CHAPTER THREE

I, Kitsy McRae, known to you, the reader, so far, as Ruby Gore, am basically a sexual bteing. As I write this, I am twenty-eight. I weigh what I weighed when I was eighteen, entering my first "beauty" contest at Old Town. I measure 36-24-36. My hair is my own. My skin is smooth, tans well. I'm writing this while seated on the balcony of a fancy resort hotel in Barbados, where I've come with a man who could buy and sell my first benefactor, old man Worth, a million times over. I don't look a day over twenty.

It's funny. In these few days, when I've been resting and thinking I remember things I haven't thought about for years. My current lover is down in the bar, making a dollar, talking about buying this hotel and half a dozen others over martinis. In my bank account, my checking account, there's just under fifty thousand dollars and I'll have to make a deposit soon, for I don't like it to get below fifty. My stock portfolio, managed by another friend, is valued in six figures and that, duckies, means that I have over a million bucks. And to this date I've never done a real trick. I mean, I've never laid my old bod down and said, "The price is X number oЈ dollars."

I like to think of myself as a modern courtesan. I'm not alone in this field. Throughout history there have been women who have traded their bodies for things and have not been called whore because the things they were trading for were like castles and empires and money of such considerable amounts that mere whoring cannot cover it. I mean women like Madame Pora-padour and a couple of blond bombshells who have been active in our society recently, whose names I won't mention, because the nice man who is going to market this book says I should not name names lest we get sued, but you've seen them on T.V. and in the movies and you know who I'm talking about, Modern courtesans. That's me, too.

You might ask, now that I'm independent as far as money is concerned, why I continue my career. Why do I, in effect, sell my body to the highest bidder? Well, it isn't quite like that. Not exactly. I've said, and have demonstrated with a few examples from my early life, that I am a sexual being. I like men. I do not, in fact, offer myself to the highest bidder. Oh, the bid has to be high, but-1 also have to be, attracted to the man. That is one luxury I can afford. Fortunately, those who can afford me seern to have that extra something which makes a man a man. I mean, in this day and time, no one makes it without having something on the ball, and quite often, that fantastic drive which makes a man a power in his field, also makes him something else in bed. I've had, tightly held in my body, the organs of men who have made it and men who haven't made it. A man doesn't have to be rich to be good in bed and not all rich men are good in bed, but I've found that a man has to have something to be good. I mean, well, take my old friend Roalt Pepperdine. He had a fierce drive to be good on the football field and that drive was also evident in his love making.

I look back over my life, and \. certainly don't consider it to be over at twenty-eight, not by a shitpan full, and I find that it was the failures in life who were also just pieces of meat in bed. Take Ruf. Poor Ruf didn't even learn how to screw a woman and give her a little fun, too, until I forced him out of Old Town, got him to quit smoking dope and take an interest in looking good, making a dollar and all.

But philosophical observations aside, writing this book is serving a lot of purposes. First, I'm promised, in writing, with a very good contract, that I'll make a minimum of thirty thousand dollars and probably more, since one of my old flames is already reading the first chapters with the idea of making it into a movie. Aside from the money, which I love, writing it is giving me a chance to look at myself and discover myself. It's bringing home to me the contrast between the Kitsy McRae you see in the commercials, on the covers of magazines, in the movies, and the little girl from Old Town called Ruby Gore who once bought the Crown of Queen of the Mackerel Festival by walking in high heels over the body of an old man.

There are those in our society who use me, Kitsy McRae, as an example of decadence. I am damned in certain quarters as being completely amoral. Hell, I'll admit that. At least where sex is concerned. But, you see, I don't consider sex to be in the field of morality. I consider sex to be in the area of personal choice and, although I didn't have much of a choice in the beginning, I've certainly learned enough to know that I have a choice now and I choose to let my body enjoy itself. I choose to have sex when and where I please so long as it doesn't hurt… too badly. Some pain can add.

Admittedly, I was trained early that my body was good for just one thing, giving a man pleasure. Perhaps it would serve a purpose, before telling you about the great Mackerel Festival and all the other events which followed, to go back to my formative years and show you how I developed sexually.

Incest is a shuddery word. I think incest is bad in the minds of most people for one damned simple reason. I think it's gotten in bad because women of age, say of forty, fat, sloppy, just couldn't stand the competition from teen-age daughters. I mean, take an average household, an average family. There's a sixteen year old girl with slim hips, nice, tight little breasts, a cute face. And there's mama, over forty, letting herself go to pot, having a big belly, fat, doughy thighs, her hair stringy and unwashed half the time. She doesn't give a shit. She looks like hell. And papa, although he, too, might be over the hill, is still a man who can see the cute little figure of his daughter and think it's great and maybe get a little dreamy about the time when he was screwing girls just like that. Then he goes to bed with mama and has to fight his way through rolls of fat to find her unwashed cunt.

I mean, given a choice, mama would be exiled to the kitchen and the man would be sleeping with daughter all the time. So mama, through the centuries, shows that incest is evil, perverted and sinful. Like, incest doesn't always produce idiots. Take the Egyptians. They, the rulers, had an incestuous society and they kept a damned fine civilization going for six thousand years.

So I don't cringe and call myself evil because I used to screw my father and my brother. Shit, I loved every minute of it. I remember well the first time Ruf and I were able to complete the act. We'd been' playing around for a long time and no one thought anything of our sleeping together. Hell, we had to. There weren't enough beds in the house. And we took baths together because we had to heat the water on the stove and by taking a bath together we saved on water and wood and labor. So I knew from the time I was a baby that Ruf and I were different. I resented it for a long time, because he seemed to have so much fun with his weenie. That's what he-called it. When we started becoming aware of sex-he was aware of it first, of course, his weenie was a little worm of a thing and I paid no attention to it most of the time. Then someone taught him that there were things to do with it and he started educating me. We'd go to bed at night and I'd feel him moving and I'd tell him to stop it so I could go to sleep. Finally, I realized that he was doing something to his weenie.

I guess he felt guilty, because the first time I reached over and felt his hand on his weenie, which had changed from a little worm into a hard little stick, he made me move over and he stopped. But it didn't take long for me to know when he was playing with himself and I'd lie there and listen and wonder why he was doing it. I asked and he said it felt good and that if I told mama he'd whup me. I said I wouldn't tell if he'd let me do it. He sort of snickered. So I put my hand on his hard little stick and fumbled around and he showed me how to do it, moving the foreskin up and down, holding it just so in my hand and moving my hand slow and then fast and when I made him come for the first time and the little stick throbbed in my hand and lie made grunting sounds, I didn't know what was going on.

Out behind the outhouse, he made me, asked me, he didn't have to make me, take down my panties and show him my "thing." He fingered it and played with it and told me that if he could put his weenie in me that we'd both feel good. Hell, the way he enjoyed it when I played with his weenie, I was willing to try anything to feel the way he seemed to feel. We tried it standing up against the side of the outhouse and he couldn't get it in. I had my legs close together, not knowing anything about how to do it and he didn't know much more. We played around and couldn't do anything and then I ended it by playing with his weenie until it throbbed.

I must have been about seven when I started masturbating Ruf. And that went on, oh, a couple or three years before Ruf, all excited, with a hard on, got me into the bedroom one afternoon with no one else in the house. He had one of the old fashioned cartoon pora booklets showing Popeye and Olive cutting it. He said, "See, this is the way they do it." Olive was on her back, her legs thrown up to the ceiling, and Popeye was thrusting a huge cock into her and grinning happily.

"I guess I have to- take all my clothes off, huh?" I asked. "I reckon so," he agreed. "Me too."

So we skinned out and I lay down on the bed, threw my legs up in the air and Ruf crawled between them with his erection and started trying to punch into my little girl's twat. I, of course, was completely dry and tight as hell and he couldn't find the hole. He tried to put it into my belly, into the pudenda and into my anus. I balked at that.

We must have been backassward, because it took us about two weeks, even after seeing how it was done, before, one day, Ruf punched and used his hips and I felt his weenie slip in and push hard and I yelled, because it hurt, I was so dry, but he, feeling his cock in me, wouldn't let me up and so, about ten, I was no longer virgin, having been penetrated by my brother.

I felt him throb in me and I kept waiting for that good, good feeling he'd promised me. He kept talking about how great fucking was and I didn't get the first thrill. He went so fast that I felt nothing. I was game, however, and the next time he wanted me to take all my clothes off I did. I stuck my feet pointed-toed up in the air, like in the fucking cartoons, and he went at it. Nothing. "Shit," I said. "I ain't gonna let you do it any more."

He fussed and fumed and tried, for a long time, to do it again, but I wasn't having any of it. I could get my good feeling from rubbing myself with a soapy wash cloth or by rubbing myself, after having put some butter on my twat. I wasn't going to let Ruf have fun when I didn't just because he wanted to. We had some grand fights and he tried to rape me a couple of times, but when you're about the same size, Ruf was still just a kid and didn't do his growing until later, it's hard for a boy to rape a girl, especially when her twat is dry and tight.

I was wondering, at this'stage of my life, if I hadn't been cheated by being made a girl. Ruf told me about screwing a girl down the road and how much fun it was, but I wouldn't believe him when he said she enjoyed it, too. All I ever felt with Ruf was stuffed. I went on for a few years doing my thing. I mean, I'd play with myself until I was panting and shivery and then I'd come and feel good and lie there and doze for a while and do it again.

The next thing I remember about Ruf was his pride when he reached puberty. By that time we were not sleeping together. My mother, bless her fuddled head, had heard in church that it wasn't nice for young kids to sleep together, so she put a cot into the room and made Ruf sleep on it. When it was cold he'd come and get in bed with me and feel me up and cuddle for warmth, but he'd given up on screwing me, for I steadfastly refused. But when he discovered that he'd become a man he came up to me one day and said, "I've got something to show you."

Mother was out in the kitchen. We went into our room and he sat down on the edge of my bed and took out his cock. "Shit, I've seen that thing," I said. "Just look," he said. "Jack it off."

"I'm not gonna let you do it to me," I said. "You don't know how or something." "Naw, just jack it off."

I put my hands on it and began to masturbate him. "Matter of fact," he said, "we can't ever do it again." "Why?" I asked, relieved, but curious, "I'm gonna show you why."

I worked on him and he began to move his hips, thrusting into my hands. He came and I gasped, because instead of just throbbing the way it always did, the sonofabitch reared back and spit at me. It spit out a white, thick fluid which got all over my hands and arm. I took his shirt tail and began to wipe it off. "That's come," he said proudly. "So?"

"That's why I can't fuck you ever again." "Well, that's no skin pff my ass," I said. "That's what makes girls have babies," he said. I was interested. "You're shitting me," I said.

"No," he said. "If I fucked you and pumped that come into you you'd swell up and have a baby."

I couldn't believe it. I went into the school library and couldn't find a thing about having babies and then I went to the public library and found out that sure enough it's come that makes girls have babies and I was a little envious about it, because I couldn't do anything like that. All I could do was rub myself and throb inside. But I also learned that I couldn't have a baby until something happened inside to me, and I thought seriously about trying it again with Ruf, just to feel how it felt when the come came out. But I didn't.

I came into womanhood late, about thirteen, I'd guess. It scared the shit out of me to start bleeding like a stuck "pig, but I talked to the school nurse and she straightened me out and gave me a box of Kotex. She also told me how girls get in trouble and she said, "Don't ever let a boy have intercourse with you." She said, "They'll tell you that it will be safe with contraceptives, but they've been known to break."

I knew what she meant. Ruf carried a three pack of rubbers in his pocket all the time. He always was willing to tell me about his sexual adventures. He was getting it regularly from the girl down the road and one time he sweated blood for a while, because, in the heat of action, the rubber broke and he unloaded about a quart right up his girl friend's old kazoo and until she came around with the red flag there was one worried stud carrying a new three pack of rubbers and cursing them every time he saw them.

So, I was almost sixteen before I had my first load of come, before I found out that fucking is one of life's most pleasurable items.

I got sick when I was fourteen and we had to go on the welfare, because Juby was off in jail again. The welfare people sent me to a doctor and he poked around in me and said I needed an operation. I told my mother and she said, "Pray, Ruby, and the Lord will heal you." He didn't, but I didn't pray too much. I spent about two years of pure hell, with irregular periods, thinking maybe I was pregnant from a cucumber, being just miserable. Then the welfare people sent me to the hospital and the doctor didn't even have to remove the whole works, but he left me a helluva playpen. He told me, sadly, that I'd never know the joy of motherhood, because I'd been born messed up and had not had early treatment, but all I was thinking was, hey, now I can do it and not have to worry about getting pregnant like other girls.

It took a helluva long time to heal. And I was sore, Jesus. I couldn't even play with myself. I worked up a real lust and was wondering if it wasn't time to try it again with a boy. There was this boy in school. He rode our bus. He was a nice looking stud and I flirted with him and he with me. I kept hinting that he should come and see me, but he must have been shy.

I'd lie in my bed and dream of him while I was healing up. I imagined him doing all the things I'd read about, all the things Ruf told me he did to his girls. I'd get the delicious trembles thinking about it, and that little bastard, who could have had a willing piece for the asking, didn't have the guts to even hold my hand.

I tell you, it was a time of frustration. Cut off from my regular masturbation, feeling sorry for myself, I dreamed of him and wanted him and must have worked myself into womanhood, because the night I got my first; load oЈ come it was wild. It made me come. I felt that cock swell up and then burst in me and, wow, I was a woman. I felt that wonderful splash of come up inside of me, against my harmless womb. I mean, I could feel his come driving out into me. I'd seen him come and knew that he could shoot about five feet on the first throb and that first jet of it was something else going into me. I went wild and came and giggled as he emptied into me.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. It wasn't the boy down the road, not the boy I dreamed about. I couldn't get him to come to my house or pick me up or anything. I was ready to give him what was probably his first piece and couldn't get him interested enough to come and get it, so that left good old Ruf.

Ruf was spending about half his nights off somewhere about that time. He had an older woman on the beach, divorced, who liked young cock and he was making it with her regularly. He was telling me about it one night. It had been seven weeks since my operation. I was feeling all right and my cunt hair had grown back into a prickly, short beard.

When Ruf was home he slept in the room with me. He and I were used to each other and didn't do much in the way of preserving modesty. I slept in a tattered old pair of pajamas from the welfare grab bag and he slept in Ruf and I was not ignorant about the way a nearly grown man is built, because I'd seen Ruf plenty of times. I'd seen him soft and I'd seen him hard. He'd grown a sizeable tally whacker and he was growing as a man. He was a big bastard and tough as nails and I didn't mind having him for a brother.

That night when Ruf opened a whole new world for me he came in about half drunk. I was»reading in my bed. He undressed and fell into his cot. I looked over. His cock was limp and hanging off to one side. "That goddamned woman doesn't know when a man needs a little rest," he said. "I thought you were a stud," I said.

"A man gets tired of old cunt," he said. "I'm going out with JeanJtomorrow night."

"Jean won't buy you a new suit," I said. His divorcee was buying muchly loud clothes for Ruf. "I want me a nice, young, tight cunt," Ruf said.

My muff, growing out, itched me. I reached down and scratched. I saw Ruf's eyes following my hand. "Damned stuff itches," I said.

He laughed. "I don't see how a man can stand a beard," I said. "That's the way my muff is, all short and wire-haired and itchy."

"Let me see," he said, getting up. There was just the one light, beside my bed.

"They say whores keep it shaved," I said, opening my pajamas, they were men's pajamas, to show him my short-haired mound. He looked at it gravely. "I can see where it'd itch," he said, matter of factly.

I gave it a good scratch. He laughed and said, "Need any help?" He put his hand down and scratched my mound. "I don't see why he had to shave it," I said.

"Keep germs out, I guess," he said. "What did they do to you anyway?" "Same thing they did to mama," I said. "I guess." "What did they do to her?" "I don't know. Some kind of operation. Juby wanted it because he didn't want any more kids. They did it because they said mama was mentally defective." "Shit."

"It was the same doctor," I said. "I talked to him. I asked him if he was going to do the same thing to me he'd done to mama." I was remembering it, then, and it made me angry all over.

"What do you know about such things?" the old bastard asked me.

I'd been waiting for a long time to tell that old bastard off. My mama had few pleasures in life, but she loved little babies and if it had been up to her she would have had a dozen. But they took that pleasure away from her, my father and the doctor.

"I know you fixed my mama so she couldn't have kids and you knew all along that she couldn't pass along her feeble-mindedness, because it was some pill pusher like you who did it to her in the first place, yanking her out of the womb with a pair of pliers or something and doing brain damage." "You're a sassy little snit," he said, all insulted.

"And you're one of those bigoted bastards who goes around yelling about welfare and how we welfare people should be forced to get off our asses and go to work. You're the kind who says sterilize the welfare people to stop welfare from becoming a way of life. Well, you silly sonofabitch, here's your chance. Fix me. Then you can be sure I won't be bringing any little bastards into the world for you to have to lay welfare on."

He punched a needle into me and I yelped, because I knew the bastard hurt me deliberately. He said, "Unless it is absolutely necessary it would be illegal for me to sterilize you. It could be that your condition has already done the job."

As it turned out, my condition had. I came out permanently free of the worry of ever having a baby. In the hospital, I thought about it, and regretted it a little. I felt I'd lost something. I didn't crave any babies then, but you never know. But then, as I healed, I began to think that if there really was something to this screwing thing that I might be better off the way I was. I got hot just days after the operation, when I was still in the hospital, and I couldn't even play with myself.

The doctor didn't see any of my family. No one bothered to come into the hospital, except my mother on the morning of the operation and he didn't see her then. She just found out that I was still alive and would be all right and went back home, so no one knew that I'd been fixed so that I'd never get pregnant.

I remember how the doctor put on this pious act about being sorry and I laughed at him. Then he told me that I couldn't do anything strenuous, like sweeping, for six weeks. That suited me. I don't know if his examination showed him that I wasn't virgin or if he merely assumed that I wasn't since I was just white trash. I don't think he'd have been able to tell, really, because Ruf had just fucked me twice when I was a kid and that had been years, so I assume he just thought that Juby Gore's girl would not be. At any rate, he said, "And no sexual intercourse. Do you know what that means?"

"You mean I can't get laid," I said, trying to shock him. He had a shit of a daughter in school. She was just a year older than I and she was one of the queen bees and I hated her guts, so I said and did everything I could to shock him. Well, I was remembering all that with old Ruf scratching my muff and grinning and then his fingers went down and felt my twat.

"They didn't take the most important part," he said.

As I've said, Ruf was big for his age. He'd dropped out of school and was working for a bulldozer man, and he did a lot of muscular things in his work which had built up his already good body. That night, when he came in, I'd already had my bath. By that time Juby had gotten prosperous stealing waterpumps. He had installed a waterpump for us and for the first time we had running water in the house and even a John. So I was clean. Rubbing his fingers around my twat, Ruf grinned down at me. Then he did a sexy thing. It was the sexiest thing he'd ever done and one of the sexiest I'll ever see. He took his finger, wetted by my twat, and smelled it. He closed his eyes and sniffed and said, "Ah," and then he looked at me and grinned.

There was the light by my bed. He was buck naked. And he was built. I looked and saw that his cock had begun to throb and was lifting itself. It was one helluva lot bigger than it had been back in the days when he had me play with it for him. "Too bad," he said.

"What's too bad?" I asked, this funny feeling all over me. I was lying with my legs apart, the men's pajamas open to show my mowed mound. "Too bad you're my sister," he said. "Didn't bother you once," I said.

"That was before old John Henry got loaded," he said, grinning. Old John Henry was now fully hard, standing up arrogantly against his belly just about even with my face. "He's loaded now and I'm not going to risk knocking up my own sister."

He was still plaving with my twat and Miss Twat was feeling it. She was gooing for him. Remember, I hadn't even so much as played with myself for seven weeks. I had night dreams now and then and had a climax in my sleep, but that was not for real. That was just nature's way of keeping down the sexual tension.

"Ruf," I said, my heart pounding, "you wouldn't have to worry."

"Huh?" His hand was down there, his finger easing into my slit. I did nothing to stop him. Jesus, it felt good, his finger going in, lubricated by all my flowing juice.

"I told you they did the damned same thing to me that they did to mama. I can't have kids."

I saw his eyes take on a gleam. He cupped his hand and drove his finger all the way up my cunt to my ovaries and rubbed his palm on my clit and my hips, knowing what to do even if I didn't, lit up and lifted and pushed and squirmed. "You sure?" he asked.

"Lead pipe cinch," I said. I wanted him to do it some more, run his finger up me. I'd run my own finger up me and I knew that if he kept it up for a while I'd blow my fuse.

"You ever done it, Ruby?" He was working on me and my hips were dancing. "I mean with anyone but me?" "Never," I said.

"I know I used to promise you it'd be good, but you were too young. It'd be different now." "O.K.," I said.

He flushed and shivered and threw-himself down onto the bed. He still had his finger up me. He put his nose and mouth on one of my knockers and chewed it through the pajama top. His entire body was quivering.

I don't remember Ruf ever kissing me. He would guide one tit into his mouth and chew on it and he'd cup the other and squeeze it. That night I had my tits chewed for the first time and, wow, I found out that they were something else, those mounds on my chest. I found out they were for something other than to hold the front of a sweater out. I was moaning and groaning and wiggling and his finger was up me and giving me a wild ass. I made him switch and chew the other. He'd opened the pa jama top and was going at them good.

I've talked about my wetness. Some women are dry. Some are wet. The wet ones have a liberal flow of juices when they're hot. The dry ones are usually tender and sensitive. The wet ones are more apt to like having fingers and other objects tucked up into their twats. I'm one of them. I'm a wet one. I can ruin a pair of panties and, if the condition isn't fixed, I mean, if I get hot and don't have a chance to cool off in bed, I'm apt to flood my panties and have the hot juice working all the way through my dress.

I was a wet one that nigh,t with Ruf's finger up me. I was ready. I loved Ruf s big finger. It was much better than having my own finger up me. It was wild. His hand cupped, his social finger reaching up inside me, his palm on my dit. I fucked his hand and finger with all my might, discovering ways to sling my ass that I hadn't known existed but which came naturally for a sexy girl.

Then he claimed me. He went between my legs, having worked the pajamas off. He fell on me. I felt his wildness. I felt his weight. It was Ruf, I guess, who made me like rough men, men who don't worry about supporting their weight on their elbows. I want a man all over roe, his weight smothering me, his weight helping his cock drive into me. I want to feel all of him.'

Old Ruf threw his body on mine as if he were going to absorb rne right into him. Long, hard cock thrust and searched. It wanted me. It wanted my cunt. It used its hard length to rub its head all over my wet pussy and then it found the hole and wham it pushed and my breath was driven out of my body and I let my ass lift up and it was going, getting bigger and harder, driving, searching now for my most secret inside spots and I was panting, trembling, jerking my ass fast and hard and making his cock go into me deeper with each stroke. I felt that hard, fat, cocky cylinder slide into home and, whee, I gave him a few jerks and bumps and grinds, all of it coming naturally to me, and then we settled down to long, hard rhythm and I came just as Ruf came and pumped his come into me, making me all soft and warm and wet inside. We moaned and ground together and he didn't even stop, just kept right on fucking into his own come.

The second time was ever greater. I blacked out for a moment after the goodness was over. I came and my pussy clutched at Ruf's cock and he felt it and held it hard up in me, just a little movement to make it good for me. "You're fast," he said. "You're not going to stop now?" I wailed.

He didn't. He began to pump and my twat came alive again in three strokes. He came. I felt that sudden gush of come and he grunted and pumped and I said, "If you stop now, Ruf Gore, I'll let you rot in hell before I ever give you any again."

"Damn," he moaned, moving his relaxing cock tenderly.

"Goddamriit, Ruf," I said. "You can't stop now just when it's good."

He fell off and lay on his back and breathed heavily. I looked at his useless cock. It was shriveling up and it was coated with his come and my juices and I wanted that thing hard again and in me. It had been a long life without being laid and now that I'd found out how wonderful it was I wanted more, more. I wanted it pumping load after load into me. But Ruf was shot down.

But I'd been reading his books and I thought of a way, although I'd never tried it, to get him interested again. I gave my first blow job. I fell down and before I could take much time to think about it I took that lax cock into my mouth, tasting his come and my juices and I was so hot and so eager that I loved it immediately. I sucked and tasted and licked and the first thing I knew I'd created my first miracle. I resurrected Ruf's lax cock and he was pumping into my mouth, making fucking motions. "No you don't," I said, jerking away. I mounted him and sat on that stiff joint and sank it up into my body and began to dance on it. He just lay there, his back stiff, his hips lifted, and I used him. I mean, it was the first time in my life I'd ever screwed just for me and it was one wild experience. I danced and twisted and lifted and sank and bounced and moaned and came twice before Ruf got interested and came into me, pushing it up until it moved my liver aside and blasted out white joy into my thirsty womb. I said, "Ruf, that was just lovely."

And we slept side by side until we woke up, hearing my mother in the kitchen singing hymns, and he crawled on me with a morning piss hard and we went wild with a quickie and went out to breakfast, me holding a load of his come, and Ruf looking smug and happy. Shit, why not? We didn't have much. We ate fish and grits and wore hand-me-down clothing. We had nothing, we Gores, so why shouldn't a good Gore boy enjoy the body of his good Gore sister?

Well, it was just a couple of months after that that good old Juby began to see me as a woman, I'd guess, because he started reaching out to rub a tit when I'd get close. We'd never been an affectionate family, at least not between parents and children. So Juby's sudden fondness for putting his arm around me and for patting me on the ass came through just for what it was, lust. It got more and more obvious that my dear old pump stealing papa was thinking of more than father-daughter love and I began to try to decide what I'd do. I decided, since Juby always seemed to have an extra dollar for a bottle of Thunderbird wine, that I'd get something out of it besides a jazzing if he ever worked up enough nerve to punch me.

It came on a Sunday morning when Ma had gone off to church and Ruf was off somewhere and Sam was on the chain gang for nearly killing a guy in a bar. We were sacked out and I heard Juby get up and go to the used refrigerator. He drank all weekend long.

Ruf had been gone all weekend and I hadn't had any. I was lying there, warm and a little hot, toying with my clit. I'd long since stopped sleeping in anything. I was getting well rounded by that time, a girl reaching for a nice figure. I listened to Juby bumble around. When he opened the door I closed my eyes and pretended sleep.

"You 'wake, Ruby?" he asked. I grunted. He came in and stood beside the bed. I had the sheet over me, but I knew that he could see my nipples sticking up through it. "Wanna cook me somethin'?" "Ah, Pa," I moaned. "I don't wanta get up." He stood there and I could hear him breathing. Something in me, I don't know what, made me stretch. I arched my body-and the sheet clung to it, outlining my boobs and clinging to my mound, which stuck out nicely. I opened my eyes and say, he was taking it all in, his eyes wide, his mouth open. "Honey," he said, "you're going to be a woman soon." "I already am, Pop," I said.

"I mean, you're growing up." He sat down on the side of the bed. "Pretty soon the boys are going to be after you." "I hope so," I said, giggling.

"Poor little gal," he said, his voice almost on the weepy side. "No mama. Look, you ever have any questions, you come to your pappy, you hear." "Sure, pop," I said.

"I mean your poor old Ma can't help you, there," he said. "Like, she don't know nothing about such things. And boys will be boys." He paused. "Ain't no boy tried anything with you, have they?" "What do you mean, pa?" "I mean, like feeling you up and all."

"Oh, no." I was laughing at the old fart. I decided to have some fun with him. "What do they do to you, pa?"

He swallowed and gulped and got red and his hands jerked as he said, "Well, they try to play with your boobs."

"Why would they want to do that?" I asked. "They're just boobs. Only thing they're good for is suckling kids, and these won't ever do that." I arched my chest and stuck them out at him. I looked down at them. He was ogling them through the sheet. "Well, boys are like that," he said. "They like it."

"Do you like It?" I asked. "Do you play with mama's boobs?"

He grunted and got red and cleared his throat. "I want you to be a good girl, Ruby," he said. "I am," I said. "What else do-boys try to do to you?" "Oh, they try to feel between your legs," he managed.

"You mean where I pee?" I asked, really giving the old bastard a ride. "Yes," he gulped. "Boys must be crazy," I said.

"Well, it ain't all one way," he said. "You'll be wanting things like that, too."

"Not me," I said. "I can't imagine it. I mean, why would I want to have a boy feel my boobs and between my legs?" "You just will."

"I don't believe it. If they try am I supposed to let them?" "No sir," he said. "I want you to be a good girl."

I decided to see just how hypocritical he was, because all this time his eyes were eating up my boobs and my mound and my body through the sheet. 1 let the sheet slip and show most of one tit and the beginning of a nipple and his eyes widened and he gulped. "I think I should know what it's like," I said. "I mean, if I'm going to know what jto do and what not to do, and if I can't talk to ma, better you show me what I should watch out for, huh?"

"Well," he said, wondering about it. I could see the lust in his eyes.

Now don\ get the idea that I was lusting for my father. Juby wasn't the fine figure of the man. Years of cheap wine and no work had put a pot on him and he was a short, chubby little man in the first place. But I was just playing a game,with him. "I mean, if a boy tries something and 1 like it I might 70 not be able to stop if it felt good, like you say." I looked up and gave him a smile and forced a yawn which uncovered both my boobs and I just left them out for him to ogle. I looked down and the old fart had a hard on and I thought, "why you old hypocrite" and decided to see just what he'd do, given the chance.

"Since you're my father, it seems right that you'd show me those things," I said. "I mean, show me how a boy would play with my boobs, so I'll know and will be able to head him off."

That did it. He gulped and swallowed and his hands reached out. "I reckon it might be a good idea," he said. And his hands glommed down onto my exposed booby mounds and squeezed and his body started trembling. I thrust them up into his hands and lay there looking at him.

"They'll do this," he said, squeezing them and playing with them. "Then they'll do this." He pinched my nipples and the little bastards felt wonderful. They swelled and got big and I could see that thrilled him. He sat there playing with my boobs for a long time. "How does it feel?" he asked, looking at me.

"I see what you mean," I said. "It does begin to feel sort of fine after a while. Do it some more so I'll know for sure."

He was panting and gasping. I let him play with my boobs until it sent the juices swirling down into my twat. I closed my eyes and pretended he was that good looking boy in my home room and I got hotter than a firecracker. "Do they do anything else?" I asked. "I mean, I heard some of the girls saying they sometimes sucked them, like babies." "They do that," he said. "Show me," says I.

He bent, whistling and panting and sank his face into my boobs. He needed a shave. His rough beard made a tingling sensation all over me. His mouth was like any mouth, only a little more experienced, him being older. He sucked me into a blazing hot and I was threshing around on the bed and jamming my tits up for his mouth and teeth and I wanted more, much more. I didn't care who it was, by now. I was just hot. "Show me how they feel between your legs," I said.

I kicked off the sheet. He quit chewing my tits long enough to look at my whole body, his own body atrem-ble. Then he went back to my tits and his hand went down my flat tummy and found my wetness. When he felt it wet and hot, he must have been surprised. He began to shake and gasp while he did his work on my tits and I began to lift my ass as he rubbed and felt and I almost came when he finally put a finger into me. 'This is what they'll try to do," he gasped. "Do it feel good?"

"Sort of good," I said, "but do it some more so I'll be sure."

"I reckon I oughta show you," he said, fucking me with his finger and lifting me closer and closer to coming. "How do it feel?" "Your finger in me?" I asked. "Yeah."

"Well, it feels like you're putting something up my pee hole," I said.

"That ain't your pee hole," he said. "That's where babies come from."

"I can't have babies," I said. He went stiff for a moment. I could almost hear his mind working. I was getting hotter and hotter and I wanted something more than just a finger in that hole where babies came from.

"Pop," I asked, "do boys put their things in there where you've got your finger?" "They'll try to," he said.

"Maybe you'd better show me what they'll try to do," I said, wanting cock, cock, and it didn't matter whose.

"That's a mortal sin," he said. "I can't show you that."

I tried a different tact. "I've never seen a boy's thing, except Ruf's when we were little," I said. "Will you show me yours?"

He thought about it for a little while. "I guess that would be all right," he said. He got up and slipped down his pants. "Now, Ruby, it may be a bit of a shock, but I'm doing this so's when you get married you won't be scared the first time you see your husband with a hard on." "Good idea," I said.

He took it out. Wow. My old man may have been a little guy, but he made up for it in the right place. He had a whacker on him, did old Juby. It was a huge, purple headed, long, thick monster which made Ruf's look like the cock of a teenage boy, which it was.

"That's what they look like when they try to put it in you?" "That's it," he said, holding his cock.

"It doesn't look so bad," I said. "Can I feel it? Just to know what it feels like?" He was gasping for air. "I guess so."

I put my hand on it and caressed it just the way Ruf liked it. If Juby wondered how I'd learned to play with a cock he didn't mention it. He closed his eyes and moved his loins and enjoyed it. "Does it feel good?" I asked. "It sure do," he said.

"Pop, how does a girl get anything out of it?" I asked. "Does the boy have all the fun?" "No, the girl gets some fun, too." "How?"

"Well," he said, reaching for my pussy, finding it and my clit, "doesn't that feel good?" He was rubbing my clit hard. I squirmed and moved the skin up and down on his big, hard cock and wanted to just pull him on top of me and ram it home. "Does it?" he asked.

"Oh, wow," I said. "Do it some more. Make me feel good, pop." "God, I can't," he said. "It's a sin."

"Put your finger in me again," I said. He inched it in. I began to frig him good, but I don't want him to come, so when he got to close I'd stop and he was fingering me good and I couldn't come, I wanted that huge thing in me so badly I just couldn't waste it on his finger.

"Pop," I moaned, "since it's an educational demonstration, it can't be a sin. I mean, what's the harm in you showing me what I have to avoid in order to be a good girl?" "Oh, honey," he moaned. "Oh, honey."

"Show me, pop. Show me." I was milking his cock, making the seminal fluid come out of it, then smearing it on the head of it to make it slick. "It won't be a sin."

"If I do it, you have to swear on your blood you'll never tell," he said. "I swear."

It happened so fast, then, that I couldn't have stopped it if I'd wanted to. He was up and out of his pants in a flat second and throwing himself down on my slim, teenager's body with a hunger which almost scared me. He guided his huge, purple-headed cock in and, wow, I was filled up for the first time in my life. I even forgot to pretend that it hurt, but the stupid old fart didn't even notice he was so hot. He rammed that thing home in me and it pushed up against my eyeballs and I was moaning and coming with the first penetration, and I guess he thought that was my virgin's pain. "Hurt, honey?" he asked. "Oh, yes," I moaned. "But it's all right."

"That's what boys will do, hurt you," he said, pumping and filling my cunt with each movement of his hips. I began to work at it, hoping for another one before he came, and I learned the value of older men that day. I'd had only young boys to then and they went like fire crackers, giving me a hard time having one climax before they were finished, but my Pop, the old darling, with his huge rod, and his fat little body, pounded me and rooted up there next to my sterile womb and made long, sliding entry strokes for a full fifteen minutes and I had one, two, three great ones before he began to grunt with each stroke and pumped me full.

Well, I'd determined in advance that I was going to make him pay, but I'd ended up begging for it and almost forcing him to fuck me. I had to wait to get paid. After that first time, pop made me swear again and again that I wouldn't tell. He said if I toki they'd put him in jail and send me to the girl's reform school where they had an electric whipping machine. They strapped you in a bed, bottom up, and turned on the electric whipping machine and it wore out four razor straps before it cut off. I said, "Listen, I won't tell, but I think you'd better plan to do it again now and then-to keep me from being a bad gir! with boys."

"You're a sensible girl," he said. "It's better to do it at home than out there where you can get into trouble." My pop wasn't a great lover. He just liked to crawl on, after a little titty chewing, and put it in. Well, that suited me. But he also liked to do it from the rear. The second or third time we did it he turned me over and put my legs together. Then he rammed his huge, long cock into me from the rear, him on his knees, his thighs holding my little ass between them. I got nothing out of it and told him so. After that, I had my way of picking up a quarter now and then. When he'd want to screw I was ready, but I told him I wanted something out of it, too. So I'd balk at letting him do me from the rear. We arrived at a compromise. He'd get my rocks off once and then he'd do it from the rear, after me crying and making him promise me a quarter.

Then the quarters started cutting into his wine money and he stopped and it made me mad. Meanwhile, I was getting out and around more and more, having a little now and then with nice boys, and pop was a little jealous, although he was convinced that he was keeping me virgin by screwing me once or twice a week. He started trying to make me get home by ten o'clock and I revolted and he beat me. I told the welfare worker who came to check on us that my pop had "taken advantage" of me. She, willing to believe anything of a degenerate like Juby, went ape and called in her superior and, meanwhile, I thought about Juby going to jail, me going off to a home, my poor old mom left alone.

I cried and told them I had just been mad at pop and that he was a good, Christian man who always told me to be a good girl and, although it was harder to make them believe that he hadn't screwed me than it had been to make them believe that he had, they finally give up, sort of pissed off because incest would have been a feather in their cap. I mean, if they could have proved incest, they'd have got their names in the papers and all and they were sorely disappointed when I wouldn't admit that Pop had been throwing it to me. I told them I was a virgin and didn't really know what I'd said that first time.

But the incident put the fear of God into Juby. He stopped laying me, except now and then when he'd be drunk and out of his skull, and when he was like that I'd pick his pockets afterwards, while he slept it off, and he got wise to that and decided, I guess, that it wasn't worth it. Meanwhile, Ruf was finding his own girls and I was going up into high school. I was soon a good girl at home, except on rare occasions, and getting mine from my boyfriends.

I screwed more boys and men before I was seventeen than I did between seventeen and eighteen. I mean, in high school, I discovered the value of reputation, and although a Gore couldn't have much reputation around Old Town, I went to work and got nice clothes and began to act like the Ail-American girl.

Up to this time, I discover, having reread what I've written, I haven't described myself. I matured early. I don't know how I did it without getting fat on our diet, but I did. And, in high school, I was five-six tall, weighed about one-twenty or twenty-five, had my figure, by the time I was sixteen, and grew up to that perfect figure of the glamour girl. I had dark hair, almost black. Ever noticed, when watching hillbilly shows, how the hillbilly girls always have a shock of hair like a horses mane? Well, that's the way mine is. I have a great head of hair. It's full and I can do anything with it. Any do comes easily to me. And once in place, it's so thick and heavy it'll hold anything.

At eighteen, and I have not added a pound or an inch since then, I was a real brunette, I mean, dark, dark. I had wide, big, surprised eyes. I learned to accentuate them with make up. My eyes give me a look of innocence. My nose is classic and trim. My face is rather like Natalie Woods's in shape, and I have the same delicateness of feature. My lips are nicer than hers, bigger and softer. And I'm naturally dark. My mother had some Indian in her and, probably, since most southern tribes were touched by the tar brush, maybe a little bit of Negro. At any rate, I tan beautifully and am often mistaken for. Italian, or Black Irish. My blue eyes help there.

I started learning how to handle myself under the tender instructions of Pearl Phelps, the Beauty Queen's friend and lover. And I've never stopped learning. Talk about body language, I make it a career. I mean, I can move and men almost come in their pants.

So I'm a blue eyed, delicate featured, dark haired knock-out. Why be modest? In recent years I've made up for the lack of a good diet in my youth by eating only the healthiest of foods, limiting my intake of sweets, alcohol, starches. I like organic foods when I can get them. (A lot of my intake is organic in another sense, ha.)

So that's me, and my background, I'd guess that the odds of Ruby Gore making something of herself must have been five billion to one. Poor, white trashy, incestuous, amoral, you name it. That was me. And then I bribed the football team into making me Home Coming Queen, walked on old man Worth's cock and made him come and got to be Miss Mackerel, for Christ's sake, met Pearl Phelps and found out that a girl can almost make a career of entering beauty contests.

But let's get back to the Miss Mackerel contest, where it all began.