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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Club Life
by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
***
Sometimes life offers you a Get Out of Jail Free card
just when you need it. Eighteen year old Maggie has
hers in hand and has to decide whether to put the past
behind her, or keep going down her own personal path to
destruction. (MF-teens, exh, nc, rp, oral)
***
AUTHOR NOTES: As the author, I claim all rights under
international copyright laws. This work is not intended
for sale, but please feel free to post this story to
other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and
text intact. Revision to the text (such as the basis
for another story) is acceptable as long as the
original author is given credit and the resulting story
is distributed free of charge. Any commercial use of
this work is expressly forbidden without the written
permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray
any person living or dead, nor any known situation.
This story contains themes of bondage, beastiality and
rape, anal sex, incest, and lesbian sex. It is meant
for adults only and is not to be read by person's under
the age of 18, or the legal age in the
county/state/country in which the reader resides.
If you would like a Microsoft Word or an RTF version of
this story (a much better read), please contact me at
MarciaR26@aol.com
CLUB LIFE
by Marcia R. Hooper
(marciar26@aol.com)
Based on the Short Story:
YOUNG FUCK-SLUT
by Unknown Author
Did I vote in the last election? Of course I didn't
vote in the last election, you moron! I don't even have
a driver's license. And what kind of question is that
to ask a girl sucking your cock?
I shook my head and returned my attention to his head,
kissed the tip and licked it all around, then put it in
my mouth.
Maybe he's losing interest, I thought. Maybe I should
tell him I'm fourteen. Maybe that'd turn him on.
Maybe it'd get me knocked on my ass on the dirty
pavement of this fucking back alley, and I'd have no
ride home. Some guys come twice as fast they think
you're underage, some guys just get paranoid. Some guys
do both. But there was no guarantee I could find
another guy who'd trade a blow job for a way home if I
blew this, so I kept my mouth shut. Well, shut around
his cock, anyway.
We were behind the Club Rocket on the Pike. The music
inside vibrated the ground outside, and I could feel it
coming up through my heels. I had my hair piled on my
head in case he decided to give me a facial, and my top
open for the same reason. Let him come on my chest and
bra, not my expensive silk blouse.
The problem is I live in dip-shit Damascus with my
parents, in a boring little residential neighborhood
called Plantations II. I go to Damascus High School
where I'm a 12th-grader. (I'm over eighteen, so what
I'm telling you here is legal.) As every girl in my
class knows (every girl who likes to have fun) the
minimum payment for a ride home from Club Rocket is a
blow-job. From any club, for that matter. You can't
take the bus, not at night, and money I'd use for cab
fare I need to get inside and buy drinks if no one's
buying them for me. So if you don't have a way home,
you have to pay for one, usually with your mouth.
"What's your name again?" the guy asked. One hand was
on top of my head and the other behind it. He was
beginning to fuck me rather than let me blow him. It
happened all the time, although I hated it when they
made me gag.
"Maggie," I said around his cock.
"What?"
"Mag--guhhh-huhhee," I choked out.
I grabbed his thighs and tried to make him slow down.
Why can't guys just let you enjoy it? Why do they have
to commandeer you? Do they think a girl likes having a
cock rammed down her throat?
Of course they don't. That's the point.
"Please!" I gasped. "Let me breath!"
He released me and stepped away, saying something
apologetic. Then he grabbed me again and guided me back
onto his cock and resumed mouth-fucking me. At least he
wasn't so aggressive this time.
"I haven't seen you here before," he said,
breathlessly. "You come here often?"
Every Friday and Saturday night for the last two years,
dick-wad, I thought. And he had seen me here before.
Tonight was just the first time he had danced with me.
He was very good looking (if not out-and-out gorgeous)
and I wondered how many other girl's mouths he had put
his cock into back here behind the club.
He came without a word, holding himself motionless in
my mouth as he gushed jism onto my tongue. Then he
began to thrust into me again, working farther and
deeper into my throat. It was either deep-throat him,
or choke. I chose not to choke.
"Damn," he said, finally taking an unsteady step
backwards. "You're really good at this, girl."
"Thanks," I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my
hand. Swallowing isn't fun, but I had no Kleenex to
clean up a mess with, so it was better this way.
He began putting himself back in his pants.
"You remember where I live?" I asked him, trying to
stand up. God, my thighs ached. Guys'd have you on your
knees every time, if you'd let them, but I'm not
kneeling down on any dirty, greasy pavement in a back
alley and ruin my hose.
"Yeah," he said, distractedly. "Damascus?"
I followed his gaze to the rear door of the club. The
pounding music was beckoning him back again.
"You promised," I complained. "Don't you back out on me
now."
He looked at me as I buttoned my blouse, no longer
seeing a desirable new Lexus, but a used Toyota
Corolla. Guilt played against irritation of his face.
"Yeah, yeah," he said finally, and headed down the
alley toward the parking lot, muttering other things as
he went.
I scurried along after him, tucking my blouse into my
skirt. "And it's Maggie," I said, catching up to him.
"Not bitch."
He gave me an amused look, then laughed. Then he put
his hand on my ass.
***
It was an hour and twenty minutes later. We sat at the
curb on the wrong side of the street, a block down and
a block over from my house. The dashboard clock read
12:35 A.M. I was flat on my back on his bench seat
(thank God for bench seats) with my legs in the air and
holding him as he fucked me. I hadn't expected sex, not
after the forced blow-job, but he had started kissing
me just as soon as we parked and I liked being kissed.
At least he was wearing a condom.
"We have to hurry," I told him. My dad always set the
alarm for one a.m., and if I wasn't in, he'd whip me
when I did get in. I needed time to change my clothes,
and sneak in the basement door. I had told him this,
but I wasn't sure he was listening--or cared.
The truth was, I was liking this way too much. The guy
was screwing me like we were on our honeymoon bed, not
in a broken down Oldsmobile. He had an average-size
cock, but what he did with it was almost perfection. My
pestering him must have seemed like disinterest, but I
was not disinterested, not one tiny little bit. He made
it hard even to think straight. But a blistering
leather strap on your bare bottom is not something you
easily forget, and I was watching (with one eye and
half a brain cell), the seconds tick by.
"Please," I said at ten minutes to one. "I have to go!"
I tried shoving him off but he wrapped me up like a
human straight jacket, pinning my arms at my side and
forcing my thighs apart with his own. He rammed in and
out of me like a rutting dog. I was thinking it doesn't
get any more rape-like than this when something warm
and wet erupted inside of me.
"Jesus! Did you just...?
He kept me wrapped up tight and laughed the whole time
he was coming and I knew he had ditched the condom. How
or when, I didn't know. I should have been furious, but
I wasn't.
"Okay, okay," I said hurriedly. "Just get offa me."
He let me up and I snatched my panties off the floor
and yanked them on. I was wet and cum had leaked out of
me onto his seat, but that was his problem. I
refastened my bra and pulled my shirt together and
grabbed my purse.
"Will I see you again?" he said, panting and trying to
get his fly zipped up.
"Only if I'm damned lucky," I said under my voice and
then yelled "Maybe," and slammed the car door and tore
off down the sidewalk to whatever awaited me at home.
***
I looked at the clock. The right-hand digit changed to
a 5 as I watched, making it 4:05 a.m. I turned over
onto my right side, wincing at the pain in my bottom,
brushing a tear from my right eye.
All this could be traced to what had happened to me two
years before. I was not even sixteen years old, a 10th
grader, and I had never been fucked. Hell, I hadn't
even really made out with a guy, much less gotten busy
with him. But my two cousins had plenty of experience
and they got busy with me.
Adam was eighteen and Josh was sixteen. They were at my
house for two weeks in August while their respective
parents took the rest of the kids to Yellowstone Park
and the Grand Canyon. I love my Aunt Gina and Uncle
Tommy, and Aunt Lindsey and Uncle Robert, but they
should have taken their fucking sons with them, instead
of leaving them here. Because one afternoon when mom
and dad were working and Gina (my sister, not my aunt)
was still at the pool with her friends, I pulled back
the shower curtain to find Adam and Josh standing there
waiting for me.
"Get out of here!" I shrieked.
They just laughed at me.
I had only just returned from the pool and my bathing
suit was on the bathroom floor, kicked now into a
corner. I didn't even have a towel to wrap myself up in
because Adam had it in his hand. I hid behind the
shower curtain.
"Please get out of here!" I pleaded with them.
"Come on out," Adam said, while Josh snickered. "We
already seen you naked, Maggie."
"Go away! I'm gonna scream if you don't go away!"
I didn't get it. We had been getting along so fine. In
fact, I had a huge crush going on Adam: he was sizzling
hot.
"Come out and show us your little titties," Adam said.
"That's all we want to see."
"I don't have any titties," I shot back at him, a fact
that he had chosen to point out to me at every
opportunity over the past week. It was a testament to
my adolescent idiocy that I still liked him.
"Sure you do," he said, "I just seen 'em. They're
cute." Which got another snicker from Josh.
"Why are you doing this to me?" I demanded, tears ready
to boil out.
"I told you. We want to see your little titties." The
shower curtain jerked in my hand, hard. "Now get out
here."
"I'm not coming out. You get out of here."
In the end, I had no way out. Adam came at me from one
side, Josh the other, and after peeling me away from
the shower curtain, they carried me naked, screaming
and kicking into my bedroom and threw me onto the bed.
Before I could even move, they had me pinned down to
the bedspread, spread-eagled.
"You're right," Josh laughed. "She don't have no
titties."
What little I did have was tipped by traitorous little
nipples, hard as peas.
"Let me go!" I wailed. "Why are you doing this to me?"
But the way they looked at my naked body, still beaded
by water, Adam with particular interest at the place
between my legs, answered that question for me.
"You ever been touched down there?" Adam asked,
indicating my crotch.
I froze. He just looked at me. Josh looked at him.
"Don't you dare," I threatened in a whisper. "I will
scream. I swear I will."
Adam looked over at Josh, who nodded, and with alarming
quickness, my left arm was released and the hand that
had held it clamped down roughly on my mouth. Screaming
into it helped me not at all.
How do you tell your mother that your two cousins have
raped you? Raped and sodomized and tortured you. I
never told anyone anything.
The next day I could barely walk. If my mom had seen
the bruises on my upper arms or thighs, words wouldn't
have been necessary. The boys didn't care how much they
bruised me up, doing whatever they liked to me,
convinced of their invulnerability; I guess events
proved them right.
On Saturday afternoon they left. For the intervening
three days they acted like the rape had never happened,
as if everything was perfect, like two invaders from
Mars had impersonated the boys, and left them living in
blissful ignorance. I took that attitude as well,
actually beginning to talk and joke with them again by
Thursday evening, when all of us went out to the
movies. I freaked a bit when they bracketed me on the
walk back to the car, but they only talked about the
movie and how much they couldn't wait for the sequel to
come out.
Had it really happened? I only really believed it when
I looked at my bruises in the mirror.
I kissed both of them goodbye when they left. I hugged
them both. I stood there and waved as, half an hour
apart, rented RV's took my rapists back to Albany, New
York, and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
I thought I was all right.
That afternoon, I noticed my geeky next door neighbor,
who I knew had the hots for me, watching me from the
corner of his eye as he cut his grass. I had on a
sleeveless white button-down blouse and a pair of blue-
jean shorts. I stuck my thumbs in my jeans pockets and
stood with one hip thrust out, pseudo-seductively. He
ran into the brick border surrounding a flower bed and
almost tripped over the lawn mover. I wanted to burst
out laughing. Instead, I wandered over to start up a
conversation.
"You think they'll have the new high school finished
before I turn eighteen?" I asked. "That would make you
what, a junior in college when I graduated, right?
"Um--oh--" he stammered. "Are they building a new high
school here?"
No, dummy, they're building the new World Trade Center.
"Take a walk with me around the side of the house," I
said.
"Wh--Why?"
"I want to show you something," I said.
I walked ahead of him with my thumbs still planted in
my shorts pockets, careful not to swing my hips in too
seductive a manner, until we reached the shed, and then
I nodded for him to open it up. You've never seen a kid
more scared. I was cucumber cool. When he'd finally
fumbled the lock out of the the hasp and had gotten the
doors swung open, I strolled inside and told him to
join me. He just stood there, sweating profusely and
moving from foot to foot.
"Get in here," I ordered.
He jerked, then stepped into the doorway and stopped
just inside. I grabbed the front of his shirt and
dragged him over in front of me and kissed him. At that
point it became indescribable because I was only
fifteen and I'm not breaking any child pornography
laws.
I never so much as looked at the geek again. Every guy
since him has either been hot, or a bastard, which
makes him hot, even if he's not good looking. And there
have been a lot of them. From what I've read about
myself on the toilet stalls in the boy's bathrooms, I'm
a girl you'd want with you at a party on a Friday or
Saturday night. I will gladly admit to the truth of
that. I put out good.
As you'd expect, a lot of girls hate me. A lot of
girl's want to be my friend, too, sometimes the very
same ones, which gets kinda confusing. I've even been
asked to go down on a girl, but that's something I've
never done. At least not yet. I like guys too much.
***
The following weekend, I found a ride home from the
club without resorting to my mouth. It was with a guy
named Mike, who I had met a month or so ago at the
club. I had already spread my legs for him twice, so he
knew he'd get it when he got me home.
"You know--" He hesitated when the light ahead turned
yellow, then shot on ahead. "You got the sweetest
little squirrel-box on you, Honey."
I laughed. My squirrel-box? But he was from Texas and
everything he said was funny.
"Is it wet enough for you?" I asked. My legs were apart
and his finger was enjoying its deliberate
explorations.
He crooked his finger suddenly and made me jump. "I
like it just fine, little lady. Nice and tight.
Seriously tight. Like a virgin, you might say," he
drawled sarcastically.
I didn't care. He was getting me hot. That finger had
been busy inside me since we'd left the club, and he
was driving slow up Rockville Pike, the convertible top
down in the warm spring air. I was clenched onto his
upper arm with my left hand, and not to be romantic.
"How about this?" he asked.
I gasped: "Oh! Yes!" then, "That's nice," feeling like
he'd just scratched my tonsils with his fingernail. I
squirmed as he went exploring in a new direction,
looking for my G-spot.
"That doesn't actually exist," I said, wincing and
digging into his biceps. One more like that and I'd
jump right out of the seat, maybe out of the car. I
think he liked hurting me. I think I liked it too.
"So, how are your folks?" he asked, as calm as if he
was reading a newspaper.
"They're... just fine," I got out between gasps.
I had gotten a good blistering the week before and Dad
had told me that one more time and he'd ground me for
the rest of the school year. I couldn't have that. But
I also couldn't let Mike know that I was eighteen years
old and curfewed to one o'clock in the morning on
weekends, restricted to the house the rest of the week.
He thought I was underage, and I'd done nothing to
disabuse that notion. Guy's like you underage.
I looked at the dashboard clock. Only eleven-forty-
five, plenty of time.
The light ahead of us turned red and Mike let the
Camaro drift to a stop. The powerful engine rumbled the
car like the music rumbled the dance floor and it was a
pleasant feeling. The car was a sixty-eight, or a
sixty-nine, I couldn't remember which, bright red with
twin black racing stripes running down the middle. A
muscle-car, he called it. I called it a hotrod, just
like him.
"I'm having some friends over tomorrow night," he said.
"Feel like coming by?"
Out on a Sunday night? A weeknight? But Dad was having
his once a month church thing, I remembered, and that
kept him out after eleven. Mom was easier to get around
sometimes. "Sure," I said, figuring I'd come up with
something.
"I've picked up some porno flicks, hard-core stuff,
stuff you can't rent at Blockbuster," he said.
You couldn't rent any porno at Blockbuster, I wanted to
say, but I got his message. Zoo-sex, kiddy-porn or
something even worse. I wondered if he'd pass me
around. Other guys had passed my around at parties,
like a bag of Doritos.
A jacked-up, 4-wheel drive pickup blaring country
music pulled up beside us at the light. It was on
Mike's side, in the turning lane, which meant they
could see plainly what was going on. I froze for a
moment, feeling a stab of panic--I guess I'm still a
kid at heart--then grinned widely when the guy in the
passenger window glanced down and did a double-take.
"Holy shit!," he mouthed. "Will ya look at this?" The
music was too loud to hear anything over it, but I read
that plainly.
The rear window rolled down--the truck was a four-door-
-and I found myself stared at by four, maybe five guys,
all high school-age, all of them hot.
"Like that?" Mike asked quietly. My skirt was bunched
up around my waist and his hand was down my panties,
obviously busy. I knew the guys could see my pussy
being fingered. I squirmed with excitement and spread
my legs even wider.
The light turned green and Mike pulled away at a sedate
pace. I could hear the guys hootin' and hollerin'
despite the music, but instead of following us as I
half-expected they would, the driver went ahead and
turned left. Then I saw why--there was a cop car behind
them.
"Cop!" I cried, jamming my legs together.
Mike's hand, though squeezed a bit, continued its work.
I couldn't believe it, but I didn't dare look back
again. Mike nonchalantly glanced in the rear view
mirror and grinned.
"Did they turn?" I asked breathlessly.
His hand levered my thighs open again. "Why," he asked.
"Never done a cop?"
Done a cop? My worst fear was a cop. I had been busted
six times for underage drinking before I was eighteen.
Now they could do something about it.
I said, shakily, "My ID is fake."
"So?"
"They catch me drinking again, they'll send me away to
Jessup. You're over twenty-one. You bought me drinks.
They'll make me give you up."
His finger crooked into me hard enough to make me grab
his wrist with both hands. I came up off the seat in
pain. "Mike!" I groaned. "Stop that!"
"Don't threaten my, Sweetie-pie."
"I'm not threatening you!" I cried. "I just know about
Jessup, and what they do to young girls there." I was
about to start crying. "Please, Mike! Please stop it!"
He eased back on his finger and I gasped "Thank you!"
sliding back down onto my butt again. I had almost
stood up straight. Even Adam and Josh raping me hadn't
hurt like that.
***
Half an hour later we were at my house. As he turned
off the ignition, I undid my seat belt and leaned over
to unzip his fly. He stopped me.
"What's the matter," I asked. My voice was pitched
higher than it should be, because I was scared. He had
really freaked me out with his finger.
"Nothing," he said, lazily lighting a Marlboro. "Just
rather save it for tonight."
It was tonight, I thought, then realized he meant
tonight tonight, at his house.
"Listen," I said, edging away a bit. "I--"
"If you can't make it, you can't make it." He inhaled a
lungful of smoke, held it a moment, then blew it at the
sky. The tip of his cigarette came up and he inspected
it closely. "I understand the situation," he said.
"You do?"
"Yeah, I do. You come if you can. Try to be there by
eight o'clock. If you don't come, I'd like a telephone
call, though. Understand?"
Yes, sir, I almost said. "What is it? Your telephone
number."
He gave it to me.
"I need to write it down," I said, digging in my purse.
"You don't write anything down," he said. "Memorize
it."
I began running the number through my head.
"Out loud," he said, voicing his irritation. "Hasn't
anyone ever taught you how to memorize a fucking
number?"
I recited his number out loud at least half-a-dozen
times, until it was etched in stone.
"Now my address," he said, giving me that also.
Obediently, I recited it back half-a-dozen times.
"Good." He flicked the half-smoked cigarette end over
end into the middle of the street where it exploded in
sparks. "You don't write it down when you get inside,
either. You never write down anything about me,
especially my name. Got that, Honey-chile?"
I nodded, too breathless to speak. I wanted to ask if
this was D/s, if he was making me his sex-slave. "I got
it," I finally croaked.
He nodded and put his hand beneath my chin and drew me
to him. He gave me a chaste kiss on the mouth, then
told me to get the hell out. As I turned to open the
door, he said, "If you need a ride, call me."
"Okay," I said. As I started to close the door, he
leaned against his own door and looked up at me.
"What?" I said, heart in my mouth.
He gave me that lazy Texas grin. "If you don't make it
tonight? The next time I see you, I'll make you walk
naked across Rockville Pike. Back and forth across
Rockville Pike. Both ways. No clothes on," he said
winking. "See you tonight."
I just stood there as he drove away, blinking and
dumbfounded. Eventually I closed my mouth and hurried
on to my house.
I had never seen the kind of sex flick I knew Mike was
talking about. I had seen hardcore stuff, sure, the
kind that comes on a VHS tape or a DVD that your
friends bring over and you giggle stupidly with your
hands over your mouth. The Internet was loaded with the
crap. But my dad keeps a hawk-eye on me when I'm at
home, even though I'm eighteen now, so I never get to
the sites where the heavy action is, the stuff I might
be seeing that night. So the thought of it made me
shiver. (You probably want to know how I get to stay
out late on Friday and Saturday nights, and the rest of
the time I might as well be locked up in a convent, but
that's another story.)
When I turned the corner onto our street I was
alternately fantasizing about getting passed around by
my mouth, and about crossing Rockville Pike in the
nude. The sight of my house snapped me back to reality.
"Fuck!" I croaked, looking at my watch: ten of one.
I ran the rest of the way down the sidewalk, then
beelined through the side yard to the shed at the back
corner of the house. I opened the door, slipped inside,
and snatched my backpack from behind a pair of stacked
boxes. (You know I keep those hinges well-oiled.) In a
second I was out of my micro-mini-skirt and silk
blouse, yanking off my thigh-highs hopping foot to
foot, then out of my black brassiere and my thong
panties. I then dressed in my street clothes again:
jean shorts and a red pullover top, a white JC Penney
bra and bikini panties, and my Reeboks. Then I brushed
out my hair and dragged it back into a ponytail and
knotted it in place. The good stuff I crammed into my
backpack, which I slung over my shoulder and then I was
ready.
I took a deep breath, held it steadyingly, then
released it slowly. I became Maggie Callow again: 12th-
grade virgin. I went in to say hi to Dad.
What to do about tonight?
I glanced up at the clock and saw that it was almost
one. I had my homework spread across the desk and was
listening to U2 on my iPod. The volume was down because
I, unlike other teenagers, had respect for my eardrums.
Besides, they hurt from the club-music of the night
before.
I thought about Mike taking me by the chin to kiss me
on the mouth. I thought about six guys sitting side by
side on a couch with their flies down and their cocks
sticking straight in the air, watching some horrible
thing on the TV screen while I sucked them and beat
them off. I thought about strolling across Rockville
Pike in my jeans and a red pullover top, Reeboks
snicking across the pavement, while my ponytail bounced
merrily along behind me.
What the fuck had happened to me? Was I really this
awful little slut, bent on sucking or fucking every guy
in Maryland? I could not count the cocks I had already
put in my mouth, or the ones I had let come in me. I
rated a page in Guinness all for myself.
I stretched my arm out across the desk and lay my head
down on it. Tears filled my eyes, hot and burning,
making my nose run, and I jerked up with a curse. Who
the fuck was I kidding? I fucked 'cause I liked to
fuck. Those stupid prissies I used to hang out with
didn't know their cunts from a hole in the ground. Who
were they to tell me I was wrong? They never got it.
They never would get it--figuratively or literally.
I got up and grabbed my cell phone off the bed. I
punched Find, then scrolled down the list till I found
Jessie Markum's number.
"Hello," she said, finally answering on the sixth ring.
"I need a favor," I said. I was biting my thumbnail and
made myself stop.
Her reluctance grew more pronounced. "What's that,
Maggie?"
"I need to get out tonight."
"I'm busy," she said hurriedly. "Maybe--"
"I'm not asking you to go out, Jess. Just cover for me,
okay? Tell Mom you need me to come over to do...
homework or something."
What a stupid idea. Jess was a goody-two-shoes who had
her homework done on Friday afternoons before I even
got home. "I don't know," she said slowly. Maybe--"
"Please?" I cut in. "Just this once? I'll never ask
another favor again. I--"
"Right!" she cut in, laughing derisively. "What ungodly
thing have you got going on tonight? That sick concert
down at MCI?"
I didn't know about any concert at MCI. I said, "I just
need to get out for a while, that's all. Without the
parents asking me questions. Will you do it for me?"
I waited for her to ask why she should, why she should
help a friend dig herself deeper than she already was.
Jessie knew me better than maybe anyone else. She used
to be my best friend. She used to live right next door
to me.
"All right," she said finally, sighing. "What time?"
I told her, and she hung up. Then I cried for an hour
and a half.
***
At five o'clock I snuck out the black dress I kept
hidden at the back of my closet, packed it in the
bottom of my backpack along with a new pair of black
thigh-highs, a black lace bra and thong panties, and my
black heels. I stuffed my school books in on top of
them and then set it beside the desk out of the way.
Then I laid down to read my latest Elle magazine, and
tried not to bite my lower lip in half. At six o'clock
Jessie called.
"Maggie! It's for you."
"Thanks, Mom!" I called. I picked up the phone and
waited for Mom to hang up.
"Thanks. I was afraid you wouldn't call."
"I wish I hadn't," she said. "This is really stupid,
Maggie."
"Maybe," I said. "But you're an angel, Jess. Now bye."
"Bye," she said desultorily, and hung up.
I waited about a minute, then went to the door, opened
it and called downstairs: "Jess wants me to come over
and help her with her homework." I didn't say anything
else. Mom would either go for it, or she wouldn't.
"Jessie's asking you to help her with homework?" she
called up the stairs, emphasis on the "you" and the
"her."
I giggled girlishly and said, "Well, not really. But...
I really should go." This left the decision up to her,
and mothers like making decisions for their daughters.
If the reason is honest-sounding enough, and stupid-
sounding enough, and you don't overplay your hand, most
of the time they'll jump.
"There's not going to be any drinking, right?"
"Mom, it's a school night."
"And no boys."
"Mom, it's Jessie."
"How long is this going to take?" she called up.
"Mmmmm. Eleven o'clock?"
"Is Brad gonna drive you home?"
Brad was Jessie's stepfather. If he ever drove me home
alone at night, I'd blow him. "Said he would," I
called.
"All right. Eleven o'clock at the latest. Don't be
late. I'll meet you in the car."
I closed the door without replying because no reply was
expected of me. She knew that something was up, but
something was always up with a teenager. At least she'd
know where I was.
Did I worry about her calling to check me up? Of course
I did, but that wouldn't stop me.
I had six cocks to suck.
***
In front of Jessie's house I kissed Mom on the cheek
and told her goodbye.
"Not later than eleven o'clock," she reminded me.
"I'll be there. Aren't I always there?" I asked
sweetly.
She pursed her mouth but her eyes were laughing. "Tell
Jessie I said hello," she said, and then drove away.
I walked halfway up the walk, and then walked down it
again, hoping Mr. or Mrs. Culhane wouldn't look out and
see me and wonder what was going on. I took off at a
brisk walk toward the corner. As I went I flipped open
my cell phone and thumbed in Mike's number. It rang one
time.
"Hello?" There was music in the background, but not
playing too loudly.
"You still want me to come over?" I asked.
"Where are you?"
I told him where I was.
"You on foot?" he asked.
"My mom just dropped me off."
"I'll be right there. Just keep walking."
I did keep walking and every step my heart beat
quicker. Five guys, I thought, six, including Mike.
Already my saliva was running.
I had no idea how the number six had come up: Mike had
never said how many, I was sure of that. But six was a
nice round number and exactly twice my number of holes.
I had never been plugged in all my holes before; the
idea made me shivery and hot.
My stride quickened and I clutched the strap of my
backpack with both hands, to keep my hands from
shaking. Maybe they were shaking from fear, I was
certainly feeling that. I wondered if tonight wasn't
some poisoned black cake under a layer of thin, but
delicious-looking white icing. Were any of the guys
black? I wondered.
MIke passed going in the opposite direction, only
glancing at me, not waving, not smiling. This made my
shivery feeling worse. Treat a girl like shit and
she'll only get hotter. Treat her badly enough and
she'll buckle the collar around her own neck.
I waited with my thighs squeezed together like I had to
pee, lower lip between my teeth, almost squirming until
the car pulled up alongside me, rumbling. He pushed
open the door.
"Hi," I said excitedly.
"Get in," he said, with all the animation of a doctor
meeting a patient.
I scooted onto the seat and shut the door. I started to
kiss him, stopped when he looked back over his shoulder
at the traffic. A lit cigarette was in his right hand.
"I have to be home at eleven," I said hesitantly.
"You will be."
The Camaro roared up to forty miles an hour and then
just rumbled along in forth gear. I was glad the top
was up. It was a cool night and the wind could ruin my
hair.
He took his hand off the shifter and put it on the
steering wheel, idly flicking the filter of the
cigarette with his thumbnail. I glanced down and felt a
hotness creep into my cheeks. It was the same kind of
shifter as in Jimmy Augustine's car, a large steel ball
indented on the front side with finger slots so that
you could grip it. It had felt incredible inside me as
Jimmy wound along the windy, spooky White Ground Road
in Poolesville in his souped up Mitsubishi Eclipse. And
he had been right: the vibrations made me orgasm just
sitting there.
I pulled the seat belt across me to buckle it up.
"Should I change?" I asked. "My stuff is in the bag."
"What did you bring?" he asked, and I told him. "Sweet.
Put it on."
Not bothering to scrunch down in the seat, I stripped
off my top, unhooked my bra and slid out of my jeans
and panties. I sat there in only my socks and carefully
unpacked my good clothes while Mike glanced over at me
occasionally.
"Tight little body," he remarked.
"Thanks." Slipping into my black panties, I asked: "How
many guys are going to be there, Mike?"
He flicked ash out the window. "Five. Six, including
me."
I was right, I thought, all aquiver. Six guys fucking
me in shifts. I almost started to giggle.
Slipping my arms through the bra straps, I slid it into
place and then hesitated. "Should I wear this?" I
asked. "Or...?"
"Wear everything," he said, which made me giddier than
if he'd said go braless. I finished snapping up and
then adjusted it before putting on my thigh highs.
"How old are you, really?" he asked unexpectedly.
"Eighteen," I said slowly. "I know you think I'm
younger, but--"
"And you been doing this... how long?"
I sat there in my lacy underwear, feeling rather
ashamed. "Two years," I said softly.
"The sex?" he asked, blowing smoke out the window.
"I live for the sex," I told him honestly. "The harder
it is, the better. You should know that, you've fucked
me twice."
I had expected a reaction, but I didn't get any. He
simply blew smoke out the window and nodded his head.
His thumbnail flicked the end of the cigarette. After a
while, during which time I just sat there holding my
dress in my hands, he said: "You are a good fuck, I'll
give you that. I suspect you only got that way from
lots and lots of practice though. So you must really
love the sex."
"Thanks," I mumbled, slipping into my dress. Being told
that should have sent my enthusiasm soaring. Instead,
it made my eyes burn and I had to fight not to sniffle.
What the hell was I doing here?
He turned into an apartment complex that I had been to
once or twice before, for a party. He backed into a
spot, right in front of a sign saying no back-in
parking, and turned off the engine. I released my seat
belt and put on my heels. He surprised me by coming
around and opening the door for me.
"After you," he said.
"Why, thank you," I said, all ladylike. I held out my
arm and giggled when he took it. Then he smacked me
sharply on the ass--"Ouch!"--and walked me toward the
front steps of the building at a leisurely pace,
fortunately, for my five-inch heels.
"I know people who live here," I said, wondering which
buildings I had been in.
"Is that right?" he said.
The building and the address over the entrance looked
familiar. "I think on the second floor of this
building," I said.
"We're going to the third," he replied.
I remembered then. It was a Friday night back in
October or maybe early November, around the time of...
no, it was a Halloween party and Jimmy Augustine had
brought me there. In fact, it was the same night of my
shifter-knob ride. I wondered, with something of a
guilty start, if Jimmy was waiting for me upstairs.
If only he were.
We walked up the three flights of stairs in silence--
except the click-click-click of my high heels--and by
the time we reached the third-floor landing, I was out
of breath. Mike looked like he'd just gotten out of a
chair. A secret little voice inside me whispered that
I'd be huffing and puffing a lot harder in just a
little while, and that shivery feeling came back.
Mike tapped twice on the door and it opened at once, as
though whoever was waiting was alerted by the click-
click-click of my heels. The guy was Mike's age, maybe
a little older, with shaggy blonde hair and a crooked
nose. Owen Wilson, I immediately thought, only cuter.
"This our little prize?" he asked, sending a zing of
excitement up my spine. Excitement, and a small,
undirected dose of fear.
"This is her," Mike confirmed, directing me inside by
the elbow. "Make her feel at home."
"What?" I turned back, startled as he turned away.
"You're not staying?" Fear replaced every bit of
excitement now. "Mike--"
"I'll be back for her at ten o'clock," he said, cutting
me off. "Make sure she's ready."
"Aye, Aye skipper," Owen said and closed the door.
I began to panic. "Mike, wait!" I cried out, but Owen
propelled me by my elbow down the short foyer and into
the living room.
"No, wait! I don't want to do this!" I pleaded.
"Tough," he said, not especially concerned by what I
did or didn't want.
Five guys were scattered around the living room, either
sitting down or standing in front of a piece of
furniture in anticipation. "Wow," said one of the
standers, "She really is a fox." He was older than my
father and mostly bald, a championship-sized beer gut
hanging over his belt. His face was flushed an ugly,
dangerous red. His eyes were two black coals, punched
into his face.
"Dinner," Owen Wilson said, propelling me into the
middle of them.
I stumbled in my heels and a twenty-something guy with
a blackened right eye and bad abrasion on his left
cheek caught my arm and yanked me to him.
"Welcome to the party, Sugar."
"No!" I cried. "Let go of me!" I yanked my arm but it
was like trying to yank free of a steel clamp. I tried
to pry his fingers back with my free hand and that only
made him laugh.
"Relax," he said. "You ain't going nowhere,
Sweetheart."
I began to scream and that's when something was stuck
in my face. It sprayed me with something wet and then
everything went blank until I woke up again, face down
on a bed, hands and feet handcuffed to the corners.
I was naked and gagged. It was my own panties stuffed
in my mouth: I knew that instinctively. My ass was
trust into the air on a wide round cushion that I had
seen on the living room couch. I wasn't blindfolded and
that scared me more than being handcuffed.
"Mnnnnnn!" I shrieked into my panties.
"Relax, little girl," said a voice I didn't recognize.
"Fighting only makes it worse." He, or someone else put
a hand on my right thigh and patted me in a way that
made me scream again.
The hand smacked down hard on my rear end. "What did I
just tell you?"
I screamed again and this time the hand took a hunk of
my butt-cheek and pinched it savagely.
"Nooooo!" I cried out miserably. "Stop! Please stop
it." The words were unintelligible, but he got the
message.
"Stop, and I'll stop," he said. "Good girl's get along
better."
I nodded my head, weeping uncontrollably now. They
would rape me and kill me, I knew that absolutely, just
like that little fourteen year old in North Carolina
knew she was going to die. But she had gotten away.
Might I?
Another voice, barely less menacing than the first,
said, "You're scaring the shit out of the kid. Give it
a rest, will ya."
"'the fuck I care?" the first voice shot back. "She's
gone in the morning and then it's on to the next one."
Gone in the morning? Ten in the morning? Had that been
what Mike meant? If I was being kidnapped, then there
was maybe hope.
Be cool, Maggie, I thought. Do what they want. Get out
of this alive.
The second voice said to the first, "Get out of here,
Brad. Out front with the others."
There was an extended silence during which I knew the
two men were glaring at each other, then the first man
cursed loudly and stomped out of the room. I felt no
safer with the second man. And what had the first one
meant? "and then it's on to the next one."
Voice Number Two partially answered the question.
"There's a guy on the West Coast paid twenty-five grand
for you, Honey-pie. All we gotta do is keep you safe
and sound for twelve hours and Mike'll get you outta
here."
I made protesting noises and shook all four limbs.
"Forget it," he said. "You're not the first one's been
our guest of honor here. Those handcuffs are welded to
the bedposts and so far, no one's gotten outta one. The
more you struggle, the worse you'll hurt yourself. So
quit it."
He was telling the truth. All I was doing was tearing
up my wrists and ankles on the steel bracelets. But I
couldn't stop struggling.
He put a hand on the back of my neck and squeezed it
gently. "Lay still," he said.
His fingertips were on some kind of pressure points,
and he would knock me out if I didn't relax. I shoulda
let him knock me out. Somewhere along the line, my
bladder had let go and I'd peed the mattress. I felt
wetness under my knees.
"Better," he said, releasing me. "Now behave yourself."
I behaved. Let them rape me, I thought. I've been raped
before. I'd even taken it up the ass before. No matter
what they did to me, it wouldn't be more than an
extreme--maybe very extreme--version of sex I'd already
had.
He came around to where I could see his legs and
crotch. I shut my eyes. The only ones I could identify
for sure were Mike and the bald fat man and the one
with the black eye. Probably, this was the one who'd
sprayed me with the gas. If so, I didn't want to see
his face. The less I knew about these men, the better.
"The way this works," he informed me, as though telling
me where my next classroom was, "is whoever puts the
highest bid on you wins. We send you to that fellow,
who then bids you out to the next group of buyers,
usually from out of the country. We don't deal with
foreigners ourselves, only groups inside the states.
International trafficking is more money, yeah--your end
buyer'll pay a chunk of change for you, Honey-pie,
believe me--but it's not worth the risks. You get
nailed for that, and it's extradition anywhere outside
the United States. Even in Mexico. They put an
international warrant on you and then it's the Hague."
He said the name as if it were Auschwitz.
"Now us," he said, walking around the front of the bed-
-it sat away from the wall, so I couldn't bang
anything, "We take less risk for less money." He patted
my rear end affectionately. "But we get the right of
first refusal, if you get my drift."
In other words, the goods were not necessarily
delivered unspoiled.
He unbuckled his pants, unzipped his fly and joined me
on the bed.
"Honey," he said, patting my rear end again. "You
shoulda stayed out of the clubs."
THE END
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 47