Surely this wasn't part of a candy striper's normal duties. If it were, Sibyl was quitting at once! Oh, no! she thought. Dr. Waverly's card hung from the hall side of the door. What if he were on his way back? What if he came in and saw this filthy scene in progress? She leaned forward, her hands jerking at Betsy's shoulder.
"Stop it!" she hissed. "For heaven's sake, stop it!"
Betsy lurched and wobbled as Sibyl pulled at her, and in the process of that lurching and wobbling, Terry's cock jumped from her tight sucking mouth. Sibyl saw it – really saw it – for the first time, and she was shocked out of her shoes. Her first sight of the sex-ready male instrument displayed a long, red extension of flesh, so hard she was positive the boy must have been in sheer agony. It was soaking wet from Betsy's mouth, and the skin looked raw and painful as the dick jerked in mid-air. Sibyl fought the impulse to scream, but her hands went slack on Betsy's shoulder, allowing the blonde candy striper to reach for Terry's cock.
Betsy's sucking had reached the point of no return as far as Terry was concerned. His face contorted with the need to blow his nuts and he whined in a little boyish voice that would have been comic in any other setting. And when Betsy grabbed his prick with both hands, steering it toward her mouth, his groan dropped a full octave in pitch. "Unh-unh-unh!" he grunted, letting his cum fly where it would.
The first squirt of jism from the tip of Terry's cock took Sibyl in virginal surprise. She saw it burst forth, she could even see that the boy's pecker was momentarily pointing in her direction as Betsy fought to re-establish it in her mouth. But Sibyl couldn't move, not even when a huge, steaming gob of semen splashed her pinafore apron midway between the dainty twin thrust of her tits. She looked down in stunned horror as the sticky cream began to ooze in a viscous course down the front of her candy-striped apron, and the need to cry out in disgust was a burning impulse inside her muted throat.
The stuff oft her starched, clean pinafore – it had come from the patient's penis – it reminded her of – ugh! – snot. And there was a strange, almost fishy odor drifting toward her nostrils. An odor which hadn't been there before. She was going to be sick. Right here.
Sibyl looked toward the bed. Now she really felt sick.
Betsy was bent over the patient's midsection, and once again she had his thing in her mouth. Just the end of it, this time, and her hand flew up and down the exposed red shaft. Her cheeks sucked in, then puffed out, like a bellows in use, and Sibyl knew that the pretty blonde candy striper was allowing more of this hideous male juice to spurt into her mouth. Oh, God, how could she? Even the fumes of the stray burst which had splattered Sibyl's apron made the red-headed girl's brain woozy. Sibyl made a fist and covered her lips with it, as if she were trying not to vomit.
"C'mon, you little slut," Terry chanted wildly. "Suck it all up! Gargle with my jism." He thrashed as much as his traction would allow, which wasn't much, and Betsy's head swayed from side to side as she permitted his dick to empty itself into her mouth. She hummed as she accepted his offering, and the vibrato of her humming seemed to intensify the facial reactions Terry made while squirting. He panted like a weary dog and Sibyl could see beads of sweat rolling across his forehead.
Betsy raised her head from the already deflating cock she had sucked to completion. Her lips were glossy, both from the lipstick and from stray droplets of cum which had streaked across them, and she curled them into a kittenish smile. Sibyl couldn't understand the smile. If anyone had forced her to perform such a shocking act, she'd be green with nausea and revulsion.
Terry groaned and panted still, rocking in his traces. His cock was wilted to a small noodle, a stray drop of watery cream seeping from its tip and falling to the sheet on which he lay. Sibyl was astonished at how much the boy's member had shrunk in the space of only a few seconds.
Betsy slid up the bed, touching Terry's face with her cummy fingers. To Sibyl, the blonde girl's cheeks looked slightly swollen, and her lips seemed to be too firmly set. Terry recoiled when Betsy stroked his mouth with one sticky digit. "Don't do that," he grimaced, but he couldn't very well move out of her way, and he had no real defense when she seized the initiative and pushed her middle finger into his mouth. It muffled his enunciation of "that", and he began to sputter in powerless upset. Betsy used both hands then, prying his lips open and lowering her face. She pressed her mouth upon his and ground against him, purring as she kissed Terry.
She hadn't swallowed his jizz. It sloshed inside Betsy's mouth, for she had realized even as he squirted that this would be the sweetest revenge for what Terry owed her. And she solicited her revenge now. She opened her mouth as they kissed, and she gave him back his cum. He'd gushed it into her mourn, a thick, stringy, sticky load, several days' backlog, and Betsy let it pour from her mouth to his.
Terry gasped and sputtered and choked. His face cringed beneath Betsy's, but the girl kept her mouth in place a long, long time. When she raised it at last, Terry's lips and flopping tongue were white and sticky with the cream she'd returned. "You cunt," he coughed, a thin rivulet of jism spilling from the corner of his mouth. "You rotten lousy bitch of a cunt! I think I'm gonna be sick! I'm gonna puke!"
"Nonsense," Betsy asserted stoutly. "It isn't the tastiest brand on the market, but it won't hurt you. I've swallowed buckets in my time. Besides, lover, I didn't want to run away with anything that belonged to you." She took a tissue from the pocket of her pinafore, wiped her lips daintily, and turned to go. "Try gargling it, big stuff," she added spitefully over her shoulder.
"I think my apron is ruined," Sibyl said disconsolately, holding it at arm's length. The squirt of cum had flowed down the front of her pinafore and was nearly dry now, with a definite, ugly brown stain in its wake.
"Oh, maybe," Betsy agreed. They were in the basement lounge for student nurses, and no one else was around. Betsy went to the coffee pot, half-filled a paper cup, then spilled the hot contents on Sibyl's apron, obliterating the cum stain. "If anyone asks, tell them you spilled your coffee. Besides, there are hundreds of pinafores around."
That seemed to clinch it. Sibyl poured herself a cup of coffee, sipped it, then turned to her nonchalant blonde co-worker, who was buffing her nails. "How could you – how could you do that?" Sibyl asked suddenly, squeezing the paper cup so fiercely it almost crumpled in her hand.
Betsy looked up, her blue eyes big arid vacant. "He deserved it," she said. "He put me down once, and everyone at school heard about it. I always knew I'd get even." She giggled. "Oh, it wasn't so bad. I mean, cum isn't poison. God, I'd be dead."
"Not that," Sibyl said, shivering at the memory of what Betsy had done to the boy. "I meant, how could you have done that at all? Put his thing in your…"
Betsy tilted her head to one said and she laughed softly. "I suppose you've never? Oh, my God, you haven't! Don't blush, Sibyl. Being a virgin isn't the worst thing in the world. I mean, there's cancer, and – you are a virgin, aren't you? I mean, a real, honest-to-God…" She stopped. "I'm embarrassing you."
Yes, very much! Sibyl wanted to shout. In fact, she was even more embarrassed than when she'd stumbled in to watch Betsy's act of perversion. Of course she was a virgin. Chastity was a girl's greatest treasure. All the nuns had agreed on that. Bad girls went to hell and scorched in the fires of their sinful lusts. Betsy would probably go to hell, or at least to purgatory, and Sibyl found the thought saddening. Betsy didn't seem like such a bad girl, though her morals were obviously flawed. There was something fresh and appealing about Betsy, something which especially reached out to a girl like Sibyl, who'd always had trouble making friends.
"Look," Betsy went on. "If you're a good girl, that's nobody's business but yours. I'm a naughty girl, and I dig the hell out of being one. Talk about ironic. Look at us. Here you are, pure as a rose, and you have that really sexy red hair – mm, it feels just like a horse's mane, very nice – and freckles, and your face! Lord, you've got the kind of face that kinda smirks, you know? Naughty, but wouldn't it be soooo nice?" She did a half-turn and came round wearing a big-eyed kissy-face that shocked Sibyl all over again.
"No," Betsy protested. "That's how you look. It doesn't mean anything, necessarily. Take me, for example. Here I am, five-feet-four of blonde, blue-eyed apple pie. I was first runner-up for Miss Teenaged Albany County. Not bad, considering that I'd probably win it hands down for Town Slut, if they held a contest. See? Oh, we're two different people, you and I, and neither of us is responsible for the other's moral values. Is there any reason we can't be friends? Okay! Let me get some coffee, and you tell me about yourself. You're new in town?"
Sibyl began to talk at machine-gun tempo about herself, about her father and his adventures and books, about the house they were renting here, about the California house to which they'd move come fall. She couldn't believe she was talking so much, but it was her voice, sure enough.
"Oh, you're at the O'Brien place," Betsy deduced. "Up on the hilltop. Pool and patio out back. Yeah, that's only a few blocks from our house. God, you should be soaking up the sun, not wasting your days pepperminting. I wish we had a pool."
"Maybe you could come by sometime," Sibyl offered hesitantly, not sure Betsy would accept. The other girl was so outgoing, so self confident – why did she want to be friends with a wallflower like Sibyl?
"I was hoping you'd ask," Betsy mugged. "Maybe I'll just pack my bikini and sunglasses and take you up on it. Very soon."
Sibyl sighed. Betsy had the kind of figure bikinis were made for. Long-legged, well-proportioned, not busty but not flat-chested. Betsy would be dynamite on a beach. She'd have to carry a whip and gun to keep the boys away. Sibyl felt inadequate in comparison, though the two girls could probably have interchanged clothes from the skin out, with perfect fit. There was something about Betsy, though, an aggressive confidence, an elan, which Sibyl knew she lacked.
"Please do," she said in spite of her envy. "It would be awfully nice."
Sibyl's shift ended at four-thirty. She changed from uniform into shirt and jeans, mounted her bicycle, and pedaled home. A good cyclist, she was able to pedal all the way up the steep hill which led to her summer residence, though she was puffing by the time she reached the top. A small Japanese car was parked in front of the house, alongside Daddy's gray Mercedes. Who? Oh, sure! The girl who typed Daddy's final drafts. She was in and out every day, it seemed, dropping off batches of manuscript. And staring at Daddy with big calf eyes, too, Sibyl thought. As if he were some hot-stud rock singer. Women certainly didn't mature just because they got older. Sibyl parked her bike and went inside.
From the foyer she could hear the sounds. A woman, sighing, sobbing, her voice cracking with some emotion Sibyl didn't recognize. Pain? Delirious excitement? It smacked of both. The young girl hesitated, rocking on her heels. A man's voice, too, deeper pitched, calling out with the growl of a well-fed lion. A bed, and she was certain it could be only a bed, heaving like a trampoline. The shaking, the rattling, the creaking of mattress springs – Daddy certainly wasn't pounding his typewriter!
She took off her shoes and crept up the stairs, very softly, very slowly, watching where she stepped. The sounds Sibyl heard emanated from her father's bedroom. She was positive of that as soon as she'd climbed halfway up the staircase. The bedroom door was opened all the way. She glued her face to a gap between banister rails and looked straight ahead, into the bedroom, to the bed. As clearly revealed to her sight as if it were in the center of a theatrical stage were two people, a man and a woman, both of them completely naked, their bodies joined together as they exercised on the bed. It was Daddy, of course, and with him was that girl – what was her name? Cheryl something. And – God! thought Sibyl in revulsion.
She had a profile view. Certain details were obscured, but she could see enough to know what was going on. Cheryl was on her back, legs kicking high in the air. Her brunette hair was flipping and swirling in a disordered mess, and she sang and purred in a gasped breathless tone. Sibyl's father, Ed, knelt on the bed, behind Cheryl, the cheeks of her ass balanced on his folded thighs. His loins pressed against the space between her legs and he kept pushing himself against her, sighing each time he rammed her body with his own. And each time Ed sighed, Cheryl moaned, and her feet paddled in the air as if she were pedaling a bicycle downhill.
He's-he's fucking her, Sibyl told herself in shock. Not the least of Sibyl's horror was traced to the fact that she even thought of such an obscene phrase as "fucking." But she'd heard it so often today during her conversation with Betsy. The sweet-faced blonde could talk up a storm, and her favorite adjectives and modifiers were "fuckin'" and "bitchin'". Now it was rubbing off on Sibyl. I should have my mouth washed out with soap, she thought.
But he was fucking her. Or having intercourse with her. Or whatever description, polite, or impolite, was appropriate. Cheryl even said so. "Oh, come on, fuck me!" she moaned, over and over as her body and Ed's slammed together with squishes and thwacks of flesh. She used the word nearly as often as Betsy.
It's disgusting, Sibyl fumed. Hideous and disgusting they looked like animals, doing that. She closed her eyes, not wanting to watch another second, but she opened her eyes almost as soon as she'd shut them. Some power stronger than her outraged moral sense was controlling her, and she was helpless. She could only watch.
Ed doubled his pace. His body was a blur of motion as he shoved his cock in and out of Cheryl's sucking cunt. It was the third time they'd balled this afternoon, besides the first-time sixty-nine. His cock was harder than ever, and he was giving Cheryl unmitigated hell. She screamed in joy every time it banged its fierce way into her pussy, and she rotated her feet in the air. His hands burned where they gripped her ass, lifting her to receive him, and there was a strained ache in the small of her back which meant nothing in comparison to the feverish delight of her pussy.
"Oh, you brutal bastard," she moaned, "you gorgeous, brutal, sonofabitch! You're killing me with that prick of yours! I think my cunt is on fire!"
His only reply was to laugh heartily and shaft her all the harder. She screamed when he fucked even faster, and her body wobbled where it touched the bed. Hair flew across her face, a stray curl dangling into her open, gasping mouth. She clutched her big, stiff-pointed tits, squeezing the nipples till she thought they would burst like pimples.
Ed stopped balling her as the tremors of release rippled through her pussy. Cheryl's legs tensed, her toes curling and uncurling, and she felt five or six separate orgasms race through her cunt. She could only groan in weary satisfaction. Then: "Oh, Jesus, take it out, Ed – please!" Her cunt, settling down, felt raw from the repeated insertions of his dick and still-imbedded cock made lances of pain radiate from her creamed-over box. She wriggled, trying to escape her lover.
Ed pushed forward, burying his cock in her even while she tried to escape it. "We're paying for the typing, aren't we?" he asked slyly. "What about my change?" Graciously, he leaned back then, withdrawing his wet, red, ferociously hard peter from her splayed gash. It waved in the air, thrusting up fiercely from his loins, a monster of a cock.
A monster! thought Sibyl. A monster! It was only the second erect penis she had ever seen – Terry's was the first – but its size was frightening. She had thought Terry's cock was big, and big it looked to her virgin eyes, but compared to her father, the boy at the hospital was a penile dwarf. Sibyl looked down at her slim forearm, making a mental comparison. If her father's dick was smaller than her forearm, it wasn't that much smaller. And he had been using it like a crowbar in the typing girl's vagina! Sibyl thought of her own delicate cunt and tried to imagine the havoc such a prick would cause there…
"So, how about my change?" Ed went on, and his daughter lifted her eyes to the scene in progress. "You owe me one come."
Cheryl didn't hesitate. She scooted her ass out of his hands, dropped onto the bed, then reversed herself, so that she lay on her belly. Like a worshiper at a pagan altar, she looked up at the stiff prong extending above her head. Cheryl lifted her shoulders, moving her face closer, closer. Her tongue shot out – it was bright red – and its tip brushed the dangling sac of Ed's balls. Only a brushing contact. She tongued the underside of his cock and licked her way toward the huge, purple-red knob, the fat crown of the oversized prick.
Her mouth made an O, and she screwed that O onto the end of Ed's peter. Cheryl gulped hungrily moving her head down, down, down. Sibyl watched in bemused dismay as the brunette girl appeared to swallow Ed Bogart's rod. It must be a foot long, Sibyl thought. How can she do that?
Cheryl's head just kept moving downward, mote and more of that huge, thick prick disappearing into her mouth. Her eyes were wide open, and so was her mouth, its stretch-strain obvious to Sibyl from a distance of fifteen or twenty feet. But Cheryl didn't stop. She was gagging and choking, but she pushed forward, and for one long, unbelievable moment, she pressed her wet lips down upon the base of Ed's dick and the massive sac of balls which hung just beneath. Her face reddened, as if she were holding her breath and she went "Nnnnrrrppp" like a burp of protest, and she withdrew faster than she'd gone down. But Ed's cock was completely spit-wet as it reappeared from between her lips, and Ed was smiling paternally and patting his lover on her rumpled hair. He said, "Baby, that was beautiful. A magazine editor I used to know in Sydney almost killed herself trying that trick."
Cheryl grabbed his cock by the root and took her mouth off it. "Am I better than she was? Am I better than anybody else you've ever had?"
"You're better than a lot of them," he confessed. "And you're definitely the best I've ever had in Ohio."
"So are you," Cheryl grinned, and with that she thrust him back inside. Her cheeks closed in upon his cock, and she began to suck it eagerly. He'd brought her to come after come. God love him, and if he had one more burst of jism left in his nuts, she wanted him to dump it in her mouth, where it belonged.
Cheryl sucked with loving purrs and hums – she'd heard about a dirty movie, where a girl actually sang "Jingle Bells" while sucking a guy's cock, and she wondered how it was done. She couldn't sing or speak with that big piece of bone in her mouth, and she was too embarrassed to practice right now, lest Ed think she was silly and laugh at her. So she kept on humming and purring, sending shivery vibrations up and down his cock, and along with the cunty noises, she threw some of her finest suction onto her man. She might be just a piece to him, but she wanted him to think of her as the piece de resistance.
"Get ready," he panted, moments before she expected it. "I'm going to come, right in your beautiful mouth!"
"Mmmmmm!!" Cheryl moaned around his hardness. She had an open throat, eager to receive his jizz.
Ed grabbed her by the ears about the same time she closed one fist upon his nuts, giving them a kinky twist. He uttered, "Nnnnnggghhh!" in a passion-choked groan, then humped forward, and his cock poured out so much joy-juice Cheryl was positive it must be gushing in sticky streams from her eyes and ears and nostrils. She tried to keep sucking, to make him squirt his very soul into her grateful mouth, but her lips trembled so agitatedly she was afraid of biting him. So Cheryl let her mouth go slack, offering him the dominant role she didn't mind surrendering, and he braced her with his hands, filling her mouth to the brim. She felt his jism drip from her unsteadied lips, but for every drop she lost, Cheryl swallowed two, and her tummy sang in contentment long after he'd stopped shooting and his cock had begun, at last, to go soft in her warm mouth.
Sibyl's entire body was numb, except for the nipples on her young tits, which seemed to pulsate inside her bra. She had her knees braced against the wall beside the staircase, and one of her hands clutched at the railing base. Otherwise, she knew, she surely would have toppled and fallen.
The two of them, Daddy and Cheryl, were cuddling on the bed now, kissing, petting, but not at all seriously. The first time their lips touched, Sibyl cringed, remembering Betsy and the boy at the hospital. Her friend had made the boy irate by giving him back his semen in the midst of a kiss. Daddy must be tasting himself now, as his tongue jiggled inside Cheryl's mouth, but it wasn't apparent. At least, he wasn't calling her dirty names and reacting in shock. It seemed unbearably perverted, in Sibyl's estimation, that her father was willing to plant big soul kisses on the mouth that had just sucked him to a tremendous orgasm.
"Sibyl will be getting home soon," Ed told his girl. He shrugged as he said it, and Cheryl sat up with a deep sigh. "The last three chapters of the book are on the desk beside the typewriter," he added. "You can have them done by day after tomorrow?"
Cheryl nodded. She was reaching for her halter, slipping her tits into it. She smoothed down the material, but her nipples were sated with sex and barely responded to her invitation to spring up afresh. "Fine," she said. "It'll take me that long to rest up."
Sibyl was still numb, still emotionally stunned by what she'd seen. But she realized, as Cheryl stood up and poured her ripe, wide-hipped body into a pair of tight slacks, that within a very few moments the couple would be leaving the bedroom, that they'd see her and know she'd been watching them. Pins tingled in her bare feet as she forced them to creep silently down the stairs. No one had noticed her yet – the sun was on the far side of the house and the staircase was in shadow from the surrounding walls. And neither her father nor Cheryl had been in any observant frame of mind while they were fucking.
She went outside, mounted the bike and coasted down the bill to the street below. There she stopped, halted on the sidewalk, waiting.
In ten minutes she heard the unmistakable sound of a Toyota. Cheryl pulled to the entrance of the private road; looked both ways, then zipped onto Richland Street. Sibyl wondered if it were safe to go home now. She hesitated. Could she face her father, knowing what she knew?
She pushed her bike up the drive but met her father coming down, driving his Mercedes. He stopped alongside her, leaning out the window to speak. "Hi, honey," he smiled – almost innocently, Sibyl thought…"how was your day?" She threw away her reply with a fluttery gesture. "Say, I'm going to the store, Sib – out of coffee, pipe tobacco, and all the other necessities. Is there anything you need?" There wasn't. He smiled again, and drove on down the road.
Sibyl chained her bike and clattered into the house. This time she could stomp if she wanted, and stomp she did! All the way up to her room, stopping on the way to open Daddy's bedroom door and stare at the sex-rumpled bed inside. It was empty now, the sheets cooling, but if she closed her eyes – she didn't have to close them. The scene began, almost by magic, to re-enact itself before her gaze. Cheryl, legs thrust high, breasts swollen, pinching her nipples to make them ache with a harder throbbing pain, and Daddy, kneeling between her thighs, smacking his groin against her bottom, filling her with that – that…
Sibyl could see it now, that monstrous cock. Long, wet, reddened from the friction it had found inside Cheryl's body. Thick, too, and hard, with a big purple ball set atop its shaft. She saw her father once more remove it from Cheryl's cunt, saw Cheryl hurry to twist herself round and begin sucking. That was the second act of oral sex she'd seen today, Sibyl reminded herself as she clutched the door's edge for steadiness. The first had been the doing of strangers, even though Betsy was on the verge of becoming a friend. Sibyl had come upon it by accident, and she had been shocked immeasurably by what she saw. But this – this didn't involve strangers! She didn't know Cheryl very well, and – did she even know her father?
Sibyl slammed the door and ran down the hall to her own bedroom. Tears were fighting one another in her eyes. "How could you, Daddy?" she sobbed as the teardrops began to flow. "How could you be so beastly and dirty? In front of me?"
It was like being told that Robert Redford was a closet homosexual, Sibyl thought. It was that kind of shocking discovery. Except that Redford wasn't, and she wouldn't care if he was. She'd never idolized him, or anyone else, the way she'd idolized Daddy. Even when she was a little girl, he'd been her hero.
It was natural. Her mother had died when Sibyl was five, and she'd been raised by aunts and uncles and grandparents, and sent to good, conservative Catholic schools when she was old enough to go. She only saw Daddy once in a while, when he came home from some exotic country to spend a few days with her.
But she'd followed his career. At school, her walls were papered with photos of him, with tear sheets of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, souvenirs. She was the only girl at St. Bridget's with an autographed photo of President and Mrs. Kennedy, and her daddy standing between them, one arm around Jack, the other round Jackie. She'd saved clippings, stories, reviews, interviews and spent hours pasting them into scrapbooks. She had boxes containing the carbons of all Daddy's books. Her young girlish brain had built him into a hero, an adventurous knight, chivalric, brave, dashing – boys had never interested her, because who among them could be half so exciting as her father?
He made her heart throb in joy because he was so handsome and adventuresome. Why hadn't she realized that other women would look at him with the same cast of eyes? And he'd been a widower for eleven years. Had he never once thought about sex in all that time? She couldn't know. Until today she'd never had occasion.
Oh, she didn't want to think about it even now, when it had been thrust upon her by reality! She didn't want to remember how her father had looked, naked, having sex with that cheap, trampy, big-breasted girl! And she knew that this evening she'd not sit on his lap, put her arms around his neck, and talk to him about her love for him and her desire never to be separated from him again. She wondered if she could even bear to kiss him on the mouth again, knowing that he'd kissed that.
Sibyl looked down at herself. It was no wonder boys treated her with the same disdain she had for them. Look! She let her palms glide across the big cones in the front of her blouse. Tiny. Men liked big, biiiiggggg tits – tits like Cheryl's. Even Daddy had smiled and cooed as he petted them, after they'd rutted like animals. Sibyl closed her hands over her tits and squeezed, groaning as the nipples throbbed in reply. Her tits were so small, but sometimes it seemed as if every inch of their conical thrusts was alive with sensation. She knew that her nipples were erecting inside the cups of her bra, the little pink smears dotting with goosebumps, the nips themselves stiffening.
No! Her mind screamed. No! No!!! There was a time, two or three years ago, when her body ached with the pains of growing, when she'd lie in her bed at St. Ursula's or St. Bridget's or whichever St. she'd been attending. All the lights out, her covers pulled up to the top of her head, she'd let her hands rove beneath the cotton, ankle-length nightie that was prescribed bedwear.
She'd touch herself in places that had just begun to tingle with the onset of womanhood: her breasts, then no more than little bumps of flesh capped by twin patches of pink; her neck, her earlobes, her ribcage; the insides of her thighs; and, at last, the soft, plumpening hillock between them, its little bun-like swell creased by a delicate nil along whose slit a sparse fringe of red hairs had just begun to blossom.
Sibyl sucked in her breath as she recalled those evenings of sinful pleasure. It was wrong. All the nuns said it was wrong. A girl shouldn't have urges that could be felt in her private parts. But it was easy to forget about sin when she was playing with her nipples in the dark, squeezing their points into darts of thrusting tissue, or when she'd let her fingertips glide gently up and down the inner surfaces of her slim thighs. Or when – her mind swam with the memory – she rubbed her palm back and forth, up and down, side to side on the just-fleecing rise of her cunt, the insides of her fingers digging and lingering as they stroked the lips of her young slit. A throbbing inside, a swelling, a pulsating – Sibyl knew she had a clit before she knew what it was and what it was called.
And she knew how delirious she could feel, when that clit was strummed and petted and coaxed into peeking out of its hooded sweater of flesh. When it stole forth, shy but ready, and her fingertips slid across its moist, glimmery tip until it sprang up hot and wet and each pinch of fingers was a fresh exercise in the limits of her endurance but each pinch, no matter how fierce, was also a burning invitation to do it again, but harder.
No! NO! NO!!! Again she battled with herself.
She hadn't done that – masturbated – in two or three years. Breaking the habit strained her to agony and frustration, but she'd broken the habit. She hadn't even thought about it, not in a long time. But now, as she squeezed her tits again, she knew that she was doing more than simply thinking.
Sibyl stood up. She unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it to the floor. Next her jeans. They were fashionably snug but not tight, and they dropped easily enough. She stood in bra and panties, but only for a moment. The crotch of her panties was unexpectedly wet. She touched herself there, remembering how sweet it had been once to do just that, and she could smell the musk of arousal staining her nylon undies. They'd have to be changed, anyway. She took them off, then removed her bra.
There was a mirror on her dresser and she saw herself in it: the red hair, coarse-toned but soft to the touch; the freckles; the opaque green eyes; nose up-tilted, chin small and blunt; the body. She hated to see her body because it was so meager. Her tits were baby-sized cones, tipped in pink and her belly soft and rounded, a pillow of peach-toned skin culminating between her thighs in a puff of reddish curls. Like most natural redheads, Sibyl's pubic hair was sparse, barely sufficient to cover the folding lips of her gash. She turned around. Her ass was slim, almost skinny, though it swelled from her backbone at an angle that nearly approached provocative. Her legs were sturdy, but they'd never be cast in a pantyhose commercial on television. She was a loser. Who could ever look at her and feel desire?
Oh, God, who would want to? Desire was evil. Something that must be fought constantly. But she didn't desire anyone, and no one hungered after her. She was safe. Sibyl threw herself onto the bed, her hands searching automatically. One closed around her breast, the other touching the furry knoll between her legs. She moaned aloud at the unfamiliar contact, though it became more and more familiar as the seconds ticked by. Her nipple engorged between her fingertips and her palm grew damp with nervous sweat.
It was Daddy's fault. He'd betrayed her. He'd ruined every dream and illusion she had about him. He was nothing but a rutting beast. She could never love him again.
And why had he chosen Cheryl, of all women, to be sinful with? A brazen, busty slut with the morals of a bitch in heat. What had attracted him? Her availability? Her full-breasted, full-hipped figure? Sibyl stroked her pussy with harsher, harder fingers, one of them slipping inside almost by accident. She moaned and whimpered to feel the nail scraping her slick, wet cunt, and her lips seemed bone-dry. She licked them but it didn't help. Her forehead was warm; tight, too, as if a leather band were being tightened round her head. Oh, God, Sibyl thought, help me!
Her finger plunged deeper into her cunt. She was so tight in there. Her finger wasn't much larger than the vaginal tampons she preferred. Nothing bigger had ever been inside her cunt. Sibyl closed her legs upon the masturbating hand, curling up on the bed. She lay on her side, sobbing and frigging. Her tummy heaved and her tits felt as if they'd burst into flames. She hated herself, for what she was doing, but she hated her father even more. He was no hero. He was only a bull. "He fucked Cheryl," Sibyl said aloud, ramming her finger into her tight little pussy. "He fucked Cheryl!" She had never said that dirty word aloud before, and she repeated it half a dozen times, testing it on her tongue. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," she said, as if it would relieve the anguish and anxiety which beset her like a lead bedspread.
Would she have liked it better if she'd caught Daddy doing it with anyone else? Was it Cheryl, or was it the fact that he had sexual urges and expressed them sexually? Was she angry, was she disillusioned, or was she [missing text]?
"Why did he do it with her?" she said aloud. "Why? Why couldn't he – if he had to fuck someone – why not…"
Sibyl screamed as orgasm struck her head-on. Her pussy exploded, hot, wet flesh melting around her stabbing finger, and the muscles of her straining body collapsed. She didn't know if her father might have returned from the store. Could he have heard the scream she made at the moment of orgasm? What if became up to investigate, if he caught her now, with her body naked and her finger thrust into her snatch? She didn't care! Let him look! Let him see that his daughter was grown up, that she didn't need him anymore! He could be no more saddened, disillusioned, hurt, than she was, and she wanted him to know that special agony.