"Skin summer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Griffin Ann)

CHAPTER SIX

Sam had been up since five-thirty, had taken the standard series of vitamin tablets he swallowed regularly every morning, and had just finished his shower. He was doing calisthenics in the bedroom when he heard the rattly bell of the front door. He finished the last three push-ups, slipped into jeans, and went to answer it.

Brenda Markwell stepped inside when he opened the door, encircled him with her arms, and darted her tiny, pink tongue into his mouth, touching along the base of his teeth, caressing his gums, striking out at his own tongue. When he could finally pull away from her, he closed the door and said, "This is craziness!"

"It's only six-thirty in the morning. No one's up. And I was careful that no one should see me coming here."

"You damn little bitch! They're going to see you leave if you don't get right out of here. And they already suspect something is going on between us."

She paled at that, but didn't ask what he meant. "Please don't send me out. Let me stay a while."

He thought of Susan, of that fantastic body he would be able to plummet the depths of this afternoon. He didn't want to waste an ounce of juice or energy. He had hoped to avoid Brenda today, but obviously that was nothing more than wishful thinking. He tried to find some way of getting rid of her without losing her as a possible source of income. "I have to go to work," he said.

"You don't have hours. You do the chores at your leisure."

"You don't understand what…"

"I'll pay," she said. She opened her purse, fumbled with some bills, pulled out four twenties.

He watched her, saw what was in her eyes. "That's not enough," he said.

"Yesterday you took fifty."

"That was yesterday."

She smiled knowingly, extracted two more twenties. "A hundred and twenty dollars for say two hours of your time?"

"Where'd you get that? I left you with sixty-something yesterday."

"That was yesterday, as you said. I cashed a check."

He took the bills and stuffed them into his jeans. "You've paid for this kind of thing often, haven't you?"

She shrugged. Her blonde hair was absolutely lovely, freshly washed, falling over her shoulders, to the tips of her breasts. "Not many guys are willing to do what I want."

"I guess not."

"I've always had to pay for the strange stuff," she said. "It's easy enough to get straight screwing, but the others comes expensive."

She reached into his jeans and found his hard prick. "Ummm," she said. "My lollipop."

"I'm afraid I already pissed," he said.

She grimaced. "You're trying to embarrass me, but I like it. I like to be called names and humiliated. That's what I'm paying for."

"Suck me," he said. "Over here on the bed."

They went into the bedroom. She unzipped his jeans and freed the massive lance that lunged at her as if powered by a spring. He stepped out of the jeans. When she was naked, he said, "Come on you little cocksucker. Work it over."

"Yes," she said. "Yes, call me cocksucker. I like that." She shivered, her breasts quivering, the nipples swelling.

She dropped to her knees while he sat on the edge of the bed. His baggage was slung over the mattress. She slid the long phallus, between her lips and tongued him expertly.

"God, God, what a bitch of a whore," he said, obliging her desire to be humiliated. "A cock-sucker, whore-mouthed bitch."

She sucked faster, jiggling his balls in one hand and stroking the inside of his hairy thigh with her other. She worked at it as if her life hung on her success. She chewed and drew, licked and nibbled until she had him gritting his teeth and cursing her.

At last, he pushed her away. "Lay on the beds whore."

"Yes," she said, timidly, doing exactly as he directed.

When she was stretched out, he came over her, holding his prick in his hand. He laid it on her closed eyes, drew it across her forehead. He held it under her nose, as if trying to stuff it up her nostrils. "Smell the meat," he said.

She sniffed it.

"Does it smell good?"

"Yes," she said. "Oh, very nice."

"Tell me how crazy my cock smells."

"Tremendous. I love the smell of it. I love to smell and lick your cock. It's delicious."

"Open your mouth," he said.

She obeyed.

He stuffed the stone general in between her lips until she gagged, then pounded it in as if he were lodged between her tanned thighs. She gagged, choked, but made no protest as the heavy blood-filled lance reamed her throat.

When he could no longer hold down the surging river of love milk that wanted to find egress from her body, he took his meat from her face, went down her body, kissing her, and worked his tongue into her tunnel, made her come. When she finished shuddering, he raised his head and said, "Anything special you want?"

"Make me do something awful," she said. Her face was strained. He knew she had climaxed, but that her greatest thrills would come not from what he did to her that was normal – but what he could force her to do that would make her an animal. He turned, came around, remembering how he had made Linda suck his nuts. He almost sat on her face now. "Lick my asshole," he said to her.

"Oh, God," she moaned, and he knew he was doing the right thing.

"Lick it!" he ordered.

Her tongue probed the little hole, gingerly at first, then more enthusiastically.

"Suck on it."

And she did. She worked and sucked, and brought him almost to the verge of a climax himself. Fortunately, she writhed under him, rudely arched her back, and came herself, twice. He moved away from her, picked up the clothes he was going to wear for the day, and dressed. When he was ready to leave, he said, "Hurry the hell up, bitch. I don't want you seen."

Fifteen minutes later, she was gone. Clean and sweet, he thought. He was sure no one had seen. He had earned a hundred and twenty bucks. He had gotten a good bit of fun out of the stupid chick. And, perhaps most important of all, he had not ejaculated. He held all his reserves for Susan Calderwood-Logan. He would need them. When he was done with her, if he could hold out, she would be a second paying customer.

It never occurred to Sam Walker that there might be a woman somewhere who was not a paying customer. Somewhere inside of him, there was a human being with all the emotions, with all the ability to love that every man possesses. But that had been plated over with the exterior Sam Walker. The exterior Sam Walker, the facade he presented to the world, was that of a businessman, a computer that knew its limitations and abilities and was using them for the greatest profit gain.

He had no idea that all of his plating, that every inch of his facade would crumble and fall away.

Soon.

Quite soon now…

When Sam went into the office after breakfast, Linda Mock was not there. The only person in the place was Jenny Sansom. She was pounding away at an electric typewriter, reading from a typists' stand next to her right arm. She made pretty good time on the keys, and he stood watching her, enjoying her proficiency. Suddenly, she seemed to become aware of his presence. She whirled her head, looked up at him. The expression on her face was one of total hatred. Her eyes were narrowed, her nostrils flared almost like the nostrils of a wild animal in rabid madness. Her lips were firm, tight against her teeth. Every muscle in her face was strained.

"Any work for me?" he asked.

"There are some forms on the counter, on the nail." She glared at him; her tone of voice was bitter – she made no attempt to conceal her animosity.

"Where's Linda?" he asked, going to the counter, lifting the four slips up and reading them spottily.

"I wouldn't know."

"You're her secretary."

"I'm not her nursemaid."

He tucked the work slips into his shirt pocket and went behind the counter to Jenny's desk. He sat on the edge of it, looked down at her. "Why don't we be friends?" he asked.

She started typing again.

He reached to the floor socket and ripped the machine's plug loose. "Like I said, why don't we be friends?"

"I've got work to do," she said.

"So have I. But it would be a whole lot pleasanter around here if we could be nice to each other." He smiled, stared her in the eyes. She could not manage to return the gaze. She looked at the dead keyboard instead. "Friends are so much better than enemies."

"I can't get my work done with you here. Would you plug me in, please?" Her voice was cold, evenly measured. It was plain that she did not know how to cope with the situation.

"I'll do more than plug you in," he said, grinning. "Why don't you let me turn you on?"

"What…"

Before she could speak, he leaned forward and cupped her breasts in his hands, squeezed them through the bra. He slipped two fingers between the buttons of her blouse and down the bra cup, fingered her nipple. She leaned toward him, her face slack, her mouth open, confused. Her nipple hardened beneath his touch. Then, abruptly, she pulled away and fended off his hands. "You pig!" she hissed.

"I just like women," he said. "I guess the same goes for you, huh?"

"I know about the Markwell girl," she said. "And sooner or later I'll catch you with her."

"What are you talking about, Jenny?" He knew his face showed puzzlement as genuine as any face could register the emotion.

"You know damn well," she snapped.

"I'm afraid I don't."

She looked at him now, vicious, a frightened animal anxious to strike back with all her equipment, all her deadly tools. First, he had come in and taken Linda away from her. Apparently, other summers, Linda Mock had been Jenny's lover exclusively. Next, he had dared to arouse the latent bi-sexual urges that she had fought her entire life to keep down. He wondered why she chose lesbian relationships rather than a man-woman set-up. Whatever the reason, she would be a wildcat when the chance came.

"I'll get you," she said, malevolent as any woman he had ever seen, her teeth bared.

He shrugged and went to the door. As he was about to go out, he turned around and said, "You have very nice little breasts. They aren't huge like Linda's – but nice just the same. I think, if you were handled correctly, you would be a very good lover – for a man."

She called him a sonofabitch as he closed the door between them…

Brenda Markwell spat out the mouthwash, then took in another swallow, swished it around and around, cleansing her tongue and gums and lips of the taste of his anus. When there was nothing but a fresh peppermint mist in her mouth, she stopped the cleansing process.

Now, after she had been satisfied, she could again think clearly. As always, she tried to discover why she was a masochist, why she liked her men to abuse her, to treat her as a loathsome animal form and not as a woman. She had often attempted self-analysis, but had never come close to discovering her problem or the root of it. It was no different this time.

Had she been able to look into the past, she would have been able to understand, to come to grips with the trauma that had warped her life and had made her what she was today. And knowing the trauma and the basis of her hangups, she could have solved some of her problem. But the incident that had warped her life had been effectively blocked from her conscious mind. It was too terrible a thing for her to recall, so she pretended that it had never happened.

A psychiatrist could have probed for that trauma. She knew this, certainly. Yet she would not go to a psychiatrist. Her subconscious preferred not to have to face that hidden memory – even with medical help.

The thing had happened when she was eleven years old. Six years ago. She had managed to forget it within a year. After the initial scene in her bedroom, her parents had refused ever to speak of it again. That sort of unhealthy attitude only served to make it easier for Brenda to conceal the incident from herself, let it fester in her subconscious, let it grow into a many-tentacled beast that would strangle the remainder of her life.

She had been in her bedroom, standing before the full-length mirror in the wall at the foot of her bed. She was a well-developed girl for such a tender age, though still quite a child. Her breasts had begun to bud, and they swelled delicately, charmingly, their little rosebud noses straining toward the ceiling. Her body was downy soft, streamlined, smooth, combining all the sexuality of a precocious child and an experienced woman. Between her creamy, sweet thighs, she was beginning to grow a patch of soft golden down over her sex lips. She was one of the few girls in her class who had reached this stage. In gym, the others looked at her growing thatch and whispered about her, envious. Now, she ran her fingers through that new hair, dared to touch the sweet, chubby slit of her sex. A thrill swept up her body, and she bent slightly to accommodate it.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, and it swung open. She whirled, confronted her uncle who had come to visit them for the Thanksgiving holidays. She was so surprised that she did not even think to cover her breasts or thatch.

He stood in the open doorway, smiling at her, though the smile was frozen in place. He was young, not quite thirty. She had always had a crush on him, had always been his favorite niece. He looked so handsome now, so grown up and intelligent and knowing, that she felt ridiculous, standing bare before him. She blushed.

To her surprise, Uncle Leonard closed the door and stood inside, still looking at her. "Well, I didn't know my little Brenda was getting so big," he said.

She relaxed. She had thought he would make fun of her, and she could not have borne that. Now, knowing he appreciated her budding sexuality, she thrust her hips forward a bit, a supremely innocent gesture, the mark of a child wanting praise.

"I didn't know you wore a bra," he said.

"I'm almost twelve. I been wearing one for a year or so." She was conscious of her pink nipples. They had grown turgid, were straining as if to launch themselves off her breasts.

"You don't say."

She made a face, wondering if he was about to tease her. "I need a bra!" she said defensively. "I really need one. I'm not like the girls who wear them and have nothing."

He came across to where she stood and looked down at her breasts. "I can see that," he said.

"You aren't kidding me, are you, Uncle Leo?"

He touched her breasts with his fingers, gently, softly. "No," he said.

As he moved his fingers on her nipples, she felt chills sweeping up her back. Her knees went soft, like jelly. She had always wondered what it would be like to be touched by an admirer. Now she knew. Her sex lips grew wet, and the inside of her cunny was creamy now. She was a little frightened, but more curious than anything else.

"And you're growing up other places," he said, looking down to her golden fur.

"Not many of the other girls have any hair yet," she said.

"A really big girl," he said. He dropped a hand to the bottom of her round belly, tangled his fingers in her pubic hair.

"You make me feel funny," she said, shivering. Her little tits bobbled enticingly.

"You want me to stop."

She hesitated. "I – I don't – think so."

"Good," he said, sighing heavily. "'Cause Uncle Leo doesn't want to stop either." He lifted her quickly, as he had when she was even a much smaller child, laid her on the bed. He sat beside her, alternately caressing her breasts and her fur, sliding his hands over the thrilling smoothness of her body.

She purred for him.

"Have you ever seen between a boy's legs?" he asked, his voice thick now, his words slightly slurred. His hand trembled on her fabulous child-flesh.

"Yes," she said. "A boy who came here for a party. My birthday party. Down on the south lawn, we were playing hide and seek, and he and I hid together. He took his thing out of his pants and let me touch it."

He moaned slightly, caressing her faster. "Would you like to touch mine?" he asked.

"Sure, Uncle Leo!" she cried, excited now.

He unbuckled his trousers, pulled down the zipper. He dropped his trouser and shorts around his ankles. His ramrod was huge, bigger than even he had ever seen it. "There," he said, holding it in his hand, feeling the beat of his blood in it.

She sat up, reached out a tiny-fingered hand to take hold of it. When her fingers laced about the base, the beast jumped and kicked in her hand. She giggled. "His wasn't anywhere near this big, Uncle Leo."

"No," he said. "It wouldn't be."

"Can I touch it all over."

He was breathing very heavily now. "Yes," he said. "Anywhere you want, kitten."

She ran her hands over the staff, pulled at the red knob, spread the meatus as if secrets were contained in the tube beyond. She let her fingers wander down to his balls. "He hardly had any hair here," she said.

"Who?"

"The boy who let me touch his thing."

He moved onto the bed, laid down beside her. He moved into a sixty-nine position and fingered her. She gasped, squeezed his prick. For a moment, he thought he would explode, but he managed to fend off the climax. He fingered her more and more, until her little body was twisting through wild gyrations. When she came, he shot into her hands, made her fingers sticky with his cream.

He had not lost his hard. It beat as solidly as ever. The sensations of the situation were enough to keep him perpetually erect. He moved down to give the delicious child a good job of cunnilingus. She was writhing, kicking as his tongue probed her slit, clutching her own little tits with her sperm-slimed hands. Her nipples were milky with his cream. She bucked, bounced, was near to a second orgasm, when the door opened and her mother entered the room with a package that had come for Brenda in the mail.

Her mother had screamed. Her father had thrown his brother out of the house after nearly killing him with a series of horrid blows to the face that left Leo black and blue for weeks. Then she was beaten until welts raised on her plump little behind. They called her names and made her understand what a slut she had been. For six months afterwards, she spent an hour every evening, after supper, with their parish priest. He instilled in her a loathing for the things she had done, an understanding of her lewdness.

Yet she continued to have sex. There was no way her priest or her parents could convince her that it was not fun. She liked the feel of the organ pumping her, of all the other ways it could be done. All that the priest achieved was a trauma that left her a warped young woman. She could not give up sex, for she enjoyed it too much. Yet she had a tremendous backlog of guilt building in her, more with each orgasm she experienced. Eventually, she came to realize that she would not feel too guilty if her sex partner humiliated her. If he made her crawl and grovel, it was like a penance for the sin of intercourse. Thus the masochism developed.

The Puritanical parents and the narrow-minded priest had failed to make her a morally acceptable young lady and had, instead, ruined any chance she had at a healthy sex life. Of course, her Uncle Leo had not been laudable in trying to have sex with his own niece. Yet if they had not been disturbed by the accidental appearance of Brenda's mother, he would probably have treated her gently, would have introduced her into the world of sex in much better fashion than most girls are initiated. His crime, in one way, was less heinous than that of her mother and father.

But now, Brenda could remember none of this. It was there, down in her Id, buried in her subconscious. She would be an extremely lucky girl if she ever managed to ferret it out and solve her problems. At least, she had come to grips with her perversions and had learned to live with them. Even now, she was a healthier girl than her mother had ever been.