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Archive name: dixon1.txt (Mm/f-teen, drugs, statutory rape)
Authors name: Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld)
Story title : Dixon Park 1: Kerry
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This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 2002. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Dixon Park 1: Kerry (Mm/f-teen, drugs, statutory rape)
by Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld by request)
***
Dixon Park is a fictionalized version of the real thing
in a respectable far west city. For the full effect, it
is necessary to bear this in mind: although pure fantasy,
it could be for real. The first story is about a teenager
in a fit of depression and her subsequent rape.
***
Prologue
Everyone assumed that Dixon Park was a safe place for
kids to play. This was chiefly because the swings, see-
saw, carousel, chutes and climbing frames, all the
apparatus in the child recreation area, were clearly
visible from the street, as were the neighboring benches
where parents (and others) sat to watch the children at
play.
"Who would dare try anything on with the children," any
concerned citizen would ask, "in full view of people in
the street?" And the street was always busy; most of the
shops and offices were located along the northern length
of Callister Street. And on the far side of the kids'
recreation area was the sprawling trailer park with
nearly a thousand mobile homes.
What everyone conveniently forgot was that there was much
more to Dixon Park than the kids' playground and the
trailer compound. There were the gardens, for a start,
with all the little corners and hide-aways. The city was
famous for its gardens - more than six acres of them
stretching out to the east. There was a bandstand and
auditorium in the center of the gardens where
performances by local orchestras and pop groups were
given at the weekends in the summer.
And of course there were the usual shelters, public
toilet facilities, artificial quarries and hillocks.
There was even a maze at one end of the garden; it was
supposedly modeled on a famous English maze and had
become a favorite spot for the young lovers of the town
to do what young lovers do away from prying eyes.
There was a jogging circuit and a cycling track and an
obstacle course with a 'wall of death' for skateboarders.
And beyond all these features were places that were much
more earthy (like the tool-sheds for the gardeners and
park workers) or far more sinister (such as the ruins of
the old frontier fort last used at the time of the Civil
War, or the more modern communal incinerator, or the
piece of waste ground on the far side of all these).
If folks had just sat down and thought about it for a
moment, they would have decided that Dixon Park was not
such a good place to let kids wander around freely on
their own. There was a sinister side to the place. True,
the last murder in the park was during the early days of
the American involvement in the Vietnam War, the one
before that was a gangland killing from the north during
a practice black-out in WW2, and before that we have to
go back to the Oklahoma migrations during the Great
Depression, and that's about it.
There was a time when there was almost a murder a week in
Central Park in New York, and a spell in Chicago when it
looked as if murder was to be a daily attraction in the
public parks.
There was a kidnapping in Dixon Park involving a girl of
eight a long time ago, and there has been the occasional
rape, mostly of hookers and their kind, at night. A
lunatic who escaped from the local asylum ran amok for a
morning, but did little more than frighten the kids at
play, and an armed robber was shot dead by the police.
There has been the occasional flasher or streaker. But
that's about it. Folks begin to get complacent and
careless when crime statistics take a dip. You need
regular doses of felony to keep society on its toes.
And that's why the undercurrent in Dixon Park goes
largely unnoticed - because it isn't a whirlpool, more
like a cesspool, and goes on day, by day, prosaically
eating away at the very substance and fibre, moral bone
and muscle and sinew and fiber that constitutes the
essential life structure of society. But we have to take
the good and the mediocre among the bad, for that is what
real life is all about. The tales of Dixon Park are told
to underscore this fact. Dixon Park is a slice of life.
Kerry...
Kerry was bored. It was not simply that it was Saturday.
Although she hated Saturdays because there was no school
classes and all her friends went home on Friday afternoon
and would not be back until Monday morning. Nor was it
the ennui accompanying the idleness of Saturdays, nor the
kind that is born of sameness and repetition, although
her life had become little more than dull, boring
routine.
Part of the problem was that, in her senior school, she
was the only one in her grade whose periods had not yet
arrived, although she suspected Eloise Gerraint and
Marjorie Thew were lying about theirs having started, but
they were a good year younger than her. She had become
disillusioned with life. She was tired of having under-
developed breasts and very little pubic hair, for these
are the most important things in the universe to a
teenager. And her allowance was rapidly running out and
her expenses were running rampant.
With everything mounting up against her, Kerry was tired
of living! And apart from everything else, she had become
aware of a growing need for some kind of emotional and
sexual statement to be made in her life. For a couple of
years now, a fire had been smouldering in the deepest
recesses of her most personal places, and she had
developed a feeling of helplessness, because there was
nothing she could do about it other than daydream about
Miss Peel, the gorgeous American literature teacher. All
the girls in The Mary Vane had a crush on Miss Peel, even
the kids in the lower school.
She had to be bored out of her mind, she decided, for why
else would she be wandering about Dixon Park on a
Saturday morning? She stopped and looked back at the path
she had taken; it snaked through the gardens, slipped by
the edge of the jogging circuit and skirted the simulated
medieval maze. She could see the children at play in the
recreation area: little molecules of agitated movement
against the grey of the asphalt and the green of the
grass; she could not help but compare it with the regular
oscilloscope pulse of the joggers.
The open-air swimming pool was not yet in use; in early
spring there was deadness about it. The bandstand and
surrounding auditorium were empty and the upturned seats
gave the whole area a neglected look. 'In life we are in
the midst of death!' There was no formal religious
worship at The Mary Vane, but there were various church
groups, and Kerry flitted from one to the other in the
hope of finding something to pacify the growing disquiet
inside her. So far, they had only aggravated the burden.
The scene around her mirrored her sense of gloom.
"This has to be the most boring spot on planet earth!"
She sighed and veered off in the direction of the old
fortress. It was a complete wilderness there. The place
was supposed to be haunted. The inhabitants had been
slaughtered in some uprising by the local tribes in the
middle of the nineteenth century. The women and young
girls had been lined up and systematically raped by the
braves before being killed; some were even raped to
death. Even the babies died in the massacre.
The ghosts of the victims, and the spirits of their
killers, were said to appear in all their gore to the
unsuspecting, and not necessarily at night. As a
consequence, few local people ever ventured near the
place. But it served to give the city a sense of history
and identity, and did little to dilute the innate racial
discrimination against the so-called Native Americans..
"But ghosts! If only!" Kerry grumbled. "At least a bloody
spook or two would relieve the tedium!" And she sank
deeper into her depression. "A chap could become mentally
unbalanced in a place like this." A 'chap' was schoolgirl
slang for a student in the senior high section of The
Mary Vane College for superior young ladies. She
regretted even thinking of mental imbalance, for it
reminded her of her mother.
She was roused by the sound of raised voices from beyond
the ruins. It was not the clamour of a ghostly battle or
even a violent flesh and blood argument with the
possibility of mayhem and murder - more a difference of
opinion, but nevertheless heated.
"We've waited long enough." Recognizable words came from
the babble, ricocheting towards Kerry. "They're not going
to come now! I think we've been set us and I say we get
the fuck out of it!"
"Cooool it, Vince!" This voice was more mature, much
slower, and a lot less irate. "People have been half an
hour late before."
"Half an hour is for ever when you're holding stuff as
hot as this. Christ, Mac! A deal is a deal. And Colombian
coke is coke."
Kerry was undecided. She did not want to retrace her
route through Dixon Park. She made to walk away at a
tangent. A mobile telephone rang twice. And for some
reason she stopped.
"Yeah!"
The voices had been familiar; it was not that she
recognized to whom they belonged, it was more as if she
knew the 'kind' of voices they were. It was like
recognizing the character represented in a charade, or
the country of origin suggested by the voice assumed by
an actor.
"Where the fucking hell are you?" There was a torrent of
rude words. "We've been waiting here with the stuff for
you!" There was a strained silence. "You can't be!" There
was tacit anger in the words. "We are at Bleachers
Fields! We've been here for hours! Christ! We are
standing next to the old ammonia plant. It's marked right
here on the map! Somewhere!"
"They say they're at Bleachers." It was addressed away
from the telephone. The response from the other voice was
a string of foul oaths. "They also say that they can only
raise half the money!"
Obviously the echo was addressed to the telephone. "What
d'yooo mean, you can only get half the money?" It was the
older voice. There was another burst of cursing. "Christ
man! What d'yooo want us to do? Measure you out half a
pound of crack? Jeeesus, man! We have ten pounds of the
stuff. This is top grade powder, man. Brought all the way
up from Frisco."
There was an inaudible exchange, then the young voice was
raised again, obviously speaking on the phone.
"You know what happens if pigs catch us with this? It
isn't picnic mayonnaise, man! This was a special favour
to Menvil, and now you're telling us he can't pay!" There
was more violent swearing. "We coulda got rid of this on
the streets of Frisco, man! Dopes are lining up for this
kinda stuff! Anywhere, man!" There was a long silence.
"Of course it's pure! Do you think we'd handle shit. This
is one hundred per cent Colombian coke at its best!"
Kerry could feel the ice coursing through her arteries,
the muscles of her stomach wrenching. This was serious
drug stuff that was being discussed. The boredom washed
from her. It was replaced by intense rage and hatred. Her
mother had been a hopeless addict and was now a vegetable
in a private asylum for the insane, put there by yellow
snow, devil dust, adulterated cocaine.
Her anger for her mother's condition erupted and made her
want to go on to confront these people, tear their eyes
out. Her hatred had seeded revenge, at least in her
imagination. But there was also an intense fear. Kerry's
dread was willing her to run for her life from the scene.
She became aware of a strange thing: the sexual
turbulence inside her had increased dramatically.
She did not run. The voices fell silent as she appeared
from the corner of the old stonewalls. The two black men,
one as old as Kerry's father, the other about the same
age as her older brother, loitered alongside a peculiarly
faded green and blue transit van of Japanese manufacture
that had seen better days. They gaped at her. The younger
man had a stupid expression on his face. He was still
speaking into the telephone.
"Hi ya, honey!" he called out. He had a hand clasped over
the mouthpiece. "Come over here, will ya!" His jaw
flopped as he appraised her young body. "Settle an
argument!"
Kerry looked about. She hesitated, then approached the
two men cautiously. Her senses were quickened, but deep
inside her there was an awful disquiet, butterflies
fluttered in her stomach. Quiet, firm resolution,
however, fixed itself in her mind, and she determined,
somehow or other, at whatever cost to herself, she would
wreak revenge for her mother's condition on these two
creatures. "It may not be much of a blow to the
international drug trade," she decided, "but it'll be one
small step for me!"
The younger man grinned at her hesitance. "We don't mean
to eat ya!" He giggled. "Mind ya, I wouldn't say no to a
bite!" He looked her up and down with undisguised lust.
"Ya look good enough to take out to dinner!" He laughed.
"Say, where is this place?" he asked when she seemed
about to walk away. He waved his free hand in the air.
"This is Bleachers Field isn't it?"
"No it isn't," replied Kerry. "Bleachers are on the north
side of the city." She indicated the direction with her
arm. "That way! This is the old Frontier Fortress in
Dixon Park."
The younger man's face fell. He swore savagely. The older
man looked momentarily concerned. Kerry tried to describe
the two of them to herself in the way she fully intended
to describe them to the police. The older man was a
ringer for Eddie Murphy as he appeared in his last film,
and the younger one reminded her of the teenager in a
popular television comedy series with Bill Cosby.
She did not blind herself to the fact that both were more
than just presentably handsome; they were both extremely
sexy. It was the younger one who spoke again into the
telephone. He had turned away and lowered his voice to a
whisper, but Kerry could still make out the words, "Yeah,
do that! Ten-K-five-fifty! Catcha! Is Menvil about?" He
wriggled his hips in the knowledge that the girl was
appraising him as possible sexual material.
The older man had let himself pay some attention to the
newcomer. His eyes drifted up and down her figure, and he
seemed pleased with what he saw. He fastened his
attention on her legs and the short skirt, then pointed
at the school badge embroidered in gold thread on her
handkerchief pocket.
"What the MV stand for, sweetheart?" he asked when she
made to move away again.
Kerry turned again to face the man. "Mary Vane!" Her
voice trembled. There was almost a hypnotic quality in
the man's gaze that threatened to undermine her
determination to hate them both.
"Is that Latin or something?" he asked in a tone of voice
which suggested he could not have cared less if it were a
cure for piles. He slid down the side of the van to sit
on the grass. It was simply a ploy to detain her.
"It's a school in the city!"
She felt the need to explain. Everyone in the state knew
The Mary Vane. It was famous for its women graduates. The
man's continued stare was doing weird things to her
inside. Words disintegrated before she could voice them.
She turned away again.
"You are going to be one swell looking broad," he said,
"when you grow up." It was a calculated attempt to size
her up.
In spite of herself, the conflict inside her and the
designs rapidly taking shape in her mind, she could not
decide whether she should be pleased with the slanted
compliment - people often mistook her for a preteen.
There was an extraordinary fascination generated by these
two men which could upset her resolution. There was an
uncommon excitement in talking to them.
She had heard stories, of course, circulating among the
mainly white Caucasian majority of senior girls at
school, about the endowment of black man and their
insatiable and unequalled abilities in sex. It was little
more than a reflex, but she glanced back at the man's
crotch. He noticed the eye movement and smiled in
satisfaction. He patted the grass.
"Sit down for a bit," he said. "Make yoooself
comfortable." He pointed towards the communal
incinerator. "What is that thing?" The question was asked
in a further bid to get her to remain. "I've bin
looookin' at it and wondering."
She gathered her wits. Words finally articulated
themselves in proper order. She explained. Normally at
the weekend, Friday evening till late on Sunday, there
was a constant stream of traffic with people availing
themselves of the opportunity to get rid of rubbish
freely.
Today, for some obscure reason, the place was deserted.
Usually at the weekend the flames leapt high from it like
a biblical Gehenna, and blazoned out in the night; today
a mere wisp of smoke crept from it, almost
apologetically. With its stone parapet and earthen
platform and the dome-like fuel reservoir, she had to
confess it looked really weird, almost spooky, but in
character with the surrounding wasteland.
The younger of the two black men concluded the telephone
conversation. He snapped the instrument closed. He seemed
neither pleased nor unhappy with the outcome. Almost
apathetic, thought Kerry; it was as if he had become
accustomed to disappointment and failure in his life. In
that brief pause in time before he turned lustful eyes on
her, she believed that he looked as depressed as she
felt.
"Fetch our guest a Coke from the ice cooler," the older
man suggested, then he raised his eyebrows at the girl.
"Yooo'd like a Coke?" Then almost in the same breath he
demanded of her, "Yoooo a virgin?"
Kerry took a sharp breath. She felt that she should have
been resentful of the last question, if it had been a
question rather than a statement of fact, asked by a much
older stranger. In any other situation, asked by any
other person, she would have turned and stalked away in
her most haughty manner. Oddly, however, it animated her;
it underscored her sexual hunger.
The question, it seemed, was addressed to the deepest
feelings inside her. Her fingers played with the buttons
of her black school jacket. By the time she decided to
answer, the boy had presented her with a can of Pepsi
Cola. The ring had already been pulled and a drinking
straw had been inserted. The courtesy was noticed; her
older brother would simply have thrown the can in her
direction. Beads of cold liquid had formed on the metal.
She accepted the drink, wiped the perspiration from the
metal and licked her finger sensuously. She undid the
buttons of her jacket, and sat on the grass facing the
two men. It was an action born of habit: all the girls at
the Mary Vane undid the buttons of their school jackets
before sitting down at their desks in class or at the
meal table. Otherwise their school coats were constantly
buttoned.
She nodded appreciation and assent at last. "Yes!" she
replied in answer to the question. Then she decided to go
along with the pretence. "I'm only twelve!" There was no
way of telling whether they believed her or not.
Both men laughed. Both gazed at the exposed flesh of her
thighs. Almost unconsciously she widened the gap between
her knees. She was convinced that she had ensnared them.
"A perfect age," said the older man. "Like a single malt
scotch." He leaned right over and stretched out his hand.
"I'm Mac Jayson." He pronounced it almost as one word as
a Scotsman would have said 'McTavish'. He took her hand
and held it tightly, exerting pressure on her forefinger.
"This is my business partner, Vince." He released her
hand to allow the other man to shake it. "Vince Stairs."
He laughed merrily. "Stairs as in 'flight' as in 'flight
of fancy'."
Kerry could not avoid the feeling that he had made the
'joke' several times before. She pulled deeply on the
straw. The cola was sweet, much sweeter and cooler than
from the machine in the recreation room at school. She
suspected that the school was supplied with old, out-of-
date stock; certainly, on one occasion the machine served
her a chocolate covered biscuit that had mould on it.
She could feel the sharp, almost sensual coldness
penetrate all the way past her throat to her stomach. It
added to the peculiar sensations she was already
experiencing deep down inside herself and seemed to
amplify the signals she was receiving from these two men.
Both were looking at her expectantly.
Finally Mac Jayson asked, "What d'they call yoooo?"
Kerry introduced herself. Stairs threw a can of Budweiser
at the other man, and pulled the ring on one for himself.
He sat and referred again to the map. Significantly,
there was a space between the two men.
"Kerry!" exclaimed Jayson. It was plainly a juvenile
effort to break the prolonged silence. "That's a place in
Ireland, isn't it?"
"I don't see any fortress here," Stairs grumbled. "I
don't see any Dixon Park!" He mumbled to himself.
"Fucking maps! You never know where you are with them!"
"Actually it is the ancient British word for Love,"
declared Kerry, then wondered if she had erred. Perhaps
'love' should be left unmentioned under the
circumstances. "It's an old Welsh word."
There was another embarrassingly protracted silence.
Stairs threw the sheet across to Jayson. "Anyway, you
were supposed to be the fucking navigator!"
"I can't read these things," complained the older man. He
smiled mischievously. "I never could make head nor tail
of them." He made a gurgling noise in his throat, then
screeched his laughter. "I navigate by the stars!" He
held the map at arms length.
"Let me see it," said Kerry. She moved to sit between the
two men, and almost as soon as she shifted, the notion
seeded itself that they had intended her to move, but she
could not help herself. She spread the sheet over her
thighs, studied it for several minutes, located Dixon
Park and Bleachers Fields and indicated the places with
her finger. "You are here," she said. "That's Dixon
Park!" The finger traced the roads. "This is where you
are: the old fortress. And you want to get to here.
That's Bleachers!"
Vince took hold of her hand. "Let's see that again!" He
pulled back and put pressure over her crotch. "Where are
we?"
The older man showed interest. He put his arm across
Kerry's shoulder and leaned over to peep down the front
of her blouse.
"Kerry needs another drink," he said. There was a
significant exchange of glances which the girl missed.
"She must have finished this one!" He took the empty can.
She snickered. "Actually Kerry needs a pee!"
She stood up. It was pure imagination, she was sure, for
she never suffered from cramps, but she could have sworn
that, for a split atom of a second, she had felt unsteady
on her feet. Perhaps she had drunk the Pepsi too quickly.
"Behind the vehicle!" The old man grinned. "And we
promise we won't look! There a bit of gorse there. And
big dock leaves!"
When she returned she was still adjusting her skirt,
brushing it down at the front and rear. She resumed her
former position between the two men. The younger man
presented her with a fresh can of Pepsi. He pulled the
ring as soon as she sat and inserted the drinking straw.
He made the action seem almost sexually perverted. She
noted the discoloration on the end of the straw as it
slipped into the opening. Mac returned his arm to her
shoulder and slurped his beer. The younger man tried to
fold up the map. He threw it aside and picked up his
beer.
"Got a boyfriend?" Vince Stairs asked.
Before she could answer the other man grunted, "Must
have! A great looking broad like this! Mus' be hovering
around her like..."
He had been about to say 'flies round a shit pot'. He
sought a substitute. Stairs was familiar with the simile.
He laughed.
"No, I don't have a boyfriend," replied Kerry. There was
a touch of sadness in her voice. She appeared to
brighten. She had no idea what made her say it. She
looked from the one to the other and declared, "You pair
won't be short of girl friends!"
"There's nothing going for us just now," said Stairs.
Again, in the brief space of time it took him to say the
words, Kerry noticed the infinite sadness in the voice
and on the boy's face. He brightened almost instantly. He
and his companion studied the girl greedily. Jayson
slipped his free hand under her open jacket to fondle her
small breasts through the cotton shirt. She twitched with
some surprise. Again she felt that some protest ought to
have been made, and again she felt incapable of making
it. She was shocked as much by the gentleness of the
man's touch as by his incredible impudence.
"It would seem like that," he admitted. "We are at a low
ebb at the moment." He grinned sheepishly and toyed with
the petite ivory buttons of the white blouse. "Maybe you
could help perk us up." He squeezed each breast in turn.
He did it as if it were the most normal thing in the
world. His touch was becoming less gentle and more
demanding.
Kerry was utterly convinced at this point that she was in
serious danger of being raped and possibly murdered. She
knew that the proper thing was to get up and walk away,
and screamed like hell if they did anything at all to
impede her. She had never been with boys. She had heard
the other girls at school talk about having their breasts
fondled by boyfriends and big brothers. She had not
realized it could be such a scintillating experience. She
could see a station wagon nearly a mile away making its
bumpy way towards the incinerator, and this gave her some
kind of reassurance. She handed the half-empty second can
to Vince Stairs.
"I don't think I can drink any more."
A thousand different kinds of thrill were being generated
inside her, all of them radiating from the man's kneading
of her breast through the fine cotton material of her
shirt and the pressure he was exerting on her hardened
nipple. The last thing in the world she wanted was to
have this delightful sensation brought to an end. She
forced herself to look at the older man.
"You won't hurt me," she asked, "will you?"
"Of course not," the man assured her. He nodded Stairs'
attention towards her skirt, already three quarters way
along her thigh. "We wouldn't hurt a single hair of your
pretty head!"
He kissed the side of her face as Vince caressed the
inside of her thigh. Kerry felt her head lolling as if,
quite without warning, it had become too heavy to be
supported on her shoulders. A fire had been kindled in
her womb and she was aware of the heat producing wetness
where Stairs' fingers were beginning to probe. She was
rapidly becoming incapable of coordinated thought and
movement. The boy had brushed her skirt fully back to her
hips and was rubbing the groove of her pudenda from her
the front to her backside. Her thighs were splayed. She
was distantly aware of his pulling at the waistband of
her panties.
"Ease up, sweetheart," he said. "Let's get these off!"
She lifted her bottom. The slender garment was hauled
over her legs. Stairs pocketed it. Jayson's fondling had
become much rougher. He was pulling at her nipples. His
face was very close hers. She knew that she had to be
kissed by those heavy lips. A tongue invaded her mouth
and she felt she was being choked.
"Do you want to fuck?" he asked when he pulled away. He
was rolling a nipple between his finger and thumb.
She nodded. She looked to where the station wagon had now
reached the incinerator. Two men and two boys were
scampering around the vehicle. It was the length of a
full football pitch away, but she could have vowed that
she heard them talking about 'that girl between these two
niggers'. She nodded again to indicate these people.
"They're looking at us!" It seemed a childishly simple
statement to make, but having made it she felt she had to
amplify it. Her speech seemed slightly slurred. After
several abortive attempts, she gave up and leaned back
into the black man's arm.
Neither man paid any attention to her stuttering
inability to vocalize, but Jayson pulled his hand away
from her breasts. Stairs pulled his fingers from her and
brushed down her skirt. They sat for a while in silence
and gazed across the empty space towards the incinerator.
The men talked across her. She seemed able only to catch
the odd word, and none of the words made any sense.
Stairs presented his fingers to the older man to smell.
Both nodded in satisfaction.
"Have you sucked a cock before?" The question came from
outer space. She shook her head. "Have you any brothers?"
The question came from the depths of the earth. She
nodded. "And yoooo're still in possession of a cherry?"
She did not understand. She felt sleepy. She wanted these
black men to cuddle her and caress her.
Vince Stairs handed her the can of Pepsi and said,
"Finish it, honey! It will help. I promise you!"
"We'll give it a coupla more minutes," decided Jayson,
"then we'll move inside." His voice was serious, his
breathing heavy. His hand was now rubbing the wetness on
her crutch.
Kerry sipped the cola. The station wagon moved away from
the incinerator, but another small truck and a pick-up
had taken its place. Stairs rose first and helped the
girl to her feet. She felt slightly disoriented.
"The rear door is open." The boy made the comment sound
like an important announcement. "You go first honey.
We'll follow in a minute." He snickered and rubbed his
genitals. "We'll have to empty this."
Kerry stood unsteadily. She could hear the men relieve
themselves on the other side. They were chattering and
giggling now like silly schoolboys. She tried to clear
her senses, but the feeling of strangeness and confusion
persisted heightened by the fact that the side of the van
as she leant against it seemed almost like glass to the
touch rather than metal.
"It's a kind of fibre-glass; it's like one of these see-
through mirrors in a shrink's office," explained Jayson
when he correctly interpreted her puzzlement. He was
having trouble with the zipper of his flies. "After a
while, when your eyes grow accustomed to it, you'll be
able to see out without being seen inside. Useful at
times, for it makes it difficult for people to sneak up
on us."
He studied the girl curiously. She remained standing by
the side of the vehicle, uncertainty written clearly on
her face. That she was having serious second thoughts
about her situation was clear. Not for the first time Mac
Jayson had reservation about the so-called aphrodisiac
stuff his younger partner used on females, but Vince was
the scientist with a diploma in chemistry from night
school!
"You wanta get into the van?" The question was more in
the form of a command from Jayson. He did not wait for a
reply. When she seemed about to turn away, he growled,
"Get in the fucking van!" He lifted her and carried her.
The thing that first struck her was that the sides of the
vehicle appeared almost transparent, making the interior
much brighter than she could have anticipated. The floor
was thickly matted with a kind of woven plastic material.
Vince Stairs climbed in after them and pulled the doors
closed. The two men sat on either side of the girl. Mac
Jayson put an arm around her and pushed her back to lie
on the padded floor. He kissed her, not just
passionately, but aggressively. He undid the buttons of
her shirt slowly, almost ritually and brushed the garment
to either side. He pummeled her breasts while the younger
man thrust his head between her thighs.
"Man!" exclaimed Stairs. "Look at the beautiful pussy we
have here today." Like a kitten at a saucer of milk, he
lapped her wetness and moaned ecstasy.
The men moved away from her slightly. They started to
strip. Kerry had never seen naked men before, but there
was an innate ability to appreciate masculine beauty.
They may well be into drugs, but nothing of the trade
showed on their athletic bodies. Both were erect. Kerry
felt oddly relieved. She had heard the senior girls at
school describing all black men as being hung like
horses. She had seen horses at stud at home. These men
were big in their erection, with testicles that appeared
inflated, but they were what Kerry would have expected
from the average male. Stairs slipped his fingers into
her until he felt the obstruction. He finger fucked to
the first knuckle for a minute.
"You gonna bust her?" he asked. "Or will I?"
Mac Jayson pushed him aside and positioned himself
between her thighs. One hand kneaded her breast while his
forefinger worked in and out her slopping opening. He
studied the activity of both hands for a while, then
looked into her glazed eyes.
"This will hurt a bit to begin with," he told her. He had
two fingers inside her. "Just relax, sweetheart!" He
presented his huge cock to the groove of her vulva and
rubbed several times before introducing it between the
fingers. "Just lie back and enjoy the ride of your life,
honey!"
He slipped into her with difficulty. Her labia gripped
him tightly in spite of the liberal lubrication. His
glans eased against the membrane of her hymen. Kerry felt
it stretching. She had heard horrific stories about girls
being deflowered. Henna Jenners boasted about how she
could not sit down for nearly a week because of the
ripping pain she endured when her father's chauffeur
raped her.
All the girls at school claimed that the first time was,
by the very nature of the act, tearing a bit of your
body, extremely, excruciatingly painful. Mac Jayson
pulled back from her as if he intended to withdraw
altogether, and Kerry felt a surge of disappointment. He
thrust into her. She gasped at the sensation. And yelped.
The man clasped a hand over her mouth. Needlessly. He
crooned into her ear tunelessly.
"That's the bad part over. Your cherry has been popped,
sweetheart. It starts to feel good from this point on."
Kerry could not believe it. She felt his full length slip
into her body. The 'excruciating pain' she had braced
herself for had been little more than the brushing aside
of a delicate gossamer. She had experience more
discomfort plucking her eyebrows or shaving the first
downy hairs from her underarms. She was sure there had to
be more. Were it not for the hardness thrusting back and
forth inside her, which seemed, in a disinterested way,
to satisfy the urgent need that had been ever-present
with her for more than two years, she was sure she would
be overwhelmed by a sense of anti-climax. She lay in a
state of inertia under the black man as he bumped into
her.
"For Christ's sake!" the man exclaimed impatiently. "Come
on! Fuck with me, Kerry!"
"I don't know how to!"
Mac Jayson felt himself shrinking. He gaped stupidly at
her. "Everyone knows how to fuck! Lift your hips to
me..." He was about to pull away from her in disgust. He
changed his mind and began to hammer mercilessly into
her.
His coming afforded her the most peculiar sensation. His
semen pulsed against the walls of her uterus. It was a
kind of answer to what she had been seeking for a long
time. She started lifting and dropping her hips. She
clung to the black man. She wrapped her legs around him.
She felt the cock inside her resurrecting and hardening
and she rode in concert with his renewed action.
"That's it baby, so sweet! Co-operate! Ride! Fuck with
me! Beeeooootifoool!"
Every nerve ending in her body exploded as she raced
blindly into her first ever orgasm. It was as if she were
being tickled inside by a million feathers and pelted by
a million snowballs, roasted on a spit and immersed in
icy water, lifted on clouds and floating on warm tropical
seas, all at the same time. Then the man shot another
impregnating load into her. He lay embedded inside her
for a long time before withdrawing and rolling to one
side.
Vince Stairs appeared longer and thicker than the older
man. He applied a thick jelly to his cock. He turned
Kerry over roughly to lie on her front. She felt the
ample cheeks of her buttocks being parted.
"Not the cleanest ass-hole," he complained. He wiped her
with her skirt before leaning across over the girl and
reprimanded her. "You got to learn how to wash yourself
properly. You got shit on your ass-hole!"
Jayson laughed. "Where the fuck else would it be?"
"It will be on the end of my cock," complained the boy.
She felt the hardness being presented to her back
opening. And the pressure as he pushed in. Then the most
excruciating pain she could have imagined as the full
length of his erection thrust into her. She screamed. A
hand was clasped over her mouth. She was barely conscious
of the hammering behind her and the tearing sensations
inside her. She seemed to fade into senselessness.
There were five people in the room. All five faces were
unfamiliar, two were apathetic and one was decidedly
unfriendly.
"You were raped?" The unfriendly face asked for at least
the third time. "Inside a transit vehicle? By two colored
men?"
Kerry noticed that one of the faces was black. She
instinctively looked in its direction. She nodded. She
looked at the unfriendly face again and nodded. He was
the only male present. The black face was one of the two
that showed apathy. She had told her story several times
to different people. She answered all the man's
questions. Finally he withdrew. She had no way of telling
whether he was satisfied or not.
"Did you actually see any drugs?" asked the black face.
"Did you at any time take any drugs?"
Kerry had given whet she considered to be a good
description of the two men. She had described the
commercial van, both inside and exterior, and had given
the number that was displayed on the license plates. She
could tell the police where the men had come from and
where they were destined for. She reported what she had
heard of the telephone conversation. The black face
nodded, and also withdrew.
"Dr. Petrie, here has to examine you and do a few
tests..." It was a friendly face. The woman helped her to
undress.
Dr. Petrie was the other apathetic face, apathetic, Kerry
assumed, because she had done these tests so often, and
perhaps increasingly apathetic at having to perform them
on a Saturday afternoon. The woman probed into Kerry's
vagina and anus. She drew blood from somewhere down there
and asked Kerry to pee into a bowl. She took samples of
skin and hair and asked her to spit onto a kind of
blotting paper. Tubes were introduced to her vagina, her
back passage and he throat. Kerry felt extremely sick and
wanted to evacuate her bladder and her bowels and vomit
all at the same time.
Kerry was finally driven back to the Mary Vane at half
past eight on Saturday night. At half past nine, a
policeman turned up at the school to tell her that Mac
Jayson and Vince Stairs had been arrested and charged
with the rape of a minor. They would also be charged with
possession of illegal narcotics and unlicensed weapons.
They would probably spend ten to twelve years in jail.
Traces of an illegal substance had been found in her
blood, but there was no doubt that it had been
administered by the two men without her knowledge to
reduce her resistance to the rape. Dr. Petrie's tests had
indicated that she had not been made pregnant during the
rapes. The policeman quoted the proverb: every cloud has
a silver lining!
Kerry fell asleep late on Saturday night. Her Saturday
morning depression had not entirely dissipated, but she
consoled herself with the thought that she had made one
small assault of the detestable trade that had made her
mother a vegetable. She looked forward to Monday morning
and the return of her friends. Her last thoughts as sleep
overtook her were of Mac Jayson slipping the full blast
of his masculinity into her.
She had a wet dream. When she woke on Sunday morning, she
seriously considered going to church. Somehow she felt
herself redeemed. She made a new resolution. She would
never again walk alone through Dixon Park. She thought of
the two black men, Mac Jayson and Vince Stairs, and
wondered how long she would stick to her decision.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
anyway shape or form.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 21