("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2006. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Club Life by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com) *** Sometimes life offers you a Get Out of Jail Free card just when you need it. Eighteen year old Maggie has hers in hand and has to decide whether to put the past behind her, or keep going down her own personal path to destruction. (MF-teens, exh, nc, rp, oral) *** AUTHOR NOTES: As the author, I claim all rights under international copyright laws. This work is not intended for sale, but please feel free to post this story to other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and text intact. Revision to the text (such as the basis for another story) is acceptable as long as the original author is given credit and the resulting story is distributed free of charge. Any commercial use of this work is expressly forbidden without the written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray any person living or dead, nor any known situation. This story contains themes of bondage, beastiality and rape, anal sex, incest, and lesbian sex. It is meant for adults only and is not to be read by person's under the age of 18, or the legal age in the county/state/country in which the reader resides. If you would like a Microsoft Word or an RTF version of this story (a much better read), please contact me at MarciaR26@aol.com CLUB LIFE by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com) Based on the Short Story: YOUNG FUCK-SLUT by Unknown Author Did I vote in the last election? Of course I didn't vote in the last election, you moron! I don't even have a driver's license. And what kind of question is that to ask a girl sucking your cock? I shook my head and returned my attention to his head, kissed the tip and licked it all around, then put it in my mouth. Maybe he's losing interest, I thought. Maybe I should tell him I'm fourteen. Maybe that'd turn him on. Maybe it'd get me knocked on my ass on the dirty pavement of this fucking back alley, and I'd have no ride home. Some guys come twice as fast they think you're underage, some guys just get paranoid. Some guys do both. But there was no guarantee I could find another guy who'd trade a blow job for a way home if I blew this, so I kept my mouth shut. Well, shut around his cock, anyway. We were behind the Club Rocket on the Pike. The music inside vibrated the ground outside, and I could feel it coming up through my heels. I had my hair piled on my head in case he decided to give me a facial, and my top open for the same reason. Let him come on my chest and bra, not my expensive silk blouse. The problem is I live in dip-shit Damascus with my parents, in a boring little residential neighborhood called Plantations II. I go to Damascus High School where I'm a 12th-grader. (I'm over eighteen, so what I'm telling you here is legal.) As every girl in my class knows (every girl who likes to have fun) the minimum payment for a ride home from Club Rocket is a blow-job. From any club, for that matter. You can't take the bus, not at night, and money I'd use for cab fare I need to get inside and buy drinks if no one's buying them for me. So if you don't have a way home, you have to pay for one, usually with your mouth. "What's your name again?" the guy asked. One hand was on top of my head and the other behind it. He was beginning to fuck me rather than let me blow him. It happened all the time, although I hated it when they made me gag. "Maggie," I said around his cock. "What?" "Mag--guhhh-huhhee," I choked out. I grabbed his thighs and tried to make him slow down. Why can't guys just let you enjoy it? Why do they have to commandeer you? Do they think a girl likes having a cock rammed down her throat? Of course they don't. That's the point. "Please!" I gasped. "Let me breath!" He released me and stepped away, saying something apologetic. Then he grabbed me again and guided me back onto his cock and resumed mouth-fucking me. At least he wasn't so aggressive this time. "I haven't seen you here before," he said, breathlessly. "You come here often?" Every Friday and Saturday night for the last two years, dick-wad, I thought. And he had seen me here before. Tonight was just the first time he had danced with me. He was very good looking (if not out-and-out gorgeous) and I wondered how many other girl's mouths he had put his cock into back here behind the club. He came without a word, holding himself motionless in my mouth as he gushed jism onto my tongue. Then he began to thrust into me again, working farther and deeper into my throat. It was either deep-throat him, or choke. I chose not to choke. "Damn," he said, finally taking an unsteady step backwards. "You're really good at this, girl." "Thanks," I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Swallowing isn't fun, but I had no Kleenex to clean up a mess with, so it was better this way. He began putting himself back in his pants. "You remember where I live?" I asked him, trying to stand up. God, my thighs ached. Guys'd have you on your knees every time, if you'd let them, but I'm not kneeling down on any dirty, greasy pavement in a back alley and ruin my hose. "Yeah," he said, distractedly. "Damascus?" I followed his gaze to the rear door of the club. The pounding music was beckoning him back again. "You promised," I complained. "Don't you back out on me now." He looked at me as I buttoned my blouse, no longer seeing a desirable new Lexus, but a used Toyota Corolla. Guilt played against irritation of his face. "Yeah, yeah," he said finally, and headed down the alley toward the parking lot, muttering other things as he went. I scurried along after him, tucking my blouse into my skirt. "And it's Maggie," I said, catching up to him. "Not bitch." He gave me an amused look, then laughed. Then he put his hand on my ass. *** It was an hour and twenty minutes later. We sat at the curb on the wrong side of the street, a block down and a block over from my house. The dashboard clock read 12:35 A.M. I was flat on my back on his bench seat (thank God for bench seats) with my legs in the air and holding him as he fucked me. I hadn't expected sex, not after the forced blow-job, but he had started kissing me just as soon as we parked and I liked being kissed. At least he was wearing a condom. "We have to hurry," I told him. My dad always set the alarm for one a.m., and if I wasn't in, he'd whip me when I did get in. I needed time to change my clothes, and sneak in the basement door. I had told him this, but I wasn't sure he was listening--or cared. The truth was, I was liking this way too much. The guy was screwing me like we were on our honeymoon bed, not in a broken down Oldsmobile. He had an average-size cock, but what he did with it was almost perfection. My pestering him must have seemed like disinterest, but I was not disinterested, not one tiny little bit. He made it hard even to think straight. But a blistering leather strap on your bare bottom is not something you easily forget, and I was watching (with one eye and half a brain cell), the seconds tick by. "Please," I said at ten minutes to one. "I have to go!" I tried shoving him off but he wrapped me up like a human straight jacket, pinning my arms at my side and forcing my thighs apart with his own. He rammed in and out of me like a rutting dog. I was thinking it doesn't get any more rape-like than this when something warm and wet erupted inside of me. "Jesus! Did you just...? He kept me wrapped up tight and laughed the whole time he was coming and I knew he had ditched the condom. How or when, I didn't know. I should have been furious, but I wasn't. "Okay, okay," I said hurriedly. "Just get offa me." He let me up and I snatched my panties off the floor and yanked them on. I was wet and cum had leaked out of me onto his seat, but that was his problem. I refastened my bra and pulled my shirt together and grabbed my purse. "Will I see you again?" he said, panting and trying to get his fly zipped up. "Only if I'm damned lucky," I said under my voice and then yelled "Maybe," and slammed the car door and tore off down the sidewalk to whatever awaited me at home. *** I looked at the clock. The right-hand digit changed to a 5 as I watched, making it 4:05 a.m. I turned over onto my right side, wincing at the pain in my bottom, brushing a tear from my right eye. All this could be traced to what had happened to me two years before. I was not even sixteen years old, a 10th grader, and I had never been fucked. Hell, I hadn't even really made out with a guy, much less gotten busy with him. But my two cousins had plenty of experience and they got busy with me. Adam was eighteen and Josh was sixteen. They were at my house for two weeks in August while their respective parents took the rest of the kids to Yellowstone Park and the Grand Canyon. I love my Aunt Gina and Uncle Tommy, and Aunt Lindsey and Uncle Robert, but they should have taken their fucking sons with them, instead of leaving them here. Because one afternoon when mom and dad were working and Gina (my sister, not my aunt) was still at the pool with her friends, I pulled back the shower curtain to find Adam and Josh standing there waiting for me. "Get out of here!" I shrieked. They just laughed at me. I had only just returned from the pool and my bathing suit was on the bathroom floor, kicked now into a corner. I didn't even have a towel to wrap myself up in because Adam had it in his hand. I hid behind the shower curtain. "Please get out of here!" I pleaded with them. "Come on out," Adam said, while Josh snickered. "We already seen you naked, Maggie." "Go away! I'm gonna scream if you don't go away!" I didn't get it. We had been getting along so fine. In fact, I had a huge crush going on Adam: he was sizzling hot. "Come out and show us your little titties," Adam said. "That's all we want to see." "I don't have any titties," I shot back at him, a fact that he had chosen to point out to me at every opportunity over the past week. It was a testament to my adolescent idiocy that I still liked him. "Sure you do," he said, "I just seen 'em. They're cute." Which got another snicker from Josh. "Why are you doing this to me?" I demanded, tears ready to boil out. "I told you. We want to see your little titties." The shower curtain jerked in my hand, hard. "Now get out here." "I'm not coming out. You get out of here." In the end, I had no way out. Adam came at me from one side, Josh the other, and after peeling me away from the shower curtain, they carried me naked, screaming and kicking into my bedroom and threw me onto the bed. Before I could even move, they had me pinned down to the bedspread, spread-eagled. "You're right," Josh laughed. "She don't have no titties." What little I did have was tipped by traitorous little nipples, hard as peas. "Let me go!" I wailed. "Why are you doing this to me?" But the way they looked at my naked body, still beaded by water, Adam with particular interest at the place between my legs, answered that question for me. "You ever been touched down there?" Adam asked, indicating my crotch. I froze. He just looked at me. Josh looked at him. "Don't you dare," I threatened in a whisper. "I will scream. I swear I will." Adam looked over at Josh, who nodded, and with alarming quickness, my left arm was released and the hand that had held it clamped down roughly on my mouth. Screaming into it helped me not at all. How do you tell your mother that your two cousins have raped you? Raped and sodomized and tortured you. I never told anyone anything. The next day I could barely walk. If my mom had seen the bruises on my upper arms or thighs, words wouldn't have been necessary. The boys didn't care how much they bruised me up, doing whatever they liked to me, convinced of their invulnerability; I guess events proved them right. On Saturday afternoon they left. For the intervening three days they acted like the rape had never happened, as if everything was perfect, like two invaders from Mars had impersonated the boys, and left them living in blissful ignorance. I took that attitude as well, actually beginning to talk and joke with them again by Thursday evening, when all of us went out to the movies. I freaked a bit when they bracketed me on the walk back to the car, but they only talked about the movie and how much they couldn't wait for the sequel to come out. Had it really happened? I only really believed it when I looked at my bruises in the mirror. I kissed both of them goodbye when they left. I hugged them both. I stood there and waved as, half an hour apart, rented RV's took my rapists back to Albany, New York, and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I thought I was all right. That afternoon, I noticed my geeky next door neighbor, who I knew had the hots for me, watching me from the corner of his eye as he cut his grass. I had on a sleeveless white button-down blouse and a pair of blue- jean shorts. I stuck my thumbs in my jeans pockets and stood with one hip thrust out, pseudo-seductively. He ran into the brick border surrounding a flower bed and almost tripped over the lawn mover. I wanted to burst out laughing. Instead, I wandered over to start up a conversation. "You think they'll have the new high school finished before I turn eighteen?" I asked. "That would make you what, a junior in college when I graduated, right? "Um--oh--" he stammered. "Are they building a new high school here?" No, dummy, they're building the new World Trade Center. "Take a walk with me around the side of the house," I said. "Wh--Why?" "I want to show you something," I said. I walked ahead of him with my thumbs still planted in my shorts pockets, careful not to swing my hips in too seductive a manner, until we reached the shed, and then I nodded for him to open it up. You've never seen a kid more scared. I was cucumber cool. When he'd finally fumbled the lock out of the the hasp and had gotten the doors swung open, I strolled inside and told him to join me. He just stood there, sweating profusely and moving from foot to foot. "Get in here," I ordered. He jerked, then stepped into the doorway and stopped just inside. I grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him over in front of me and kissed him. At that point it became indescribable because I was only fifteen and I'm not breaking any child pornography laws. I never so much as looked at the geek again. Every guy since him has either been hot, or a bastard, which makes him hot, even if he's not good looking. And there have been a lot of them. From what I've read about myself on the toilet stalls in the boy's bathrooms, I'm a girl you'd want with you at a party on a Friday or Saturday night. I will gladly admit to the truth of that. I put out good. As you'd expect, a lot of girls hate me. A lot of girl's want to be my friend, too, sometimes the very same ones, which gets kinda confusing. I've even been asked to go down on a girl, but that's something I've never done. At least not yet. I like guys too much. *** The following weekend, I found a ride home from the club without resorting to my mouth. It was with a guy named Mike, who I had met a month or so ago at the club. I had already spread my legs for him twice, so he knew he'd get it when he got me home. "You know--" He hesitated when the light ahead turned yellow, then shot on ahead. "You got the sweetest little squirrel-box on you, Honey." I laughed. My squirrel-box? But he was from Texas and everything he said was funny. "Is it wet enough for you?" I asked. My legs were apart and his finger was enjoying its deliberate explorations. He crooked his finger suddenly and made me jump. "I like it just fine, little lady. Nice and tight. Seriously tight. Like a virgin, you might say," he drawled sarcastically. I didn't care. He was getting me hot. That finger had been busy inside me since we'd left the club, and he was driving slow up Rockville Pike, the convertible top down in the warm spring air. I was clenched onto his upper arm with my left hand, and not to be romantic. "How about this?" he asked. I gasped: "Oh! Yes!" then, "That's nice," feeling like he'd just scratched my tonsils with his fingernail. I squirmed as he went exploring in a new direction, looking for my G-spot. "That doesn't actually exist," I said, wincing and digging into his biceps. One more like that and I'd jump right out of the seat, maybe out of the car. I think he liked hurting me. I think I liked it too. "So, how are your folks?" he asked, as calm as if he was reading a newspaper. "They're... just fine," I got out between gasps. I had gotten a good blistering the week before and Dad had told me that one more time and he'd ground me for the rest of the school year. I couldn't have that. But I also couldn't let Mike know that I was eighteen years old and curfewed to one o'clock in the morning on weekends, restricted to the house the rest of the week. He thought I was underage, and I'd done nothing to disabuse that notion. Guy's like you underage. I looked at the dashboard clock. Only eleven-forty- five, plenty of time. The light ahead of us turned red and Mike let the Camaro drift to a stop. The powerful engine rumbled the car like the music rumbled the dance floor and it was a pleasant feeling. The car was a sixty-eight, or a sixty-nine, I couldn't remember which, bright red with twin black racing stripes running down the middle. A muscle-car, he called it. I called it a hotrod, just like him. "I'm having some friends over tomorrow night," he said. "Feel like coming by?" Out on a Sunday night? A weeknight? But Dad was having his once a month church thing, I remembered, and that kept him out after eleven. Mom was easier to get around sometimes. "Sure," I said, figuring I'd come up with something. "I've picked up some porno flicks, hard-core stuff, stuff you can't rent at Blockbuster," he said. You couldn't rent any porno at Blockbuster, I wanted to say, but I got his message. Zoo-sex, kiddy-porn or something even worse. I wondered if he'd pass me around. Other guys had passed my around at parties, like a bag of Doritos. A jacked-up, 4-wheel drive pickup blaring country music pulled up beside us at the light. It was on Mike's side, in the turning lane, which meant they could see plainly what was going on. I froze for a moment, feeling a stab of panic--I guess I'm still a kid at heart--then grinned widely when the guy in the passenger window glanced down and did a double-take. "Holy shit!," he mouthed. "Will ya look at this?" The music was too loud to hear anything over it, but I read that plainly. The rear window rolled down--the truck was a four-door- -and I found myself stared at by four, maybe five guys, all high school-age, all of them hot. "Like that?" Mike asked quietly. My skirt was bunched up around my waist and his hand was down my panties, obviously busy. I knew the guys could see my pussy being fingered. I squirmed with excitement and spread my legs even wider. The light turned green and Mike pulled away at a sedate pace. I could hear the guys hootin' and hollerin' despite the music, but instead of following us as I half-expected they would, the driver went ahead and turned left. Then I saw why--there was a cop car behind them. "Cop!" I cried, jamming my legs together. Mike's hand, though squeezed a bit, continued its work. I couldn't believe it, but I didn't dare look back again. Mike nonchalantly glanced in the rear view mirror and grinned. "Did they turn?" I asked breathlessly. His hand levered my thighs open again. "Why," he asked. "Never done a cop?" Done a cop? My worst fear was a cop. I had been busted six times for underage drinking before I was eighteen. Now they could do something about it. I said, shakily, "My ID is fake." "So?" "They catch me drinking again, they'll send me away to Jessup. You're over twenty-one. You bought me drinks. They'll make me give you up." His finger crooked into me hard enough to make me grab his wrist with both hands. I came up off the seat in pain. "Mike!" I groaned. "Stop that!" "Don't threaten my, Sweetie-pie." "I'm not threatening you!" I cried. "I just know about Jessup, and what they do to young girls there." I was about to start crying. "Please, Mike! Please stop it!" He eased back on his finger and I gasped "Thank you!" sliding back down onto my butt again. I had almost stood up straight. Even Adam and Josh raping me hadn't hurt like that. *** Half an hour later we were at my house. As he turned off the ignition, I undid my seat belt and leaned over to unzip his fly. He stopped me. "What's the matter," I asked. My voice was pitched higher than it should be, because I was scared. He had really freaked me out with his finger. "Nothing," he said, lazily lighting a Marlboro. "Just rather save it for tonight." It was tonight, I thought, then realized he meant tonight tonight, at his house. "Listen," I said, edging away a bit. "I--" "If you can't make it, you can't make it." He inhaled a lungful of smoke, held it a moment, then blew it at the sky. The tip of his cigarette came up and he inspected it closely. "I understand the situation," he said. "You do?" "Yeah, I do. You come if you can. Try to be there by eight o'clock. If you don't come, I'd like a telephone call, though. Understand?" Yes, sir, I almost said. "What is it? Your telephone number." He gave it to me. "I need to write it down," I said, digging in my purse. "You don't write anything down," he said. "Memorize it." I began running the number through my head. "Out loud," he said, voicing his irritation. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you how to memorize a fucking number?" I recited his number out loud at least half-a-dozen times, until it was etched in stone. "Now my address," he said, giving me that also. Obediently, I recited it back half-a-dozen times. "Good." He flicked the half-smoked cigarette end over end into the middle of the street where it exploded in sparks. "You don't write it down when you get inside, either. You never write down anything about me, especially my name. Got that, Honey-chile?" I nodded, too breathless to speak. I wanted to ask if this was D/s, if he was making me his sex-slave. "I got it," I finally croaked. He nodded and put his hand beneath my chin and drew me to him. He gave me a chaste kiss on the mouth, then told me to get the hell out. As I turned to open the door, he said, "If you need a ride, call me." "Okay," I said. As I started to close the door, he leaned against his own door and looked up at me. "What?" I said, heart in my mouth. He gave me that lazy Texas grin. "If you don't make it tonight? The next time I see you, I'll make you walk naked across Rockville Pike. Back and forth across Rockville Pike. Both ways. No clothes on," he said winking. "See you tonight." I just stood there as he drove away, blinking and dumbfounded. Eventually I closed my mouth and hurried on to my house. I had never seen the kind of sex flick I knew Mike was talking about. I had seen hardcore stuff, sure, the kind that comes on a VHS tape or a DVD that your friends bring over and you giggle stupidly with your hands over your mouth. The Internet was loaded with the crap. But my dad keeps a hawk-eye on me when I'm at home, even though I'm eighteen now, so I never get to the sites where the heavy action is, the stuff I might be seeing that night. So the thought of it made me shiver. (You probably want to know how I get to stay out late on Friday and Saturday nights, and the rest of the time I might as well be locked up in a convent, but that's another story.) When I turned the corner onto our street I was alternately fantasizing about getting passed around by my mouth, and about crossing Rockville Pike in the nude. The sight of my house snapped me back to reality. "Fuck!" I croaked, looking at my watch: ten of one. I ran the rest of the way down the sidewalk, then beelined through the side yard to the shed at the back corner of the house. I opened the door, slipped inside, and snatched my backpack from behind a pair of stacked boxes. (You know I keep those hinges well-oiled.) In a second I was out of my micro-mini-skirt and silk blouse, yanking off my thigh-highs hopping foot to foot, then out of my black brassiere and my thong panties. I then dressed in my street clothes again: jean shorts and a red pullover top, a white JC Penney bra and bikini panties, and my Reeboks. Then I brushed out my hair and dragged it back into a ponytail and knotted it in place. The good stuff I crammed into my backpack, which I slung over my shoulder and then I was ready. I took a deep breath, held it steadyingly, then released it slowly. I became Maggie Callow again: 12th- grade virgin. I went in to say hi to Dad. What to do about tonight? I glanced up at the clock and saw that it was almost one. I had my homework spread across the desk and was listening to U2 on my iPod. The volume was down because I, unlike other teenagers, had respect for my eardrums. Besides, they hurt from the club-music of the night before. I thought about Mike taking me by the chin to kiss me on the mouth. I thought about six guys sitting side by side on a couch with their flies down and their cocks sticking straight in the air, watching some horrible thing on the TV screen while I sucked them and beat them off. I thought about strolling across Rockville Pike in my jeans and a red pullover top, Reeboks snicking across the pavement, while my ponytail bounced merrily along behind me. What the fuck had happened to me? Was I really this awful little slut, bent on sucking or fucking every guy in Maryland? I could not count the cocks I had already put in my mouth, or the ones I had let come in me. I rated a page in Guinness all for myself. I stretched my arm out across the desk and lay my head down on it. Tears filled my eyes, hot and burning, making my nose run, and I jerked up with a curse. Who the fuck was I kidding? I fucked 'cause I liked to fuck. Those stupid prissies I used to hang out with didn't know their cunts from a hole in the ground. Who were they to tell me I was wrong? They never got it. They never would get it--figuratively or literally. I got up and grabbed my cell phone off the bed. I punched Find, then scrolled down the list till I found Jessie Markum's number. "Hello," she said, finally answering on the sixth ring. "I need a favor," I said. I was biting my thumbnail and made myself stop. Her reluctance grew more pronounced. "What's that, Maggie?" "I need to get out tonight." "I'm busy," she said hurriedly. "Maybe--" "I'm not asking you to go out, Jess. Just cover for me, okay? Tell Mom you need me to come over to do... homework or something." What a stupid idea. Jess was a goody-two-shoes who had her homework done on Friday afternoons before I even got home. "I don't know," she said slowly. Maybe--" "Please?" I cut in. "Just this once? I'll never ask another favor again. I--" "Right!" she cut in, laughing derisively. "What ungodly thing have you got going on tonight? That sick concert down at MCI?" I didn't know about any concert at MCI. I said, "I just need to get out for a while, that's all. Without the parents asking me questions. Will you do it for me?" I waited for her to ask why she should, why she should help a friend dig herself deeper than she already was. Jessie knew me better than maybe anyone else. She used to be my best friend. She used to live right next door to me. "All right," she said finally, sighing. "What time?" I told her, and she hung up. Then I cried for an hour and a half. *** At five o'clock I snuck out the black dress I kept hidden at the back of my closet, packed it in the bottom of my backpack along with a new pair of black thigh-highs, a black lace bra and thong panties, and my black heels. I stuffed my school books in on top of them and then set it beside the desk out of the way. Then I laid down to read my latest Elle magazine, and tried not to bite my lower lip in half. At six o'clock Jessie called. "Maggie! It's for you." "Thanks, Mom!" I called. I picked up the phone and waited for Mom to hang up. "Thanks. I was afraid you wouldn't call." "I wish I hadn't," she said. "This is really stupid, Maggie." "Maybe," I said. "But you're an angel, Jess. Now bye." "Bye," she said desultorily, and hung up. I waited about a minute, then went to the door, opened it and called downstairs: "Jess wants me to come over and help her with her homework." I didn't say anything else. Mom would either go for it, or she wouldn't. "Jessie's asking you to help her with homework?" she called up the stairs, emphasis on the "you" and the "her." I giggled girlishly and said, "Well, not really. But... I really should go." This left the decision up to her, and mothers like making decisions for their daughters. If the reason is honest-sounding enough, and stupid- sounding enough, and you don't overplay your hand, most of the time they'll jump. "There's not going to be any drinking, right?" "Mom, it's a school night." "And no boys." "Mom, it's Jessie." "How long is this going to take?" she called up. "Mmmmm. Eleven o'clock?" "Is Brad gonna drive you home?" Brad was Jessie's stepfather. If he ever drove me home alone at night, I'd blow him. "Said he would," I called. "All right. Eleven o'clock at the latest. Don't be late. I'll meet you in the car." I closed the door without replying because no reply was expected of me. She knew that something was up, but something was always up with a teenager. At least she'd know where I was. Did I worry about her calling to check me up? Of course I did, but that wouldn't stop me. I had six cocks to suck. *** In front of Jessie's house I kissed Mom on the cheek and told her goodbye. "Not later than eleven o'clock," she reminded me. "I'll be there. Aren't I always there?" I asked sweetly. She pursed her mouth but her eyes were laughing. "Tell Jessie I said hello," she said, and then drove away. I walked halfway up the walk, and then walked down it again, hoping Mr. or Mrs. Culhane wouldn't look out and see me and wonder what was going on. I took off at a brisk walk toward the corner. As I went I flipped open my cell phone and thumbed in Mike's number. It rang one time. "Hello?" There was music in the background, but not playing too loudly. "You still want me to come over?" I asked. "Where are you?" I told him where I was. "You on foot?" he asked. "My mom just dropped me off." "I'll be right there. Just keep walking." I did keep walking and every step my heart beat quicker. Five guys, I thought, six, including Mike. Already my saliva was running. I had no idea how the number six had come up: Mike had never said how many, I was sure of that. But six was a nice round number and exactly twice my number of holes. I had never been plugged in all my holes before; the idea made me shivery and hot. My stride quickened and I clutched the strap of my backpack with both hands, to keep my hands from shaking. Maybe they were shaking from fear, I was certainly feeling that. I wondered if tonight wasn't some poisoned black cake under a layer of thin, but delicious-looking white icing. Were any of the guys black? I wondered. MIke passed going in the opposite direction, only glancing at me, not waving, not smiling. This made my shivery feeling worse. Treat a girl like shit and she'll only get hotter. Treat her badly enough and she'll buckle the collar around her own neck. I waited with my thighs squeezed together like I had to pee, lower lip between my teeth, almost squirming until the car pulled up alongside me, rumbling. He pushed open the door. "Hi," I said excitedly. "Get in," he said, with all the animation of a doctor meeting a patient. I scooted onto the seat and shut the door. I started to kiss him, stopped when he looked back over his shoulder at the traffic. A lit cigarette was in his right hand. "I have to be home at eleven," I said hesitantly. "You will be." The Camaro roared up to forty miles an hour and then just rumbled along in forth gear. I was glad the top was up. It was a cool night and the wind could ruin my hair. He took his hand off the shifter and put it on the steering wheel, idly flicking the filter of the cigarette with his thumbnail. I glanced down and felt a hotness creep into my cheeks. It was the same kind of shifter as in Jimmy Augustine's car, a large steel ball indented on the front side with finger slots so that you could grip it. It had felt incredible inside me as Jimmy wound along the windy, spooky White Ground Road in Poolesville in his souped up Mitsubishi Eclipse. And he had been right: the vibrations made me orgasm just sitting there. I pulled the seat belt across me to buckle it up. "Should I change?" I asked. "My stuff is in the bag." "What did you bring?" he asked, and I told him. "Sweet. Put it on." Not bothering to scrunch down in the seat, I stripped off my top, unhooked my bra and slid out of my jeans and panties. I sat there in only my socks and carefully unpacked my good clothes while Mike glanced over at me occasionally. "Tight little body," he remarked. "Thanks." Slipping into my black panties, I asked: "How many guys are going to be there, Mike?" He flicked ash out the window. "Five. Six, including me." I was right, I thought, all aquiver. Six guys fucking me in shifts. I almost started to giggle. Slipping my arms through the bra straps, I slid it into place and then hesitated. "Should I wear this?" I asked. "Or...?" "Wear everything," he said, which made me giddier than if he'd said go braless. I finished snapping up and then adjusted it before putting on my thigh highs. "How old are you, really?" he asked unexpectedly. "Eighteen," I said slowly. "I know you think I'm younger, but--" "And you been doing this... how long?" I sat there in my lacy underwear, feeling rather ashamed. "Two years," I said softly. "The sex?" he asked, blowing smoke out the window. "I live for the sex," I told him honestly. "The harder it is, the better. You should know that, you've fucked me twice." I had expected a reaction, but I didn't get any. He simply blew smoke out the window and nodded his head. His thumbnail flicked the end of the cigarette. After a while, during which time I just sat there holding my dress in my hands, he said: "You are a good fuck, I'll give you that. I suspect you only got that way from lots and lots of practice though. So you must really love the sex." "Thanks," I mumbled, slipping into my dress. Being told that should have sent my enthusiasm soaring. Instead, it made my eyes burn and I had to fight not to sniffle. What the hell was I doing here? He turned into an apartment complex that I had been to once or twice before, for a party. He backed into a spot, right in front of a sign saying no back-in parking, and turned off the engine. I released my seat belt and put on my heels. He surprised me by coming around and opening the door for me. "After you," he said. "Why, thank you," I said, all ladylike. I held out my arm and giggled when he took it. Then he smacked me sharply on the ass--"Ouch!"--and walked me toward the front steps of the building at a leisurely pace, fortunately, for my five-inch heels. "I know people who live here," I said, wondering which buildings I had been in. "Is that right?" he said. The building and the address over the entrance looked familiar. "I think on the second floor of this building," I said. "We're going to the third," he replied. I remembered then. It was a Friday night back in October or maybe early November, around the time of... no, it was a Halloween party and Jimmy Augustine had brought me there. In fact, it was the same night of my shifter-knob ride. I wondered, with something of a guilty start, if Jimmy was waiting for me upstairs. If only he were. We walked up the three flights of stairs in silence-- except the click-click-click of my high heels--and by the time we reached the third-floor landing, I was out of breath. Mike looked like he'd just gotten out of a chair. A secret little voice inside me whispered that I'd be huffing and puffing a lot harder in just a little while, and that shivery feeling came back. Mike tapped twice on the door and it opened at once, as though whoever was waiting was alerted by the click- click-click of my heels. The guy was Mike's age, maybe a little older, with shaggy blonde hair and a crooked nose. Owen Wilson, I immediately thought, only cuter. "This our little prize?" he asked, sending a zing of excitement up my spine. Excitement, and a small, undirected dose of fear. "This is her," Mike confirmed, directing me inside by the elbow. "Make her feel at home." "What?" I turned back, startled as he turned away. "You're not staying?" Fear replaced every bit of excitement now. "Mike--" "I'll be back for her at ten o'clock," he said, cutting me off. "Make sure she's ready." "Aye, Aye skipper," Owen said and closed the door. I began to panic. "Mike, wait!" I cried out, but Owen propelled me by my elbow down the short foyer and into the living room. "No, wait! I don't want to do this!" I pleaded. "Tough," he said, not especially concerned by what I did or didn't want. Five guys were scattered around the living room, either sitting down or standing in front of a piece of furniture in anticipation. "Wow," said one of the standers, "She really is a fox." He was older than my father and mostly bald, a championship-sized beer gut hanging over his belt. His face was flushed an ugly, dangerous red. His eyes were two black coals, punched into his face. "Dinner," Owen Wilson said, propelling me into the middle of them. I stumbled in my heels and a twenty-something guy with a blackened right eye and bad abrasion on his left cheek caught my arm and yanked me to him. "Welcome to the party, Sugar." "No!" I cried. "Let go of me!" I yanked my arm but it was like trying to yank free of a steel clamp. I tried to pry his fingers back with my free hand and that only made him laugh. "Relax," he said. "You ain't going nowhere, Sweetheart." I began to scream and that's when something was stuck in my face. It sprayed me with something wet and then everything went blank until I woke up again, face down on a bed, hands and feet handcuffed to the corners. I was naked and gagged. It was my own panties stuffed in my mouth: I knew that instinctively. My ass was trust into the air on a wide round cushion that I had seen on the living room couch. I wasn't blindfolded and that scared me more than being handcuffed. "Mnnnnnn!" I shrieked into my panties. "Relax, little girl," said a voice I didn't recognize. "Fighting only makes it worse." He, or someone else put a hand on my right thigh and patted me in a way that made me scream again. The hand smacked down hard on my rear end. "What did I just tell you?" I screamed again and this time the hand took a hunk of my butt-cheek and pinched it savagely. "Nooooo!" I cried out miserably. "Stop! Please stop it." The words were unintelligible, but he got the message. "Stop, and I'll stop," he said. "Good girl's get along better." I nodded my head, weeping uncontrollably now. They would rape me and kill me, I knew that absolutely, just like that little fourteen year old in North Carolina knew she was going to die. But she had gotten away. Might I? Another voice, barely less menacing than the first, said, "You're scaring the shit out of the kid. Give it a rest, will ya." "'the fuck I care?" the first voice shot back. "She's gone in the morning and then it's on to the next one." Gone in the morning? Ten in the morning? Had that been what Mike meant? If I was being kidnapped, then there was maybe hope. Be cool, Maggie, I thought. Do what they want. Get out of this alive. The second voice said to the first, "Get out of here, Brad. Out front with the others." There was an extended silence during which I knew the two men were glaring at each other, then the first man cursed loudly and stomped out of the room. I felt no safer with the second man. And what had the first one meant? "and then it's on to the next one." Voice Number Two partially answered the question. "There's a guy on the West Coast paid twenty-five grand for you, Honey-pie. All we gotta do is keep you safe and sound for twelve hours and Mike'll get you outta here." I made protesting noises and shook all four limbs. "Forget it," he said. "You're not the first one's been our guest of honor here. Those handcuffs are welded to the bedposts and so far, no one's gotten outta one. The more you struggle, the worse you'll hurt yourself. So quit it." He was telling the truth. All I was doing was tearing up my wrists and ankles on the steel bracelets. But I couldn't stop struggling. He put a hand on the back of my neck and squeezed it gently. "Lay still," he said. His fingertips were on some kind of pressure points, and he would knock me out if I didn't relax. I shoulda let him knock me out. Somewhere along the line, my bladder had let go and I'd peed the mattress. I felt wetness under my knees. "Better," he said, releasing me. "Now behave yourself." I behaved. Let them rape me, I thought. I've been raped before. I'd even taken it up the ass before. No matter what they did to me, it wouldn't be more than an extreme--maybe very extreme--version of sex I'd already had. He came around to where I could see his legs and crotch. I shut my eyes. The only ones I could identify for sure were Mike and the bald fat man and the one with the black eye. Probably, this was the one who'd sprayed me with the gas. If so, I didn't want to see his face. The less I knew about these men, the better. "The way this works," he informed me, as though telling me where my next classroom was, "is whoever puts the highest bid on you wins. We send you to that fellow, who then bids you out to the next group of buyers, usually from out of the country. We don't deal with foreigners ourselves, only groups inside the states. International trafficking is more money, yeah--your end buyer'll pay a chunk of change for you, Honey-pie, believe me--but it's not worth the risks. You get nailed for that, and it's extradition anywhere outside the United States. Even in Mexico. They put an international warrant on you and then it's the Hague." He said the name as if it were Auschwitz. "Now us," he said, walking around the front of the bed- -it sat away from the wall, so I couldn't bang anything, "We take less risk for less money." He patted my rear end affectionately. "But we get the right of first refusal, if you get my drift." In other words, the goods were not necessarily delivered unspoiled. He unbuckled his pants, unzipped his fly and joined me on the bed. "Honey," he said, patting my rear end again. "You shoulda stayed out of the clubs." THE END ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author does not condone the described behavior in real life. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 47