Fringe Desires - Volume 1

Fabula Salaxacis

Published by ASSTR Edition

2010-12-18

Published by
www.asstr.org 3/12/2011 - updated 7/30/2012

Copyright ©2010 by Fabula Salaxacis

Cover Art: Fabula

All rights reserved. The text of this publication, or any part thereof, may not be
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher and author.

This work contains explcit descriptions of sexual acts. If you are offended by such, or are not an adult, do not read any further.

This is work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Table of Contents

Preface To Volume I

Two Worlds

Cheryse always forges ahead when frightened. It's an unusual response, but she is an unusual girl.

Beauty

She would do anything to protect her beauty, but she didn’t expect the fairy tale ending.

The Pleasure Principle

Learning to please one's self takes time.

Pedo Ming

Success in life is all about planning, but the best laid plans…

Nights Of Wonder

Jimmy doesn't like to think about the future, until he has a good reason to start.

Preface To Volume I

I became a writer in the pre-dawn of the Internet Age, after the personal computer but before the world-wide-web. At that time, there were no forums or blogs with which to communicate with like-minded people about a topic of interest, only Usenet. This precursor to today’s more intensely collaborative internet services allowed users to read and post messages (termed articles or posts) to one or more categories, known as newsgroups.

Unexpectedly, a sea of interest was generated by one of the newsgroup categories, which dealt with all things sexual. Sub-categories quickly evolved for gay, lesbian, bondage and every other interest no matter how peculiar or marginal. In 1992, an offshoot of one of those newsgroups was created by Tim Pierce called alt.sex.stories. Here, the long tradition of erotic storytelling shed the brown paper wrapper and was enveloped by a new electronic medium. This site, and its world wide web successor www.asstr.org, quickly became the world’s largest repository of erotic stories, written by those same users, and flourishes today.

Sadly, it was and is a repository of mostly badly written erotica. The appeal of the varied stories was not the quality of writing, however, but the often perverse themes and situations described. Every conceivable fantasy, fetish or kink is represented, each designed to arouse the reader to orgasm, or at least to more fantasy. The collection of stories to date is in the hundreds of thousands, so many in fact that the stories are coded to indicate the themes, such as: M/F for male/female, F/F for female/female, Mg for man/girl, bond for bondage, pedo for pedophilia, inc for incest, and the list goes on and on. The codes allow readers to quickly locate stories suited to their interests.

I have my own bent, a not uncommon one, and spent many an hour looking for stories suitable for my one-handed reading. Plowing through the poorly written, often barely intelligible stories to find ones worth the effort soon became too frustrating to bear. Thus, a writer was born.

It was an act of hubris for an actuary at a large insurance company to suddenly take up writing fiction with little in the way of relevant education or experience to draw upon. I didn’t think so at the time because I was sure I could do better than 99 percent of what I was reading. And I did, at least I always thought so.

There are no agents, publishers or discerning critics in this arena by which one can gauge success, only the very few readers who take the time to send you an email after reading one of your stories. Even though the praise was often brief (“More like this one, please.”) I felt I had an audience. Enough so that I kept producing stories and trying to improve my writing to get more responses.

Often reader responses were confessional. Something in the experience of reading an explicitly described sexual situation triggered recollections of their own experiences and the need to share them with someone, even if I was, or perhaps because I was, out in the electronic ether. I became a listener, in many instances the only person to have listened to their stories. I found many of their experiences mundane, some of them fascinating, and a few so fantastic as to be unbelievable. Not wanting to insult my readers with disbelief, I would gently question them on the details of their experience to see if I could detect an attempted spoof. This led to long email exchanges as I drew more detail and background out of them until we both had gotten what we needed: the readers to have unburdened themselves, and me a good idea for a story.

The feeling of delight I felt at seeing an email message with one of my stories in the subject line continues to make my heart bounce today. To date, I have published around 55 stories to www.asstr.org, and they continue to circulate through word of mouth and by links in various story collections. Naturally, I considered myself a success as a writer, albeit in this rather niche area, and decided I should grace the rest of the world with my writing gifts.

That’s how I met Janine. She had a Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Columbia and was teaching an evening writing class at the local university. The class was structured in a way that we critiqued each other’s work. I generally received positive comments from my classmates, and encouraging words from Janine on my final assignment. I was feeling good enough that I asked her out after the class was over, and we hit it off in most every area, save one.

Eventually, I worked up the nerve to tell her of my writing special interest and introduced her to the world of online erotica. She was aware of its presence, but was sure it was not worth her time. When I finally convinced her to read some of it she remained unimpressed. She had a special criticism of my work, as well, which was a crushing blow. To her credit, she read all of my work, looking for something positive, without success.

What she stumbled upon, and did find worth reading, were the confessionals, generally a long series of email or instant message exchanges detailing the implausible experiences of my readers. “This is what you should write,” she said. I told her that I stole ideas where I could, but she wanted me to tell their stories, the way they told them to me.

Eager for her approval, I dived into the task with a new excitement about the craft of writing. It quickly consumed me, then overwhelmed me, then frustrated me to the point of sleeplessness and debilitating anxiety. Imagining situations for my stories was always easy for me, and the paragraphs flowed as I tried to make each sexual encounter more interesting than the last. Now that I was trying to bring life to an actual experience, I felt stuck. It was my chance to be a real writer, and to win a proud smile from Janine, but I couldn’t generate more than a few lifeless words.

My unproductive preoccupation took a toll on our relationship, and we parted after two years. I found I was greatly relieved I no longer had to live up to her expectations of me. With that ending, I ended my grand attempt at being a real writer, too. I went back to writing erotica and the previous satisfactions followed, which sufficed, until... Jimmy.

Jimmy’s story started liked most of the confessionals I had heard, an encounter more wished for than likely, but he had a voice. Endowed with a rough, crude narrative style and a flair for describing sexual detail in an unusual and often comical manner, he made me want to capture the story in the spirit in which it unfolded.

I have an iron-clad rule about my confessors, I will exchange electronic text with them only. I have had many offers to talk on the phone or to meet, which I have always declined. Jimmy was the exception. I felt I had to hear what he sounded like, and the hour I spent on the phone with him was one of the most memorable conversations I have ever had.

Inspired by Jimmy, I renewed my effort at telling someone else’s story. The result is a collection of my reader’s experiences which are variously, shockingly explicit, politically incorrect, and utterly fantastic. And, of course, reside on the fringes of the sexual continuum.

I have done my best to remain true to the narrative voice in which they were told to me. To be sure, I have taken license with the details. In most instances, I have relocated the stories to settings with which I was familiar. Some occurred in other countries, and some, because they made the news, would identify participants if aspects of the story were not changed. However, the essence of each story is just as my readers presented it to me. I believe them each to be true.

Mark Twain held that “Truth is stranger than fiction… .” These five stories are compelling evidence.

Story  TOC ·  Two ·  Beauty ·  Pleasure ·  Pedo ·  Nights 

Two Worlds (Mf)

There are two worlds; the one you eat breakfast in, and the second one, created when you are alone, and sleep won’t come, and you let go. You have to let go of the breakfast world completely, to get into the other one. The second world has no use for breakfast.

But, the second world is hungry. Even a little food makes your second world want more and, if you’re not careful, it becomes very powerful. It was so powerful it swallowed my locker mate Sharon Lumkin. I didn’t know other people had second worlds too, so I didn’t recognize Sharon’s when it spoke with me. That’s what Doctor taught me. Everyone is a world builder.

But back then, my second world made me nuts. I spent so much time thinking about why my second world was so strange and compelling that sometimes the first world faded into the background, like television news at the airport. As my worlds fought for prominence, my family screamed for explanations across the breakfast table.

“Cheryse honey, you forgot to feed Boinker again. Where is your head these days?”

“You always got A’s before, how could you be failing geometry?”

“You’re seriously whacked, Sis.”

Even my friends gossiped about me in the cafeteria. “She’s so stuck up these days, I’ll bet she can’t see herself pee.”

When I looked in the mirror the same red-haired, trim girl I was when I started high school the year before looked back, but I was different somehow. The only visible evidence of change was that my blue eyes seemed darker, as if there was someone else behind them casting a shadow.

Mom assumed it was boys, which made her even more persistent in her warnings. She reminded me that I was too young, and I could end up pregnant or with AIDS. She made sex sound so dire, so life and death, so, well… powerful. When a boy asked me to a dance, it scared me so I started to tremble and shake. I said yes, of course, because my fear often pushes me forward, like someone who strikes out when startled. I met him at the dance so I wouldn’t have to tell mom. He turned out to be kind of a dork and nothing very interesting happened, except that world number two got very hungry after he pushed and pulled me around the floor during a slow dance. That’s when I was re-assigned to less consequential household chores. Mom said our poor dog Boinker was loosing weight.

My parent’s solution was to send me to a psychiatrist. I certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone about world number two, especially the nosey doctor, and I successfully evaded the core of my preoccupation until even he said, “If you don’t have anything you want to talk about, why bother coming?” Doctor could be very rude when he didn’t hear interesting stuff. I took the hint, though, and told Mom Doctor cured me and that I didn’t need any more talk sessions.

Until one morning a few weeks later when I saw Sharon Lumkin stand up on the cafeteria table in front of the entire school and quietly take her clothes off while America The Beautiful blared through the speakers. Sharon told me a week before that she often felt like taking her clothes off and dancing to patriotic songs, but she often said odd things. Her second world had beat her breakfast world into submission and she ended up in the hospital. It felt like we had both been shoplifting but she was the one who got caught. I decided I should find out how to get rid of my number-two world, before I became Sharon’s bunkmate.

***

Doctor’s office was unlike a regular doctor’s office. I sat on comfy furniture and in shadowy light and it was dullish quiet. He sat across from me, old, older than my dad, wore a plain suit, and was stiff in movement and voice. Thin gray hair stuck out of his head in electric unmanageability, and his skin looked covered in fake suntan oil, only more yellow than orange. Little, tiny hands rested in his lap the whole session, and he didn't smile much. Little hands was the only common thing between us.

Drawings and prints of beautiful birds hung neatly on the walls, remarkably colored and unusual birds, perched and nesting and in flight. It seemed corny, as if he thought the birds would encourage his patients to fly from the gravity of their problems. There was a new one since my last visit, though, very unlike the others. It was a large drawing in the style of a batik print he said was made by an Aborigine. Several birds looking as if they had been dropped to the ground emerged from the busy, black and white of the work. Their wings were broken and their eyes were crossed out, so unlike the other, full of life, birds. It hung over his shoulders and seemed to hold him there.

I thought he had hung it there for me, and I trembled that he might know about my other world, so I blurted it out. “I think about weird things.”

“Most people do, would you like to tell me about it?”

“Most people don’t think like I do.”

“If you tell me what you think, then I may be able to tell you how unusual it is.”

“I’ve never heard anyone else talk about it.”

“All people have things they think about. Often they seem unusual, so they don’t say anything, even to their closest friends. But, people are essentially the same, and I am confident there are others who have had the same thoughts.”

“Really?”

“I’m quite sure,” he said.

How could he be so confident? He wouldn’t be if he knew what I was thinking. “It’s about death. That’s weird isn’t it?”

“What about death?”

“I wonder what it’s like, to be dead, and–”

“And what?”

“It’s too weird.”

“So when you allow yourself to think about death, you get uncomfortable, and try to push it away?”

Doctor never said what he was thinking. My words bounced off him and came back reformed without penetrating his mystery. “Yeah, it just seems so creepy. I don’t want to think about it.”

“How does creepy feel?”

I shrugged my shoulders, shuddered and scrunched up my face to let him see the creepy feeling, but he saw something else.

“Are you uncomfortable because the creepy thoughts bring you pleasure?”

“No. Creepy means bad.”

“Then why do you smile?”

He was so watchful. How did he see the littlest turn of my lips? “Well, I mean, sometimes, it is interesting.”

“Your creepy thoughts?”

“Yes.”

“So sometimes the creepy thoughts are like a fantasy that you think about when you want to feel good?”

“Yes.” Immediately, I wanted to retract my admission. “But sometimes I hate it.”

“You hate yourself for having fantasies you don’t think you should have.”

“Yes.” He was completely different from me. How did he understand?

“Yet when you let yourself, the fantasies bring you pleasure.”

I looked away from him toward the birds, embarrassed. “Yes.”

“How often do you have these fantasies?”

Every night I dropped into world number two. “It used to be once in a while, but now a lot.”

“And you think it means something about you that you have these fantasies frequently?”

“Yes, it means if I don’t stop I’m going to end up in the hospital.”

“Perhaps it just means you’re uncomfortable with your fantasies.”

“But my fantasies are creepy.”

“They’re just fantasies. Why can’t your fantasies be creepy if that pleases you?”

“I’m too young to think like this.”

“That sounds like something your mother would say.”

“My mother says I am too young to think about boys and sex.”

“Most parents don’t like to think of their children as having even normal sexual desires, and unusual ones might make them very nervous.”

What did he mean unusual? I didn't say anything about unusual sex. I had no idea how we ended up on this topic. It was as if he was talking to someone else, as if he was talking to the shadow person behind my eyes. I figured he thought I was gay. Gay would have been easy compared to my world. “I could never tell my parents.”

“You don’t have too.”

“You would never tell them, would you?”

“No, everything you say here is confidential, unless I think you are putting yourself in danger. Then I am obligated to protect you in whatever way I can.”

“Will they ever go away?”

“Fantasies are attractive because they stimulate us. They usually grow and change over the years. Sometimes they disappear when the need no longer exists. Usually, we replace them with others.”

No longer stiff, he spilled these words in soft, inviting tones that made me want to accept the truth of them, as if they were ancient truths. My fantasies were expanding, though, and world number two was getting stronger. “I want mine to go away.”

“That probably won’t happen. It would make more sense to try to understand them, where they came from, and to accept them for what they are; fantasies.”

“I don’t know where they come from.”

“Where do you think we should look?”

I had no idea. I sank into his cushiony chair and looked at the birds, but not the ones behind him. I wanted to leave all the talking and churning I felt in the little room and be one of the birds that hung still on the wall. One was of two huddled baby birds alone in the nest. Then the images from long ago fell, like snowflakes, into my head. “My brother Andrew liked to play shoot’em games. I always wanted to be the one to get shot.”

“What did you like about it?”

“I liked to fall dead in a very dramatic way, and then make him try to save me.”

“Save you how?”

“I made him do CPR, and mouth to mouth, which he usually refused, and to take me to the hospital and operate on me. Every time I saw something on television I would make him try it, like sticking tubes in me or putting me in traction.”

“Your brother liked the game too?”

“No, he just wanted to be the hero and shoot the bad guys. He said it was too much trouble to try to save me all the time, especially since it never worked.”

“What do you mean?”

“I always died, no matter what he did, I died.”

“Why did you want him to save you, then?”

I did not know the answer so I sat confused. I closed my eyes, and I could feel myself lying on the ground and someone holding my arm straight in the air and I heard Andrew’s pretend doctor voice. I wanted him to raise the other arm. “I liked the effort, all the pushing and shoving and dragging me around. It felt good.”

“It felt good to pretend you were dead and have him manipulate your body?”

Doctor could see my second world! “Yes,” I whispered.

“What about it felt good?”

“He touched me. Not like I was alive, as if I were dead.”

“Not caressing, but handling your body.”

“Yes.” Another whisper.

“And your fantasies are like this?”

“Yes.”

“So you often have fantasies about being dead and having your body manipulated, and you think this is unusual, and you’re uncomfortable about it?”

Doctor had a way of making my creepiness sound so normal. It reminded me of how Dad responds to mom when she hears a noise in the car she doesn't understand. The wheels are not falling off, dear, the brakes just squeak because there is dust in them. “Yes.”

“Tell me more,” he says, smoothing his hair with his tiny hand.

“I can’t.”

“You’re feeling the need to censor your thoughts now?”

“I don’t want you to think I’m–.”

“You’re afraid I will think you’re a crazy person, and condemn your for having fantasies about having your dead body manipulated?”

“Normal people don’t think like that.”

“How do you know?”

“Do you think like that?”

“I have fantasies, not that particular one, but there are others who share your fantasy.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Then I’m not crazy?”

“Everyone has fantasies. Having fantasies does not make you crazy. If you act on some fantasies that might indicate you’re crazy, but yours don’t sound like that.”

We were so close. “I haven’t told you everything.”

“Are you ready to tell me everything?”

I needed to fill my lungs to keep me steady. “In my fantasy, when I’m dead, I want him to do things to me.”

He sat very still, like one of his birds. I didn’t think I could say it. I didn’t want to be crazy and have to bunk with Sharon, but I needed to say it. It was too hard being the only one who knew.

“I want him to have sex with me.”

“You like to pretend you’re dead and that someone has sex with your dead body?”

I nodded because my eyes and lips were closed tight, in case he hit me with the news that I was crazy.

“And this gives you pleasure?”

I continued nodding.

“And you masturbate while having this fantasy?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” There were tears. Saying it aloud left me ashamed of the nasty, dead girl in world number two. My mom was right. I was too young to think about sex and this was worse than just sex, it was creepy sex. He handed me a box of tissues. A while later I sniffed it up.

When I was ready, he said, “It’s just a fantasy. Why not enjoy it?”

“How can you say that? You must be crazy to tell me to enjoy it.”

“You can’t accept your fantasy, and you don’t want me to be accepting of it either.”

“I just want to be normal.”

“You just don’t want to be the only one with your fantasy.”

I didn’t. I would have given anything to talk to someone with the same fantasy. “Nobody else thinks this way.”

“Your fantasy is unusual, not unheard-of, but unusual enough that you may not find someone with the same fantasy at your school, or maybe for a long time.”

“Duh! You mean there isn’t a dead girl’s anonymous I can go to?”

He looked up at the birds for a moment and then he said, “There is an alternative.” Doctor leaned forward shedding his still life pose and revealing interest in his eyes. The life in him surprised me. “Find someone who likes you enough to play out the fantasy, as you did with your brother. Then you can talk about it together.”

“Yeah, like that’ll happen. Nobody wants to play those kind of games anymore.”

“You might be surprised. I think the best way is to take the risk and tell someone about your fantasy and see whether they would like to participate in it with you.”

“I’ve never even had sex.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No. My parents would never let me, not until I am sixteen.”

“Why not just enjoy your fantasies until you have someone you would like to share it with.”

“They would think I’m crazy. How would I get someone to participate?”

“Well, there are rules for acting out fantasies. Whatever you do with someone must be safe, sane and consensual. After telling them what you like, and they agree, find a safe word that when said means stop everything. This allows you to experiment with each other safely.”

“People do that?”

“Yes, people who have fantasies sometimes like to act out them out, with people they trust, so that it remains safe and fun.”

It never occurred to me that the two worlds could merge in some useful way. That seemed a very dangerous notion. Wouldn’t a loose world number two take over and leave me lying dead with an audience in the cafeteria? “And they’re not crazy?”

“Hardly ever.”

“Wouldn’t the other person have to like my fantasy?”

“They might not like the same thing, but be willing to help you with yours, so you will help them with theirs.”

“Oh. A trade”

“People who like and trust each other often trade fantasies.”

“Would you play with someone who wanted to be dead?”

He looked surprised by my question, and he jerked his elbows around and his hands bounced in the air. After the frantic motion his hands fell to his lap and he sat back again. “Yes, if I liked and trusted them.”

I immediately thought of Andrew. He hadn’t liked that game for a long time, and he had gotten so macho since then. I wondered what his second world was like? Did he still like to kill the bad guys, or girls? Anyway, he was out of the question, and there wasn’t anyone else I dared tell. They would have blabbed it all over school, the same way they did Sharon’s other world. “What are your fantasies?” I asked.

“As I said, mine are not the same as yours.”

He suddenly looked tired, as if he were ready to fall asleep. What was in his other world? It seemed unfair that I had to be the only one with sick fantasies.

“I want to know whether yours are as creepy as mine.”

“They’re just fantasies, creepy or mundane, it doesn’t matter.”

“If it doesn’t matter, why don’t you tell me?”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“You don’t trust me.”

“That’s not the issue.”

“Yes it is, if you trusted me you would tell me.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why are you shaking?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well.”

I knew that look. It was the same look Sharon had at her locker confession. His second world was getting the best of him. “You’re afraid of your fantasies too. That’s why you’re shaking, isn’t it?”

“No, I’m just not feeling well.”

I yelled the way my parents yelled at me, “Tell me your fantasy,” so loud I surprised myself.

He shrank. I thought he would disappear into the fold of his padded chair as his head dropped to his chest.

I regretted my yelling because he continued to cower like Boinker when I whacked him for no reason. “I need to know,” I pleaded.

He looked at his carefully folded hands and said, “Beautiful young girls who need help with their fantasies.”

That was not what I expected. I don’t know what I expected. “Wow.”

My breathy reaction drained his confidence and he looked ashamed. I couldn’t help continuing, “That’s scary.”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Yes. I could get arrested if I helped you with your fantasy.”

There was a threat and an idea in there that had never occurred to me before. “Wow.”

He cringed in his chair looking very frail. Now he nodded silently, waiting for condemnation to hit him.

“Why would you, I mean, risk it?”

“Fantasies are very powerful, as you know.”

I could see that in a different way than before. Fantasies make you feel good, then bad about feeling good, but so good. “So you would play dead girl with me?”

He grimaced, then, “Yes.” Now his voice was a whisper.

“What if I didn’t want sex, I just wanted to play dead?”

“I would respect your wishes. You would be in control.”

“And I could tell you what I wanted, and you would do it?”

“Yes.”

“What would I have to do for you?”

“Nothing. Just pleasing you is my fantasy.”

“You don’t have some kinky thing you want me to do?”

“No, helping you with yours would be exciting enough.”

“Would you– you know, play with yourself?”

“Not unless you wanted me too.”

“No. I think that would be gross.”

“I would only do what you want.”

“How do I know you won’t rape me.”

“You have to trust that I will respect your wishes.”

How could I trust him with my other world? “I would be too nervous.”

“I would be nervous, too.”

“I might change my mind.”

“That would be fine. You would be in control.”

“Why is my playing dead exciting for you?”

Doctor seemed to have grown again and said, “I imagine watching you lying naked on the floor, cold and lifeless. Your still beauty excites me.”

Of course, he wanted to see me naked, and screw me. I could understand that, but not the cold, lifeless, still beauty part. “You’re creepier than I am.”

“Someone else’s fantasies are always creepier than our own.”

“You want to fuck a dead girl. That’s very creepy.”

“You want to be a dead girl who gets fucked.”

“That’s entirely different. I don’t want to mess with a dead body.” I fiddled with the cuffs of my shirt and tried to shake off the disturbing image of me touching a body. “Besides, it’s just a fantasy.”

“Yes, they’re both just fantasies,” he said.

It was amazing to me that a single conversation could clarify my jumble, and point directly to the next logical step. But would I be feeding world number two and making it hungrier and bigger, so mighty it consumed me? In a way, I wanted world number two to win. I was more alive when I was dead in number two. Move over Sharon. “How would we arrange it?”

***

A week later I went to Doctor’s house. The big, white, single story with lots of bright flowers in front and an old willow tree drooping over the front door could have been one of my friend's. Birdfeeders hung in several places and feathers rustled at their base making them swing. It was a very normal home for a man with creepy fantasies.

Greeting me at the door he appeared smaller than at the office, birdlike with his feathery hair and thin arms and legs not enlarged by a suit. His casual demeanor was unfamiliar to me. I felt as though I had just met a new schoolmate who I didn’t have anything in common with who wanted to play monopoly, but with real money. We each made awkward efforts at conversation, and I considered going home, but I usually push forward when I am afraid. Isn’t that funny?

“How do we start?” I asked.

“Lets agree on a safe word. Since you’re dead and won’t be talking much, almost any word will do, so how about resurrection?”

“OK, if I want to stop I say resurrection.”

“How do you want to die?”

“Shoot me.”

“And then what do I do?”

“Then you must be very sorry and try to save me.”

“And try various procedures to bring you back to life?”

“Yes, try everything.”

“And when you’re still dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“All right, I will suggest things and if you like my suggestions, make your fingers twitch. Sometimes dead people twitch.”

A death twitch, how fabulously grotesque. “OK.”

“If you want to stop, just say resurrection, or sit up.”

“I don’t want to have sex.”

“All right, we won’t have sex. Are you sure you want to begin?”

“Yes, shoot me.”

He shot me twice that day. The first time I laughed uncontrollably as he desperately tried to save me. When he gave me mouth-to-mouth on the couch, I started giggling, and then everything he did tickled. We stopped when he tried to ‘examine the body’ because I fell on the floor with laughter. It was awkward, and I felt so stupid, as though I was playing with Andrew again, but a game I was too old to play. Doctor said it might take a while to learn to trust each other and to become comfortable with our roles.

The second time was better because he was so remorseful. After he shot me I fell to the floor and kept still with my eyes closed. He gave me mouth-to-mouth and I thought he would stick his tongue in, but he didn’t. He did chest compressions without grabbing my breasts either, even Andrew had felt my breasts. He used procedures I had never heard of, I guess because he was a real doctor, and lots of them. It was great because he handled me very professionally and worked hard like the yummy docs on television. Doctor talked constantly too, telling me what he was thinking while working on me. In my fantasies, the man was always quiet, but I liked when Doctor told me he had to save me because I was so beautiful.

When he realized he couldn’t save me he carried me to another room he called the morgue and placed me on a table. It was soft, so it must have been a massage table, but I imagined it a real morgue; white and cool like on television. It was better that I had never seen what the room really looked like before.

I heard sobs. I didn’t think he was actually crying, but he took my finger and wiped tears from under his eye and placed the liquid on my lips. It was soothing, the moisture cooling my lips and leaving the hint of salt as it trickled onto my tongue. The vividness of the sensation stunned me. I didn’t lick because dead people don’t lick and licking would destroy the morbidity. I discovered if I were totally inert and kept my eyes closed, then the other sensations became incredibly strong. I wanted to be inanimate after that, to feel everything he did to me with the same intensity of the trickling tears.

Doctor cried some more, and I felt his tears drip on my arm as he leaned over me. I didn’t understand how he could make himself cry. His other world must be powerful too. He wiped his tears and kissed me goodbye, on the forehead. I was glad the creepy doctor cared for me in death.

He continued about how much he loved me, how sorry he was for killing me but how he would take good care of my dead body to make up for it. I couldn’t tell where my second world ended and his began. Doctor said he should prepare the body. I didn’t know what that meant, but I liked everything up to that point, so I twitched.

He began exercising my arms, and legs saying he didn’t want rigor mortis to set in. He stretched me everywhere, as a trainer would an athlete. I loved that. He turned me over massaging and kneading me so I didn’t get too uncomfortable in one position. It was terrific, because I was so dead and yet alive with the feel of him working me.

Then he said he should wash the body with a warm washcloth. I twitched.

“I’ll have to remove her clothes, wash her thoroughly, and dress her again,” he said.

My muscles went suddenly stiff, a rigor mortis of fear. I was afraid to twitch because I didn't want him to see me naked, but I wanted to feel the new sensation of the warm washcloth. My hand twitched for me. I told myself to sit up and yell ‘resurrection’ when I realized what had happened, but I was so content being dead that I could not activate my muscles. I am glad I didn’t. It was delicious.

He removed everything with constant bending of my arms and legs and turning me on my side and stomach. The washcloth was ragged and warm, and my skin grew colder after each stroke until I could feel the stiff hairs on my goose bumps. I wanted to open my eyes and see them, but the dead don’t peek. He washed every little part of me, talking a long time.

“So pale, so cool, so quiescent,” he said. “I want to kiss you everywhere.”

I didn’t twitch because I wanted to enjoy the coolness. Nothing leaves you feeling dead like being cold. I think I was as cold as I have ever been in my life, not just skin cold but emotion cold, as though my soul were slipping away. I imagined looking back on my spiritless body and saying goodbye as I rose to the ceiling. I was very pretty in my white, naked, goose-bumped death with wisps of red hair adorning my face. I was on the verge of shivering when he began putting on my clothes.

It was as if he were bringing me back to life by dressing me. My skin warmed in his hands, and I felt like a mannequin in a department store being readied for display. I was sad to release death but glad because I had been still for so long. Being dead is exhausting. He placed a plastic flower between my breasts and covered me with a sheet and said, “I will love you forever.” Corny, but a nice finish.

“That was amazing,” I said, and I wanted to give him a big hug, but I held back. He seemed so frail I might break him.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Why did you cry?”

“I was sad to see such youth and beauty lost.”

“Tell me more.”

“I’ve known people who have died; your death reminded me of them.”

“Were they girls like me?”

“No, but people I cared about. My sister died in her thirties. I remember seeing her in the coffin, and her funeral.”

“Did you want to have sex with her after she died?”

“No.”

“You think I’m creepy, don’t you?”

“No, I am glad you told me your secret.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I like you. You’re very interesting to talk to.

“You like me better dead, I think. Why?”

A rare smile appeared. “Most people don’t want to have anything to do with death. You’re different, and of course, you’re very attractive."

“But you’re not attractive to me when I’m alive.”

“What about when you’re dead?”

“I don’t use my eyes when I’m dead. I use everything else, but not my eyes. I can only feel you or hear you when I’m dead.”

“And how do I feel and sound.”

“I love you when I’m dead.”

“I am very happy to be your dead love.”

I was famished, and we talked more over the lunch he made in the kitchen. I ate my sandwich and most of his and I learned a little more about his other world. He enjoyed the manipulation, too. I was like a doll he could put in any position at all, he said, and he could stare at every part of me as long as he wanted. He said all men love to stare at teen-aged girls, because they are full of life, and their sexuality oozes like juice from a pie in the oven. He was just as creepy as I, only different.

I told him I was afraid he would rape me. I mean, men can't control themselves, right? He said it was important to him that I remain in control, or he might feel even more guilty for taking advantage of me. I guess he was taking advantage of me. He was just what my parents always warned me about; someone you know betraying a trust. But I was just beginning to understand world number two and I decided I trusted him with it. Even though it was scary, I could feel the strength of world number two, the strength of embracing desire, and when I thought of him washing me with the ragged cloth my body tingled. When in doubt, I forge ahead.

“What would it be like if we had sex?” I asked.

He shrank from me and the table, struggling for words. “If we had intercourse, while you were dead, I would try to please you.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me?”

He looked hurt, “No. We would play like before. We could pretend it is a procedure.”

“Would I still be able to say ‘resurrection’?”

“Yes, whenever you want.”

“I don’t want to get any diseases.”

“I don’t have any, but I would use a condom anyway.”

“I can’t see when I’m dead, how would I be sure?”

“I will put the condom on and wrap your hand around it so you are sure.”

***

Two weeks later Doctor shot me a third time. I had decided I would never see Doctor again, that he was making me worse, not better. It wasn’t like I thought about my creepiness less, only now I had the shame of having done something about it. I considered telling a counselor at school to rid myself of the shame forever, but I worried about having to explain why I agreed to people who would think I was creepy. I stared at each of my classmates for any second worlds lurking, any potential traders, but they all hid their second worlds so well, it felt like a desert. Doctor was the only one who understood.

I was very excited when I got there, not nervous like before. I had a hard time being still and trembled a little. He didn’t cry this time, but he talked to me continuously, about how much he cared for me, worshipped me even. Doctor didn’t try as hard to save me, but he had some nifty new procedures including ‘cracking my chest’ for open-heart surgery and sewing me back up again. All his medical talk gave me a new appreciation for the victim on medical shows on television. I always identify with the person on the gurney now. World number two shows itself in the breakfast world now and then.

Brave doctor that he was, he lost me, again. I was ready with a twitch when he said he should prepare the body. He removed my clothes, and washed me with the tea warm water and dried every inch of me. In his hands, the towel brushed and cooled me over and over. I sank further into my cool death with each flick of his wrist.

He had been all doctor so far with no hint of sexuality, and I was waiting for him to make a move. The prospect of new manipulations electrified me. He brushed his pursed lips along my body blowing softly, pushing astray the fine hairs and lifting my soul upward with his breath. I watched him from above, touching, nibbling, kissing my dead skin. When he dragged his tongue across my stomach and thighs and began muttering ‘I love the taste of death’ I went over the edge, dying in yet another way. I thought he would make a meal of me. It was the most exquisite feeling to be worshipped and hungered for in death. I twitched for more.

He went after the pleasure places then, very softly at first, then more pressure, then retreat, then more. He positioned me for accessibility, for easy entrance by his tongue, and everything else, rotating and folding me like an object on an assembly line. From my vantage point above I watched a man use my torpid flesh for his raw need, desecrate me repeatedly, and defile me in the coarsest way. My body quivered with pleasure, jerking as in the throws of death, each release a new and deeper end to life. Would my climaxes bring a life affirming sound? I could never suppress my gravelly utterances in my private fantasies. No, the dead don’t scream, even in ecstasy, so the shuddering delight silently permeated the meat down to the bone.

I fell into an exhausted sleep while he was cleaning and dressing me. I awoke to sonorous funeral music with my clothes on and the sheet over my head. Arising from the table, I plopped myself in his lap and he held me; his tears drip dripping again.

As I cuddled, the dichotomies so troubling in my life before; taboo and letting go, youth and old age, innocence and gratification, death and life, no longer seemed so discrete. I could feel my two worlds stop trying to dominate and fall into a stable orbit around each other, separate and together. Both sated.

***

I never died for him again. Doctor died three weeks later from cancer, and now I know why he cried. He saw his coming death in my expired body, and he inseminated me with his tears to preserve a future for himself. His second world was preparing him for a third.

I went to the funeral and saw him reclining in his coffin for his friends and family to mourn. They hid their second worlds well. I was jealous because I wanted to lie in his place. I felt that I should want to manipulate him and have sex with his dead body as repayment, to experience his other world. No matter how I tried I couldn’t find the desire. Wondering if he could feel, I touched his hand but recoiled from the plasticity. The memory of his tiny hands manipulating me came easily, though, and I can still feel their piercing touch late at night.

My other world was different from his, and I realized you can know about someone else’s second world, but you can’t step into it. Perhaps, letting someone glimpse your second world is precious enough. It was for me.

Epilog
Cheryse has since grown out of her desire to play dead. Looking back, she doesn’t really understand what was so appealing.

Story  TOC ·  Two ·  Beauty ·  Pleasure ·  Pedo ·  Nights 

Beauty (MF, nc)

My arms and hands lay unmoving at my side, my legs still, and my head sunk into the pillow on my bed. The paralysis is self-induced. The only movement is the rapid rise and fall of my breasts as I breathe, and my flickering eyes as I watch him remove his clothes and pile them next to mine on the floor. I don’t invite confrontation by looking directly, but I take in every unhurried movement as he unties, unbuttons and unbuckles, as if he has all the time in the world.

He is too dark. He is not black, in fact, what I can see of his skin is very white. The light from the bedside lamp makes my white skin glow, but seems absorbed by his darkness. His face is rough concealing tiny green eyes and a small, crooked nose. “A hard face, a hard life,” my mother used to say. He has the beginnings of a potbelly and is too tall, not at all attractive. He is a rapist, why do I care if he is attractive? I only care that he doesn’t hit me. He said if I cooperated he wouldn’t hit me, but maybe he will anyway. My stomach churns at the thought of being hit.

He has hair everywhere; a thick matt of curly black, light absorbing hair covering all the wrong places. It rises up from his shoulders and his back like the fur on an angry dog. Men with a lot of hair are repulsive! Give me a hairless, hard body with light, delicate features, like Jarrod’s, any day. There is gray in the temples, and gray tufts around the chest. Hairy is too old, maybe fifteen years older than I. He isn’t erect, either. Shouldn’t a rapist with an attractive nude woman on the bed be erect? The radio show said something about that. That’s right, some rapists can only get it up by inflicting pain. I pray to God he is not one of those.

Naked, he saunters to the edge of the bed and sits, scanning me up and down. I will cringe when he touches me.

“I love red hair and freckles,” he says, his enthusiasm showing through his smile. He acts as if he is in the ice cream section of the supermarket and has just found his favorite flavor.

I look obliquely at him as he stares.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

Hairy takes in every detail of my body, like a skin doctor looking for cancer. This situation calls for a sinister leer, yet he smiles like a little boy. Apparently satisfied with the inspection, he leans over my face, not touching, but his body radiating a claustrophobic heat, and says, “Repeat what I told you before.” His breath smells of cheap coffee.

I hesitate because I don’t say those kinds of things out loud, but I had better repeat it verbatim. “You said you’re going to fuck my brains out,” my voice is tremulous, “and if I cooperated, you wouldn’t hit me.” I recognize the timid voice as the same one I used with Sister Marie in catechism class. I felt the sharp slap of her ruler only once, but I lived in fear of it every Saturday. I rub the back of my hand against my side remembering the long ago pain.

Hairy isn’t listening to my earnest recital. His eyes have returned to fix on my breasts. I look at my breasts, thinking he has found some anomaly. I have large, strawberry colored areolas, which I have never thought of as attractive, but Hairy seems to find fascinating. He stares like my nephew when he saw me in my underwear, only I could yell at an eight-year-old.

A few seconds later he returns his attention to me, “Very good. Now turn over. I want to start with a massage.”

A massage! Does he think I’m going to enjoy being touched by an old gorilla that gets his coffee at the Quicky Mart. I roll over on my stomach, thankful I don’t have to look at him.

He reaches for the small bottle he dropped on the bed while undressing. Hairy brought his own massage oil. I hear the cap snap open and feel him squirt on way too much oil, and it starts to run off the side of my back. This will ruin my new bedspread. Heck, I’m going to move and replace the whole bed after tonight.

The oil continues to drip and Hairy’s hands are planted on the bed on either side of me. When I peek back I can see he is staring at the oil dribbling down my butt. I am waiting to be repulsed by his touch, to be overcome with nausea. Maybe he will hit me. He is working himself up to beat the daylights out of me and I will be horribly disfigured. I’ve done everything he asked without protest. Please don’t hit my face. I should pray, a real prayer, the way I did when I was a kid. The only one that comes to mind is one I haven’t thought of in years, “There are four corners on my bed, There are four angels at my head. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed I sleep on.”

I am startled by his first touch to the middle of my back with his fingers. He plays with the oil on my back, swirling it around. When he finally makes full contact, his hands don’t feel like hands at all as he smears the oil. They are rough, calloused as if from hard work. They seem to have pads, like an animal. Climbing on the bed to straddle my thighs, his still soft penis resting on my butt, Hairy leans into my back with his palms. He pushes slowly up and down, and works his fingers into my spine and ribcage like a professional. Only, you don’t get hands like that doing massage for a living.

I am so tense the stretching of the muscles in my back is excruciating, and I want to tell him to ease up, but I don’t dare. Why does he bother with a massage? Does he think he can seduce me with relaxation? I twist my head back and catch a glimpse of him. He seems lost in the repetitive pushing and pulling of my skin. I realize he isn’t trying to please me, or even looking for a response. He is a boy with a toy. He continues with an admiring stare, too long to keep track of, until the muscles in my back do relax. I feel betrayed by my body.

His oil-soaked calluses scratch pleasantly on my skin, the oddest sensation, like that soap with pumice Jarrod used to use. I wouldn’t let him use it on me in the shower because it gave me a rash. There were a lot of things Jarrod wanted me to do, and whined about when I wouldn’t. I can feel coarse, hairy legs against my thighs. There is probably hair on his palms, too.

Hairy begins kneading my butt, so I know what is next. His stiffening penis pushes up between my cheeks and rides up on my back. This is it. He is going to penetrate me. No condom! A quick calculation tells me this is not my time, but what if I get pregnant? What if he has AIDS? My God, it’s a death sentence. My body goes taut; it wants to fold in half anticipating the rape.

He senses the tightness, and eases up, massaging my back with his hands again. Why did he stop? He goes on and on, many minutes more, until I can’t help but relax. Then he resumes the penis massage, pushing my pelvis into the bed with his entire weight behind it. Each time he nudges against my vulva, I tense and panic again. I blurt out, “I have condoms in the headboard,” then more softly, “if you wouldn’t mind.” With my face turned and my cheek pressed into the bed, I strain to see if he is going to hit me.

He pauses his movements briefly, then grumbles, “I don’t like condoms.”

Hairy is not angry, he thought about it for a minute. I decide to risk it. “Please. It’s just that it’s hard to relax, and I want to enjoy it.”

This elicits a laugh, “I’m not stupid. A woman who looks like you would never enjoy a guy who looks like me.”

He is right. “I could if you wore a condom. You want me to enjoy being raped, don’t you?” That was on the radio show, a rapist always fantasizes the woman enjoys it.

“I don’t care if you enjoy it, as long as I enjoy it.”

I should have guessed he doesn’t listen to NPR. “If you use a condom, I’ll be more… cooperative.”

“You’re already as cooperative as I need.”

“I’ll try really hard to please you, I promise.”

“If I wanted a woman to pretend she liked me, I’d get a hooker. Besides, lady, there is no way I am not going to enjoy you.”

He continues massaging and pressing, but without penetrating. I reach for the sliding panel in the headboard, grab a strip of condoms lying loose, and throw them quickly backward toward Hairy. “Just in case,” I say. I cover my head with my hands imagining him pummeling my face until it looks like bruised fruit.

Hairy continues riding me, his penis hard now, the pressure causing pain in my lower back. Terrified, I pull my arms inward, clench my teeth, and brace for it. No one will want me with a disease, no matter how attractive I am.

He stops and sits up. I hear the plastic wrapper tear, and the crinkle of the condom being rolled into place. I sneak a look to confirm. His face is impassive as he squirts on more oil and resumes his massaging and rubbing. I sigh with relief, almost laugh. My chest heaves and I bite my lip to keep from bursting into tears, I am so grateful. At least I won’t die, or get some debilitating disease that will remind me of tonight for the rest of my life. All I have to do is get through this without getting beat up.

He continues the methodical, mildly abrasive massage. This is going to take all night. He turned the clock away, but it must be thirty minutes already. Hairy reaches around underneath me for my breasts. I lift my shoulders to prevent him from pinching, and he holds my white flesh in his dark, jagged hands, barely able to contain them. I can see his hands up close and they look primitive and unnatural against my delicate skin. He flips his wrists and rubs the back of his hands underneath them as they dangle. This side of his hand is smoother, but hairy, and he squeezes the nipples gently between his fingers. Slowly, they harden under his touch until I can feel each hair on the back of his hand as the nipples brush through. Chills ripple down my back. Creepy.

He pulls back and his hands cover my body like a sand storm, pin pricking into every crevice. He touches every inch of me, the nape of my neck, the insides of my thighs, and the backs of my ankles. I have nothing left to myself. I hate that he is manipulating my body, forcing my nipples to stand, and my muscles to relax. I hate that I have been so tense I want to relax. I hate being grateful he put on the condom.

I hate him, but I am no longer terrified. I am afraid, but he hasn’t hit me, and he put on the condom, so he just wants to fuck my brains out and be done with it. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have by now. The thought relaxes me, then makes me constrict with anger that he threatened me, still scares me. I can see my face in the mirrored closet door. I hate that I am glad it is not bruised.

Hairy fondles, massages and nudges. He can’t get enough of my skin. I imagine he will continue until my bones turn to mush and muscle tension is impossible. Maybe I should encourage him, and get it over with. I could say something dirty like, ‘Fuck me, baby.’ Jarrod always wanted me to talk dirty, but I never would. ‘Fuck my brains out’ is the dirtiest thing I have ever said out loud. This is taking so long it might be worth a filthy shout to get back to my life. What is he waiting for? Maybe he isn’t going to rape me. He will change his mind.

This is the most foreplay I have ever had. The thought strikes me as funny, hilariously, gut bursting, going to wet myself funny. A rapist is more admiring and interested than Jarrod ever was. I am laying here in fear of being pummeled to death and I want to laugh so hard I have to bite away the urge. It is inappropriate, like laughing in church. My mother slapped my face when she caught me laughing during mass. I turn my face into the pillow so Hairy can’t see any trace of a smile and hit me for laughing about being raped.

Hairy slides back off my butt, then drives his dick past my greased lips and inside with one swift movement. Finally. I expected it to hurt, but he surprised me before I could react. He glided all the way in, as if I wanted nothing else, as if we were longtime lovers who held nothing back from each other, the way I always wanted to feel with Jarrod. Hairy is a perfect fit: not too long or short, and not too skinny. Just right. I wanted Jarrod and I to be a good fit sexually. I thought that would mean we would be a good fit emotionally, too, that we would always have something to share with each other. Damn him! He left me and now Hairy has me.

The realization of being raped washes over me. A small part of me believed he wouldn’t do it, that he would hesitate at the end, like he did with the condom. Guilt over harming such a beautiful girl would get the better of him, and he would be truly remorseful. We would talk about it, and I would send him to Father Jamison for help. Stupid fantasy. “You always think that pretty face will get you out of trouble,” my mother used to say.

There was nothing I could do to prevent it. It isn’t my fault. My body relaxes more completely than I thought possible, a relief that can come only with acceptance of the inevitable, and tears role down my cheeks and soak the bedspread. I let it all leak onto the pillow without sniveling because I don’t want Hairy to know I’m crying.

Hairy is enjoying the moment. He feels hot as he holds the hilt tightly pressed against my butt. After a short gasp of pleasure he begins plunging in and out of me. He forces the tip of his penis downward against the front, inside wall of my vagina. It is a careful internal massage evidencing all the patience of his massage of my back and body. He is methodical, thorough, and arousing. It is to be expected, I tell myself. That was on the radio show, too. “Fear heightens the responsiveness to all stimulation. Some women get aroused.” I wonder how many: ten percent, fifty percent, or ninety percent? Who would admit it? There is a Jerry Springer show for you: Women Who Get Horny While Being Raped.

He halts abruptly, withdraws, and sits back on his feet, “Turn over.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No. I want to see you. You’re so…” he smiles, “beautiful.”

Screw his flattery. I don’t want to look at his dark face or his hair, or smell his coffee breath. I push up and turn, making sure he still has on the condom. “Can I blow my nose?”

He nods, and I use several tissues before edging back down on the bed, my legs on either side of him. If he notices my tears, he gives no indication. He paws gently at the inside of my thighs with his scarred hands, eliciting deep twinges between my legs. He sees my reaction, but he doesn’t gloat, maybe doesn’t realize what he is stirring in me. It would be less confusing if he hit me. Hairy pulls my knees up, and then settles on top, about to kiss me. I reach for the mints from the headboard. Even Jarrod had bad breath sometimes. Hairy looks, grimaces, and takes one. I put one in my mouth, too. I don’t want to make him mad by seeming critical.

I sink into the bed with resignation. His eyes fix on my face as he thrusts forcefully inside me. I don’t know how to react as I return his looming stare, his dick buried deep in me. It must be some primitive connection in the brain that when a man is filling your vagina, and looking in your eyes like you are God’s gift to him, that sympathy, even good will is triggered. I know in the back of my mind he is a criminal, that he is scaring me for life, that he is uneducated and unattractive, yet I want to embrace him and move my hips in sync with his. I don’t, because pretty girls don’t need to act like whores.

He is moving slowly. What does he see? Was I so beautiful he had to rape me? I am much more attractive than Hairy deserves on his best day. Jarrod said I was truly beautiful, but he buried his face in the pillow when he was on me. I never believed he was thinking of me. I know Hairy is thinking about me. Does Hairy’s dumpy wife or girlfriend know he is a rapist? Will she know that he is reliving his rape of me while he is plugging her? That he sees the face of a truly beautiful woman, instead of hers?

He kisses me softly, as if introducing our lips to each other. I like that. It is considerate. He assaults with his penis, but invites with his lips. I am glad he is not crazy mean like I imagined a rapist would be, the way they are in the movies. Trying to be cooperative, I let him kiss me on the lips. I have already been raped, so I am not leading him on, just keeping it cordial, so he doesn’t get mad. He smiles. His smile is his best feature.

Hairy sees me, but he doesn’t connect. He admires me without knowing me. His attraction is pure as he takes his pleasure and requires no bolstering of his ego from me in return. Jarrod needed constant reassurance he was good enough. Hairy is enjoying me, unencumbered, like a thin woman enjoys ice cream. He rides up on me as he thrusts, sawing at my clitoris and kissing tentatively, as if he is stealing the taste of my lips.

His hairy chest brushes against my breasts, ugh! I reach for his shoulders, pushing up a little, hoping he will support himself by his hands away from me. Instead, he shoves his hands under my shoulders and holds me to him. I feel as though I am going to suffocate from all that hair and the heat emanating from his body. My hands fall to his back and sink into the hair on his shoulders. It is a pelt, for God’s sake. The hair on his legs scratches the insides of my thighs, and my stomach and breasts are sweating from the blanket he has covered me with.

As he grinds into me I feel as if I am being roughened all over by sandpaper, stimulated everywhere at once. I stretch my legs out for relief, but find more hair along his calves. I can’t get away from it. His head falls, and he presses his closely shaved beard into my face. His scruffy hair against my smooth skin has become the primary sensation, blotting out everything else. He saws and sands and clenches until I think I will claw and scream in frustration, but I bite down hard on my lip. ‘Don’t make him mad,’ I think. ‘Endure, hold on.’ I hold very still so he won’t think I am moving with him.

I should encourage him to finish. ‘Fuck me, you hairy bastard.’ I mouth silently, ‘Tell me how I was so fucking beautiful you had to rape me.’ I could never say that. I scratch the soles of my feet on his calves. I must stop moving! Hairy grips my shoulders, saws rhythmically, and rubs me raw with his hair until I clutch uncontrollably at his brutish body. I can feel his ugliness inside me and all around me and I writhe underneath him until I shudder and twitch like an epileptic. I seize around him several times, each time pulling at the hair on his back and silently cursing his wretched soul.

He stops, rising up to give me a puzzled look. I turn my heavy breathing away, unwilling to explain my own expression. I don’t want him to know I had an orgasm, so I turn and kiss him, playfully. He will appreciate my affection and forget the look he saw. He grins at my kisses. We smile. “Get on your hands and knees,” he says.

How stupid I am. My own orgasm interrupted him. Now we are going to go on for another forty minutes. This guy has some staying power, I’ll give him that. Jarrod thought ten minutes was a marathon.

Hairy positions himself behind me, the bottle of oil in his hand, and says, “Put your head down on the bed.” I fold my arms and lower my head, keeping my rear in the air. He covers me with oil and begins another butt massage. I groan silently at the thought of more handwork. I have never been so thoroughly touched as I have been tonight. It is as if I am no longer separate from him.

Slowly, mechanically, squeezing and releasing, he digs into every muscle. He slides in various fingers where his penis was, the calluses abrading my delicate tissues, but the overall affect is not unpleasant. Soon, all of his fingers are exploring my vagina and his thumb my clitoris. He likes my inside skin, too, so much that he slides over every inch. I can’t tell where my skin ends and his hands begin.

Jarrod always wanted to do it this way. Doggy style, he called it. “Only women who look like dogs do it that way,” I told him. Hairy is going to do what Jarrod never could. Hairy is an animal.

I wonder if I will have another orgasm. What percentage of raped women has more than one? When I told Jarrod I had never had more than one, he accepted it sullenly. He might have tried. If I was truly beautiful, wasn’t I worth a little effort instead of withdrawal?

That orgasm with Hairy was an aberration. I try to check out, to disconnect from my body, to ignore Hairy’s hand in my vagina. That is what rape victims do, go to another place where they can’t be hurt or made to feel anything. I don’t want to feel anything.

I feel an oily finger poke into my anus. What is he doing? Not anal intercourse! I’ve never done that and I don’t want to. I know this is going to hurt and every muscle in my body goes rigid. Hairy pets my rump like a skittish horse, “There, there. It’s going to be all right, just relax.”

I turn my head back toward him in anguish, “Please don’t. It’s going to hurt.”

“This won’t hurt you, I give you my word.”

Oh, well. I can take the word of a rapist to the bank.

He withdraws his finger and I take a relieved breath as he brushes my back until I stop trembling. Why is he petting me? I don’t have hair on my back. He puts more oil on his finger and pushes the end inside again. This finger is one of his smoother ones and he holds it still, waiting for my breathing to slow. Hairy isn’t going to relent. He is going to massage, and oil, and manipulate me until our skin merges and I have no resistance left. I give up. I am too tired and confused to fight it. Just get on with it. I want this night to be over.

Hairy slides his finger in all the way until I can feel his fist against my cheeks. Steadying me with his free hand, he nudges his finger in a bit more and wiggles it, as if he is reaching for something. It doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel good. It feels as if he is tickling my guts. I take deep breaths and command my body to hold still, afraid to stir any more sensation.

My anus doesn’t obey. It is clamping and releasing around his finger in a frenzied panic to remove the obstruction. He pulls his finger out very slowly, causing me to wiggle and quiver trying to shake it free. I have never felt anything like that. I feel more oil, hear the crinkle of the condom and feel the tip of his penis press against my tender anus. Damn it to hell! He is going to do me in the rear and it will hurt. Pretty girls don’t have to do this. My butt goes rigid in anticipation, and I am on the verge of screaming.

“Push back on it,” he says, softly, petting me. “It won’t hurt that way.”

In fear of the pain, knowing the result is inevitable, I follow the instructions. The tip eases in, and he holds it there. I hate myself for giving in. I should let him pound my face into pizza rather than cooperate.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Fuck his concern. Wait. Be reasonable. I gulp, “I don’t know.”

“This is new for you?”

No, I get raped in the ass by hairy apes all the time. That would make him angry. I look back, “Yes.”

He is pleased I am a rectal virgin. Delighted. He has found a praline in his ice cream. “Here we go, nice and easy.” Pet, pet.

He begins pushing in and out, a fraction of an inch deeper on each stroke until he is all the way in. Why is my body so cooperative? I have that gut tickling sensation again, amazed a penis can actually fit, and at how full it feels. He continues petting and soothing, carefully breaking in his new horse. He doesn’t want her to jump the fence and hurt herself.

Hairy doesn’t hurry. He plumbs my depths a thousand times. Hairy’s passion is measured, as if he has been fantasizing about this night all his life. He is going to eat his ice cream slowly, and lick the bowl and the spoon, and maybe, melt the whole container and drink until there is nothing left of me.

I can’t feel anything except my anus. It should hurt. Instead, it pulsates, sending lightening-like sensations to my brain, which says, ‘I don’t want to feel this,’ and my brain bounces them back to my butt, and they spread outward from there. My awareness grows clouded, and the room grows dark, and my brain is so confused I can’t tell if my eyes are closed or if I have gone blind.

“Lie down,” he says.

I rise a little and lean forward. He wrangles me down to the bed holding my hair like a mane, his penis stuck in me, his hair scraping me from neck to ankles, and forcing my eyes open. He begins pounding into me, punching my hips into the bed until I have to tuck my hands under my pelvis for support.

He moves his legs up and down mine as he thrusts, riding his filly, and sanding my skin with his oily hair. He scratches my back with his shaggy chest and breathes his minty, hot breath in my ear. I am sweating profusely. The smell of our mingled sweat is putrid, and arousing.

I wonder if I can come with just anal intercourse? If I had a little clitoral stimulation, I think I could come again. ‘Would you stick your fat, rough finger on my magic spot, please?’ I could never ask that of Jarrod, much less of a rapist. I inch my own fingers toward my vulva, taking advantage of his up strokes, until my finger reaches the target. Mom slapped me for masturbating once. “Nice girls don’t do that,” she said. What difference does it make now? I’ve been raped and had an orgasm; I might as well go for it. Hairy is going to go on all night, whether I do or not.

He swims in the sweat on my back, his face pressed into my cheek, and I diddle myself secretly underneath. I watch the two of us in the mirror, moving and fused into a Neopolitan of dark on white and red. I reach for something in my mind, a primitive image just out of reach that tantalizes with meaning. It comes suddenly and I want to giggle with the clarity it brings. We are Beauty and the Beast. Hairy is in an unholy mating with his red haired beauty.

I extract my other hand from under my pelvis and reach back to touch Hairy’s hip cautiously, as if it was a cactus. I let my fingers gradually intertwine with his elephant like hair as he rams me, then I use his hair to pull him into me. The sensations from my body begin to scream in my brain; his fur tickling one of my palms, my fine, soft hair tickling the other, my guts being reamed, my back and legs being scratched, his thick-skinned hands holding my shoulders fast to the bed, and his sticky sweat dripping onto my face and into my eyes. I squeeze my eyes shut to keep out the burn, and clamp my jaws tight so I don’t shout, ‘Ride me, Beast. Ride me and come in my ass.’ I pinch my anus around his dick, at least I think that’s what I’m doing. It is very hard to discern what is going on back there.

I watch the grotesque creature attached to me and reel at how unnatural it is for him to defile my beauty, and revel at the perfect congruence of our opposite natures. My finger is flicking faster as I think, ‘I am beautiful and I deserve to come you fucking ugly animal.’ The words are a prayer and a curse, and I repeat them over and over to myself, and the mantra sparks my climax. My shuddering fit kicks my butt back at his every push, many times, my fingers and anus grasping for every possible sensation, then subsides.

Hairy doesn’t seem to have noticed.

I shrink under him exhausted, butt bruised, breathless, and defeated by the hairy machine still slamming my backside. My body has been made rigid with fear, kneaded into relaxation, invaded, scraped raw by a wool suit, and coerced into two consciousness-numbing orgasms. Hairy has finally numbed my body to all sensations, as well. If he hit me now, I wouldn’t feel it.

His pace quickens and his breathing grows shallow across my face. Now he is getting excited. I am dead, and Hairy is finally ready to come. ‘I’m sorry I distracted you with my orgasms,’ I want to yell, sarcastically. ‘I hope my pleasure didn’t put you off too much.’ Hairy twitches and jerks in his own violent seizure, and makes a noise like a sneeze. He slumps into me like liquid before calming still.

I wait.

As he rolls off, his latex clad penis sucks out, scraping my guts once more, and the cooling air turns my skin to goose flesh. He comes to rest on his back next to me, eyes staring at the ceiling, and smiling.

Now what? Do I wait for him to go before moving? It suddenly feels like an awkward date moment. Do I promise not to tell? Will he kill me so I can’t? No, anyone who takes as much pleasure as Hairy did in touching me and looking at me alive isn’t a killer. He didn’t even hit me.

I should call the police like the radio show said. It would be easy to pick him out of a lineup, unless it was a lineup of gorillas, but I don’t want the hassle. I don’t want to give all of the gory details a million times, each time feeling guilty for leaving out the two orgasms. I don’t want to explain to some unattractive female detective why I didn’t fight. Women are not supposed to be so afraid of becoming ugly they won’t defend themselves.

I don’t want to hear my mother lecture me on how vanity is a sin, and if I didn’t try to draw so much attention to myself this kind of thing wouldn’t happen. So what if my beauty incited his lust. My beauty is the one thing I am sure of in my life, the thing I can always count on. Every man who looks at me knows I am a treasure.

A hot shower, a good night’s sleep and I can deal with this on my own. I don’t like the idea of Hairy getting away with this, but I can’t take on the problems of the world.

He rolls his head to look at me. He sees his ice cream, but he looks as if he ate too much. Hairy’s eyes fall away from me, and the smile is lost as his mouth twists. He slides quietly from the bed and begins to dress, unable to look at me. What happened to the beast that took me with the confidence of an invading army? I turn over on my side to see him more clearly, my head propped up by one hand, the other resting on my hips. He drags his pants up over his hairy thighs, faces me about to say something, and then his eyes dart away.

I look down at my breasts to one of Hairy’s curly wires that is wrapped around my chilled erect nipple. I tug it away and roll it slowly in my fingers, enjoying the coarseness of the black strand. Hairy pulls on his shirt as if it were made of lead. He averts his eyes the same way Jarrod did when he left.

Oh, Hairy, don’t turn from me now. You appreciated my beauty more than anyone. Admire me, Hairy. Show me again the face of the little boy who has just peeked at his first naked girl. Let your eyes feast on me. Linger on the sight of me as if it nourishes your soul and restores your miserable life. Want me hopelessly, because you don’t deserve me. Make a reckless promise with your eyes to have me.

Touch me, Hairy. Brush the back of your hands across my nipples and tickle my thighs until I can’t help but move with you. Dig into me with your paws and brush me with your steel wool until my arms and legs ripple under you like a centipede on its back.

Make me do something else I’ve never done, Hairy. Horse whisper me into sucking your dick. Ease it into me past my teeth and my protests, pet me and guide me with your lumpy hands on the back of my head. Mete out your passion slowly, massaging my throat into accepting you farther and farther until your brittle hair tickles my nose and chin, and your ugliness tickles my guts.

Go on so long that I’ll wonder what you feel like under the condom you sweetly put on to protect me. Stare at me adoringly, arousing me so greatly that I will bite the end off the condom, and wait for my first taste of a man’s juice. The condom will push back as you work me, and the sensation of your warm meat in my mouth, and your ice-cream stare will make me come. When I am weak with joy, fill my mouth with your seed, and my soul with your beastly awe of my loveliness, Hairy.

He stands sideways to me, dressed, still struggling for something to say. “Look, I’m sorry. This is the first time–”

I flick the hair at him. “Get out,” I say. “Just go.” He slips out of the room quietly, the same way he came.

The beast is supposed to turn into a handsome prince when he wins over his beauty, not some pathetic, Jarrod-like alter boy so full of shame he can’t look at me. I turn over on my back, and place the fingers that were in my crotch to my lips, savoring the taste. Pretty girls never do that.

Epilog
She is still haunted by her response to the events of that night, some fifteen years ago. Three years after the rape she became a nun, making her mother very proud. She does not see a connection between the two events. Perhaps, the most remarkable aspect of this story is that she reads erotica on the internet!

Story  TOC ·  Two ·  Beauty ·  Pleasure ·  Pedo ·  Nights 

The Pleasure Principle (Mf, MF)

When I was fifteen, my mother finally agreed to let me get a massage. I had little conception of what a massage entailed, and I didn't care. My interest was in accompanying my mother on one of her overnight shopping trips to San Francisco. This was a monthly ritual my mother succeeded in establishing for herself as compensation for my father moving the family to the outskirts of civilization; Tracy, California. She would drive in on Friday morning, check into the Saint Francis, shop for a few hours, have lunch on Maiden Lane, shop, get her hair and nails done, and go out for dinner and a show. The next morning she would get a massage, shop, have lunch, and drive home.

My younger sister and I were consumed with envy when we tore through the packages she returned with from fashionable stores only dreamed of in our town. She spoke in glowing tones of how she pampered herself in every way with chocolate eclairs, french tip nails, just the right accessories and the best entertainment. We giggled as she told us about the fabulously gay hair dresser, the gossipy masseuses and bitchy saleswomen. It sounded like the most incredible experience to be had, and would be worth bragging about for weeks with all of my small-town friends.

We both begged to go every time, and while she said we were too young to appreciate it, we knew she was reluctant to share the experience of being on her own and doing exactly what she pleased. Years later, with a family of my own, I came to appreciate the sentiment more fully, but it was a palpable emanation from her even then.

With great tribulation, and endless begging from me, she agreed to allow me to accompany her if I could achieve a straight 'A' report card. I was not a bad student. My teachers usually said things like, “She isn't achieving up to her potential,” or “She lacks motivation.” I knew my mother secretly hoped for my failure but, determined to participate in her monthly adventures, I discovered new depths of motivation. Three months after my fifteenth birthday, a week before her next trip, and the last day of school, I quietly handed her my report card. I was careful not to gloat, to accept my reward gracefully, and to not do anything to kill the deal. She heaved a sigh, as if it was news of the death of someone known and loved, and said yes.

It was glorious. On the drive in she confided how much she hated living in a small town, how seriously she considered leaving my father rather than move, and how, on the whole, the move had been good for the family. I never felt closer to her, or more adult than I did that day. We shopped and ate, and enjoyed ourselves together as we never had before. The gay hair dresser made me laugh so hard I thought I would wet myself, lunch was fabulous, and all the saleswomen were just as snooty and bitchy as my mother said. For remaining on my best behavior, I was rewarded with more shopping bags than I could carry, and the ice-cream sundae we shared after the show was heavenly.

The next morning we arose early and took a taxi to the spa for our massage. I brought my newly purchased bathing suit which my mother told me was appropriate for someone my age to wear during a massage. As we were escorted down the hall by the hostess, I saw other women behind swinging doors lying on tables naked, and was glad I had at least a bikini to wear. As I watched my mother go into her room, the hostess brought me to mine, instructed me to undress, lie on the table, and the masseuse would be in shortly.

It suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea what was about to occur. In all our discussions, my mother and I had never discussed what actually goes on during a massage, or what any of the protocols were. Determined to not give her any reason to regret bringing me, I decided I would figure it out on my own rather than interrupt her like a child. As I laid on my back on the table in my bathing suite, I looked at the interesting mural of a pastoral scene on the ceiling. It inspired relaxation, and I took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the experience.

The door opened, and a man entered. He was quite old, thin, with grayish hair neatly trimmed, and dressed in crisp white pants, white shoes, and a short sleeve white tunic. I thought he was an another host, or a janitor, so I was surprised when he said, “Hello, my name is Carl, and I'll be your masseur today.” I had been expecting a woman, and I gulped as I sat up to shake his hand. He smiled, then adjusted the lights down slightly, and lit some incense as he asked where I was from, how long I was in the city for, and tried to help me relax with small talk. He succeeded, mainly due to his professional, courteous manner, which reminded me of an old-fashioned butler in the movies.

Carl explained that he would start with my back, and about half way through I would turn over, and he would finish on the front. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to focus on? Any tension or soreness?” he asked. I said no, and he said he was going to get some clean towels, and that I should remove the bathing suit unless I wanted it to become stained with oil. He also instructed me to cover myself with the sheet, and said he would return shortly to begin.

Suddenly, I was terrified. An old man was going to be touching my naked body, back and front. I stood up, gathered my clothes, and went for the door, determined to get out of there and find my mother. I stopped, thinking of my mother's reaction. I knew other women were naked during the massage, and I supposed some of them had men, too. I thought it must be like having a male physician, which I had not found embarrassing. Most importantly, if I interrupted my mother and made a scene, she would think I was an idiot child and not want to take me on the next trip.

With great trepidation, I returned to the table, took off my bathing suit, covered myself completely with the sheet, stuck my nose into the face hole, and waited, trembling. I heard him come in, but he said nothing as he washed his hands in the sink, dried them, and approached the table. I felt sure I was going to scream at any moment, but I bit my lip instead.

He folded the sheet about half way down my back and began a gentle, light massage working in the oil on his hands. Carl's hands were so soft, and his touch so delicate at first, that I relaxed immediately. He worked his way down my back, then covered my back with the sheet, and worked his way up one leg and down the other. The time flew and I was surprised to find myself thoroughly enjoying every touch of his hands, which delved progressively deeper into the muscles as he went on.

He asked me to turn over, holding the sheet in a way that would prevent him from seeing me naked, which seemed very ritualistic, and polite. This time he folded the sheet up to my thighs and massaged each foot and leg before moving upward. Then he folded the sheet down to my waist leaving just my middle covered, and exposing my breasts, which made my anxiety surge again. However, he was careful not to fully touch my breasts as he massaged around them, yet he dug into the spaces between my ribs which succeeded in relaxing me again. He had touched every part of me except the part covered by the folded sheet, and I was sure it was at an end when he moved away from the table. I congratulated myself on handling this new adult experience adultly, and chided myself for my earlier, foolish fears.

My eyes were drooping in relaxation when he returned to the table. I saw he had on a rubber glove, which he was lubricating with his other hand from a bottle, but I had no idea what he intended. Without looking at me, he slipped his gloved hand under the folded sheet covering my waist, slid onto my clitoris, and began a careful stroke with his finger.

I was stunned and confused. I wanted to yell, to leap off the table and run from the room, but I couldn't. There was a part of me that said this was wrong, illegal even. Yet, there was a part of me that said this must be what occurs during massage, and he was just doing what was expected. After all, he was so kind looking, and he displayed no accompanying leer or remark. He wasn't even looking at me. If I made a scene, I feared embarrassing myself and my mother, and my shopping adventure would never repeat. I decided to wait it out, the time must be nearly up anyway, and this would soon end.

What I didn't anticipate was the affect his massage was having on me. I began to squirm involuntarily on the table, not sure if this would encourage or discourage his ministrations to my clitoris, and growing less sure which I wanted. He seemed not to pay attention, but worked like he was doing surgery with his focus in the distance, and away from me and my flexing hips. No other fingers had ever touched me there except my own, and I was unaccustomed to the faster tempo. Nevertheless, I began to grasp for completion with my pelvis and every other muscle in my body.

Carl seemed to be reading my my body's reaction and adjusting his stroke, harder as I moved upwards, softer as I retreated, and faster as my breaths grew shorter and more ragged. Having had no significant sexual experience I marveled at the idea that someone beside myself could make me feel this good, and I gradually, but completely, surrendered to his capable hands.

My eyes were closed most of the time, at first because it was easier to pretend it wasn't happening, then so I would not be distracted by any other sensations. When they did flutter open, I saw his elbow was pointing toward me as he stroked me underneath the sheet. His other hand was underneath his wrist and pressed down at the base of my stomach, as if to keep my contortions from propelling me off the table. The bristled, gray hair of his forearm tickled as my heaving stomach brushed against it, and I had to bite my lips hard to keep from moaning aloud. I daringly grazed his arm with one hand first, feeling the strength and roughness of it. As I got closer, I gripped his arm with both hands, hanging onto it, pulling myself off the table slightly as I writhed beneath him, feeling the muscles in his forearm flex as he flicked his wrist ever more rapidly. I remember how the cinnamon incense filled my nostrils as I gasped and shuddered at the end, twitching so hard and long I thought that must be what a seizure is like.

As I quivered in the afterglow, I was afraid to look at him, thoroughly embarrassed and a little ashamed. I heard him remove the glove, and he covered me completely with the sheet, wished me a pleasant journey home, and left. I could barely move for the rubbery sensation permeating my body, but I managed to dress and return to the lobby where my mother was waiting. She asked how it was, and I said “Fine,” not knowing what else could be said about such an experience.

I relived that trip a dozen times for all of my friends, referring only obliquely, as would an adult, to the joy experienced during the massage. I was still unsure if Carl's manipulation of me at the end was an aberration or the normal course, so I wasn't about to reveal anything that would give away my ignorance. I knew no one else who had ever had a massage I could ask, save my mother, and I was determined she would not know what I didn't. The massage compared only faintly to the other joys of the trip, anyway, and I put it behind me. More importantly, I made it clear that I wanted to be included on all such future trips and my mother, reluctantly, agreed.

It wasn't until a month later when we were back in San Francisco and on our way to the Spa, that I found myself growing nervous. As I changed into my bathing suit and prepared myself for the reappearance of Carl, I decided I could no longer act like a little girl and let something happen that I wasn't comfortable with. Although pleasurable, damnably so, he took license with me I had not granted. I searched for the right words to say so that he didn't finger me again. I would threaten to scream and call for my mother if he didn't respect my wishes. In fact, I would tell him the minute he walked into the room exactly what he was allowed to do, and what he was not.

The masseuse that arrived was not Carl, but a woman, and I was deflated. She was in her forties, quiet, and looked like she might faint if I yelled at her. She also suggested I remove my bathing suit and, thrown only slightly, I rehearsed what I would say to her if she put on the glove. The voice in my head sounded much less angry, and more like a snooty saleswoman then, because I had no history with her. She didn't put on the glove, however, and when the massage was done, she said goodbye and left.

Lying there, I felt a keen disappointment that I didn't get a chance to assert myself and take control of the experience in the way I had imagined. Looking at the pastoral scene on the ceiling, I grew angry at Carl for not letting me confront him. I was sure he was hiding from me on purpose. I tried to recall the experience, without reservation this time, so that I could time my confrontation precisely to interrupt him. I imagined jerking my knee sharply to the side just as he began lubricating his gloved finger such that it caught him right in the balls. As he writhed in pain, I would tell him exactly what I didn't want during my massage. Never again would he be able to casually wrap his finger around my clitoris, hold my pubis down with his strong warm hand, and make me go epileptic as I came like some whore. I shuddered at the memory, and immediately shot straight up, wiped the prickly moisture from my forehead, got off the table, dressed and left.

My mother and I returned to the spa many times after that, and all of my massages were like the second one, and none like the first. I never saw Carl again. Our trips were interrupted by my going away to college, and working in the East for a year. My sister replaced me on the trips and, although I quizzed her about her spa experiences, she either never had a Carl, or covered it as well as I did. As I thought about it, even my mother’s infrequent references to the massage were overly vague, and what was ‘normal’ remained maddeningly elusive.

On my first vacation I returned home, having grown considerably through three serious boyfriends, acquiring a profession and a good job, and learning to take care of myself. It worked out that I would be able to accompany my mother and sister on the next trip to the city, and I looked forward to the old source of so much previous enjoyment.

At the spa, I prepared for the session by covering my naked self with a sheet and lying on my stomach, much as I had for every previous massage. The door opened and I heard. “My name is Carl, and I will be your masseur today.” I went rigid. My heart sprinted with panic. All of the rehearsal I had done many years before was forgotten, and I couldn't think of a single word to say. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to focus on? Any tension or soreness?” he asked. I heard myself gulp several times, then timidly respond, “No.”

Carl began his massage by sinking his hands into my back, lightly at first and with circular motions that grew progressively deeper. If a masseur can have a unique style, then Carl had one. His movements literally felt familiar, and the memory of that first massage came back in more vivid detail than I could have imagined. It was as if the memory was embedded in my muscles, and the exercising of those muscles released the memory bit by bit, muscle by muscle. I remembered the surprise at hearing his deep voice, the initial anxiety of his touch, how he made me relax, how I grew nervous when I turned over exposing my breasts to him, how I relaxed again, then the shock at the first touch of his liquid finger, and how I clung to his hairy arm like a child to a favorite doll she was afraid someone was going to steal. I could smell cinnamon incense, although Carl had not lit any this time.

It was happening again, and I suddenly recalled dreams about Carl showing up unexpectedly at school to give me a massage, and fingering me in front of the whole class. My classmates laughed when I came, and I awoke humiliated and sweating. I had somehow pushed those dreams out of my mind, never having thought of them until now. Ever since I was fifteen, I had been secretly afraid that Carl was going to finger me to orgasm and confusion again. It explained a great deal about what had gone on with my boyfriends.

When he directed me to turn over, I saw him for the first time as I blinked open long enough to snatch a glimpse, but not long enough to make eye contact. Carl looked the same except for thinner hair. His face was placid, making it appear he was bored while doing a chore. As before, he did my feet and legs, then my ribs and shoulders, doing nothing untoward with his hands. I urged myself to sit up and say something, to confront the man who had molested me, as I had planned so long ago. I could not. I couldn't even bring myself to look at him any more.

His hands left me, and I heard him step away from the table. My eyes clamped shut even tighter when I heard the snap of rubber gloves. I felt like a helpless teenager again, afraid of making a scene. Even after all of the growing up I did, and the numerous massages, I was still unsure if what Carl was about to do wasn't the normal ending for a massage. In the few times the topic of massage had come up with friends, I avoided participation, not wanting to know if my assumptions were right or wrong. The sounds stopped, and I cautiously let my eyes open. Carl was standing above me with two gloved hands, instead of one like before. I gasped at what that might mean. I heard myself whisper, “Carl, what are you doing?”

He looked mildly surprised, and said, “I assumed you wanted the same as last time?”

I took a breath, the first full breath I think since he walked in the room. “The last time? You remember the last time? You remember me?”

“Yes, of course, Miss.” Carl stood with his two gloved hands in the air like an operating room doctor, only the fingers were oozing a clear liquid. “You're on one of your monthly trips from Tracy, with your mother.”

I was suddenly energized and sat up. “You molested me last time. Do you remember that?”

The surprise on his face turned to hurt, as if he had been wounded. “I beg your pardon, Miss. I have never molested anyone, or done anything during a massage that was unwelcome.”

Incredulous at his denial, I asked, “What made you think touching my… private parts, when I was fifteen, was welcome?”

“Well,” Carl said, matter-of-factly, “You should have said no when I asked.”

I wanted to explode with frustration. “You didn't ask me. If you had asked me I would have said, “No, thank you. I don't want an old man to touch me there with his slimy, gloved finger.”

For the first time, Carl ruffled. “I'm terribly sorry. I always ask. It must have slipped my mind. I should have asked, first.” He turned toward the sink. “Have a pleasant journey home.”

“You didn't ask this time, either,” I said. “You were going to finger me again, weren't you?”

“Yes,” he stuttered. “I assumed since you had no objections last time…. If you had said no, Miss, the first time, I assure I would have respected your wishes.”

I came into full in possession of my anger, as I had always wanted to. “I was too young, too inexperienced,” I said. “I thought it was what occurs during a massage. I didn't know I was being molested.”

“You keep saying molested. As I recall, my work had a satisfactory result, did it not?”

Not wanting anyone to interrupt my confrontation, I whispered a yell, “That's hardly the point. If you are going to have sex with someone– ”

“Miss, we did not have sex. I have been married for 43 years and I have never had sex with anyone but my dear wife. It was simply a massage.”

“When you manipulate someone's… genitals, that's sex.”

“I beg to differ. A sexual experience is one which is mutually gratifying. There was no gratification for me. I was performing a task designed to reward you, for which I was paid. There was no feeling between us. It was simply a massage, no more intimate than if I had scratched your back.”

Agape, I said, “You can't possibly believe that, or think that I would.”

The hurt on Carl's face was pathetic. “Miss, I apologize. I am deeply sorry I have caused you such upset. Please forgive me.” His head hung as he waited like an errant child for my scolding to end. At first I thought Carl was just trying to weasel his way out of being caught, but it seemed from his manner that his rationale was sincere, however misguided.

I became aware that my breasts were exposed from when I sat up. Carl was the one who looked naked, however, with his hands frozen like a coat rack. I felt so relieved I had not cowered, that I had done what I only imagined doing long ago, that I fell back to the table again and covered myself with the sheet. “I don't know what to say, Carl.”

He offered nothing, the liquid still dripping from his gloves.

“Carl, why did you put on two gloves this time?

He kept silent. I stared until he looked up, then cooly said, “Answer me, Carl.”

Carl started cautiously, “As you are older… and likely more experienced, I assumed you would want a more… in depth manipulation of the….”

I started to laugh, “My God, what were you planning to do?”

“Only to provide complete satisfaction, Miss.”

“How, Carl? Exactly how were you going to molest me this time.”

“I wish you would stop using the word molest…”

“Fine. How were you going to satisfy me.”

“It's difficult to convey with words.“ His shame faded as he allowed himself to look at me. “I find that the combination of external and internal stimulation of the more experienced woman is the most gratifying. You've not had children, I assume?”

I shook my head in disbelief.

“No, yours are not the hips of a woman who has born a child. There is a different technique for postpartum women. For someone of your age and experience I have found a method which achieves excellent results.” Carl reminded me of science professors I had who were so enamored of their subject matter, they never realized they were boring their students. I was already sure he knew what he was doing with his hands, he just didn't know what he was doing was wrong. “It consists of two fingers stroking both sides of the clitoris, while one finger of the other hand teases, as it were, the inside front surface of the vaginal wall. The tempo should be slow and coordinated at first, gradually increasing commensurate with your breathing. At the right moment the little finger is inserted into the…

I jerked up again, once more exposing my breasts. “For God's sakes, Carl. You are fucking crazy if you think I am going to let you do that to me.”

“I guarantee satisfaction, Miss.”

In my mind, I got up, put my clothes on and left. Carl was obviously insane, and needed to be committed to an asylum where he would never be in contact with women again. Yet, as hard as it might be to believe, as hard as it was for me to acknowledge, I still thought that I might be the crazy one. Was it just a massage, not sex, not intimacy, simply my satisfaction in exchange for his monetary gain? Why hadn't he been caught before this? Why hadn't a dozen women in the last ten years run screaming from the room and called the police? I fell back to the table, not bothering to cover myself this time. I looked at the ceiling. Maybe, Carl's fingers felt so good the women didn't want to call the police. Maybe, they were all grateful for his skilled caress. The smell of cinnamon was gone. I had avoided the spice ever since I was fifteen, just now realizing why, and I longed to inhale the sweet aroma again.

I was not being manipulated any more. I was in control, and no longer too afraid to stand up for what I wanted. The psychological barriers to my resisting being molested were broken, forever. I could do as I pleased, and my trips with my mother taught me that it was all right to please myself. I smiled at the idea of letting Carl finish me off with his two slimy, but capable hands, then having him thrown in jail for the rest of his life. The satisfaction of such ironic justice eased me into a smile.

“All right, Carl,” I said. “Finish the massage. And make it every bit as good as last time.”

“Very well, Miss.”

Epilog
She recently had her second boy, hopes to have a girl someday, hasn’t had a massage in 10 years. She did report Carl, and he died before he could be prosecuted.

Story  TOC ·  Two ·  Beauty ·  Pleasure ·  Pedo ·  Nights 

Pedo Ming (Mg)

Right on time. That bitch likes punctuality in her employees. The black Cadillac limo eases to a stop on my left at one of San Diego’s busier intersections. The chauffeur’s brown hair pulled into a ponytail is visible through the windshield, her cap on the dashboard. She likes them to dress up, too.

I raise the antenna on the homemade unit and wait for the traffic light facing her to turn green. Blink, and I press the button. The limo lurches forward and stops halfway into the intersection. Honking erupts from behind the obstruction. I can hear the engine cranking as I pull up to the light, and make a right turn. In the rear view mirror I see her getting out of the car to look under the hood. When she decides to use her cell phone, it will be too late.

Thirty seconds later I pull to the curb in front of the Spanish motif school building, behind three other limos almost identical to my rental, save for her logo on the outside of the door. There are dozens of uniformed elementary school children in small gaggles, waiting to be picked up. She is there already, as usual, pointing her finger at her daughter, no doubt reaming her bloody for some minor infraction.

Children hop into vehicles that pull away, one by one, allowing me to ease toward her. She will send her daughter off with a friend’s mother to acting class, as she does every Thursday, then direct me to take her back to work. It is all going as programmed. I congratulate myself on my good planning.

RB was fond of saying, “The plan is nothing; the planning is everything.” She gave interviews to business magazines about the value of strategic planning, even wrote a self-aggrandizing book on how planning took her to the top in injection molding plastics. She echoed the concept in her meetings and missives, and it reverberated down to the least of her employees.

I took the message to heart, after she fired me. She marched into the conference room after the demo with her sycophants skittering behind, her white teeth clenched and her blue eyes fluorescent. She wore red high heels, a red skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse. The blond hair held high and tight on her head looked as if it was tugging at her eyebrows.

“Which one is Strausman?” Someone pointed to me. “You are no longer an employee of mine,” she shrieked, pointing her finger. “Go back to San Jose, Mr. Strausman, and clean out your cubicle.”

She commanded everyone’s attention with her long ridicule of my work. After the first couple of minutes, I lost track of what she was saying. All I could focus on was the blue and red scarf tied loosely around the pale neck of the satanic Barbie Doll. How the soft material caught the air from her exaggerated gestures and her heaving breasts as she tried to impress her employees with my theatrical and hostile dismissal. The sheer, synthetic cloth floated up and down as she walked back and forth, exposing and masking her cleavage, taunting like a matador’s cape.

For the first time in my life I seriously entertained the thought of killing someone–and a very entertaining notion it was.

I imagined tightening the silk knot of the scarf around her neck until she couldn’t walk, and her hands slapping at her neck desperately trying to tear away the ligature. She stops yelling as the scarf presses into her larynx, then only whispers escape from her throat, her face reddens and swells, and her eyes bulge like a tropical fish.

The redness spreads down her neck until the tops of her breasts are bright pink. Her eyes roll and the lashes flutter like pinwheels in a breeze. Her tongue begins to protrude, pink at first, then blue, and her knees buckle and her hands drop, and I lay her on the ground, eyes open, and still. I had finished my fantasy, but she had not stopped ranting. That was when I realized it was no longer entertainment. The idea of killing her took hold.

I cleaned out my desk, my apartment, and my savings account, and took an extended vacation near Cabo San Lucas. I thought I could drown the notion in Mexican tequila, but even weeklong binges couldn’t dislodge the idea. The frequent thoughts, random at first, evolved into a plan. Eight months later, my plan is working splendidly. I will do everyone at my old job a favor, put an end to that despicable woman’s life, and retire in comfort.

As I pull to a stop and get out I recognize her daughter’s friend waving to her. I pull my cap down low as I open the door for RB.

“Where’s Crossly?” she snaps.

“She asked me to fill in,” I say. “Personal problems, I believe.”

This sets RB off on a mumble about unreliable employees, just as I knew it would, then she shoots me a look, “You look familiar.”

“I’ve picked you up a couple of times.”

She grunts and returns her attention to her daughter, allowing me to sigh in relief at easing through the riskiest part of my plan, the possibility of RB recognizing me. She only saw me the day she fired me, and I had a beard and about twenty extra pounds, but she is not stupid, just too high and mighty to recognize an ex-employee.

“Her daughter begins complaining in earnest, “Why can’t I go?”

“No more acting class until your grades come up,” she commands. RB turns to me again, “Take her straight home, and don’t let her talk you into going anywhere else.”

“What? What about you? I thought I was going to…”

RB directs her commander’s voice toward me, “Take Vanessa home. I’m not going back to work, someone’s picking me up.”

Vanessa throws her books into the backseat and climbs in afterward. Stunned, I shut the door and walk around to the driver’s side and get in. This wasn’t the plan. That bitch has slipped through my fingers, and when she finds out her regular chauffeur didn’t ask me to fill in, I’ll never get another chance.

A minute later we are out of the school gates and headed for the freeway. I am following the plan because I can’t think of an alternative. I flick the modified lock to prevent her from opening the doors at a stoplight.

I glance in the rear view mirror. Vanessa is looking at me oddly. She twirls her hair as it lies across the shoulder of her blue sweater, and she flicks lint off her blue plaid skirt. She may sense something is up. That school doesn’t take idiots, even if their parents are rich.

I helped make RB rich. I gave that woman and her company my soul for nine years, worked plenty of uncompensated overtime, never took vacations, and missed some well-deserved promotions. I am a reasonable man and I understand the world of business. I was not the best-dressed or most attractive, but my work was good, solid, and reliable. One stinking mistake on a molding machine software demo to the board, and she made me an example to the rest of her staff. I almost had her, too.

I can’t take the kid home, the chauffeur will have alerted RB, and they will be looking for me. I’d better continue until I think of something.

Vanessa looks antsy. After I pull onto the old highway, I flip the switch to roll up the screened window between us.

“Ouch!”

Looking back I see her blond head and a blue clad arm dangling over the partially raised window. Startled, I ask, “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get in front. Put it down.”

I roll the window down to release her. “You’re supposed to stay in the back.” By the time I have finished the sentence she has clambered over and slid into the front seat. She pulls her skirt down, sits back and looks around. “Where are you taking me?”

Crap. I was going to keep her mother in the backseat and then muscle her into the trunk when I switched cars. The side windows are dark enough that no one can see her, and she can’t get out. No harm done.

“I know the way home, and this isn’t it,” she says.

“Just sit back and be quiet.”

“How’d you lock all the doors from the inside?”

I point my finger, “Shut the fuck up!”

She has her mother’s attitude. Looks a little like her, too, now that I see her up close, as if she doesn’t know how to smile. RB never smiles, either.

Vanessa stays quiet, but she picks lint from her sweater and blows it off her fingers in my direction. The kid has balls, climbing up here with me. Why isn’t she cowering in the back?

After the turnoff, the cabin is about a quarter of a mile. The garage door is open by the time I reach the gravel driveway. I pull in next to the other car and watch the wooden door settle to the cement. That was the hardest part of the plan, finding a secluded garage big enough to take a limo. I leave her in the car, open the trunk of the old, Honda sedan, grab the roll of duct tape and open the limo passenger side door.

“Give me your hands.”

She shrinks back in the seat, “Are you going to rape me?”

“No! What a disgusting thing to say.” I grab her thin arm and wrap the tape around the sweater covering her wrist, nod, and she reluctantly gives me the other one. When they are secure, I wrap tape around her white sox binding her ankles together.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Just sit there and be quiet, so I can think.”

This should all still work. I just substitute the kid for her mother. RB doesn’t die, but she will wish she had when I kill her kid.

I check the time on the cell phone. Total elapsed time since pickup: twenty-two minutes. Assuming everything went according to the plan, I should get the call anytime. I won’t be on long enough for a trace or a position, even if she did manage to get the police involved. Then I’ll throw Vanessa in the trunk and head south. I should have a few days head start before they track down the fake identities I used for the cabin, the limo and everything else. My carefully selected, out of the way, Mexican disposal site will take a long time to find. Better they think she is alive awhile.

The phone chimes and I hit the button. On the other end I hear, “Hello? Hello?” It’s her, RB herself, yahoo! She doesn’t sound so commanding now. I place the modulator over the phone.

“You have fifteen minutes to wire the money. If I don’t get confirmation by then, your daughter is dead. When I get the confirmation, I will let you know where to pick her up. Understood?”

“I want to talk to my daughter.”

I push the phone at Vanessa and say, “Speak.”

“Yeah,” she says, eying me warily.

“Vanessa, darling. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m okay, but I think he’s going to rape me.”

Jerking the phone from her ear I cover it with the modulator and yell, “I’m not going to rape her. Your daughter will be fine. Just wire the money.” I close the connection. “What did you have to say that for? I told you I wasn’t going to touch you.”

“The kidnapped girls in the news always get raped.”

“Ten year old girls shouldn’t be listening to that kind of news.” I put tape over her mouth, and pick her up in my arms. She is heavier than I expected and she stares at me as I place her in the trunk of the sedan. As I lay her in position, she moans through the tape, pleading with her eyes. I didn’t plan on making her comfortable. I wouldn’t have made RB comfortable. I look around for something in the garage, pull a couple of old army blankets from a shelf, sit her up, spread them out and lay her back down. I close the trunk and sit in the car to wait.

The phone chimes and an innocuous sounding computerized message plays. My automated scan of the account has confirmed the deposit. I hit a few numbers to trigger another call to RB, which will send her on a wild goose chase looking for Vanessa, and delay her contacting the police.

The drive south on Highway Five goes smoothly for late afternoon. We are well into Baja California before dark, and I take the road out of Ensenada toward the low foothills near the Santo Tomás Valley. A half-hour down the road I locate the turn off I found last year. There is a log barricade over the road and a sign. Something about the road being washed out. My Spanish is terrible. That place is so perfect. No one wants to go near an abandoned hazardous waste dump.

I’ll revise the plan. A good plan can accommodate change. Leaning over the hood of the car, I study the map with a flashlight for an alternate site. If I continue into the Sierra de Juárez mountains, I should be able to drop her off a steep ledge into a remote valley. Satisfied, I fold up the map and continue down the road.

An hour later I am dozing at the wheel and almost run into an isolated motel building. The long day and the tension is catching up to me, and I don’t think I can make it to the mountains without sleep. I decide to sleep here, and do it on the way out in the morning. “It’s not the plan that’s important, but the planning,” I say out loud.

I speak enough Spanish to get a room. The owner is too drunk to stand, but he takes my American money and directs me to the end of the long, low building. I park as far away from the office as possible, and carry my bags into the room. The dim light from the lamp by the bed sends cockroaches scrambling, and a musty odor emanates from inside. Assuring myself there is no one around; I wrap Vanessa in the blankets and carry her inside, placing her on the foot of the bed.

As I unwrap her she begins jerking at the restraints, as if she is trying to escape. “If you promise not to try to get away, I’ll let you sit up.”

She nods and I remove the tape from her mouth.

She sits up and says, “I have to pee.”

“Oh” I was planning on being alone by this time, not babysitting. I consider several strategies for peeing with ankles tied together, none of which seem feasible for a girl. I remove the tape from her socks and point to the bathroom.

Vanessa stands and thrusts her taped hands toward me. “Can you pee without hands?”

She has her mother’s smart mouth, too. I pull the tape from around the sweater covering her wrists and step back. I prepare myself for her running for the door, or to clap my hand over her mouth if she screams.

She turns quickly and closes the bathroom door behind her, but it doesn’t stay shut until she holds it with her hand.

“You’d better do what your told,” I say to the door. “Or I’ll tie you up again.”

I hear her pee, and then yell loud enough to make me flinch, “How do you flush this thing?”

“Be quiet!” She opens the door and I look in to a small, dingy room containing a toilet and a sink. There is another fixture that might be a bathtub, but appears to have served for many years as a trough. I reach for the chain of the overhead water closet and pull.

“Oh,” she says. “Thanks.” She follows me out and begins surveying our surroundings. “What a dump.”

I look around at the single luggage rack, the double bed, a dresser held together by a thick coat of green paint, and the night table with the lamp. She is right.

“My back is sore,” she says, twisting her shoulders about.

“Just sit down and be quiet.”

She bounces on the bed a few times, and reclines against the rickety headboard.

If I kill her now, I won’t have to worry about her getting away. That would be creepy though, spending all night in a room with a dead little girl. Tomorrow, I’ll find a steep cliff and drop her over the edge. I’ll tie her up for the night before I fall asleep. There is no one around except the drunken owner. No problem. I move the dresser in front of the door.

There is nowhere else to sit, so I join Vanessa on the bed and pour over the map.

“Did my mother pay you the money?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do with me, now?”

I need to keep her calm. “Ah… wait a day or two, and send you back.”

Vanessa has that same suspicious look she had in the limo after I picked her up. She slaps the bed and watches the dust motes fly up. “Good thing I don’t have allergies.”

“Yes,” I say. “Good thing.”

“Where are we going?”

“South.”

She mulls this over while she looks around the room, and pauses at a sign in Spanish. “Are we in Mexico.”

“Yes.”

She sits up and crawls to the edge of the bed, eyeing my duffle bags. “Are those your clothes and stuff?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bring me a toothbrush, or pajamas, or anything?” she asks.

“No.”

I am distracted from my study of the map when I notice Vanessa is crying quietly. I try to ignore it. I should have killed her at the cabin and left her in the trunk. I wonder how long it takes before a body starts to smell. In this heat, not long. It is only a slight modification of the plan to do it in the morning.

“Are you going to sell me into slavery,” she asks though her sniffles.

The idiocy of her question surprises me. “Haven’t you been paying attention in school? Slavery has been outlawed. They fought a war and everything.”

“Not that kind of slavery. I mean sell me as a sex slave. I’d be worth a lot of money, seeing as how I’m only ten, blond, and kinda cute, too.”

I drop the map in amazement, “I’ve never heard of such a thing. I would never sell a little girl into slavery.” Vanessa is a very strange child. Where would she get an idea like that? Her mother, no doubt. RB probably threatened to sell her into slavery if she didn’t plan her schoolwork sufficiently.

Vanessa whimpers some more, and wipes her eyes on her sleeve.

No reason for her to be miserable tonight. “Look.” I reach into another bag. “I have some food. Have a banana or an orange. All from the states. And bottled water. Don’t drink the water here, it’ll kill you.” Nice choice of words, stupid.

“Thanks,” she says, and takes the orange.

I return to my map.

She peels and eats the orange, licking the juice loudly off her fingers and wiping the remainder on her sleeve. After sitting quietly awhile, she asks, “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’m not hungry. You go ahead.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “Do you have enough for both of us?”

“It’s all right, you can eat it all.”

She wipes another tear on her sleeve and opens a bottle of water. After drinking with loud, gulping sounds, she places the bottle upright between her legs, and expels a long sigh. She wraps both hands around the bottle and pulls it up, and pushes it down. I return to the map. From the corner of my eye I see her peal the banana slowly and then, instead of eating, wrap her lips around the white meat and push it in and out of her mouth.

“Please don’t play with your food.”

She stops abruptly. “Don’t you like that?”

“I don’t like children who play with their food.”

A serious look takes over as she bites into the banana and says, “It’s so big.” She casts occasional glances my way. The banana gone, she rummages around in the bag, eats a granola bar, a bag of potato chips, two rice cakes, and three individual containers of cheese and crackers. When she is done she surveys the paper remains, looks embarrassed and says, “I’ve eaten most of your food.”

“It’s okay.”

She begins licking her fingers again. Tilting her head back, she slides her index finger down her throat and pulls it out slowly, with an ‘mmmm’ sound. After cleaning several fingers in this way, she looks at me, and says, “Would you like to lick my fingers?”

I throw down the map. “What is with you and the lewd gestures and suggestions?”

“Men usually like to lick my fingers. Are you gay?”

“No, I’m not gay. And why do you let men lick your fingers?”

“Because they like it so much.”

“You shouldn’t let men lick your fingers. They’ll get the wrong idea.”

“That’s called foreplay.”

“Foreplay. What do you know about foreplay?”

“Want me to show you?”

“No, I don’t want you to show me. I want you to tell me what you know about foreplay.”

“Okay. I can talk dirty, too. Do you know what I’m thinking, right now?”

I sit up. “No, no, no. I don’t want you to talk dirty to me. I want you to explain, with words, how you learned about foreplay.”

“Haberly.”

My face changes into a question.

“Mr. Haberly was our handyman, before Mom fired him.”

“Did he… touch you?”

“Every way you can.”

I’m stunned. The poor kid. “Did he go to jail?”

“Oh, no.”

“But you said RB fired him.”

“She did. She said he didn’t plan ahead in his work.”

“Didn’t you tell her about him molesting you.”

“Of course not.”

“He threatened you, huh?”

“No, I liked it. I was sorry to see him go.”

This kid is crazy. “Nobody likes being molested. It degrading and humiliating.”

“Makes me come like a train down a mountain.”

“What did you say?”

“He made me feel like a woman, splash my pants, come, orgasm?”

I suddenly feel as if I am looking at an alien being. “I didn’t think ten-year-old girls could have orgasms.”

“I generally have three or four at a time, if the guy is any good, or if he has an especially big cock.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Try me out. I could use a little lovin’.”

I fall back on the bed, unable to find words to respond. Her mother is crazy, and this is her child, so that makes sense, but the depravity of a child so wanton makes my skin crawl.

“Shall we get naked?” she asks.

“Nobody is getting naked, all right? I’m sorry you were molested. Kids shouldn’t get molested. Lets not talk about it any more. I’m getting a headache.” I rummage unsuccessfully in my toilet kit for aspirin. Why didn’t I plan for headaches?

Vanessa kicks off her shoes and wiggles her toes through her white sox. “How long have you been working for my mother?”

“What makes you think I work for your mother?”

“Only her employees call her RB. That’s short for rotten bitch.”

I can’t help but grin. “I thought it was righteous ball-buster.”

Vanessa laughs, “I like that one better.” It is a charming, child’s laugh, as though she has just been tickled.

It doesn’t matter now if she knows a little. “I was there nine years. Until she fired me.”

“She fires everybody. She fired my dad too. He doesn’t come around any more.”

“Why not?”

“Doesn’t like me, I guess. I think he’s afraid I’m going to be like mom. He says she bit his balls off. I wouldn’t do that, though.” She finds some lint and wads it up. “I’d be good for him.”

“Your mom has a boyfriend. What’s he like?”

“Hick with a dick. From Texas. Hates kids.”

“Is there anybody else? I mean that you like.”

“Not since Haberly.”

This kid has been through a lot. “Maybe we should get some rest.” I check the door to make sure it is secure, and move the luggage rack in front of the window, stacking my bags on top. The window is stuck shut. I kick off my shoes and curl up on my side of the bed away from Vanessa, and turn out the light.

“I’ll rub your back for you,” she says.

I feel small, surgical instruments pierce my kidneys. “Ouch. What are you doing?”

“You need to relax. Haberly said I was a great massager.”

“I’m sure Haberly had his mind on something else when he said that. Go to sleep.”

I hear the rustling of clothing and Vanessa crawling under the shabby blanket and sheet. “Aren’t you going to get in?” she asks.

“I’ll sleep out here.”

“Please. I won’t be able to sleep without some skin next to me.”

“How did you sleep at home?”

She pauses, “Haberly came to my room every night.”

“How could he molest you every night? Wasn’t your mother paying any attention?”

“Mom doesn’t pay attention unless it’s business. I’m not business. I’m trouble.”

“Jesus, that fucking bitch. It’s bad enough she screws people over at work, but to screw over her own kid.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“No. But if I did, I’d pay enough attention to make sure they weren’t getting molested every night.”

“Yeah? What would you do with them?”

“Well, I’d take them places, you know, and do fun things.” I turn onto my back to stare at the cracked paint on the ceiling. “My mom used to take us, my brother David and me, all over during the summer. I loved going camping at Big Basin.”

Vanessa looks blank.

“It’s a park you can camp in, with redwood trees.”

“Why?”

“It’s fascinating. Did you know redwood trees are the oldest living things on the planet?”

“What about your dad?” she asks.

“He died when I was about your age. My mom was always trying to make up for it by taking us places.”

“Where have you been?”

“All of the state parks where there are redwoods, all around Lake Tahoe, Yosemite and Yellowstone, and the Grand Canyon. How about you?”

“Mom is too busy to take vacations. I went on a couple of business trips, but it wasn’t much fun. Is camping fun?”

“Oh, Yeah. The best part was the hiking. We used to hike to the top of the ridge at Big Basin with our lunch. The redwoods were as thick as grass all the way down to the beach, and then nothing but ocean as far as you could see. And the salt air stung our faces.” I can smell the salt now.

“Did she ever read to you?”

“Sometimes. Mostly we talked. We had some great talks up there.”

“If you had kids, would you read to them?”

“Sure,” I say. “If they wanted, I would read to them every night.”

“My dad used to read to me. I liked that. Did you bring anything to read to me?”

“No. I, ah, forgot.”

She frowns, maybe about to cry again.

“I guess you miss him.”

She nods. “Are you lonely, too.”

I nod. “Sort of, but not for long. I’m going to find a woman in Argentina.”

“Why Argentina?”

“After this, I need to be far away.”

“Are you taking me to Argentina?”

“No.” I turn back to the ceiling. I try to think of a credible answer for what I am going to do with her when she asks. I can’t think of anything she would believe.

“Why don’t you get into bed?” she says, “It’ll be warmer for you, and I’ll have someone to sleep with.”

Maybe cuddling will keep her mind on something else. “All right.” I take off my watch and put my wallet under my pillow, take off my pants and shirt, and settle under the covers in my underwear. Vanessa pokes at my arm and snuggles under with her head on my chest. When I bring my arm down, my hand brushes her hair and the middle of her back before coming to rest. She is not wearing any clothes. The skin of her back is warm and smooth, like a piece of plastic right out of the mold. I have never felt skin so smooth. Her hair smells like Gardenias.

Vanessa drags her hand down over my boxers and begins searching.

“Hey. I’m not Haberly. Got it?”

Her hand returns to my chest and she twirls her finger in the hair that pokes out of the neck of my undershirt. “I’ll bet you’d sleep better if you let me get your rocks off.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I give great head,” she says.

“I’m sure you do. Lets try to get some sleep.”

A few minutes later Vanessa drifts off. The only light is from a waxing crescent moon creeping around the curtain of the single window, and the only noise is Vanessa’s breathing.

I haven’t felt the weight of another person’s body against mine in a long time. Not since I started planning this. I’m lonelier than I thought. I smile at the memory of my mother, David and me piled into the little tent at Big Basin, flopping against each other all night, but warm.

And the talks. I remember sitting up on that ridge and talking until sunset. It was funny how we always looked at the ocean instead of each other when we talked, but we could say anything that way. Ask any question at all and Mom would answer. David was always asking about sex, and we laughed to tears at the dumb questions he came up with. I hardly ever see David these days. Talking is the thing I miss most since Mom died. I wish I had her to talk to now. She wouldn’t be happy I was going to murder a little girl.

Vanessa turns in her sleep until her back is against my chest, and her head is on my arm. She settles, and begins a child’s snore.

***

First light is streaming in around the ratty curtain. Vanessa is sitting up and looking under the covers. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

“That’s a monster looking bulge in your pants. Lets drag that snake out of the hole and see how he slithers.”

I slap the covers down. “Stop that.”

“I knew I could make you horny for me. It just took awhile, huh?” She throws the covers down and flops on her back, her naked body golden in the early light. “Let’s put that bad boy to work,” she says in a gravelly voice.

Vanessa is the cutest little girl I have ever seen. Her skin is tan except for the outline of a bikini swimsuit, and smooth from her lean arms to her bony legs. Her tousled hair partially covers her nipples, which are barely more than a boy’s. A slight, blond tuft of hair sits between her legs, and the fine, almost white, hairs that cover the rest of her body glint in the morning sun.

“I am not horny for you. Get dressed.”

“What about your raging hard-on? That proves you’ve got the hots for me.”

“For your information, men always get erections in the morning. It doesn’t mean they have the hots for anybody.”

She points at my bulging shorts. “It’s even harder now that you’ve seen me naked. Admit it. You want to do me.”

“Most guys get horny when a cat sits in their lap. That doesn’t mean they want to screw the cat. Go get dressed.”

Vanessa pouts, “Where are my clothes?”

“Oh. I put them in my bag, in case you tried to get away.”

She takes her clothes reluctantly, and goes into the bathroom.

When she returns, I get up, and she stares at my crotch as I walk by. With difficulty, I pee and my erection subsides. When I return from brushing my teeth, Vanessa is sitting on the bed.

“You piss like a racehorse. I forgot to tell you. I like water sports.”

“What? You mean synchronized swimming?”

“No, dummy. I’ll pee on you. Or you can pee on me. I’ll even swallow it. Isn’t that nasty?”

I sit on the edge of the bed holding my stomach. “I think I’m going to be sick. I wish you hadn’t said that before breakfast.”

“Sorry.”

I wave her off.

“Can I borrow your toothbrush?” she asks. “I didn’t brush last night, and I don’t want to get cavities.”

A knot replaces the nausea, and I hand her the toothbrush and toothpaste.

She brushes vigorously while I pack the bags. Finished, she hands both items back to me. “Carl?”

“How do you know my name is Carl?”

“I looked in your wallet. Lousy picture. Doesn’t do you justice. You don’t look 33.”

Now she knows my name. “Thanks.”

“You’ve kind of got that Tom Hanks thing going, with the cute smile and gray eyes. Not as good looking as my dad, though. He’s a hunk. But I think your dick’s bigger.”

“Thank you, but the compliments aren’t necessary.” I don’t want to know how she can make the comparison.

“How come you don’t like the usual things men like?”

“Peeing on each other is not the usual thing. Sex with a ten-year-old girl is not the usual thing.”

“There must be something that turns you on. How about games? You could be the chauffeur and I could be the nasty princess.”

“We’ve already played that.”

“How about the very strict school teacher.” She stands and turns to flick her skirt up at me, exposing her underpants. “I could be the naughty school girl.” She shakes her bottom.

“No, thank you.”

“I need to be spanked,” she yells, and throws herself across my knees. “Spank me, hard.”

I land a quick slap to her butt.

“Ouch,” she yells, and falls off my lap, rubbing her rear. Her surprise fades, and she says. “I’m sorry. Do it again.” She tries to climb on my lap but I hold her wrists and she begins crying on the floor in front of me. “Please, spank me,” she says. “As hard as you want. I was just surprised, is all.”

“Stop it. You’re not turning me on.”

“I wanna be your slut, Carl. What does turn you on?”

“Women. Grown women. With, you know, hips and breasts.”

She looks down at her white blouse, and frowns. Vanessa drapes her arm on my knee, and lays her head on her arm, whimpering.

I need to get rid of her soon. I can’t travel with her. An older Anglo man and an attractive blond girl who don’t look related would draw way to much attention. I need to blow this place and get to the mountains farther east. She has been around too long already, and she knows my name. I have to get on with the plan. I’ll be caught if I don’t follow the plan.

“Vanessa, I have thought of something that would turn me on with a little girl.”

She perks up. “What?”

“It’s very nasty. Do you think you’re up to it?”

“Sure, Carl. I’m up for anything.”

“It has to be in a special place, though. So we need to leave here now. We’ll find some breakfast, and load up the car and go. Only, I need you to ride in the trunk. If anyone sees us together, I’ll get caught, and we won’t be able to do the real nasty thing.”

“Okay. What is it?”

“If I don’t tell you until later, thinking about it will make it more exciting.”

“Whatever hones your cone, Carl. I aim to please.”

“Great. Lets get started.”

“Your pretty lucky, you know. Not everybody gets to pop the cherry of a multi-orgasmic ten-year-old blond.”

“I thought Haberly popped your cherry?”

Her face scrunches up. “Ah, no. He was an ass man. I’m still tight back there, though. Wanna play hide the salami in the outhouse?”

“Thanks. Maybe later.”

I load the car, wrap her loosely in the blanket and place her in the trunk. Before I leave, the motel owner’s wife runs out offering freshly made tamales. I pay her for a bagful, and pull away reminding myself to get focused on the plan. It will be easier with Vanessa out of sight. I’ll find a high ledge off a mountain road, strangle her, throw her over and drive away. Then it’s south and an early retirement, maybe on a beach in Mar del Plata. Find a bank that handles wire transfers from Belgium, maybe a native woman with breasts the size of cantaloupes. I would love to see some real breasts.

I hear a clunk from the back of the car. The back seat flops down and Vanessa’s frazzled blond head pops out.

“Isn’t this cool? I can crawl all the way through.” She climbs over, hits me in the back of the head with her foot, settles into the front seat and puts on her seat belt.

Why didn’t I anticipate that? I grip the steering wheel, steeling myself for what has to happen.

Vanessa is quiet as we munch tamales and ascend into the mountains between the coast and us. I have to stay focused on the plan. Remember who put me in this situation, who gave me the royal fucking in the first place. I’ll bet RB is sorry now. No amount of pain is too much for her.

Lets her own daughter get raped by the handyman. The kid has been so abused she is a total slut. Has no self-esteem, the way she throws herself at me. She’ll be a crack whore by the time she is a teenager. Probably get stabbed to death by a demented dealer. I shouldn’t feel too bad about ending her life early.

“How’s the snake?” she asks.

“What snake?”

“Your one-eyed trouser snake. I could hum you while you drive.”

“I don’t want to be hummed.”

“You can come on my face. The way you hold out, I’ll bet you could squirt me blind.”

“No.”

“Do you have a dildo?”

I pat my pockets. “Gee, no. I must have left it in my black leather pants with my cock circle.”

“I think you mean cock ring. You’re getting kind of upset.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s just that it’s been a while, you know. A girl has needs.”

“So you want a dildo?”

“Or a vibrator. I have a vibrating dildo at home. Put that on my clit and I come like cows to a milking.”

“Oh, please.”

“Licking’s good too. Do you like to lick pussy?”

“Can’t you talk about anything else?”

“How come you don’t like sex?”

“I like sex, I just don’t like sex with little girls.”

“Everybody likes sex with little girls. Every daddy wants to be seduced by his little girl.”

“I read about this. Kids who have been molested have a very distorted view of sexuality.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you’re wrong. Real fathers don’t want to screw their daughters.”

“How do you know?” Vanessa snarls and punches me in the arm with her fist, hard. “Your father died.” She sits back on the seat, sits up again, and swings, landing another blow to the same place.

“What’s the matter with you?” I massage the tender area to no affect.

She cries into the window, her sad face reflected back to me in flickers as we move along the old highway. I will be able to end her pain soon.

An hour or so later she turns to me. “Carl, I’m sorry I hit you. I really want to be your slut. Will you still do the nasty thing with me?”

“Yes, Vanessa. In a little while.”

“Sure you don’t want to warm up with a bubble fuck?”

“I don’t even know what that is, but no.”

We are near the summit on a road that is largely deserted, with only an occasional truck passing. There are a few turnouts that offer an unobstructed view of the surrounding terrain. I pull into one with plenty of vegetation and park the car in a thick stand of brush. Looking beyond the brush, I notice a suitable flat spot near the edge. I grab the blankets from the trunk and motion for Vanessa to get out. It is going according to the plan.

I spread the blankets out on the ground and sit down. Vanessa sits nearby, cross-legged.

“What’s special about this place?”

“I like the view. That’s the Gulf of California down there,” I say, pointing to the blue water below the haze. I could sit up here all day.

“It has bugs.”

“Oh, well. They’re small.”

“She stands up and takes off her shoes and socks. After she looks around, she drops her skirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for your nasty thing,” she says.

“No, you can leave your clothes on.”

“Do you want to cut them off me?”

“No, just leave them–”

She removes her blouse and bra and drops them onto the pile. She sits next to me with only her underpants on. “I like to feel my man when I fuck.”

I can’t stall any more. Get rid of this kid and RB and I will both get what we deserve. I have gone too far to turn back now. I pull the sheer, blue and red scarf from my pocket and roll it into a cord.

Vanessa’s eyes grow wide and she lays her hand on my shoulder. “Are you going to tie me up? Haberly used to tie me up and fuck me in the ass all the time. If you push your finger on my clit, I’ll come right away.”

“No, I’m not going to tie you up.”

“Are you going to put clothespins on my nipples? I can take a lot of pain, and that makes me come too.”

“No. Why don’t you lie down?”

Vanessa reclines on her back with her hands to her breasts, and pulls her knees up off the blanket. “My cherry’s waiting for you, Carl. Rip my pants off and make me yours forever. Flex me with your fuck muscle.”

She lifts her head as I lean over and slip the scarf under her neck. I see RB in her eyes, but RB never looked afraid.

“I know about this, Carl. Strangulation makes your orgasms better. Is this your nasty thing? I’ve never tried it, but it sounds so exciting. I’ll do it for you.”

I make a knot and tighten it enough to wrinkle the skin of her neck.

“Strangle me, Carl. Start fucking and strangling me, be mine forever.”

I imagine Vanessa’s eyes bulging as I have often imagined RB’s eyes bulging. It is not entertaining.

Vanessa begins talking more rapidly. “I want you, Carl. I love you. Fill me with your hot seed and make me come a million times as you strangle me.” Tears fall from the corners of her eyes.

My eyes squeeze shut.

“I want you to strangle and fuck me all the time.”

I can feel her tears run over my hand. I tell myself it will be over soon if I can pull tight and hold on.

“I’ll be you’re slut, Carl. You can take me to parties and let you’re friends gang-bang and humiliate me. I’ll fuck dogs for you Carl, and horses.”

I wish my hands were free to cover my ears. I can’t stand to hear her.

“Think of my little body being fucked by a horse. Strangle me while I fuck a horse, Carl.” Vanessa pulls at my shirt with both hands, forcing me closer to her as she cries, her breath hot on my face. “Just read to me, Carl. I’ll do anything for you if you read to me.”

A strong sea breeze whips at my face until I can taste the salt on my lips. My eyes open to Vanessa staring at me through her tears, still twisting my shirt, her lips parted and only a few inches from mine. She doesn’t look at all like her mother now.

I untie the scarf. She tries to talk through her sobs and I place my finger on her lips. “Shh, shh,” I say. “It’s all right.” Her words fade as she curls toward me, and I wait for her tears to stop. “You’ve never had sex, of any kind, have you?”

She looks up, surprised. “No.” She wipes her nose on my shirt. “But I’ll do whatever you want. I know all about it.”

“Where did you learn?”

“Haberly’s disk.”

“So there was a Haberly.”

“Sure. He never fucked me, though. He was very nice. When Mom fired him he left in a hurry, and I found one of his computer disks. It was full of stories.

“What kind of stories?”

“Mostly about men and little girls who had sex. Stories like Daddy’s Little Slut pedo ming.”

“Pedo ming?”

“Yeah, pedo Mg. Ming. Sometimes there were other words and letters in the titles, but almost always pedo ming. I never did figure out what those words meant.”

“And you read all of those stories.”

“Uh huh, all summer. It was very interesting. A lot different from Harry Potter.

“I’ll bet.”

“Then I started rehearsing.”

“What do you mean?”

“ I stood in front of the mirror and tried to sound like the little girls in the stories. Sometimes there were sexy women in the stories, and I tried to sound like them, too. It was like learning a part for a play.”

“Vanessa, why would you do that?”

She looks down, toying with a loose thread on my shirt. “I was hoping if Dad ever came around, I could seduce him with all the stuff I learned. Then, he might want to hang out with me.”

I pull her up to sit next to me and wrap my arm around her. “Vanessa, your father doesn’t deserve you.”

Her crying finished, she looks up at me with her sweet, tear streaked face. “Are you still going to kill me?”

“Did you know I was going to kill you all along?”

“When you didn’t bring a toothbrush or anything for me. I figured you planned everything out so well, that meant you weren’t planning on me being around.”

“I was stupid. That must have been scary for you.”

“I thought if you liked fucking me, you would keep me. The men in the stories always loved their child sluts.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Vanessa. I like you without fucking you. You’re very special.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“You mean you don’t want me to pop your cherry?”

Vanessa smiles. “I’m still not sure exactly what that means, but the men in the stories always want to pop your cherry.”

“I’ll find some way to get you on a plane out of Mexico City. It might take a few days, but you’ll be home before too long.”

“Thanks.”

We stare out over the rugged brown hills to the Gulf in the distance. The sea breeze kicks up again. I have a sudden urge to do some hiking and camping, and call David. It’s going to be a long time before I see any redwoods again, maybe never.

“I’m sorry, Vanessa,” I say, holding her away from me to see her clearly. “I made the same mistake your father did. I couldn’t look past your mother to see you. I didn’t plan that very well.”

She falls against me, her hands in her lap, and we gaze at the vista before us.

“Carl,” she says. “Will they catch you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will I ever see you again?”

“If you ever get to Argentina, let me know.”

“Maybe when I’m older, and have some tits.”

“Yeah. You’d better put your clothes on, before you get sunburned.

Epilog
Vanessa was returned home safely, but reportedly refused to discuss what occured during the kidnapping. Carl remains at large.

Story  TOC ·  Two ·  Beauty ·  Pleasure ·  Pedo ·  Nights 

Nights Of Wonder (Mf)

July 13th

The asphalt shingles are as warm as piss on my bare feet as I light up and wrap my arms around my knees. A full moon burns behind high clouds. My smoke billows out toward the house across the street with a single light on in front. Might be the little chicky’s room. Too bad she has the shade drawn.

That’s all right. I remember what she looked like coming home from school the past two days. Her chocolate brown hair swished around her shoulders and her fourteen-year-old breasts when she walked until my crotch felt like a nest of ants. Puffy lips turned down, and dark eyebrows over large eyes made her look like one of those exotic girls on a travel poster for a faraway island. She held her back straight like the young ones do, as if she had a stick up her butt that went clean to her head.

She frowned as she walked alone toward her house, the kind of frown that looks as though she was born wearing it. I smiled my best ‘Hey little girl, you want some of this?’ smile, and flicked my chin her way to get her attention. I like to make them look like they are going to throw up to put them on edge a little, get them thinking. Marlena looked at me as if I was a stray dog, not sure if I would beg or bite. Even so, that slim bitch made me scratch my crotch, shudder, and scratch again. Thinking about her now makes me lie on my back and scratch.

I think about her a lot up here because I sleep poorly, and I have nothing to do on a hot night when the good T.V. shows are over except sit outside my window and smoke. Mom told me how Marlena was real smart, and that her family had moved in only a few months back. I wonder if she still has her cherry. The ones with their cherries are the best, like ice cream when you’re stoned. I wonder how I can get her to let me pop her cherry. I wonder why a girl who looks like a rich bitch model is living in this dump of a neighborhood.

The neighborhood used to be better, before my dad retired, when I was still a kid. Now the lawns have been replaced with concrete or colored rocks that can’t keep the weeds down. The fences slump and the hedges are so thin from neglect I can see the previous shades of brown around the bottoms of the houses. I hate being back here in my old neighborhood, but it’s an easy gig to housesit for a couple of weeks while my parents drive around the country in that piece-of-shit Winnebago of theirs. I don’t have to talk to Betty, either, since she doesn’t know where I went when I left my studio apartment slash dumpster, and quit that lame-ass job. They wanted to promote me, for crissakes. They might as well seal me up in one of their boxes and FedEx me to hell.

Betty would be burning up the phone lines if she knew my number. She wants to get her hands in my pants real bad, but no way am I going to end up with a chunky woman two years older than me who wants me to work at a fucking box factory. She talked like my mother, too: future this, future that, you’ve got to plan for your future. I am only twenty-two years old, and I don’t want a future.

I am going to spend my time popping cherries on the little ones, the ‘Oh, it’s so big,’ and the ‘Is this how you do it?’ little bitches who need a spit in the snatch from my snake the same way a baby needs to learn to walk. I could show that Marlena across the street a thing or two. Mom said her mother is part Vietnamese, and her dad is white, and that’s why she looks so dark and beautiful. I wonder what her nipples look like on her beginning breasts. I’m guessing she has small ones, because Asian women in the porn flicks always have tiny, stiff nipples. Thinking about her stiff-as-nails nipples makes me scratch.

She ain’t my type, though. Frowns too much. I like the smiling, little blond haired, green-eyed bitches at the mall with pants so tight you can see the outlines of their thong and daddy’s credit card in their back pocket. I love it when they squeal and giggle together like little kids because I know I can grow them up some. Slipping it to a giggling blondie while her mouth hangs open in surprise, that’s for me.

July 14th

She should be happy, and I should be bragging, I think. I’ve been flopping around up here in my jeans and tee shirt puzzling the matter ever since she left. I’ve never been much for solving puzzles, so I expect I could lay out here with my bare feet dangling over the gutter all night, and never get to understanding why.

It’s too quiet on this dead end street. There’s mostly old retired farts living around here, and they all go to bed at nine o’clock. I’ll bet they never see a moon like this. There’s nothing in it’s way tonight, and the solid disc throws pale light over everything below me. It’s funny how everything looks different now that the moon is high, not like earlier, when every shadow was dark.

That’s why she made me start when she slid out of the black of her porch. Her white spaghetti strap top wrapped tight around her little chicky breasts was the brightest thing around. Marlena walked to the middle of the street between her house and mine, holding something in her hands. She had on big, fuzzy bedroom slippers and pajama bottoms, and her hair was so loose she kept pushing it back behind her ears.

I saw it was cigarettes she was fumbling with, wasting matches until she finally made a go of it, then she coughed on her first draw. Looked like the first time for the little girl. I grinned thinking about how I could show her how to suck that down all the way, and swallow–give her a lesson she’d never forget.

Marlena walked a slow circle in the street smoking like a newbie with one hand, and the other hand tucked, her forearm lifting her pointy breasts. She was dressed too skimpy for a date, so she was planning on being alone out there. I thought about giving her a good scare with a yell, but I decided to let her be and slip back in my window before she noticed. I stabbed my cigarette out on the roof, burned my finger, and swore. That’s how she caught me.

She had thrown her chin up to blow a puff of smoke, as if she was trying for a smoke ring, heard my squawk coming from the roof, and stopped. She didn't scream or look scared shitless like I had imagined. Her head fell again, she circled around the manhole cover a couple of times, coughed, and straightened her path until she was standing on my driveway right under me. I could see her shiny eyes in the dark, and they were wide open and steady. I didn't know if she was going to start yelling or something at me for looking at her, and I turned to go. She said, all calm like, “What are you doing up there?”

“Nothing,” I said. Not that it was any of her business what I was doing. I never asked her to come out.

She says, “Your name is Jimmy, right?” and that made me bristle. She had no right to call me that. My mother calls me that. So I thought I'd do the little bit a favor, and teach her she shouldn’t sneak around in her nightclothes and mess with a guy who knows how to use a dick. So I says, “They call me Candy Man, little girl. And if you aren’t careful, I’m going to show you why.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means I specialize in popping the cherries of little girls like you who just started to bleed.”

“That’s disgusting,” she says, all offended like little girls are supposed to be.

I laughed. “That’s what all the little bitches like you say at first, until they suck on my candy, then I own ‘em. So unless you want me to make you cream and scream, and then beg for more, you’d better leave me be.” I was sure that would send her on her way. A little rough talk always sent ’em running before.

My mother is always saying how you can’t tell about a person from the way they look. That always sounded like just her way of saying she still had hope for me. I didn’t know it yet, but she was right. Marlena sure didn’t look like what she was about. She puffed on the long white cigarette, thoughtful-like, and her smoke glowed up in the just rising moonlight, but she didn’t take her eyes off me. “Beg for more, huh?” she asked, not believing.

I poured it on then. “That’s right, sweetness. Your momma won’t know you when I’m done with you.”

Another puff. “Can you come down here?”

“What for?”

She lowered her voice, “Well, if I’m going to have sex with you, I want to see what you look like.”

The little smart-ass was starting to piss me off. I dropped to my butt near the side of the house, slid off the edge of the roof until my feet found the fence, then jumped down and walked to her. She was shorter than me, less than five-five, with skin showing above her flimsy pants and below her top, and that made me real curious about her navel. She looked me up and down, as if she didn't like what she saw. I'd seen that look plenty of times before, and I figured I could send that baby back to her room lickety-split. She just stood there though, all straight-backed, like she didn’t know what I was about.

“I told you, little girl,” I says, “If you don’t go home right now, I’ll take you into that house, up to my bed, and fuck your brains out, and you will beg me for more.”

Real quiet like she says, “All right.”

“Good,” I says. “Now you get on home before I change my mind, and take you right here.”

Her face screwed up a bit, “No, I mean I’ll go with you.”

I thought she was confused, but she looked like I was confused. “What?”

She puffed her way toward my front door throwing a worried look or two at her house saying, “This way, right?”

“Wait a minute,” I said, following her to the front porch, “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Yes,” she says, stamping her cigarette out with her fuzzy slipper on the step in front of the door. “Why is it called ‘popping your cherry?’”

I couldn’t figure out a thing about her by then, and I said, “I don’t know.”

Marlena, she just opened the door and walked in.

Well, I could see this was going to be the easiest cherry anybody ever got, but that was okay, I could do easy cherry, yes sir I said to myself, I could do easy cherry just fine. I showed her the stairs after we were both inside, and followed her up, pointing to the open door to my room at the top. She peeked in, kind of hesitant like, sniffed a little and said, “Is there another room we can use? This one is filthy.”

I guess it was a little messy, and Mom had taken down all of my cool posters and stuff when I moved out, so I pointed her to my parent’s room.

“Much better,” she said as she walked in and looked around.

I don’t know why she liked that one, there weren’t nothing in the room that wasn’t covered with the frigging blue and white flowers my mother loves so much. Marlena sat on the large bed and put her hands in her lap, and looked around some more.

I started to think, she being so calm and all, that the little chicky don’t have a cherry no more. I said, “I’ll bet you done the deed lots of times, right?”

“No,” she shook her head, “I haven’t.”

“Never?” I says.

Marlena again shook her head, and I guess I believed her ‘cause I felt as if I was swallowing a sock. “You ain’t going to tell or nothing, right?”

“No,” she said. “I won’t tell.”

“You being only fourteen and all means I could get into big trouble from your parents if you told.”

“How did you know I was fourteen?”

“My mom,” I told her. “I guess she talked to your mom.” Marlena looked disappointed, so I said, “You look older. If I didn’t know, I would’ve thought you were older.”

“Thanks,” she said, but I don’t think she believed me.

The way she was sitting there, littlish, but trying to look bigger, kind of made me nervous. I figured if she had a good enough reason, she would start acting like a fourteen-year-old was supposed to, and take off.

“Okay,” I says real loud, tearing off my tee shirt and throwing it on the floor. I was sure Marlena was going to run right back to her bed when she saw my snake ready to strike, and that made me smile. I dropped my pants to let her see I had the right equipment and her face frowned a little, but she didn’t move. I dropped my skivvies slow, and she watched, curious, but not scared. Then I gave myself a few strokes to get things going.

“Are you scared to get undressed, honey,” I teased. “My snake here, make you change your mind?”

“Oh, sorry,” she said, jerking herself to a stand. “I thought you were going to undress me.”

I checked out her hands to see if there was something wrong with them. “Is that what you want? I should undress you?”

“No, that’s okay.” Marlena stepped out of her slippers, turned a little to the left, dropped her pajama bottoms to her ankles, and bent over to take them off. She saw me watching her, and pulled her top off, leaving her standing in her white bra and whiter panties. Damn! Her brown legs looked thin, but strong, with the kind of muscles you see on lady tennis players. I didn’t need no strokes to get going then cause I was getting the itch real bad. She looked like one of those teen catalog models, standing straight up in her undies, and there I was ready to bone her.

She didn’t look happy, though. Not that my scrawny body should make her gash leak, but she asked for it, and she should of looked as if she wanted it. Instead, she looked like a kid waiting for the dentist. I still can’t figure why didn’t she run away.

She pulled her panties down, leaving them with her other clothes, and unhooked her bra before laying it down with the rest.

My mouth was hanging when she turned to face me, unembarrassed, with tiny nipples just like I figured, on her teacup-size breasts, and a thick bush covering her crotch that matched her hair. I was as stiff as an elephant’s tusk by then, and I walked toward her, still thinking she would run. “Now you lay down on the bed,” I say, pointing my finger at her, “because I’m going to stick it to you good.”

She motioned to my tusk, “You have to use a condom.”

I had to think a bit, then, “I got condoms. Don’t you worry, I got condoms for you, baby.” I went to the hall closet and rummaged around until I found Dad’s stash that he hides there for fishing trips, and pulled out a couple. When I came back, I couldn’t believe what I saw.

Marlena had neatly pulled the covers down to the foot of the bed, and was lying on her back on the sheets with her legs spread slightly. That slim, little girl with her blurred tan lines outlining her flattened breasts and narrow cunt, was waiting like I told her, wanting me to pop her cherry. I don’t care what I said. She didn’t even look fourteen with that worried look on her face. I walked toward her tearing the package with my teeth. I started to roll on the ribbed condom, pulled it off, turned it around, and rolled it on again.

I climbed onto the bed placing my knees between her legs. “Now’s the time, darling. You can leave, if you want.”

She took a breath and said, “I’ll stay.”

I wished I’d had some water to push that sock down, again, thinking she must be one, horny little slut under that sad face. She’s probably done this a million times, I thought, and was going to scream like a monkey in a banana tree when I started. I pushed her legs apart and aimed my cock below the patch of hair and nudged in the tip. Lowering myself onto her, I started pushing back and forth. For a horny bitch, she sure was dry. I pushed hard on each stroke because it weren’t easy, and I had to work to get in there. She must of had a cherry like a steel door because I was banging at it, and it wasn’t budging. Marlena was biting her lip, her hand was grabbing at my shoulder, and I was pushing so hard her head was hitting the headboard, and then she gave an, “Ouch” when I pushed through. She was so tight, then I felt liquid, and I grunted it in all the way, back and forth. “Damn!” I said. I ain’t never felt nothing like it. It came from my toes and pushed up my legs until it got to my nuts, and it shot out into that tiny little thing whose lip was turning blue from her biting so hard, and I fell on her wondering why she didn’t scream or look happy she got what she wanted.

July 16th

The moon has come back after a night of hiding behind the fog that hustled in from the coast around dusk. I waited up here last night until the blankets I was wrapped in got wet and cold. I never thought I would see her again, but when the moon came out tonight, so did she. There was a dark edge on the right, but the moon was still glaring bright enough to make the little specks in the asphalt shingles sparkle like the stars above. I was on my back near the window, just like now, blowing smoke sometimes toward the white disk, and sometimes toward Marlena’s house, thinking.

Mostly about her, like how she was doing and stuff, because she wasn’t too happy when she left that night. She bled like a slit pig. I thought she might be still bleeding, or something. She didn’t cry, simply got dressed, turned and said, “That was awful.” I guess losing her cherry wasn’t like she thought it was going to be. Shit, she asked for it. I was thinking of things I could say to her, and I had decided on, “Life’s hard, little girl. You’ve got to take responsibility for your decisions.”

That sounded like Betty. Betty was big on responsibility. I don’t know why that bitch glommed onto me. I ain’t never touched her, but she kept coming over to sit with me at lunch, making me cookies and crap all the time. She kept bugging me to take the lead press operator position they offered. “Make more money, take on some responsibility,” she said, and “Plan for the future.” As if we were going to get married. The last fucking thing I want is to get married, live in some dump of a neighborhood, work my balls off making cardboard boxes until I retire, and drive a piece-of-shit Winnebago around until there ain’t no gas left in the world.

That helped me decide I didn’t have anything to say to Marlena after all, and she wasn’t going to show up anyway, so I rubbed out my cigarette, burned my damn finger again, and slipped back inside. While closing the curtain I saw a shadow move across the street near Marlena’s window. Something about the way she jerked herself across the street said nothing good was going to come from talking to her. I made up my mind to make like I wasn’t home. I didn’t need any trouble from a popped tart that wanted her cherry back. The lights were out and I stayed quiet on my bed. I heard Marlena whispering my name from the driveway. I held my ears, and said to myself, “Go away, little girl.”

A minute later I heard a knock, which I ignored. The knocking grew louder, and I was afraid she would wake up the neighborhood with her knocking and ringing the doorbell. Downstairs, I opened the door two inches. “What?”

“Let me in, Jimmy.”

“It’s Candy Man to you, and no. You got what you asked for, now leave me the fuck alone.”

“Open this door right now or I am going to tell the police you raped me.”

“I did not,” I gasped. “You wanted me to, you said so.”

“I’m under age. It’s still rape even if I begged you to do it. I looked it up. Now let me in.”

“Son of a bitch!” I said, opening the door. “What do you want?”

“I want what you promised.” Marlena is not cute when she is angry. Little girls are supposed to be cute when they’re angry, but Marlena’s frown disappeared behind a mean dog snarl. “You promised I would beg for more. So we are going to keep at it until we get it right, and I beg for more.” Marlena brushed past me with something in her hand, and jumped up the stairs toward my parent’s bedroom. “Get the condoms,” she said from the top of the stairs.

I trudged up thinking, Man, oh man, the little tramp was going to ruin me. When I entered the bedroom with the condoms, she was sitting against the headboard with a book in her lap, clothed.

“Come over here,” she said, “and turn off the overhead light, and turn on this one.”

I flipped the switch by the door and turned on the lamp by the bed. “What do you want?” I asked again. She wasn’t making any sense.

“I want what’s in this book. I borrowed it from my aunt. It’s very old, but it’s what I want.”

The title read, The Joy of Sex. “You want to look at porn?”

“It’s not porn. It’s about how to have sex, so you beg for more.”

She slowly flipped through pages that had very boring drawings of two people getting it on. “Little girl, this porn sucks,” I said.

“Stop calling me, little girl. My name is Marlena, and your name is Jimmy. And if you don’t make me beg for more, I will make sure you end up in jail for popping my cherry. And don’t ever use that expression again, either. We are going to have sex like two adults who want to please and be pleased, the way it says here.”

That is some funny kid, coming over here with her bad porn, wanting to do sex like it was homework. Sex is supposed to be like getting drunk, not like doing math.

She had marked places in the book she wanted us to study, sometimes reading them to me as we looked at the pictures. “I know all about having sex,” I told her, but she kept reading and pointing, saying it never hurts to review the material before class.

“Are we going to do it again?” I asked.

“After the appetizers,” she said. “The book says you need appetizers before the main course.”

Mom never made us wait for the meat, but Marlena meant to follow the book. After the reading, she made me shave, and brush my teeth. Then she stepped out of her nightclothes, as calm as you please, leaving me feeling like a glass of warm water looking at her naked tennis player body, and lead me into my parent’s bathroom where we took a shower together. I had to wash her real gentle everywhere, which was kind of interesting, because all of her parts were so interesting. Her nipples poked out when I dragged the washcloth over them every time, so fast it made me laugh, as if I was flipping a switch. Marlena didn’t laugh. She looked as if they were somebody else’s breasts.

Her stomach was so smooth and flat, and her navel turned out like a big nipple. Bigger than her real nipples, and was so knobby I wanted to suck it, but she said that would come later. I asked her if she wanted to shave the soft, curly hair around her hole like the porn chicks do, and she gave me a look to let me know that wasn’t in the book, and said, “No.”

She twirled me like a magazine rack when my turn came, and washed me everywhere. She kept looking at my works as if I was a used car she was going to buy. When she soaped up the washcloth and wrapped it around my meat, I was ready to make the sale, but she said to save that for later, too.

Later was great, mostly, except at the end where I dorked it up. The book said we were supposed to watch each other masturbate, and then try to do the same thing to your partner. I ain’t never seen such a thing as when she slipped her finger down past her hair and inside her twat. Right up past her knuckles it went, and she closed her eyes and moved her finger around as if she had lost a marble in there. When she took her finger out it was slick with her juice, and I wanted to touch and smell it, but she wiped it off.

Then, she read from the book, helped my fingers inside, and said ‘yes’ when she liked what my fingers did, and ‘no’ when she didn’t. The book said that’s how you tell your partner what makes you buzz. The inside of her little puss felt so good and warm, and she had that funny, curious look on her face that made it seem like the nastiest thing I had ever done. I must have really liked it, because when I brushed my dick against her knee, I squirted all over her leg.

“You have to learn to control yourself if you want to please a woman,” she said. She was only a little mad, and said we needed to read the section called Hair Trigger. She said she would be back tomorrow night, and every night, until I made her beg for more. That’s what she said. I was to make her beg for more.

I ain’t allowed to smoke in the house, so I stretch out and light up another. I wonder how am I going to do that? I wonder if my Dad makes his fish beg for more.

July 17th

I like to climb back out on the roof to watch her go. Marlena looks back to me tonight as she crosses the street home. I wonder if she stays awake afterward like I do. I wonder if the things we do boil up in her head so much she can’t sleep for hours.

I guess Marlena is smart like Mom said, because she figured out she was the only girl I had ever been with. I told her I was just rusty, but she wouldn’t let up until I admitted she was the first. She took it pretty well, but said we would have to work harder.

Tonight’s assignment was the regular in and out with a lot more appetizers, which meant I couldn’t come until she was ready for me to come. We showered again and spent a lot of time with her massaging me, and me massaging her with extra virgin olive oil, because that’s all I could find in the house. I guess Dad doesn’t massage his fish before he screws them.

As boring as massaging her is for me, Marlena likes receiving a lot. Marlena ain’t like those porn cunts who sound as if they’re giving birth to railroad cars every time they’re touched. She only made itty-bitty noises when I pulled her earlobe into my mouth, or made a donut of my lips around her nipples. Even with my hand up her gob, her ‘yeses’ sounded as though they were coming from far away. But when I massaged her back, she growled like a bear. I made a game of it, trying to find out what made her growl the most and the loudest. I did okay, because she thanked me.

All the time she was massaging me, I wasn’t growling. I was nervous I might squirt too early, and Marlena would be disappointed I lost control. When she finally told me I could do it to her, I put on my condom, and she assumed the position. When I got the tip in, she grabbed the base of my cock as if it was it was a runaway fire hose that had to be pinched off so it wouldn’t flood the block. That girl has some grip. She brought her knees way up and pushed my thing inside, and held on while I pumped away at her. This was a lot better than before because I went on for a long time, and I was feeling the electricity the whole way. When she reckoned she’d had enough, she let go, and I let go, too.

July 18th

On her way home, Marlena turns in the middle of the street and waves to me, all friendly like. She’s never done that before, acted as though I was a friend.

I wonder if Marlena and I are going to do all of the things in the book, because there are some pretty nasty pictures in there. Or is she going to get dejected, and stop coming over because she ain’t getting her jollies before we get to butt fucking, for example? I would sure like to try that, and some of that deep throat style, too. She says we have to focus on the basics first. I wonder if she ain’t too sad a girl to ever get her jollies, much less beg for more.

Tonight she spent most of the time licking and sucking my cock, which was so great. When I saw those fat lips around my dick I wanted to pump a quart of milk into her so bad I thought I was going to scream. But she paid attention, and when she saw I was ready to spew, she stopped.

“Suck me, Marlena, please suck my cock, I want to come so bad,” I said. She held my hips down on the bed, and said real stern, “You have to learn control. The book says if you control your orgasms, they will be a lot better.”

“Swallow me, Marlena, and I promise it will be the best orgasm ever.”

She held me off telling my red monster as it bounced with every heartbeat, “Don’t you dare come.” I reached to grab it. I was going to spray her face with it all if I could touch my cob, but she pinned my hands to the bed, threatened to tie me up, and said, “Hold on, Jimmy. Hold on, and I’ll let you come in my mouth.”

That was such an inspiration, I planned to tell Marlena she could be one of those motivational speakers who inspire people to do great things, but in another minute I was begging again, “Let me come.” She wound me up with her tongue and her mouth four more times, stopping so close to the edge each time my brain felt as if it was going to melt and run out of my nose. On the last time, she said, “Come for me, Jimmy. Come in my mouth,” and she sucked in my stick, still holding my hands, and worked me around her mouth like a jawbreaker. I held my eyes wide open as her soft wrinkled lips slurped my peg because I was sure I had such a big wad I would fill her up, and I wanted to see the white cream leak out of her dark brown eyes.

I don’t know if my orgasm was better than if I had come the first time, but I said it was because I know Marlena wanted the book to be right. That beautiful little girl let me come in her mouth, and she looked proud while she sucked it up, as if she had just won a first place medal. I would have given her one. She even let me look in her mouth and see it swishing around her tongue, and then watch her swallow it. I kissed her then, which she doesn’t always like, but I couldn’t help it, because I was so grateful and amazed that she worked that hard for me. No one ever wanted to please me that much. I kept kissing and squeezing her until she went home. She seemed to get used to the kissing, almost smiled, at least as close as I’ve ever seen her get. Maybe, that’s why she waved.

July 19th

The moon looks like a white ball that has been stepped on, and I stare at it through my smoke so hard I see spots even when I turn away. I wonder if Marlena’s jaw hurt after she sucked me as much as mine does. It hurts to blow smoke I sucked so much. Sucking her pussy was a lot of work and it kinked my neck something awful. I sucked some serious fucking pussy tonight. Didn’t do any good, though. She said she liked it just fine, but she didn’t orgasm. She said she has never orgasmed, imagine. She plays with herself, but she doesn’t get the big O.

I worked at it, right out of the book, I did. Lots of appetizers, and massage and fingers on the button, and fingers inside looking for some magic, and then I used my tongue. Man, I thought my tongue was going to start bleeding from all of the rubbing and flicking I was doing on her cute snatch. Faster, slower, higher, lower, listening to every breath she made, every little noise, looking for clues to how to make her come. She didn’t utter a single ‘no,’ but she didn’t come.

I wanted her to come so bad that I kept at it for an hour, but I wasn’t good enough for her. She can make me come any minute she wants, but I couldn’t make her come all night. She told me she was tired and sore, and pulled me up to her face and kissed my aching lips and said, “It’s your turn.” I felt bad, so bad, but I sank into her and filled another condom with the only thing I had to offer.

She came out onto the roof with me afterward, and I found out she is book smart, too. Marlena knows all about the stars and the moon, and how what’s up there now is what you call a waning gibbous moon because the part you can see is on the left. In a couple more days the last quarter moon will appear, and it will be half light, and half dark.

I also found out she wonders about things, too. She wonders about life after death, if goodness is rewarded, and if love is forever. I don’t know about that shit. My wondering doesn’t seem so important next to hers. I just wonder why she wants to do the amazing things she does with me. Why a smart, beautiful girl wants to give someone like me the very best she has. That makes me wonder so much, my head hurts.

July 20th

I got a call from my Mom tonight, who mainly wanted to know if I had burned the house down yet with my smoking, and if I’d gotten another job, and if I’d made any plans for the future. “The future don’t need me,” I said, “and I feel the same.”

I told Mom she should get used to me being around, because I was thinking about moving home, permanent like. With Marlena doing me every night like she has, I can’t think of anywhere I would rather be. She said, “No way,” to living here after they get back. Maybe I should tell Mom I’ve been going to night class to learn how to be a professional cherry popper. She wouldn’t like it when she found out who the teacher was. I don’t suppose anyone would.

That Marlena is some teacher, though, with her assignments every night. I ain’t never been so motivated for school. We do everything, too. That baby girl is like a scientist poking into places to see if it is a ‘yes’ or a ‘no,’ then moving on to the next place. I hardly ever give a ‘no.’ Even when she choked my chicken with her vise grip, put her luscious lips on the head and poked her finger up my virgin olive oil ass until it felt as if she was picking my nose, I said, “yes, yes, yes.”

Marlena gives ‘no’s’ lots of times when I’m poking around. Not angry ‘no’s,’ just this ain’t doing it for me, ‘no’s. I pay close attention to the ‘yes’s,’ though. All that crap teachers said about my not being able to pay attention in school was wrong, because when Marlena gives a ‘yes,’ I’m on it like flies on shit. I rub it, or suck it, or lick it, or blow gentle on it, or do it again and again, as long as she is saying ‘yes,’ because when she says ‘yes,’ I feel like an ‘A’ plus student. Marlena is still an ‘O’ minus teacher.

July 21st

We watched the last quarter moon rise above the foothills tonight. She knew what time it would come up so she made it over, and we came up here first. She talked about meteors and eclipses, and a lot of stuff I didn’t understand, but I knew she liked teaching me about that stuff, so I tried to pay attention. She said she wanted to know everything about how it worked because looking at the night sky always made her feel small.

“Do you trust me?” she asked, when we went inside.

“I guess so.”

“Enough to let me cut your hair.”

“No way,” I said. I like it long and hanging loose around my neck. “I don’t want to look like no working geek.”

“It’s about trust,” she said. “Your orgasms will feel better if you trust me. And I’ll let you shave me.”

The thought of helping her get naked down there made me itch something fierce. I sat down on a chair and let that little motivational speaker give me a haircut to make my ex-marine father from South Carolina proud. When I looked in the mirror afterward, it was the most naked I had ever felt.

Then we sat in the bathtub, and I was shaking like a vibrator until she held my hand steady so I could shave her legs, which were already as brown and smooth as a sheet of cardboard. She just wanted to get me used to it. Then she drained the water out of the tub, and propped her feet up on either side of me, and I shaved between her legs. I was still shaking so bad I thought I would cut her sex clean off, but she wasn’t nervous a bit. She watched and waited until she was smooth, and said, “I trust you, too.”

I scrambled to my knees and dived into where her muff used to be, and sucked like the runt of the litter who has mama to his self. She might have been saying ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ I couldn’t tell. I think I was so far in her lips were covering my ears.

Then I pulled her into my lap and she slipped onto me, her sticky cunt feeling like a jar of warm jelly, and I bounced my butt on the cold bathtub floor until she could see I was ready, which she said was easy because my face looked as if I was going to die, and she jumped off and finished me with a few jerks. My white spunk shot straight up, smacked the underside of my chin, and hung like a loogie. She gave me that, ‘You are the dumbest shit in the world,’ look, and said, “I’ll bet you want me to lick that off, don’t you?”

July 22nd

Marlena always brings a little zippered bag with her, which I thought was for her smokes, but she ain’t smoked since the first night, “It was only an experiment,” she said. Marlena wanted me to stop smoking. “Control,” she said, when I told her I couldn’t stop. “You have to have self-control.”

“I got control,” I told her. Then I blew three perfect smoke rings toward the waning crescent moon, so perfect she could put her finger into each one. She liked that.

When she left, it got me wondering what other things Marlena likes, besides my smoke rings. There must not be much because she never looks very happy. I asked her if her parents beat her and such, but she said, “No,” they were always watching out for her. Even though she comes over every night to bag my snake, I don’t think the sex makes her happy, either.

She’ll do anything in the book, or any weirdness I can think of. I told her I wanted her to bend over and touch her toes and let me cornpone her like I’d seen in a porn flick. She said, “Okay,” and after a bath and a few appetizers she bent over, making her back as flat as a table, and pulled her cheeks apart. I thought I was going to faint at the sight of her wrinkled brown hole gaping just for me. I fell to my knees and licked the pink insides of her chute until my tongue was too stiff to move.

I pulled her to the floor with me, and said, “You don’t have to do that. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Let’s try it,” she said. “Then I want to pee on you.”

I felt like a god after I popped her butt cherry, and coming inside was a new high for nasty. She sighed, and said, “Very nice,” but that didn’t do it for her, either. When my turn came, I laid down in the bathtub, thinking Marlena had done her homework and found the right kink to bring on her jollies, and she peed on me. There was nothing about her whizzing that turned me on, but I lay there while she did her business all over my chest and head, and it wasn’t as disgusting as I thought it was going to be. Then she lay on top of me and said, “Thank you,” as if it meant something to her. So we stayed there, I with my arms around her, and her head snuggled in her piss on my chest, and I was happy. But even pissing on me couldn’t take away Marlena’s frown.

July 23rd

Maybe the tears will stop if I light another one. She’s been gone for an hour and I’m still leaking from my eyes. Marlena sat with me for a long time afterward tonight, longer than ever. We snuggled together under a blanket on the roof, not because it was cold, but because it felt good. She fell asleep on my shoulder, and I cried, quiet like, so she wouldn’t know.

I felt bad waking her up, but I knew she had to get up early every morning. I stay in bed until noon, but she gets up and goes to school. She doesn’t have to go to summer school, but she says there are a lot of things to learn, and she wants to know everything, and sometimes she can’t hardly wait to get there. I wonder how she can hump like a bunny all night, and still go to school. That girl has control.

I was looking forward to tonight. Even after eight nights in a row with Marlena, there are still a few pages I want to try. Marlena didn’t bring the book.

“Where is the book,” I asked.

“We don’t need the book anymore. I want to try something else.”

“What?”

“I want to play a game, a pretend game.”

“Sounds, kinky. Do we dress up?”

“No, I want to pretend we are in love.”

“Ah, look, Marlena, we aren’t really right for each other–”

“Jimmy, I know you’re not in love with me, and I’m not in love with you. I only want to pretend, to see what it’s like.”

“How can you pretend that?”

“We’ll have sex like we always do, any way you want this time, no instructions. Only, I want you to say you love me.”

“But Marlena…”

“I know you won’t mean it, I won’t mean it either, but we’ll say it to each other while we’re having sex. To see how it feels.”

It sounded like a lot less work than sucking her pussy for an hour, or getting sore by twisting like a pretzel into a new position, and I was going to get to do whatever I wanted to her sleek body. I could say a phony ‘I love you,’ for the chance to fuck her in the ass again.

I did it right, though. I undressed her nice and slow the way she likes, and massaged and kissed her everywhere, including her dark, nail nipples, I really do love those, and I sucked her outie and her pussy, and greased my pole and shoved it in her ass so far I thought I would make her choke. Then I laid her down on her stomach with my finger on her button, and I told that little girl I loved her.

I sounded as if I meant it, too. I sounded like Tom fucking Cruise, so smooth, and mellow, and sincere. I should get a God damned Oscar I was so convincing with my whispered words in her soft-as-a-flower-petal ear. I told her I loved her with my hands, too, all over with one hand caressing that sweet, sad face, and the other hand flicking her button like she was a goddess and I was her slave whose only job in life was to flick her button and convince her I loved her with my finger.

And she said she loved me. She said, “I love you very much, Jimmy because you feel so fucking good when you hold me and touch me.” Marlena never swears, and she said ‘fucking,’ and I thought, ‘Marlena is a better actor than I am,’ because it felt as if she meant it. She couldn’t have, because I am such a total unemployed looser who molests her every night that she couldn’t love me. But I sucked in her pretend love until I was warm all over with it, and I blew my pretend love back at her for minutes and minutes until she began to moan in a way I’d never heard her moan before. Not like the massage bear, either. More like a bear with a thorn in her paw, and she wanted me to pull it out because it hurt so much, but she didn’t say pull it out, she said, “I love you, Jimmy, stick it to me.”

I stuck it to her ass as good as I knew how, as good as Marlena taught me, as good as I have ever done anything in my life because I wanted to make the grade. Then she screamed like a little bear cub and shook underneath me, and I came and came in her ass until I felt as though my dick had been pulled from my body, and my insides along with it. I turned her over and her big lips broke into a smile, the first real smile I’d seen on her, and I told Marlena I loved her a hundred times more because it made me feel so good to see her smile.

I am still leaking the tears, and I don’t know why. Damnedest thing.

July 24th

I’ve been wondering what’s going to happen when my parents get home in two days. I need a place Marlena and I can be together. When I went over to the box factory this morning, the boss said they still needed a lead operator. The dumb shit was impressed with my haircut, and offered me the job. I lined up a room I can rent with some old folks nearby, with its own entrance and close enough that Marlena can still sneak over at night. I’ll tell her tomorrow night, when it’s all set, and I have every thing under control.

Tonight, I wanted to prove to Marlena I have lots of control, too. I spent the whole night making Marlena come. I did my homework. I made a list beforehand of all the things I had ever done that made her say ‘yes.’ We did the shower, and I laid her down on clean sheets, and massaged the bear to life, and fingered and sucked her hairless snatch, and spoke my pretend love until she smiled a mouth wide open smile I’ll never forget. I kept going until she squealed and smiled two more times.

“Do you want to pee on me?” I asked, after we rested.

“No,” she said. “I want you to lick my anus.”

“Oh, I can’t do that,” I said. “My tongue is too tired from licking your pussy. Besides, three times should be enough for any girl.”

“Well, that explains it,” she said. “I’m not a girl. I’m a woman, and I want more.”

I gave her more, two more, in fact. I didn’t make her beg, either.

July 29th

The moon is hiding somewhere, never even came up tonight, making the sky as empty as I feel. I walk around on the creaking roof for what I know will be the last time. I took off my shoes and socks to come out here, but I am still wearing the new suit I made my mother buy for me. I couldn’t stand the idea of looking like a shabby looser at Marlena’s funeral. I promised Mom I would pay her back with my first paycheck. “I didn’t think you cared about people that much,” she said.

All of the old people from the neighborhood went, and I went with my parents, and spoke just what my Mom said to Marlena’s parents when we went to their house afterward. Her parents looked white and near dead themselves. I couldn’t look at them too much, afraid they would wonder why I had a new suit for a girl I wasn’t supposed to know.

I was thinking about leaving because I had nothing I could say to people who kept on about how sad they were that Marlena was gone.

“You must be Jimmy?”

The words spooked me, but a tall, fiftyish brunet I had never seen before took my arm and walked me off the patio and into the backyard before I could answer.

“I’m Claudia, Marlena’s aunt.”

“Hi.” I nodded, trying to figure out why she was treating me like a family member.

“Did you know Marlena well?”

“Nah, I just seen her around and stuff.” I tried to pull away, “I should go, I gotta go to work.”

Her arm remained clenched so tightly around mine I couldn’t get away, and she kept me walking. “We all knew it could happen,” she said. “We never expected it, though.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Heart failure while sleeping is unusual, but not unheard of at her age. Juvenile Diabetes takes its toll after a while, especially when you’re not in good control.”

“What do you mean?”

“She always struggled to balance the sugar in her system using the monitor, injecting the insulin, and a good diet. She tried, but her system seemed very volatile. It was hard for her maintain good control, and that made her worry.”

I couldn’t look at Marlena’s aunt, so I watched my feet as we walked.

“It was expensive, too. They had to sell their other house, and take Marlena out of private school. She loved that school.”

I was swallowing hard, but she went on, as if I was talking with her.

“Marlena loved to read,” she said, cheery like, as she turned me to head back where we started from. “She was always borrowing books. Do you like to read, Jimmy?”

“Nah, not much,” I managed to say.

“She borrowed a book about sex once, and brought it back in a lot worse shape than when I gave it to her, unusual for Marlena.”

If I didn’t stay quiet, I knew I’d get myself in trouble.

“Of course, I knew she was practicing with someone, she wouldn’t say who, just that he was older, and not very experienced.”

My stomach sank as Claudia’s face told me she already knew I did her niece.

“Then she brought the book back. She said she had learned all she wanted to about sex, and was trying to learn about love. Do you know anything about love, Jimmy?”

She hugged me when she saw the tear.

I don’t know shit about love. I want to know if pretending hard to love each other, and saying your pretend love a million times makes the love real. I want to understand how even love could make a beautiful, smart girl who could have had anyone she pleased, want to spend time with a goofus like me.

I blow the last puff of my last smoke ever out into the night, and stamp it out on the roof with the dozens of other butts. It burns my bare foot a little, but I don’t mind. I can’t believe a girl who taught me all about control could die from not having it.

Where is the damn moon? The dark has even stolen the sparkle from the roof.

I wonder if my love killed Marlena by keeping her up all night fucking, and if taking responsibility for my decisions means I’ll never lose the pain.

With my hands in my pockets I turn a complete circle, searching the sky again. That’s right. A new moon, she called it, where the moon and sun are on the same side of the sky, and the moon only comes out during the day.

I wonder if she forgives me for taking her real bad that first night, and making her feel awful.

The night sky never made me feel small before, but it does now.

I wonder did Marlena worry so much about her future that she wanted to do everything before her time, or if being afraid she didn’t have a future made her so sad that only an orgasm could make her smile.

And I wonder if thinking about the future ain’t so bad. It might not be there when you want it.

I wonder if Betty still wants to make me cookies.

Epilog
Jimmy married Betty and continued work at the box factory for many years until their divorce. He became quite religious, lives alone on a houseboat, and spends most nights on the top deck listening to the waves lap, and riding the gentle sway. Sometimes, when the moon is new, he says a prayer for Marlena.

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