"No longer virgin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Finch R W)

CHAPTER TWO

The bell signaling the start of eleven o'clock classes rang through the halls of Westmont High School, echoed down near-empty, locker lined corridors, could be heard even in the rest rooms. Wendy ignored it. She was not going to her class, was not going anywhere, in fact. She just wasn't up to it, could not face being confined in another class, not even for the one hour until lunch.

She sat alone in the girls' rest room, enclosed in one small, gray, metal stall, perched on the toilet. Her short skirt, the blue one Alan liked so much, was bunched behind her, her pale lace panties pushed down to her knees, dangling over the tops of her white knee socks. She merely killed time.

She had sat through her first three classes without the least interest in anything her teachers had said, hadn't bothered taking notes, hadn't bothered even to jot down her homework assignments. As yet today, she had not once seen Alan. She knew that he was obviously avoiding her, was pained by the thought, but knew, also, that he would get aver his anger of the previous evening once he saw her again. At least, he always had before.

Wendy glanced around the stall indifferently, looked at the few obscene comments and drawings etched into the paint. She smiled at one rendering in particular of a fat boy with a huge balloon penis covered with porcupine-like quills, thought to herself, "God, that would hurt!" She wondered who it was supposed to be, decided Jerry "Chub" Parks, maybe. It kind of looked like him for some reason, though Wendy couldn't be too sure about the quills. She wouldn't want to be, for that matter.

She stretched out her slender legs, wondered also if Alan would show up at noon, as he always did, to have lunch with her in the school cafeteria. She was at least hopeful.

The hard plastic seat felt like it was beginning to bruise her. She shifted her weight uncomfortably, scooted her bare bottom back. She managed a dribble, fumbled with the tissue dispenser, finally pulled two paper squares free from where they were jammed in, absently dabbed at herself. She dropped the tissues into the bowl.

The outer door to the hallway banged open, slowly closed with a pneumatic hiss. Wendy perked up, listened. Whoever it was who came in went directly to a stall, quickly did what it was she had to do, left as quickly without even going through the pretense of washing her hands. The door hissed shut.

Wendy relaxed again, toyed idly with the elastic band of her panties, snapped it. She glanced down at the patch of curly hair covering the hollow between her thighs, considered a brief bout between her fingers and the sensitive area within, thought it might help pass the time.

She dismissed the idea finally, was not really in the mood at all. She chose instead to fold her arms across her bare knees, lay her head in the crook of her elbow. She thought of Alan. She closed her eyes.

The outer door to the hallway opened again. Wendy heard two girls walk in. She sat up. One of the girls giggled about something. Wendy recognized the voice, tensed. It was none other than Lucinda Krell.

Wendy could picture the small girl without actually seeing her and would have guessed Lucinda's round face was garishly painted, especially around her doll-like eyes, knew that the girl's dark hair was ratted-up like someone in a 1950's movie. Lucinda stood barely five feet tall and was as thin as a piece of chalk, but she made up for her slender stature with an abrasive, and almost nonstop, mouth. She was one of the few girls in the school that Wendy truly couldn't stand.

And the fact that Lucinda was so obviously hot for Alan, always rubbing her small behind against him when she had the chance, didn't help to endear the girl to Wendy, either. Why, once she even sat down on Alan's hand, "without looking where I was going", of course. And the things she did with the other boys, sometimes with more than one at a time, it was reputed, were legendary around the school. Lucinda was, in fact, occasionally called "Peanut Butter" behind her back, obviously because she spread so easily. It fit.

Wendy knew, of course, that Alan, in spite of his threat to go see Lucinda, would never actually touch the girl. He had more than once mentioned that he thought Lucinda must be diseased, probably mentally, definitely physically. That, of course, didn't stop Lucinda from trying.

Wendy heard a match strike, could smell the burnt sulfur, realized the two girls had ducked into the bathroom for the illicit pleasure of a cigarette. She hoped they'd be quick about it, preferred to brood alone without having to listen to them babble. Besides, all Lucinda ever talked about was her love life, her sex life, actually, with one and sundry and the girl's blatant crudity could literally make Wendy flinch. As far as Wendy was concerned, Lucinda was a real "oink".

"Give me a drag," the other girl said – she was Bonnie Ivar, another, though chunkier, winner.

"Don't take it all!" Lucinda giggled, then coughed.

"So, what happened after he called?" Bonnie asked. "Did you go meet him?"

"Sure. He was waiting for me down in Clement Park. The place was deserted."

"Well? What happened?"

"What do you think?" Lucinda giggled again. She was a great one, for that. "I still have grass stains on my ass. It's sore as hell, too!"

"No kidding! What's he like?"

"He's really big!" Lucinda laughed hoarsely. "I'm tight, anyway, but God! I thought he was going to break something! Or, come out the other side, at least!" She giggled still again, sucked at the cigarette, exhaled.

"Great," Wendy said to herself disgustedly, "just what I need to listen to. Why don't they get out of here?"

"I thought Alan was Wendy Winkler's boyfriend?" Bonnie asked, and Wendy stiffened suddenly. She held her breath, leaned forward. She couldn't believe it! Alan!

"So what?" Lucinda answered. "She got him all excited last night, then told him to go whack off Christ, he must've come about a gallon in me! What's she expect?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Bonnie Ivar agreed, laughed.

"She's such a lead pipe, anyway."

Only overpowering pride kept Wendy, just barely, from rushing at Lucinda, pounding the small girl's face flat into the hard tile floor. She dug her fingers into her thighs.

"He's coming over for lunch," Lucinda continued. "My folks both work. I don't think we'll be eating lunch, though."

Bonnie laughed.

"He said he'd screw me until I couldn't move!" Lucinda added.

"Christ! If you come back to school on crutches, I'll know why!"

"I may not come back at all!" Lucinda giggled.

One of them banged a stall open, flipped the cigarette butt into the toilet. The outer door opened and closed. Wendy was alone again.

A choked sob escaped her, shook her. Tears ran down her smooth cheeks. She buried her face in her hands, could not stop crying. She thought she was going to be sick.

A vision of Alan, her Alan, and Lucinda, both naked and rolling in the grass, locked against each other's thighs, captured Wendy's mind, would not let her go. She considered double murder, believed she was actually capable of it. She rejected the idea finally, reluctantly, as ridiculous. She didn't know what do to. She sniffed, thought of the alternatives, knew that she had to do something, anything, to get back at Alan to repay him for his betrayal of her. And with Lucinda Krell, yet! she thought almost hysterically, with that scab Lucinda Krell! She hated Alan as she had never hated anything in her life, thought it would explode inside of her, destroy her. An idea came to her. She would do it, she decided, stupid or not, it had to be done! She would have to vent her rage and frustration somehow, or go completely mad. She knew that.

She stood shakily, took a deep breath, pulled up her panties. She grabbed several pieces of tissue, blew her nose. She pushed her hair back, another tissue, wiped her eyes.

She picked up her small purse, straightened herself, pushed the stall door open. She walked steadily to the sink, splashed cold water in her face, wiped it dry with a paper towel. She looked at herself in the mirror.

She burst into tears again.

"Hello, George," Wendy said and smiled warmly at him.

George Davison seemed a little startled, looked up from where he stooped over putting his books into his locker, gave her a shy smile in return. It was lunchtime and the hallways almost completely deserted. He always seemed to be where other people weren't.

"Waiting for Alan?" George asked and straightened his lanky, loose-jointed frame. He looked like the type that would wear thick, horn-rimmed glasses, but he wore none at all. Maybe that was why he always seemed to be squinting, Wendy smiled to herself. She had chosen him, of course, because she felt he would not be too difficult to handle. He shared the locker he stood before with Alan. "Waiting for Alan?" he asked again.

"No, George," Wendy said quietly.

"You're not?"

"I wanted to see you," she smiled, moved closer to him.

"You did?"

"Well, what's wrong with that?" Wendy asked. "I thought we knew each other pretty well. Don't you like me?" And she lightly touched his arm. She hoped she wasn't overdoing it, realized it all sounded a little stagy so far. "It'll just have to do," she thought, did not know any way around it.

"Sure, I like you," George said hurriedly, coughed awkwardly. He turned away from her, made a show of staring down the hallway as if he was watching for someone, seemed to be blushing. He coughed again. "I like you a lot, in fact."

"Well, I like you, too," Wendy giggled, did indeed like him. She often thought of him as a stork, the way he stood around self-consciously when she was with Alan at the locker, the two of them giggling and hugging each other. And his appearance no doubt inclined others to think of him in the same way, but at least he was a stork Wendy felt that she could talk to. "Are you doing anything special for lunch?"

He merely looked at her, uncomprehending. Finally, he asked, "What about Alan?"

She managed a laugh, was surprised at how little effort it took. "What about him?"

"Well, you're his girl."

"Don't worry yourself about that," Wendy smiled, thought of what Alan and Lucinda were doing at right this moment, cringed inside, outwardly was calm.

"Where did you want to go for lunch?" George asked.

Wendy could tell he was really nervous, that he might actually bolt from her any second. She didn't want to scare him off, but neither could she afford to waste any time.

"Somewhere we can be alone," she suggested quietly, was not really sure how to handle it from this point on.

"Well – uh – I don't know…"

It had to be today, Wendy knew, right now. She glanced both ways down the hall, made certain it was empty. She boldly took George's hand in her own, met with no resistance, guided it to her firm breast. She felt the rubbery point of her nipple under her blouse harden slightly. She smiled at George again. He was shaking.

"Do you know anywhere quiet?" she asked him.

"In the school?" he stammered incredulously.

"Why not?"

He jumped slightly, looked around edgily. "T-There's no one in the Auto Shop classroom tight now," he whispered.

"That doesn't sound very comfortable."

"Uh, Larry Drewitt's '57 Chevy is sitting in there. It's been there for weeks. They're doing something to the engine."

"That sounds better," she smiled.

"Wendy, I don't know…" George said nervously from the dusty back seat of the old Chevrolet. Wendy sat almost on top of him, wedged between him and the door, her back against the arm rest, her slender legs thrown over his lap. He had only to glance down, and he would see all the way up her bare, brown thighs. He didn't, though.

"Oh, George, don't be such a deadhead," she whispered. She wrapped her lithe arms around his neck, giggled at the way his eyes widened slightly. She kissed him on the mouth, with her moist tongue traced across his lips. He didn't respond, sat woodenly, stared at her.

"Loosen up, George," she giggled again, kept kissing him.

He warmed finally, met her darting tongue with his own, entwined with it. He began sucking at her soft mouth, held her awkwardly with his arms around her slim waist. He seemed to be catching on.

Wendy pulled away a bit, took his face gently in her small hands, kissed at him wetly. She managed to kick her shoes off.

George surprised her, lay back, partially on his side, pulled her down with him. Wendy pressed close beside him, her pert bottom jutting just over the edge of the seat, tanged her bare legs with his. Her skirt was pushed up over the full part of her smooth thighs, revealed the delicate lace trim of her panties, just barely the shaded hollow above.

He moved one hand cautiously up the front of her blouse, started working her buttons loose. He managed to get his hand inside, groped for her. He cupped one heavy breast, found a taut nipple, pulled at it. He seemed to be in a state of shock.

Wendy moved against him with a little sigh, held him to her, breathed hotly in his ear while he fondled her. She couldn't believe how excited he'd become, would have bet he'd never touched a girl before. It began to affect her also, his fervid excitement, somehow, contagiously, was arousing her more than she would have thought possible with anyone except Alan.

George worked two more of her buttons loose, pulled her blouse open. Her breasts jiggled into view, caused him to suck in his breath sharply. He kissed them feverishly, sucked on her swollen nipples. The dark tips puckered at his touch, stiffened upright. He moved his hand to the inside of her warm thigh, squeezed her, traced up between her parted legs. He poked a trembling finger under her underwear, through the mesh of her matted pubic hair, found her lush cunt easily, pushed his finger up into her, parting the slick muscles. Wendy squirmed against him with a small groan, spread her thighs wider, pushed her slim hips toward him slightly. He eased his finger out of her, inched it in again, moving slowly in the warm lubrication. She caught her breath. Held it. Exhaled.

Wendy watched the throbbing bulge in George's pants for some time before she finally reached for it, put her hand on it. She squeezed, felt it jerk like she knew it would. She boldly pulled down his zipper, reached into his pants.

"It'll make a mess," George croaked.

"Don't you have a handkerchief or something?" she asked, watched his face. With some effort at his underwear she found his cock and took it in her slender hand. His sudden change of expression startled her. She giggled, pulled at him.

"Yes," he said finally, fumbled in his pocket with his free hand. He produced a handkerchief, gave it to her.

Wendy took it, at the same time managed to work his hardness out of his pants. She stared. It stared back at her, stood hard as stone. Purplish red veins ran the length of it, pulsed. The tip was swollen, gorged with blood. It twitched in her hand.

Wendy swallowed silently, considered for a moment putting it into her mouth, actually wanted to, was not that bold. She began to masturbate him instead, with a circled thumb and forefinger, her other hand ready with the handkerchief. She watched closely, did riot want to miss anything, waited for the eruption she knew must follow.

She moved her hand ever quickly, increased it even when a small drop of clear fluid appeared on the bulbous tip, signaling probably, she realized, the nearness of his ejaculation. She was aware at the same time of the frantic activity of George's fingers in the slippery opening between her parted thighs, felt her own relief drawing closer, felt the pressure within her loins build. It was obvious George didn't know where Wendy's clitoris was, if he knew at all what it was, but his fervid in and out, finger-simulated intercourse movement put him in contact with it, pulling at it, often enough to make her squirm. He was going crazy down there.

Wendy thrust her hips forward, pumped with a short, jerky, almost twisting motion against his action. He had one finger deep inside her, stabbing at her wildly, cupped and squeezed her plump pubic mound wetly with the rest of his hand. Wendy was ready to explode.

George exploded instead, suddenly splattering her skirt and panties with erratic streams of thick liquid before she could cover him with the handkerchief. He made funny little noises in his throat, clutched between her legs.

Wendy's bare thighs tightened, clenched, then the sharp, keenly anticipated spasms of pleasure she knew so well burst within her, suffused her pelvic region with warmth. She clung to George, ground against him with a broken, shuddering heave, cried out.

Neither one of them moved.

Wendy stirred finally, glanced down at herself.

"My God, George, what a mess! What'll we do? I can't walk through the halls like this!"

She looked up, noticed for the first time that fifteen or more boys stared through the car windows, gawked at them in stunned disbelief. Auto Shop class had resumed.

Mr. Rainier, the instructor, was aghast. He cursed bitterly, kicked and shoved wildly at his boys, tried in vain to pull them from the unholy spectacle. "Get the fuck away from that car! Goddamnit! Why me? Goddamnit! Why me?"

George Davison reacted immediately.

"She made me do it!" he blurted, his eyes like a crazed animal. "I didn't want to! I swear to God! She made me do it!"