Jenner unexpectedly resigned at the end of the spring semester, giving her no straight reason but facing her for their last time with a cold, calm expression of regret that she saw to be a lie.
Even when she attempted to go down on him, he pushed her hungry head away from his cock and, dismissing her, walked out of the office and her life. She shrugged, and surmised that either she'd worn out his virility or he'd somehow managed to convert his Jesus-freak of a wife to his widened, whimsical versions of sexual expression. If so, Maryon thought, then she'd be a better female for it.
"A cultivated cunt is a contented cunt, and a factual fuck in the here-and-now is worth two moot blessings in the Beyond!" was the way she formulated it.
Things at home were no better. Lois was growing morose and man-hating as her various affairs tailed off. A visit to Karen in the summer didn't revive the old lesbian fires for them, and everyone at school seemed dull and moronic as she trudged into the fall classes. Though Jenner's magic word seemed to have stood her in good stead, upping her marks; and though this trend persisted as the summer classes came to an end, Maryon found it easier to get along if she acted the part of a semi-simpleton, not putting herself forward as the one who knew all the answers.
It might have been because of this that she was approached by Wesley McAlister to play the role of Daisy Mae in the High School production of Li'l Abner. Perhaps because of the dumb blonde implications of the part, none of the older girls seemed eager to audition but, for the sake of something to do, and because of Wes himself, she immediately said she'd try out for it.
Wes was a well-built, handsome black of eighteen who, at six-two, refused to go out for basketball and preferred to get involved in the Drama Society and head up a rock-blues group called "The Rip-Off Ripon Society Band". He was almost the last of a special group from Metropolis' ghetto district that Glenville High'd brought voluntarily in a couple of years ago as part of an experiment funded by the University. He seemed to have lost the ghetto hustling ways and antagonism toward the whites that marked his first year, and now was quite at ease among his peers, with only an occasional snarling jar in his drawl to betray his former deprived background. He quite naturally lorded it over the mixed members of his band and was accepted as a gifted Director-Producer in the Drama Society. Though he had a small coterie of fans, he didn't appear to give his time to any of the girls who were wont to hang about the auditorium when he was in rehearsal. He seemed eager to have Maryon in the play and fussed about her when she was ready to try a reading and audition for him, as though wanting her to make a good impression on the others involved who would be hearing her. Properly briefed, she went down to the auditorium one evening and let herself be shown out onto the stage. To add a touch of authenticity to her try, she'd brought, and now wore, a black micro-mini skirt and an old, flowered, wide-open-necked blouse and was bare-legged and-footed. At first her voice was weak, but after a shout came from over the blinding footlights for her to speak out, she got together her courage and declaimed, putting some little action into it, determined not just to stand there with her hands at her side.
When she'd finished there was silence for some moments, and she nervously wondered whether she should go off or continue to stand there. There must have been some consultation beyond the lights, for presently she heard Wes' voice telling her that she'd probably do but that he'd have to coach her, and telling her to go back to the star dressing room where he'd come see her when he was through.
She found herself to be annoyingly anxious as she sat before the large, bulb-surrounded mirror and waited for him. Was it because of the acting job? Hardly… she just wasn't that much interested in theatricals. Because of Wes himself, then? Well, he was quite a man, and different in so many ways. She was so deep in thought that she didn't hear the door open, and was only aware of him when she got a startling reverse view of him in the mirror, his white teeth flashing out of the shadows that surrounded him. "Glad you could wait, baby," he said, coming forward, "Uh, Maryon, one thing. I know this is no Broadway production we got going here but, just for the posters, d'you mind if we cut off that Swelt bit, and bill you as Maryon Alysun?"
"Sure, Wes, why not? Wes, was I all right out there?"
"Yeah, baby, you'll do, with a few changes. Your voice needs bringing up, but you move pretty easy. There's a coupla things I'll have to lean on you about. Uh… let's get you into costume, right off. Then I'll start you in. You being the last part to be cast means all the other cats are already way out ahead, far as rehearsal's concerned. Yeah, guess you'll find your stuff over there, in that box. Ain't much… not too many changes for you in this thing. But that's what the costume rental people sent. Let's see what you look like, huh?"
He negligently leaned a lanky leg against the dressing table and examined his fingernails. There was no screen in the room. A bit hesitantly Maryon went over to the box on the floor, marked 'Daisy Mae', and rested it on the stool. Inside were the few items of costume and she quickly picked out the large polka-dotted, short-sleeved, off-the-shoulder red blouse and the short-short, ragged-edged rusty-black skirt that went with it. Wes made no move to turn away; on the other hand he wasn't making a big thing out of watching her so, turning her back, she dropped her own micro-mini skirt and quickly stepped into the other, glad that at least she'd worn her clean white nylon bikini briefs. The Daisy skirt was tight… so tight indeed that by the time she got it over her butt and hips, the ridges of her briefs showed clearly through. Stretching, she plucked her blouse over her head and reached for the other. Behind her she heard Wes stir, then he said: "Uh, Maryon, that's one of the things I wanted to lay on you. No bra in this part. Daisy has to bounce her boobies around some, and you don't make it in that bra. Take it off. Here, I'll help."
While her mind was still taking in what he'd said, she felt his hands at her back and then he'd unsnapped her white bra and deftly flicked its straps over her shoulders and down her arms and off, to be tossed on the dressing table. Suddenly, shockingly nude from the waist up, she felt his casual eye examining her. "Guess you'll do," he said. "Just turn around a minute, baby."
In a dream Maryon turned slowly about, ending up facing him, inwardly proud that her breasts needed no support, standing out full and white and round and firm from her. "Yeah, like I thought. Y'got a good pair of tits on you there, baby." As he spoke he tapped the underside of one and nodded approvingly as it quivered. Maryon flushed deeply from her forehead to her tingling nipples' tips. There was something… unsexual in his examination, as though she were a prize cow in the market. Wes noticed her blush.
"Hey, baby!" he said, with a grin that lit his eyes. "Don't get uptight on me, huh? Look… this is, like the man says, show-biz, and y'have to get used to people doing their thing without bothering much about, uh, conventional mo-ral-i-ty. Say now, Maryon, you surely ain't no virgin baby, hah!?"
"No," she said, shortly, continuing to stand there, annoyed by his amusement, highly conscious of her near nudity.
"Didn't think so," he said, turning away to light a cigarette. "Not the way you used to screw around after school with old Genital Jenner. Was he a good fuck?"
"What d'you mean?" she demanded, angry.
"Aw, c'mon, baby, don't kid old Uncle Wes, now. Maybe th'other kids didn't get the word about you two, but I always make a point of finding out what the good bright chicks are doing. You two was making it like it was going outa style, less I miss my guess. Now, wasn't that about the size of it, sweetie? And get into that thing, huh? You don't have to keep on standing there with your knockers hanging out. I've seen worse and better."
Maryon's head was in a whirl as she dumbly struggled to pull the contume blouse on. He was so casual about the whole thing! And she bridled at the reference to her breasts. Seen better, indeed! She bet she could show him a thing or two if she put her mind to it! She decided to play it cool and sophisticated. The blouse was tight, too tight, and it was with difficulty that she was able to thrust her breasts down under the thin material so that her nipples were covered. It felt uncomfortable because the tightness pressed her breasts together at the front, despite the shaping of the blouse that should have made it cup her. At last she tucked the hem under the already strained-to-bursting belt-line of the skirt and, hands on hips, presented herself for his inspection again.
"C'mon over to the mirror," he said, laconically, and ambled to one side, leaving her in the light. Impersonally he turned her about, patted her here and there, tugged at a skirt edge, pulled down the shoulder line. "Yeah," he said, after a while. "Looks okay 'cept for the front, there. Take it off again, baby, and I'll fix it."
Maryon was getting mad as she stretched, pulling out the hem and wrestling the thing over her head with crossed arms, acutely aware of the splendid display of her firm fleshed beauties as they escaped their prison and bounded free. She was used to being handled, but always it had been for the purpose of mutual arousal. Now, she was getting turned on by this dressing and undressing, but Wes treated her like a dress-store dummy. Was he queer or something? Maybe that was it. Well, she'd have her fun with him, now, the cool bastard. But he was talking to her again even as his strong long black fingers played with the neckline of the blouse. "At least you've got the right kind of hair," he said. "Won't need no wig. Reckon I can fix you up as you are. Sit down here, huh, and let's see what Wes can do."
He dropped the blouse to the dressing table top and, as she docilely sat down, came behind her. Teasing him, she lifted up her breasts and massaged them, as though they'd gotten crushed by the blouse. His fingers went to her hair and quickly took out the pins there, then began to fluff and mold the curl and comb, gradually creating a rough version of the curly, wavy yellow-golden Daisy Mae hair style. Despite her thoughts of him… contemptuous… Maryon let herself be thrilled by the sight of his black hands working in her hair, contrasting her creamy-white nakedness as seen in the mirror to his shiny darkness. Flirting with him, she cupped her breasts and raised them toward the glass, curving her back in, herself admiring the way she neatly tapered into the tight waist. "Don't you like them, Wes?" she asked his reflection, fluttering her long fair lashes over her big blue eyes.
He paused, and settled his strong hands on her shoulders, leaning over her. "Yeah," he said. "Why? You want to sell 'em or something?"
As he spoke he began to stroke her shoulders and moved in against her. With a shock she felt something against her bare back and realized that, beneath his pants, Wes' cock was as hard as iron. He was no queer! Fascinated now, she watched her image as his stroking, gentle hands symmetrically moved on her white body, each finger moving separately in a light massage, smoothing her neck, the curves down, her shoulders, her upper arms, back to her shoulders and then, at last, down to the upper slopes of her breasts, suddenly down through the valley that separated them and up underneath, supporting their weight, with thumbs now beginning to circle around her roughened areolas, spiraling in to the fast-growing dull-red nipples, not quite touching them, teasing her… and most of all she was conscious of the blackness of those caressing hands against the cream of her silken skin. She was hypnotized by her image… watching it happen to someone else… barely perceptive of his eyes studying her face.
His steady handling continued, paced to her needs, with only an infrequent scrape of thumbnail over nipple-tip to make her gasp. Little muscles twitched with familiar signals in her thigh-guarded citadel and she knew her briefs must be moist with her inner oils. She was lost to desire. She knew well enough that now she could not go back. She would do anything to have this loving fondling continue. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back to rest it against his hard flat belly. She placed her hands over his and uncrossed her legs.
"Don't stop, Wes," she pleaded. "Oh, please don't stop."
"You want a little loving, Daisy Mae?" he asked, and she nodded, a flash of amusement going through her at his misnomer of her for her role in the play. His hands moved lightly down over her ribcage and for a while stroked her flanks with a touch that was not quite a tickle but which in any case centered its circling about the twin magic spots that always added to her body's wants. She arched herself out like a cat fresh in from the cold and moved her shoulders about on his hardness, imagining it in her hands. Soon he spanned her waist and urged her to stand. She obeyed him like a doll, knowing he would not disappoint her. He turned her about and, holding her in his arms, embraced her with never-still hands that covered every last tingling inch of her bare back, then moved again to her belly and breasts till she hung from him weakly, a vessel of want. Now he began to kiss her, nipping her earlobes, spooning his tongue into her orifices until each warm laving sent a wave of heady warmth through her. He gently kissed her closed eyelids, the curve of neck and shoulder, her throat, the dimples of her cheeks and chin, the sides of her nose. His hot and steady breath thrilled her with its own caress and she let herself hang laxly, borne up only by the flexing flow of lusting life he was molding into her with his kneading hands. She floated in a sea of sensuality, lived only a now-life of longing. Presently she felt her bare foot being raised and placed upon the soft worn-cushioned top of the dressing table stool, and then his warm large hands clasped her ass and lifted until she stood on it. Tremblingly eager for the return of his touch, she waited as he carefully slid the ragged skirt down her legs then inched her briefs down until the back of them slipped beneath her curving buttocks and the front excitingly pressed its tight edge across the strong columns of her upper thighs and the protruding muscled mound between them.
Leaving them there, he continued with his rain of kisses, moving his mouth all about her body, sucking at the magic spots, tonguing the shallow grooves of her ribs, burying his nose in her navel, tracing with his lips every intimate curve and slope of front, back and sides, yet never going below her hips. Entreatingly, blindly, she lifted her aching breasts toward him in silent urging but instead he drew back, cupping her bare white butt with his hands. "What'd'you want, Daisy Mae?" he whispered.
"I… I want you to… to make love to me…" she softly replied.
"I'm making love to you now, girl, the bestest, lovingest love you ever did have, baby. What more do you want?"
She guessed his meaning. "I want you to fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!" she said, gasping with pleasure at the touch of his fondling fingers on the sensitive inside curves of her ass.
"What'd'you went from me?"
"Your… your prick!"
"What kind of prick is it you want, Daisy Mae!"
"Your… big… black… prick… Wes."
"That's good; that's real good, Daisy Mae. What'll you do to get it?"
"Anything… anything… just don't stop loving me!"
"Right on, baby, that's just about what you'll do, okay. You'll work you ass off for my black cock, won't you, Daisy Mae!?"
"Anything… anything!"
"Anything'll be later! Right now, just get back down here and get these things off me. Hear, cutey-cunt!?"
Her heart bump-beating with anticipation, her mouth dry with unholy excitement, Maryon stepped down off the stool and stood waiting as he sat himself down with his back to the mirror and stretched out his arms and legs. Swiftly, anxious to have him touch and hold her again, she drew the yellow T-shirt over his head, purposely brushing her hard, erect nipples over the course matted hair of his chest, ripped off his sneakers, then knelt to fumble urgently at his belt and fly. She closed her eyes as she pulled off his pants from under his obligingly lifted butt, wishing to see him completely naked before she caught sight of his manhood. When she was free of his clothing, still kneeling between his legs, she opened her eyes.
"Ohohohohohohohoh-ohohoh-oh-oh-oh-oh OH OH OH!!!"
Lusciously shiny purpley black, darker and as smooth as an egg-plant was his cock, free of foreskin, narrow-domed, sleek as sweat, tapering slightly in from the hard rubbery ridge below the dome down to the narrow cylindrical stem that jutting out proudly, rigidly from his sparse-haired crotch. Two great purple grapes hung from his prick beneath, smooth as satin. As she looked at it wide-eyed, he jerked it and, though there was no way she could not want it in her, she shuddered. Except for the hard ridge near his cockhead it was not big about, but its length! Like a child she splayed her fingers, placing her pinkies at his dry black root and her thumbs, stretched to their limit, along his cockshaft. Beyond their span, his cock reached toward her fully another three inches! Eleven inches in all? She shuddered again, but a hot surge lit her loins at the thought of this magnificence to be swallowed in them.
He leaned forward and took her by the shoulders, beginning his smooth, sensuous stroking again. "Kiss it, Daisy Mae. That's all… for now."
With drugged, amazed eyes, she leaned into him, rubbing the velvet-skinned hot cock flesh about her face before delivering a tender, sideways kiss on it.
"Up, Daisy Mae!" he commanded, running fingers in her ears to make her ooh! and tingle. Easing himself further forward so that his sweaty ass was hanging off the seat, he brought her in to stand between them, touching him, and told her to take her briefs off. She would have gone running naked through the streets for him by this time and, not caring how humiliating this all was, wriggled her briefs down over her knees, rubbing her bare legs against his, while his large black hands roved intimately over her dangling breasts. When she was standing up again, he put a pair of fingers to her wet-lipped cunt and took one breast between his lips, tonguing her nipple and sucking her tit till she felt faint with desire, meanwhile lifting one of her feet to rest on his thigh, the better to toy with her unprotected blonde pussy. Over his shoulder she saw through lust-heavy eyes the sleek shining blackness of him as he clung to her pliant white body, and let her hands wonderingly entangle themselves in his crisp curled hair, outrageously reveling at the sight of their contrasting nude colorings. She pressed closer against him, silently willing him to take her now. But instead he pulled her up to stand spread-legged over him as he half-sat there, and now she could see her full nakedness shamelessly displayed in the mirror. The strong hands moved around to her ass and he thrust his head up between her thighs, almost lifting her off her feet with the power of his hungry, working jaws. She almost cried out with pain as his big teeth churned at the soft skin of her belly and the tender tiny ridge that ran between her legs but then, as though skillfully aware of every last least change he was putting her through, Wes ran a long and licking tongue into her fragrant, gaping cunt, throwing his head back and moving under her so that, in the all-seeing mirror, she could look down over his fine broad nose and actually see the dark and glistening organ wash the wallow of her plump pink lips.
The sight of herself so wantonly presented added to her lust and she wriggled her hips, rubbing her satin thighs against the roughness of his hair, making her labia pucker and kiss him as his lips played about them.
And then his tormenting head was withdrawn. "Like what you see, huh, Daisy Mae!?" he said from beneath her, licking her cunt juice off his lips. "Okay, girl, now you'll really see som'p'n. Jest you stay right where you are, I'll be right back. And jam your fucking fingers in your little old white piece of meat, huh, to keep it warm and ready for Uncle Wes!"
Not daring to disobey lest he change his mind and leave her poised on the cliff-edge of her desire, but with a wince of disgust at what she was doing, Maryon prised apart the lips of her cunt with one hand, smoothing back the tiny golden curls there, and thrust two fingers of her other hand between them, bending at the knees to further widen the passage. As soon as her vagina felt the loving invasion, it automatically sent its messages through her to continue and she watched in weird wonderment at herself as she frantically frigged herself in full illuminated view of the naked black boy in the shadows behind her. But it was not for long, for now he dragged into sight a wooden kitchen chair which he placed behind the stool, facing it and the mirror. Delicately he sat in it and slid his bent legs beneath her till his feet rested on the table-top and again she could see his waving black wand framed by the inverted V of her slender white legs. Wes lay back with his shoulders low down against the back of the chair, then abruptly told her to bend down and grab his ankles. Like this he could see, inches from his face, her twin holes, vulnerable and defenseless, but instead of lingering, he reached forward and struck her behind her straining knees so that they bent and she involuntarily dropped to a wide-kneed, forward-leaning crouch. Wes started to play his sinuous fingers along the hollowed ridge of her curved spine, letting them at last come down to the darker valley between her cheeks and scratch and scrabble at her asshole until she felt the sphincter muscles push the hard brown ring out toward him. He laughed as he ran a set of scraping nails across its itching surface, then reached below her and took hold of his long, purple prick. For a while he amused himself by rubbing it around between her widespread satin thighs, teasing her with its knob, letting it bang and bob against her vulva.
All the while he was slowly spreading his legs, forcing her arms out as they gripped his ankles, and straining apart her knees where they rested precariously and a bit painfully on the edge of the dressing-table.
"You want it, Daisy Mae?" he asked, and in the mirror she looked at the spectacle of herself and nodded. "You got it, fucker!" he hissed and, taking her strongly by the ankles, lifted her up and settled her down so that his big black prick was notched into her crying cunt. He brought her feet behind her and crossed her ankles on his belly, this position forcing her knees wide. He opened his own knees flatly, bending them and bringing his ankles a little closer together so that his gray soles almost faced each other a couple of feet apart. One fist thumped her in the small of the back so that she caved in, and then he was easing her down onto his prick until she was firmly ensconced, leaving his hands free then to tickle the wrinkled wet bottom cleft of her engorged cunt, and electrically spark the mercilessly exposed protruding ring of her rearward hole.
"Pump, blonde bitch, let me see you fuck yourself on this black man's totem pole," she heard him say, dimly through the rushing blood that suffused her ears. In the mirror she could clearly see the length of his purple-black lance as it fed itself into the gold-clustered glistening pink lips that centered the creamy-white softness of her stretched and yawing thighs. Her large, ivory breasts swung gently with each heavy breath she took and bounced at every gasp; her belly bounced along with them as inch by inch the black prick climbed toward its trembling interior target. Her reddened nipples pointed out from her and ached for want of handling or contact, but neither came and so she began to flex her mammary muscles so as to draw them in and out of her bounding breasts' sheaths. About her pink-flushed face her yellow-golden hair tumbled in beautiful disarray, full and soft and shining in the many fights of the mirror's border, while her wide blue eyes roamed lasciviously now to eagerly record every last sensational sight of her submissive, servicing self as the young blonde cunt impaled itself upon the long dark dull-edged sword. She licked her rose-bud lips, took a deep breath that set her boobs to jostling, silently counted three, then thrust herself back and down. She let out a shrill, quickly muted scream as the reflection in the mirror confirmed what her ravaged vitals already knew, that she'd somehow managed to get all of his long black cock inside her. She jerked up at the sharp pain at her womb's entrance but cruel hands on her hips held her down. Her cunt went wild and began to clench and clutch and strangle at his dick with its tiny hands, as though to kill this ruthless ravisher, but all that did for her was to rouse her to almost instant climax. But before she could let herself go, she felt Wes' hot jet spurt high up into her, unable to escape into her vagina because of the plug he himself provided. She screamed again, harshly this time, as a hard and fiery wire seemed to be coring its way up through her stomach. Tears blinded her eyes but she felt him move and then his huge black hands were squeezing the bases of her breasts where they swung out from her body, gripping them into a tight circle of pain, pulling down at them like udders.
"Wes! Wes! Wes! What-are-you-doing-to-me-Wes? Wes-you're-hurting-me-WES!!!" she shrieked, writhing her body, unable to escape his now jabbing black cock and his grasping vise of hands, feeling his sharp chin bore into her spine as he bore down strongly with his head. And then, miraculously, he sank back and let her go and, as she lifted herself but a quick, agonizing half-inch off him, a plug was pulled in her and she came and came and came and came in one long soul-shattering body-shuddering mind-blowing cascade, her needy body responding to her sudden relief by over-reacting, sending her into massive, splendorous paroxysms of pure and unadulterated plunges of pleasure. All time-sense was lost to her. She rammed herself up and down his still – still!!!! – rampant black rod, rolls of gasping gratification rippling along her body, screwing herself back and down on his prick, pulling herself up, bent awkwardly but uncaringly back so that she could place her splayed fingers hard down on her pubic mound and feel each glorious new penetration as it swelled her flesh, and lift and pump his black balls like a pair of enchanted douche-bulbs. And he let her have her way with this inspired instrument! Happy as a child with a new toy, she wriggled and squeezed and winced and gasped and cried and laughed and clenched and groped. It was wonderful! Why… she had only to flick her flaunting clitoris and she was off to a new paradise of selfish sensual pleasure… How long could it last? How long could he last? How long could IT last?
Maryon didn't know, not then or ever. Once or twice she halfheartedly tried to time herself by the clock, but always the inevitable little death sent her to the doors of drowsy, desire-drugged sleep.
Now, she was dimly aware that he lifted her off, his beautiful black cock still marvelously erect! – and laid her out on table-top, stool and chair as he had been, with her bundled clothes beneath her head.
Now, she was delightedly aware that, as he seated himself sideways on the stool alongside her languorously exhausted thighs, he made no objection to her firm hold on his princely prick as she drifted in and out of dreams.
Now, she was dormantly aware that he was telling her a story, something about why he called her Daisy Mae, how he called all his girls by their cast-names, how there was 'Baby Doll' and 'Nellie Forbush' and 'Doris W.' and of course, 'Eliza', his fair lady, and how he was so glad he could share himself with them all, and how they were eager and content to share him, and how she would be just as willing and happy to hustle her ass for him, once she was properly gentled…
Now, she was drowsily aware that once more his hands were on her naked, sprawling white and golden body, readying her for fresh and unfancied fuckings. Anything, as long as she could satisfy her cravings with his licorice stick. She pulled it toward her and began happily to suck and lick. Yes, Wes, I'll screw for fun and profit… profit for you, and fun for me only with you, you loveringly all-day licker, you!