came.  It felt like putting my mouth over the drinking
fountain at school, only warm, and I choked a little, then licked it.  It
was salty but I sort of loved it - I made it come out, and it made me
happy!



   I wanted to go to sleep, but Uncle Tim wanted to play with me some more.
He took me to his bedroom and put baby oil on my butt, and then he jerked
off on me, rubbing it in my crack.  He didn't try to put it in or anything,
he only touched it to my trickle, squirting.  We slept together, and in the
morning my little brother banged on the door - Uncle Tim had locked it.  It
was weird being naked with my Uncle - I'd been so tired the night before,
but I felt kind of uncomfortable 'cause of Billy; I knew that what I'd done
with my Uncle was secret.  He put on his robe and told me to hide behind
the bed, and then he left the room and shooed Billy away from the door, and
after a while I went back to the room my brother and I stayed in and
dressed.  My crack was sticky, but I didn't care.  I only knew that Uncle
Tim would take care of me, and I was embarrassed around my brother, and my
Uncle made pancakes and until night-time it was like nothing had happened -
we played outside and watched TV and stuff, and Uncle Tim taught me how to
grill hot dogs for dinner, and then it was bedtime and he tucked us in and
came back to get me and did it in my mouth.



   Sometimes I didn't want to do it - he started making me suck him during
the day, too, leaving Billy on the porch and taking me to the bathroom, and
I was tired all the time and my mouth was sore.  He made me promise to keep
it a secret, and sometimes he was scary - one day he locked me in the
closet and told me that if anyone found out about what we did I'd get
locked up like that for ever and ever with only bread and water to eat.  I
cried a lot, and Uncle Tim dipped his finger in Vaseline and put it in my
poophole.  It made me feel funny, and whenever I got upset he'd play with
my botty like that.  He'd take me potty, and after I went poop he'd wiggle
his finger in my daddy hole and diddle me.  I wet the bed, and one night he
played with my poophole and made me go potty in the sheets.  I felt like a
baby.



   Mommy and daddy picked us up and I was glad to get away from him - but I
missed him, too, and when I wet the bed at home, daddy yelled at me.  I
don't know why he didn't guess - I can always tell when a kid is abused,
just like I can tell when men like little girls.  But daddy didn't know. 
He spanked me sometimes, and it made me miss Uncle Tim; I felt bad about
what we did - my daddy always made me feel bad about my body - but when
daddy punished me I'd remember getting licked and being a whore.  Daddy got
a hard-on when he spanked me, and a couple of times he'd touch my trickle a
little.  I'd just cry, and my cunny got excited sometimes, scared, but by
the time I turned six my and would get aroused when he undressed me - I was
miserable, and I needed it in my rectum.  I touched my trickle a lot,
waking up when I wet the bed, weeping.







   x x x







   It started when I was seven years old, in second grade.  Maybe somebody
diddled me when I was a baby or something - if they did, I don't remember
(my daddy moved out when I was two years old, and I lived with my mommy) -
but I was definitely a cute kid, and Mr.  Wilcox made me mushy.  He started
staring at me on the first day of school - he was my homeroom teacher - and
it made me feel - well, warm, like when Uncle Walter hugged me and stuff.
Uncle Walt didn't do anything dirty to me, but he was - well, a warm
person, and he let me sit in his lap a lot.  Sometimes I spent the weekend
with Uncle Walt, when my mommy had to work and my daddy was gone (daddy was
a salesman and couldn't see me every weekend like he was supposed to. 
Uncle Walter was his brother, and he was divorced like my mommy and daddy,
living alone, over in the next suburb.  Uncle Walt would tuck me in, too,
reading me fairy tales until I fell asleep.  I didn't diddle myself or
anything - my mommy had told me not to touch myself when I was two or three
- and anyway those warm feelings weren't really focused between my legs
until late that fall.  I remember that I liked to go potty, though.  It
didn't take me too long to figure out that Mr.  Wilcox liked looking at my
fanny.  I had a pair of bright orange pants that were pretty tight back
there, and whenever I wore them he'd stare at me more.  He'd look away when
I looked at him, but I could feel him looking even when I couldn't see, and
I caught him staring at Cindy Gifford, too, and Cindy sometimes stared back
at him, her big blue eyes bittersweet, sad and scared and sexy at the same
time.  I wanted Mr.  Wilcox to stare at me, not Cindy, and I wore my orange
pants so often that my mother started to wonder about it and bought me
another pair (the other ones weren't that tight, though), but he stared at
Cindy because she did it with her daddy.  I didn't know that then, of
course, but I could tell that the girl was - well, different.  She was
really pretty, with her long blond braids and those dirty blue eyes.  She
wore dresses most of the time, bare-legged, and her dreamy little body was
desperately nervous one day and a rag doll's the next.  Mr.  Wilcox started
touching her in October, putting his hand on her shoulder or even the back
of her neck, whispering in her ear.  Sometime around Halloween, Cindy had
an accident when he whispered to her, and Mr.  Wilcox took her by the hand
and led her out of the classroom.  When they came back, Cindy was a rag
doll.



   We had a Halloween party at school, and I dressed as a devil - I wore
red tights, and I picked the costume especially for Mr.  Wilcox.  I was
jealous of Cindy, I suppose.  I knew I was prettier, though - my hair was
short then, a very dark brown, and I have porcelain skin, woundy lips the
hue of rotten watermelon and eyes the color of carved tortoise shell. 
Nothing special, I suppose, but I was already into myself, and it made me
dreamy - not like Cindy; she was weepy and dirty, like a wild little animal
trapped and trained.  She was fuck toy pretty while I was beginning to get
wanton.  I tried on the costume the night before Halloween, and my mommy
caught me prancing around and preening in front of the full-length mirror
in the hall.  She gave me a weird look and took me to my room, lit a
cigarette and started asking me really strange questions.  She asked me if
Uncle Walter ever touched me.  I said he hugged me, and mommy asked if he
ever put his hand between my legs.  I said no - he never did, not then -
and my mom said I should never let anybody touch me there.  When I asked
her why, she told me that some grown-ups do bad things little girls - and
that I shouldn't dance the way I did 'cause it made me look like I liked to
get hurt like that.  I didn't get it - I asked her how come anybody would
want to be hurt - and mommy said that it didn't always hurt.  I was really
confused.  She said that when I got bigger she'd tell me more about those
things, but that the main thing was to remember never to let anyone look
between my legs or touch my trickle - not even Uncle Walter.  Then she
asked me to show her how he hugged me.  I sat in her lap and put her hand
on my hip, and mommy asked if I ever felt anything against my butt when he
held me.  I said yeah - and I blushed, embarrassed, I don't know why, maybe
because of the way she asked.  I was wearing the red tights, but I hadn't
put any panties on underneath.  Mommy made me sit so that my legs were on
either side of her and asked if Uncle Walt ever had me sit like that,
cupping my cheeks.  I said no - he didn't.



   Mommy was only seventeen when she had me and married my daddy, so she
was twenty-four then.  She had short hair like me, only hers was kind of
copper, and her eyes were a gorgeous green.  'Are you sure, Darcy?  What
does he do when you feel his - his thing?'



   'Nothing,' I said.  Mommy hardly ever hugged me, and I started to get
those feelings that Uncle Walt and Mr.  Wilcox gave me, only she kept
talking about my trickle - and it tingled a little.  She had a nice smell,
too, sort of fishy but sweet somehow.  Mommy watched me put on my pajamas
and went away.



   Mr.  Wilcox liked my devil costume - but Cindy Gifford was dressed as a
fairy, in a white shift so thin you could see her soft pink nipples through
the gauze and so short that her panties showed when she bent down.  I was
jealous - but I liked looking at her dirty little body, too - I thought
about what my mommy had said about liking to be hurt and wondered whether
Cindy liked it.  She caught my stare and squirmed, ashamed, and later I saw
Mr.  Wilcox whispering to her.  Cindy whimpered and bent down to get a book
from the bottom shelf, in the reading corner, keeping her skinny legs
straight - I guess he'd asked her to.  Four faint welts disappeared under
the edge of her pretty cotton panty.  She stayed like that for a few
seconds, sobbing, and I saw her pee, urine dripping down her left leg and
soaking the cotton before she stood, shaky, and Mr.  Wilcox took her hand
and led her down the hall.  I followed them - but he saw me.  He hesitated,
then helped her to the faculty washroom.



   He brought her back into the classroom before recess and stopped me from
leaving with the other kids.  'I'd like to speak to you for a moment,
Darcy,' he said.  Cindy passed me, her eyes pink from crying.  I was
nervous, I guess.  Mr.  Wilcox closed the door.  'That's a very pretty
costume,' he said in a smoky voice.  'Did your mommy make it for you?'



   'I made it myself!' My mommy helped me, but I was proud of what I'd done
- I'd made the horns out of papier-m ché.



   'Did you?  Did your daddy help?'



   'No,' I said.  He knelt and looked into my eyes.  His were a deep brown,
but he wore glasses.  He was maybe forty years old, like my daddy.



   'You're a very bright girl, aren't you?  Does your daddy live with you?'



   'No - he lives on Franklin Street!'



   'You live with your mommy?'



   'Yeah!'



   'Do you have brothers or sisters?'



   'No,' I said.



   'You must be lonely, Darcy.' He put his hands on my hips and held me
almost like my mommy had, only I was standing, his fingers on my fanny.  I
remembered what my mom had said, but I wasn't scared of him.  'When did
your daddy move away?'



   'A long time ago.' I felt - foggy.  His touch was really gentle,
kneading my butt very softly - sensually.  I didn't know the word then.



   'Did your daddy play with you?'



   'Yeah...' I meant - games.  I moved my feet apart.  I was almost
panting.



   'You're very pretty, Darcy,' he whispered.  I closed my eyes, shivering
slightly, and Mr.  Wilcox started petting me with his thumb - my crotch.  I
wished I didn't have any panties on, like when my mommy held me - but I
felt funny, too, like I had to pee - and I knew I wasn't supposed to let
him touch me.  'Did your daddy play with you like this?'



   'N-no...'



   'You must be very pretty here, Darcy - do you have a pretty pussy?' I
didn't know what a pussy was.  I only whimpered, wishing he'd rub harder -
and he did.  I put my hands on his shoulders, shaking.  I didn't come, but
I came close, and when I whined Mr.  Wilcox hugged me.  I hugged him back,
trembling.  I'd never been kissed on the lips before, but I'd seen it in
the movies.  He didn't use his tongue or anything, and I liked it a lot. 
'Has anybody played with your pussy, Darcy?'



   'What's a pussy?'



   'What do you call what's between your legs?'



   'My trickle,' I said, blushing.



   'Big girls call it a pussy - or a cunny.  Has anybody ever played with
your cunny?'



   'No!'



   'Did you like it?'



   'Yeah,' I admitted, looking away.  'But my mommy says - my mommy says
it's bad!'



   'Does she?  Well, it's bad if anyone finds out about it.  It's a secret
game.  You're not going to tell her, are you?'



   'N-no,' I said.



   'If you do, she'll be really upset with you, Darcy.  Promise not to
tell?'



   'Yeah.'



   'Say 'I promise.''



   'I promise,' I said, giggling.  'She said - she said it hurts.'



   'It didn't hurt, did it?'



   'No!'



   'Don't you ever play with it?'



   I shook my head.  'My mommy told me not to,' I said sadly.



   'Well, you can do it in secret, Darcy - big girls do.  I bet your mommy
does!' I laughed.



   Someone knocked on the door and came in, and Mr.  Wilcox kind of leapt
away.  It was Mrs.  Bradford.  Mr.  Wilcox asked if she knew who my mother
was - he said I'd been late that day.  He was lying!  I almost said so, but
he gave me a look.  Mrs.  Bradford gave him some papers and went away.  Mr.
Wilcox made me promise to keep our secret, and I went out to recess.



   It was a Friday, and my daddy was home that weekend, so I spent it with
him.  I tried to rub myself like Mr.  Wilcox had, but it didn't feel nearly
as good, and on Monday I was eager to play with him again.  I wore my tight
orange pants.



   He ignored Cindy Gifford that day, and during recess he took me to the
faculty washroom.  It was a small school, and most of the teachers used the
newer facilities like we did - and the old restroom had a thick wooden door
with a lock, 'cause some of the older boys had vandalized it once.  Mr. 
Wilcox asked if I had to go potty.  I said no, but he said that maybe I had
to pee and he wanted to see.  He said I'd had to pee on Friday, and that
playing with me would feel better if I peed first.  I said I didn't want to
- I was too embarrassed.  Mr.  Wilcox said that if I didn't he would tell
my mommy that he I let him touch my trickle.  I started to sob, but I let
him take off my shoes and pants and panty.  He put me on the toilet
backwards and I tried to tinkle, but nothing came out.  Then he licked me -
my botty.  It felt good, but I was bawling.  When he turned me around, I
saw his thing through my tears.  I was petrified.  I don't even remember
what he said then, only that he made me touch it and put it in my mouth. 
Then he took off my shirt made me bend over like Cindy had, keeping my legs
straight, holding the rim of the toilet.  He spat in my crack and rubbed it
there - he didn't try to put it in or anything, but I was terrified, his
penis rubbing against me, so close to where my mommy said it hurt, standing
there in only my socks and sobbing, listening to the scary sounds he made,
grunts and groans.  I didn't know what come was, and I thought Mr.  Wilcox
had peed on me, puling, and before he cleaned me he fingered me, smearing
my poophole and pussy with the warm semen.



   He told me that my mommy had lied to me - it wouldn't hurt there unless
I told - and if I told, my mommy would take me to the police and they would
stick their nightsticks in my cunny hole.  He made me tell him what my
mommy had said, and he said that my mommy had said those things because she
knew I was bad but couldn't prove it.  If he told her what I'd done, the
police would see how dirty I was and my mommy would leave like my daddy
had. He took me to the washroom every day that week - and I always cried.
He put goop on his finger and put it in my poophole.  On Friday, Mr. 
Wilcox took Cindy and me to the washroom at the same time.  He made us
strip down to our socks - we were both crying - and he told me to touch her
like he'd touched me.  I was suffocating, but I got the strange feelings
again, then, playing with her.  He gave me the tube of jelly and had her
get on her knees, bent over the toilet.  She didn't look like me.  Her
little cunny was raw and her botty was bright red, surrounded by a
greenish-blue bruise.  Mr.  Wilcox made her put her panty in her mouth and
told my to squirt the goop into her poophole and stick my fingers in it. 
Cindy squirmed.  There were too fresh welts on her flawless buttocks.  I
wormed three fingers into her woundy bottom hole, and then Mr.  Wilcox told
me to watch and moved me aside.  She howled, gagged, clutching the rim of
the toilet, rigid.  He slid into her slowly, rhythmically, forcing his
entire penis into her rectum, then fucked her, hard.  When he took it out
she went limp, the little hole open to the diameter of a dime, and I knew
by then that he'd squirted in her, in her intestine.  He made me kiss his
cock, and I liked the taste even though I was disgusted, I don't know why.
Cindy just lay there, slumped over the toilet.  Then he helped her to her
feet and took the panty out of her mouth.  I was really scared that he
would do it to me, but he didn't.  He made me crouch like she had, and he
made Cindy lick me.  We both had to suck him - and I liked being close to
her like that - and after he came in my mouth he had Cindy sit on the
toilet and went pee, his urine splashing against her beautiful body,
dripping down between her legs.  Mr.  Wilcox washed her with a towel, told
us to dress, and took us back to class.



   I spent that weekend with Uncle Walt, and when he held me in his lap, I
knew what was there.  Mommy called on Saturday night to ask me if
everything was okay.  It was.  I was confused, but after the things that
Mr. Wilcox did to me, I loved being with Uncle Walt.  I mean, I really
loved it - but I didn't dare touch him or anything.





   x x x



   x x



   x Copyright (C) 2001, 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.