When she'd gotten a little more used to the weird ways of Wesley McAlister, Maryon found herself amused by his cool attitude. He was the con man supreme, a super-pimp who was still ghetto-hustling, but with a scholastic cover and an acceptable, accepted image among writes that let him operate his stable of (with herself) five fillies with virtual impunity. Who would suspect him of running a string of high school call girls? From Glenville, no less?
The girls very seldom met, and then only the context of school. Once a week only Wes would set up an appointment for each with some john in a discreet apartment he'd rented in an oasis of residences just outside the heart of Metropolis, and there they turned their tricks. Wes handled the finances and was, so far as she could tell, generous in the gifts and allowances he made them. But it wasn't the money that they worked for, it was Wes himself in Maryon's own case even the sex got to be a bore, when it was not with him. For the black took the trouble to give her the semblance of loving, a least, and made sure that she was ready to bounce and blow before he got his own rocks off in her. But it was the whole put-on bit that really intrigued her and kept her with him. She had no intention of making a career out of hustling, but his idea of using 'Higher Education' to promote his own hustler's career kept her in a state of inner amusement. Unlike the other four times, Maryon didn't intend to drop out of school and spend the next few years of her life on her back. She had a pretty good idea of what kind of future there was in that! When, the following year, she was accepted at Central U. and told Wes she'd be moving upstate, he quite cheerfully wished her luck and let her go, after one glorious sneaked night of fucking with him in the apartment that left her bruised and happily weak, and owner of three single hundred dollar bills.
At Central she found herself thrust again into a new environment – the 'new kid' at school all over again, but this time she was in no way eager to gain the friendship, or even attention, of any of the several thousand students who bustled the campus. Lois had managed to scrape up some money, chiefly out of Burt, though he complained he had enough to do supporting Michael at college… and with Wes' three hundred she was easily able to escape the dormitories and sororities and take a couple of rooms of her own, a basement apartment off the beaten track so far as students were concerned, with its own entrance, and beneath a house whose owner used it infrequently.
Mike gave her a desultory hand at fixing it up, moving a few sticks of furniture in, knocking nails, helping to hang drapes over one weekend… but otherwise didn't interfere with her life in any way. Remembering Karen's room back in Glenville, Maryon draped all the walls, blocking out the window and designing a heavily curtained air-lock for the doors, so that her storage space was all behind the thick cloth hangings, these on runners so that she could reveal her bookshelves, her record-player, her desk, and other possessions whenever she wanted to use them. Her bed was a box-spring and mattress, double-size, which sat in the middle of the smaller room, with yards of brightly colored cloth shielding it from the floor to ceiling like a tent. She rarely went out and most of the time she wasn't studying was devoted to reading Mead, Goodman, Wylie, Rubin, Reubin… the Barb, Realist, Eyergreen and Avant Garde; and listening to Baez, Collins, Stones, Beatles, Dylan, Shankar.
Anthropology was her chosen field and she gained many useful sexual insights from it. She was all but through with The Naked Ape when she met Carver and it was memories of that book that still, floating in her head, led to her shacking up with him in spite of her self-promise to keep out of the world as much as possible.
For once Mike had invited her to one of his pot parties. Wes had been almost puritanic about keeping his chicks off of anything stronger than aspirin and so this was her first experience with shit. With Mike around, she didn't figure she'd come to any harm, so when the others in the lowlit crowded room began to pass the joints around, she freely let herself go and so, perhaps, took in more than she should have of the acrid, rough-edged smoke. She soon got the hang of toking, though, and while at first she was a little uptight about her dizziness and the strange way the stuff affected her sight and hearing, it wasn't long before she was comfortably sprawled out on the cushions and relaxing. Next to her was Carver, a heavy-set blond boy, a contemporary of Mike's, apparently, who'd gone out of his way to talk to her throughout the evening, a bit to her annoyance. But his tanned face was almost simian, with great, jutting white-browed porches over his deep-set blue eyes, an unlined, symmetrically rectangular forehead, and arms that seemed too long for his squat and muscular body.
The low light glinted on the hairs of his forearm and the sight delighted her. She giggled. She reached out with one slim hand and began to tousle and stroke the little coils of gold wire. She knew what she had, and where, that would match them. She thought about it. Which was golder? Ho, could she find out? She giggled again. Carver leaned over her and asked what was so funny. She giggled like a child, wouldn't tell him, acting coy. He shrugged, bent down and kissed her. There seemed to be an animal musk about him. She continued to stroke his arm, squinting to keep it in focus. She rested his hand on her shirted belly, for convenience. In a moment she felt his fingers insinuate themselves between two button spaces. Casually she popped the three lower buttons and his hand cupped her navel. She continued to twist his hairs about her fingers. He flattened his hand and worked his fingertips under the edge of her belted jeans. Without thinking about where she was, she obligingly sucked in her belly and thrilled as he boldly slid his hand beneath her panties, over the curve of her belly, and pressed with one finger at its base. He pulled her up against him, half sitting, and brought his other arm about her, running his hand up under her partly opened shirt until it reached her bare breast. His exclamation of admiration caused her to bridge through her fuzzy funny feelings and she thrust herself forward so that her nipple rested against his fingers. She drew her legs up, forcing his other hand down between her thighs and jerked pleasurably as he laid a finger into her slot, rolling it a bit to part her moist lips.
"Hey… Maryon! Let's get to bed and out of here," he whispered in her ear.
"Oh, sure," she murmured, beginning to get turned on and wanting the feel of a prick in her after her several months of abstinence, all the old sensations coming back to her. He looked as though he might be as good a stud as the next. "But I don't know if Mike'll let us, here."
"We'll go to your place. I'll drive," he said, squeezing her erecting nipple.
"What about your place, Carver? Do you have a chick stashed there? Oh, I don't care, anyway." She clamped her thighs on his fingering hand.
"Don't have a place… or a chick," he replied. "Been crash-padding here with Mike. Get yourself in gear, chick, I'll pick up some shit and we'll split."
Abruptly his hands were withdrawn from her. She was, for the moment, disappointed. But later? When was later? Why not now? Oh, well… She took a couple of deep tokes from the next joint that came her way, and drifted into a waking dream. Return of blond ape Carver. Button your shirt, Maryon, m'girl. Huh, okay. 'Bye and see' yuh to Mike. Kiss from Mike and have fun, Sis. Yuh, will do. Cold night air. Car. Week-long night-time drive, how pretty all those lights, and the reds and greens and yellows, stop-go-wait stop-go-wait. Hah! home. Matches? Matches? Oh, yeah… for the joints. Joints? All this mine? Big fat motherfucker of a joint, big as m'pinkie. Wow, man… hey, bed's over here. Yuh, fix y'self a sandwich. Wheeeeee! on the bed. Get these Goddamn pants off! Huuuhhhhmmmm, yeah, man. This is good stuff, uh? Hey, now that's not fair. I've got my pants off, wassamatter with you… with yours, huh!!?
Later Maryon was to remember sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing her unbuttoned shirt only, drawing huge drags on the joint, watching Carver, naked, unconcerned, also cross-legged, facing her. Somewhere along about then was the time he began to rub her clitoris with his big toe, but most of the night was a blur. In the late morning when she awoke to find him still peacefully sleeping there, she remembered his muscular body, with its flats and planes, as hairy as a golden ape, covered with crisp yellow matted fur. She was naked and her cunt was sore, though she couldn't remember the fucking that had caused it. She pulled down the black satin-like sheet until he was exposed, flat on his back, and looked at him. Even his balls were furry, though only a few stray strands of long golden hair decorated the lower part of his now flaccid cock. Brushing her own long golden hair back from her face, determined to really enjoy him now that she was in her own mind, she let her heavy breasts dangle down onto his hard belly and took to kissing him there. With one hand working on his hard and hairy balls and her expert mouth pulling and sucking at his limp prick, it wasn't too long before it showed signs of life and lust, springing up like a newly awakened flower.
His prick wasn't all that long – just comfortably so – but she was astonished at its width. This no doubt accounted for her soreness, for it was fully two inches across… more at the coronal ring. It'd been circumcised and the lightly tanned flesh of it was smooth as satin to her tongue's touch and symmetrically domed… almost a formalized artist's conception of a prick. As she continued to play with it, she felt him stir behind her, and then his hands were fondling her butt and breasts. He said nothing, content, evidently, to let her take the initiative. Presently he moved his hands to her legs and, taking her by one ankle, passed it across his chest so that she straddled him. Maryon stroked and smoothed his broad manhood, secretly determining to bring him off in her mouth, to give her cunt time to settle down. Even his prying fingers and occasional kisses on her slot were irritating, and, careful not to show antagonism, she said as much. Immediately he turned his attentions to her out-thrust ass, boldly before his eyes, and she shivered as his rough palms ran tenderly over the globes, gradually bringing his thumbs down into her crack to pull her checks apart as though he was halving a peach to get at the stone which was her blind brown rearward eye.
"You've got a beautiful ass," he said, after a while, running his tongue caressingly over the out-turned puckered ring of it. She wriggled encouragingly, feeling his cock stir in her mouth like a clapper in a bell. "Pity your pussy's all worn out right now," he went on. "I feel like putting it to you, hard and long and strong. Guess there's nothing for it but to fuck your ass."
Maryon froze. In all the situations she'd ever been in, she'd never lost her rear vent's virginity, gently dissuading the Johns' or Wes' who'd wanted to take it. And what was so special about this blond-ape Carver, that he should get in there? And with his great club of a cock?
"Oh, no you don't," she said, starting to swing her leg over him, but he thrust one powerful arm about the front of her thighs, pulling her back onto his other thumb which, after a moistening dip into her stirring cunt, he rammed into her rectum. Trying to fight him, she still could not prevent or put out of her mind the sensationally shocking feel of his digit as he pushed against the backside of her cervix, cracking a knuckle up under her coccyx. Using her as a lever, Carver shot himself up out from under her, dragging his hard prick from between her startled lips, and, still holding her in the crease of belly and thighs, pushed her forward. Stimulated despite herself, she heard the succulent sound as her pussy pumped lubricating moisture down the length of her vagina. Her asshole clenched and unclenched against his probing thumb, hot as an oven, burning her. The nail of a finger rubbed around the corrugations of its pouting lips.
"Oh yes I do!" he declared, and in a moment was kneeling behind her as she still continued to wink and work and suck at his thumb. Before she had begun to recover and realize what was happening, he put his left hand under her belly as she knelt and placed the other on the nape of her neck, under her golden hair. Using the moisture from her cunt and her mouth as already-applied lubricant, he thrust his broad blunt cock-head between her cheeks, slid easily between them, and impaled her.
Lifting her effortlessly off the bed with his long and powerful arms, be stepped back and began to draw her in over him like a boot on a leg. With all the moisture, still his steady thrust hurt her, and yet a sudden strange desire kept her wanting him to continue. She yelled, she laughed, she sighed loudly, she screamed, she kicked him and cursed him for a motherfucker. She yearned, she wanted, she craved, she lusted and longed for him. She sobbed from pain and pleasure. Inexorably he pulled against her belly, and his mighty bar of flesh tore into her tender asshole until she yelled again with ecstasy, feeling his cock presently reach the bone of her spine, felt it begin to rip upward, seating her more firmly, inescapably, upon the spindle of his manhood.
Pausing for a moment, he spread his muscled legs, girding himself for another cock plunge into her tender softness, and bent her down easily over his arm so that she was at right-angles to him. He let her rest her hands on the edge of the mattress, ignored her almost hysterical moans and sighs, and took his hand from her neck long enough to draw her long, slender pale legs up and around him. Maryon had no sense to deny him this, and dug her heels into his hard balls of buttocks, feeling the flexing muscles there as he strained again to pull her. This move accomplished, he again forced her head down and moved back so that her hands slipped off the bed and she fell forward, her hair hanging down in a golden river to the floor. Vainly she reached to support herself on the soft carpeting but his other arm, a bar of yellow-burnished steel, held her up so that her fingertips scrabbled uselessly a couple of inches above it. Apart from the leverage of his arm, which he now moved up so that he could seize, squeeze, fondle and caress one breast, the bulk of her weight rested on his riveting spike. As she looked back along under herself, her reversed vision showed her other breast hanging, scarlet tipped like a cherry sundae, then his broad-splayed golden hand against her pale skin, then her writhing belly, the muscles playing like chain-lightning under the skin, and then, and then, and then… the underside of that broad and hairless wet piston that just moments ago she'd so delicately toyed with in her mouth.
She shuddered, and screamed silently at the sight and shock of her passionate pain.
Obscuring a good portion of this horrifying vision was her pink-lipped pussy, pulsing wide open, the gold-dusted triangle of her dampening hair, and she was able – forced! – to see herself throbbing and sucking there on emptiness, with creamy moisture already oozing out of the slit. She went into a wild, meaningless, frenzied ululation as the great thing stuffed between the plump checks of her butt jerked and moved forward another half-inch, touching the seat of her womb, or so it seemed.
It was like being tom apart by wild horses. She had somehow expanded to fit his cock, but only just, and she was as tight around it as a rifle around a bullet.
She wanted to spend herself, yet there was an enormous, crying hollow in her cunt that yammered for the filling.
She clamped her ankles around him in an agony of frustration and at the same time he made a last stab into her. She felt his hard golden balls bang up against the searching moist lips of that gaping wound, and she clenched as though she could actually close herself about the slapping gourd-filled sack and take it in.
She squirmed herself down on him, looking through her tears back up at her humiliating hung self, crying to him wordlessly to satisfy her. But he only began to turn her this way and that like a chicken on the spit, wriggling her further down his shaft.
He released her head and placed one hand under each breast, cupping them, pressing them so that she cried out with pain, thumbing the hardened nipples until they sprang against his nail. She bucked and twisted and writhed, the great hotness of his flesh spearing her ass at each movement. Now he started to draw her off and on, her moisture and his lubricating the wrenched passage until there was a steady shwuck! shwuck! shwuck! that sounded in her flaming ears above her own moans of pleasure and hurt and his deep draughts of air into his lungs.
Another long minute, and he brought one hand down under her and stuck a stubby finger straight into her slavering slot in a lunge that reached the agonized end of her vaginal sheath, and she came.
She shrilled with passionate delight as she flooded, and flooded, and opened up into a sea of liquid fire.
Immediately he let go of her and deftly brought his hands rapidly sliding up her back to bury themselves in her mass of golden hair and pull her sharply back. She hung suspended by her tresses and his driving prick, and as she involuntarily opened and closed her various sphincter muscles, she screamed at the top of her voice at the pain distributed throughout every inch of her slender, self-slung body.
Carver moved heavily forward and she just had time to brush aside the drapes surrounding the bed and throw her hands up against the wall, or her face would have been mashed into it. Braced as she was, he drove straight into her, burying most of his cock length into her quivering bowel flesh. Her whole being consisted of her tight flesh around his massive prick… nothing else remained to or in her.
As she continued to jerk and jump like a fish on the line, he came, and a boiling raging torrent surged up into her ass. She was past screaming, but her mouth opened in a silent oh! of ecstatic agony.
A fiery freewheeling bomb built in her, somewhere just behind her belly, and exploded. The sensual pleasure fought against the sickening pain until, finally, it won, and she relaxed and let it all hang out as it wonderfully happened – glow and glory, heat and horrendous wetness – rocket-burst after rocket-burst as he spent himself in plunging, rectum-wrenching, ass-ripping, butt-busting fusillades.
Carver relaxed his grip on her now and she hung from him in a limp loop, face down, arms and legs and neck dangling like a dead goose. Through searing eyes she saw her own spendings trickle and spurt down on his golden-furred balls to the floor as he continued to convulse and flicker within her cock-crammed cavity.
Finally he was through. His bag went flaccid and the shaft up her asshole became soft. He shuffled toward the bed, bending his blond-ape legs so that her own, drooping down, could touch the carpeting. She slid painfully off his fragrant, brown-limp cock, giving a couple of last wringing-out squeezes before he was free, and flopped, exhausted but content, covered with dampness inside and out, upon the mattress, her ass sore and bruised, breasts aching, her cunt a red-hot void that felt uneasily pleasant.
Carver slapped her rump playfully and Maryon winced, but he dropped down beside her and put his arm about her shoulders. "First time?" he asked. She nodded. "Won't be the last," he laughed in her ear, and began to run a soothing finger up and down her crack.
And it wasn't. Not that he was particularly perverse, fixed only on fucking her ass, but Carver did like variety, and Maryon soon found herself adjusting. He stayed for four months until she learned from Mike that Carver looked forward to a life of being supported by girls, seeking neither to work nor study, but relying on his pussy-powered piston to get him along.
He wasn't that good, although he had humor and some tenderness in him, so… out he went, with a grin and a groan.