Tony's nose was narrow and sharp, and his eyes were close-set, glittering black beads that appeared to radiate condescension along with hunger as they leered at her. His cheeks were gaunt and pocked, his chin jutted crookedly, and thin lips drew back to reveal gaps between jagged, worn teeth.
Helen writhed. She knew she had reached the end of her virginity, and the knowledge brought fierce joy over a thick fabric of regret. In her fantasies, she'd pictured the event as involving some dashing, worldly type with flashing eyes and an eager grin, abandoning his castles out of wild desire for her. She'd dreamed of haunting music, softly glowing lights and velvet cushions. Instead, she had an unkempt old Indian taking a moment from a day with nothing urgent to do, visibly gratified at the diversion chance had thrown his way. The only music was a sighing somewhere high in the trees; the light was what filtered through close-growing needles, and her cushion was a springy mattress of leaf-mold.
But her moment had come, nonetheless, and it was surely more exciting than being had on the back seat of a car. She thrilled at her nakedness, acutely conscious of the bizarre note her boots added and secretly embarrassed at how small her peaked boobs were. And the dark-skinned creature who unbuttoned his fly as he dropped to his knees between her outflung thighs was managed without pretense or sophistication. There would be no subtlety as his cock thrust aside the membrane of her innocence and no apology as his sperm spilled into her cunt.
He bent over her, tugging his cock into the open and reaching out to fondle her.
Dark! she thought shivering. Dark and knobby and dull! Not smooth and white and shiny like Daddy's! She sucked her belly in while his fingers scraped across it. He closed his hand over her boob, squeezing and rubbing, and a sharp gasp caught in her throat. His Levi's felt rough against the inner slopes of her thighs and she twitched when he laid one hand over the brush of her pussy hair.
His cock pulsed and he ran his tongue over his lips. She stared in fascination at the stray hairs that clung to his shaft where it poked through his open fly, and at his cockhead, half out of his taut foreskin. There was a bead of clear fluid at the tip of the swollen bulb and from her angle the slit was clearly visible, gaping darkly.
He grinned knowingly, clearly aware of the focus of her attention, and used both hands to tease her nipples, rolling them like cherries between his fingers while she pressed her fists to her shoulders and let her breath hiss between her teeth. He felt her, his hands roving over her curves with lingering, tantalizing slowness, as if he were renewing memories he'd put too far behind. Helen twisted with pleasure at the tingles that raced over her in wave after hard wave. He caught a strand of her pussy hair in his fingers, pulling it straight and letting it snap back, then ran his fingers into the quivering zone at the top of her thigh next to her pussy. She whimpered at the electric urgency of the sensation and drew one knee up to press it to his side.
"Tony! Oh, Tony! Am I going to be your squaw?"
"Mmph," he grinned at her. "We fuck."
"Yes," she whispered.
He lowered himself, the folds of his shirt settling on her tits and the hardness of his Levi's on her belly. She felt his cockhead against her pussy, heat on heat, and gasped. But he turned, resting one hip in the angle of her widespread thigh, and fingered her cunt.
"Ah! Oh!" she gasped.
He dragged his fingertip along her slit and probed to feel the indentation of her cunt. Slowly, deliberately, he forced the blunt digit into her hole, twisting it and stretching the sensitive rim. Helen rolled the back of her head on the earth and dug her boot heels in.
"Oh, my!" she exclaimed in a low moan. "Oh, my gosh!" His finger was bigger than hers and rougher, and there was a feeling of fullness she'd not experienced before in playing with her twat. An instant of terror swept her at the thought of his cock and how much greater it was than his finger. But her desire was deepening, jerking at her gut and making his looming bulk waver before her eyes.
He rolled back, lodging his cockhead between her pussy-lips and pushing. She felt the blunt tool fill her cunt and rest solidly in the surrounding tissues. An uncontrollable urge came over her to rotate her pelvis up and forward, and she felt her hips tighten and thrust. The pressure at her pussy increased sharply as her sheath stretched and slid onto the slopes of the enormous bulb.
"Mmh! Oh… Oh!" she cried out, clutching at Tony's arms.
Tony lunged against her. His cockhead rammed through the resistance of her cunt against something tighter and incapable of stretching. Searing pain washed over Helen. She felt as if she were tearing, and she pulled her knees up and spread them in a futile effort to open wide enough to stop the hurt.
Tony grunted and thrust, the impossible wedge spreading her cunt and creeping inward. There was a sudden sensation of yielding and a new leaping of fiery pain, then relief. Helen's throat closed in the moment of agony and opened afterward, letting her pent-up breath escape in a sighing rush. The dark cock was an incredible fullness in her pussy, and the sensation of the huge head's intrusion into the core of her belly was a delight she had never anticipated. She lashed out with her feet, pedaling them in the air.
"Aghhh! Ahhh, Tony!"
The body over hers tensed at her cry and Tony's cock drove inward with a single, smooth rush. His groin slapped against her crotch and his cockhead came to rest high in her belly. Helen forgot her earlier pain and was aware only of the intense pleasure that surged in her. She clamped her knees to Tony's sides and levered her hips, bumping her pussy against the hardness of his Levi's while he pumped at her. His cock slid rapidly back and forth in her cunt and her body rocked under the repeated blows. She clawed senselessly at him, her fingernails catching in his shirt. The edges of his fly rasped like rough sticks along her pussy-lips, catching single cunt hairs and jerking at them. Her body was a raw lump of delight.
"Ugh!" Tony grunted explosively. "Tight cunt! Make Tony come quick! Unnnh!"
His thrusts slowed and a ball of warmth grew in her belly. Her clitoris throbbed as the hardness of his shaft rode over it, and pleasure pounded in her head. She gulped, a convulsive spasm seizing her pussy and spreading over her, stiffening her body and making her back arch. She dug her heels into the backs of his thighs and levered her crotch tightly against the base of his cock.
A violent tremor shook her and she felt her cunt contract to squeeze Tony's buried cock. "Mmmmm!" she moaned, deep in her throat. "Mmmm! Mmmmm!" Her orgasm washed back and forth over her, jerking her helpless body and making her hear an inner roaring. The sensation seemed a totally different one from the kind she'd brought on by playing with her snatch, and she was frightened at its intensity. But her fright was a pale thing beside the awesome feeling of pleasure that flooded her.
At last the tremors stopped and her inner convulsions subsided. She collapsed, limp beneath the weight of Tony's body. She heard his light panting and realized how hoarse and labored her own breathing was.
"Tony! I can't… breathe! You're… squashing me!"
He grunted and propped himself on his forearms, his softening cock settling in her twat. "You pretty good fuck, Helen. Lot better'n Ol' Kai."
"Old Kai!" she shrieked, visualizing the emaciated, mangy bitch whose devotion to the guide seemed her only redeeming feature. "Tony! You don't!"
He giggled. "You better'n her. Maybe fuck again tomorrow?"
"Brrr! Get off!" Helen laughed and twisted. Knowing the cock that was in her cunt had rested in a scrawny, stiff-legged bitch brought its own kind of thrill, and Helen savored the wicked awareness while she could still squeeze Tony's shrunken meat with her twat. Then, again, "Get off, you dirty old man!"
Tony chuckled and jabbed his useless cock forward, then heaved himself off her. There was a sucking noise at her crotch when his cockhead popped free of her cunt, and she groaned at the abrupt emptiness.
The gaunt Indian leered at her, teasing, his knees still holding her thighs apart and his fingers resting on her slowly swaying boobs. He pretended momentary revulsion. "Ugh! You too white… like dough!"
"Go away! You're nasty!" She giggled.
"But good fuck, anyhow."
"Go away!"
He grinned broadly, surged to his feet, and gazed down at her languorous pose. "You like, Helen. Tomorrow maybe?"
She knew she would let him fuck her again. Nothing could keep her from wanting that cock as long as the guide was with them. Desire knotted her belly and she nodded. "Maybe tonight?" she whispered.
"Maybe." He strode from the clearing, leaving her alone in her nakedness.
She trembled and sat up, ignoring the soreness of her pussy but thrilling at the sight of her reddened flesh, the rolled tops of her socks and the gleam of her boots startling her. "God, how wicked!" she told herself softly. "Grandma would just die!"
Helen shuddered and groaned now, hearing Art's tuneless humming from beyond the bathroom's closed door and remembering the incessant hunger she'd felt the rest of that summer. She'd slipped away from her parents again and again to fuck the Indian, and she'd known within a week of reaching home that she was pregnant.
Grandmother Farrell had died when she learned of Helen's pregnancy. She'd raved at Helen, cursing her for being so much like her mother. And the old woman had succumbed to a stroke that very night. Ruth and Abe had been grim, making no secret of the fact the stroke had been the direct result of Grandmother Farrell's anger and shock over Helen's actions.
To Helen, her grandmother's death had been a two-edged tragedy. For the first time, she had realized how much she really loved the cantankerous old woman. Her sense of guilt was a tangible oppressive burden that failed to lighten with time. And her parents' attitude toward her, formerly trusting and permissive, had changed to one of bitterness and suspicion. They had abruptly curtailed her free time and her freedom of choice and movement. What little time the baby left her, they had taken care to see was well supervised.
Not that it would have mattered, she told herself, listening to Art's tuneless humming through the closed bathroom door. They didn't have to worry. She had privately committed herself upon her grandmother's death. Having taken the old woman's life – she had believed – she had determined to give her own. And she had done it by becoming the old woman in her beliefs and actions. She had sealed her former lustful, passionate self away and turned into the woman she believed her grandmother had been. It had been as simple as that.
Danny had been born, a big, beautiful boy baby, and Helen had grimly rejected her parents' urging to give him up. She had felt no lingering affection for his half-civilized father – there was nothing for him but revulsion – but it had seemed fit punishment to look at the fruit of her wickedness, reminding herself daily of the way she'd killed Grandmother Farrell. To her own confused amazement, Danny had captured her love. Until Art had married her, the boy had been the center of her universe, and when Art had insisted on adopting Danny, the act had deepened her emotion toward her new husband to an unbelievable pitch of devotion. His only flaw in her eyes was his apparent insensitivity and animal appetite for sex. But she had persisted in the private vow she'd made to the memory of her grandmother, and she sighed now with self-approval for the way she'd met and conquered temptation.
She heard Art turn off the water and stop singing. A sharp tingle assailed her and she tugged the blanket to her chin, annoyed at this evidence that she was still not free of her baser nature. Still a wicked, wretched creature! she told herself. Just like Grandma said! Lustful and crude! So crude and lustful, she remembered, that she tingled like this when Barry looked, heavy-lidded, at her body – or even when Danny tilted his head to one side and pretended in his adolescent way to leer at her. Wicked, wicked, wicked! she thought.
Art came out of the bathroom without his pajamas. He stared at her with an expression of hunger, his cock jutting boldly at a forty-five-degree angle, rising steeply from the thick, blond mat of his crotch hair.
Helen gasped, furious at her own involuntary surge of interest. "Art!"
"Yeah!" He crossed to the bed and threw back the covers.
Too late, Helen snatched at the edge of the blanket. She shrieked. "Art! For God's sake, what's gotten into you!"
"It's getting into you that's got me worked up now, puss."
"Oh, damn it, Art! That's disgusting!" She turned her back to him.
The mattress sagged beneath his weight and she felt his hand on her shoulder. He bent over her and tried to kiss her, but she buried her face in the pillow.
"Aw, come on sugar! What the hell! His voice sounded painted.
"Not when you're acting like an animal," she replied, the pillow muffling her words.
"Come on, baby," he said softly, his hand passing lightly over her body.
She stiffened, habit quelling the instinctive thrill that touched her spine.
"Come on! It's not that bad!" Art coaxed.
With a resigned sigh, she let him roll her onto her back. He fingered her belly through her nightgown and touched her forehead with his lips.
"Pull the covers up," she said, her eyes tightly closed.
In a moment, she felt the weight of the blanket on her body.
"And turn out the light."
She heard the socket snap and the glow on her eyelids turned to darkness. She held herself motionless, enduring his awkward caresses and blocking the tendrils of pleasure that threatened her reserve. Art thrust his hand inside the front of her nightgown to paw at her boob. She bit her lips and clenched her fists, proud of her ability to resist temptation and miserable because there was a part of her that was like her mother – hungry for her man's touch. That, she'd not succeeded in stifling, although maturing had enabled her to control her reactions outwardly.
She gasped. Art was turning back her nightgown – pushing one side of the front away-and she felt his breath on her suddenly puckering nipple.
"Art! Art, stop that!"
His hand, cupped around the bulge of her tit and squeezing it upward, went slack and she felt the welcome pressure of nylon covering the sensitive mound again.
"Good God, Art! After all!" She fumbled at the material on her hips, inching it up and gathering it in her hands until the hem lay across her belly. Tensing, she let her bare thigh touch Art's, then spread her knees and waited for him. He made a muffled sound and rolled onto her, his cock resting at her cunt.
Despite herself, she shivered at the wave of desire that swept through her. "Mmmm!" she moaned under her breath. She felt her hips twitch.
Art pressed his cockhead into her slit so it nudged her cunt-lips. She pushed her fists against her hips and struggled against the urge to meet his thrust with one of her own. His body hardened and his hips drove downward, his cock plunging into her twat. She startled herself by jabbing upward, her butt-cheeks clamping together to raise her ass from the mattress. The bony hardness of his root crushed her clitoris and sent an unexpected jolt of pleasure inward.
"Mm! Unh!" She jerked her head into the pillow. It's because he's bare! she thought wildly. It's because the hair on his legs feels the way it does! It's because his skin's so hot on mine! "Mh! Mh!"
Art's hips stroked, his flesh rubbing silkily over her thighs and his cock pumping in the grip of her pussy. Excitement surged in her belly and she realized she was moving her body to his rhythm. She gritted her teeth and stilled her motion, but Art's hand slid past hers and his fingers curled under her ass. She held her breath while he squeezed, closing her fingers around his wrist. He worked his palm around her ass-cheek and his fingertips probed into her crack. She wrenched her hips convulsively, enraged at the explosion of excitement the act had produced in her.
"No! No! Stop that, Art! Goddamn it, you're nothing but an animal tonight!"
"Oh, horseshit!" Art heaved himself off her, his cock jerking at her pussy rim with a force that made her wince. "You don't know what you're talking about! What do you mean, an animal?" He flung himself away from her, his breathing harsh and rapid.
"I mean, not like a civilized human being!"
"Shit, shit, shit! That's what makes man different! He's got a little imagination! Let me tell you how it is with animals, baby! Know what that'd be like?"
"What do you mean?"
"Getting screwed by an animal."
"Art! That's not what I was talking about!"
"The hell it wasn't! Every time I go for a handful of tit or rub your ass, you make out like I'm being an animal! And I say that's horseshit! I'll tell you what it would be like if you had an animal screwing you!"
"ART! I won't listen!"
"Then don't listen. I'm telling you anyhow! Take that damn donkey of Dan's."
"Smokey? That's impossible, Art! Ugh!"
"Like hell! You bend over that feed table of his naked and you'll find out! Know how it would be? He'd look at you for a bit – look at those smooth, white cheeks on your butt and that pink twat with the red fur lining – and his dong would start to grow. Pretty soon he'd heave himself up and put his front hooves on your back, or maybe on either side of you, and jab that big goddamn prick at your pussy!"
"Don't! Please don't say any more!" She whispered, alarmed at the raging hunger in her pussy. Art's intense, rapid description had awakened the worst of her deep-buried dreams, thrusting them to the surface and making her writhe. "No, no, no!"
"Ever notice what a sharp point that dong's got when he's got a hard-on? He'd wiggle his butt until that point found your cunt, baby, and then he'd slam it to you! Think it wouldn't go? Bullshit! Like a greased rolling pin! Stretch you some – maybe make you do the splits – might make your eyes bug, but that prick would go all the way! And he'd play 'The Stars and Stripes Forever' on your belly with his balls while he was fucking you! Every time that ass poked his dick home, you'd bounce into the air! That son-ov-a-bitch wouldn't mess around trying to feel you up or show you he loved you. He'd just ram his cock in and fuck until he came! If you got a come out of it, fine. If you didn't, so what? Think he'd care? He'd get his rocks off and be done… what the hell!"
"Ooh! Brrr! Art, you're terrible! You've got a filthy mind! You're sick!" She shuddered, her pussy throbbing and her thighs working against each other. And I'm sick to let that make me excited, she thought miserably. "That's all you can think about any more. Sex! The way you looked at Vanessa tonight you might as well have been in bed with her! You even gave the eye to her sister, and Olga's only twenty!" She subsided, fighting to catch her breath and quiet the turmoil in her crotch.
After a long pause, Art replied, his tone hardly more than a whisper. "Maybe, if you thought as much of me as you do your goddamn housework, I wouldn't get turned on just because some broad acted human. Christ, Helen, you're about as warm these days as a snow bank. Just about as responsive, too."
"Maybe I'd be warmer if you weren't such a grouch. Art, don't you realize how sullen and nervous you've gotten? I almost hate to hear the car come into the driveway!"
"What the hell do you expect out of a guy when he gets a piece of ass once a month whether he needs it or not-and figures he's gotten his cock into the freezer by mistake even then?"
She stiffened. "And besides, you've gotten crude! You sound like some thug out of the gutter!" A sob caught in her throat. "You aren't the same at all! Housework's the only way for me to get rid of the tension from the way you're acting!"
"Goddamn it! I keep telling you I want a little affection! Shit, I'd like to have a woman turn on when she's getting screwed! I'd like a woman to figure out it's good if she gets excited when a guy sucks her tit or plays with her ass or something – that sex is fun instead of being a goddamn duty!"
"I can't help that, Art! I can't help it!"
"Yeah, I know." His voice was heavy with defeat. "Some guy gets in your pants when you're fifteen, and sixteen years later you're still afraid to let go. Hell, sixteen!" He sighed. "Sixteen years! Oh, shit, what's the use?" He turned his back to her.
"Art?"
There was no reply.
"Art? Please?"
"Go on to sleep."
Very slowly, she worked her nightgown into place. She held herself rigid, hands pressed to her thighs and knees clamped together, trying to quiet the lingering desire. As she let their argument reply itself in her mind, fear and anger replaced her frustration. Art hadn't been searching for cutting responses to her accusations. He'd said things that had been bottled inside, festering in his subconscious. The understanding patience she'd loved him for had been an act, she realized, masking irritation and resentment. And that was the way marriages fell apart.
There was a streak of gray in the sky before she finally managed to sleep.