The Inner Depths
by Israel Krupp 


It is a long way-indeed, it is a trip from one world to another-from 
hymn-singing, morale-crusading Ferguson Barnes Christian College to the 
grimy back room of Mugsy's place in Jersey, where a lust-crazed gang leader 
used his freak-sized genitals as a weapon of sadistic murder. Wiffie and 
Hamp made that trip. It began with seduction in a railroad compartment, and 
took them through Peter Frenum's body-painting studio, the erotica files of 
the New York Anti-Smut Society ... through abortion and dirty-movie mills, 
gay theater society, hippie pot parties, rape, and three's-a-couple games... 

They say, however, that love will find away. 


INTRODUCTION by Del Grayson, Ph.D. 

God is dead! 

This is a cry we often hear today, and is the underlying theme of The Inner 
Depths, by Israel Krupp. But just what does it mean? The obvious reference, 
of course, is to the diminishing force of the religious ethic in our 
society. Certainly the image of God that the Pilgrims carried with them when 
they landed in Massachusetts almost 250 years ago is not the same that 
inspires people today to go around saving "Peace". How and where did this 
image begin to change? 

Over the past 25 decades the American public has lived under a kind of 
superficial positive moderatism which has been characterized by many writers 
and philosophers as the Protestant Ethic. This was a concept of life that 
stressed somber virtues. Human beings enjoyed the quiet sense of a hard 
day's work well done, and were comfortable in the belief that a good man 
always earned more than his pay. Mixed in with this a kind of fierce 
pragmatism in which the hard and fast, here and now, seeable, touchable, 
aspects of reality were the only things given the name of reality. 

Moderation seeped into almost every aspect of life. Even in religion, 
anything too mystical was suspect. The human being simply didn't stray too 
far from his somber dignity, and if he did he was immediately put down. 
Western man neglected what other times and places made a good deal of-the 
positive aspects which an exceptional person might contribute to society. 

This adherence to moderation certainly permeated the realm of sexual 
behavior. The asexual teachings of the apostle Paul were deeply-ingrained in 
the Protestant Ethic, and sex was viewed from its procreative aspect only. 
The thought that a human being might receive pleasure from the sex act was 
in a way heretical. In a very real sense, sex was used as a means of barter, 
too. Young brides exchanged their romantic inclinations for husbands, and 
young men supported their wives in return for sex privileges and the bearing 
of children to continue their names and hence assure their immortality. 
There were exceptions, of course, but despite the hungry romanticism, 
characterized in early American literature and art, most of our marriages 
and sexual liaisons were made largely by arrangement. 

Religion had lost ground, been ruled out of the state, but it still held a 
powerful grip on the mind of man. The earlier ethics, The Christian Ethic 
and The Catholic Ethic, had been all-powerful, ruling economies and 
political states with an iron fist. Those who believed, were in; those who 
did not, were out. And to be out under the Christian or 

Catholic Ethics was to be virtually a dead man. Heretics were jailed or 
burned at the stake, so one had to believe to be comfortable in life. 

As the industrial, technological twentieth century dawned, America began a 
gradual process of secularization which involved not only a diminishing of 
the force of religion, but also a dwindling of the force of the work ethic 
and the rather stiff personal code which surrounded it. Urbanization grew in 
our country, and with it came a new ethic which philosopher William F. Whyte 
called "the Social Ethic." 

The shift from the Protestant to the Social Ethic was not as dramatic as 
some would like us to believe. It was rather a gradual erosion of values; 
both ethics had much in common, one spilling over into the other. The 
"organization" man was in; so were work and play, family and politics, each 
of these considered to be a good thing, a fun thing, a comfortable thing. 

From the philosophical view, the Social Ethic was merely an extension of the 
Protestant Ethic combined with a certain feeling of comfort and good will 
which is easy to generate in an affluent society. There was, however-and 
this is important-a great deal more individual freedom. Under the Social 
Ethic, less was expected of people than under the stern Protestant Ethic, 
and people began acting and reacting more freely to the stimulants of life. 

But now the Social Ethic is giving way as well. Dr. J.I. Simmons and Barry 
Winograd, in their excellent portrait of the modern scene, It's Happening, 
call the newly ascendant ethic the "Hang-Loose Ethic." 

"The new ethic is hang-loose in a number of senses," they write, "but, its 
deep-running feature is that things once taken for granted as God-given or 
American Constitution-given-those basic premises about the world and the way 
it works-are no longer taken for granted or given automatic allegiance. In 
other words, many Americans are hanging a bit loose from traditional 
Americana." 

This new ethic, whatever one chooses to call it, is irreverent. It 
challenges such cornerstones of conventional society as Christianity, "my 
country right or wrong," traditional moral codes, civil obedience, material 
wealth, the rights of society as a whole as characterized by parents, 
schools and governments to make decisions for everyone. 

One of the strongest beliefs of this new ethic falls in the area of 
tolerance. This is a quality lacking in those who subscribe to 
traditionalism, but the modern generation is above all tolerant. "Do 
whatever you want," they say, "as long as you don't step on others while 
you're doing it." They believe in pursuing an experience both as a thing in 
itself and as a means of learning and growing, their idea being that a great 
variety and depth of experience is beneficial and not at all harmful as long 
as you can handle it. Some can, and some can't! 

And the, "Some can, and some can't" realization is the source of conflict 
and action in . Within the book are three central characters, Peter Frenum, 
Wiffie, and Hamp. Each of the three has been brought up according to the 
harsh Protestant Ethic, believing in it thoroughly. However, they progress 
to the Social Ethic, and then rapidly to the Hang-Loose Ethic, each step of 
the way hastened by events that lead them to the, "You can't trust anyone 
over 30" belief. 

In science there is a maxim that is commonly referred to as the Law of the 
Pendulum. This law simply means that anything suspended from a fixed point 
moves to and fro by the action of gravity and acquired momentum; thus, if an 
item suspended at center moves 90 degrees to the right, it will then swing 
90 degrees to the left. If there is no increase in momentum, then each swing 
will reduce the degree of the arc until the swing covers less than I degree. 
A standstill will never be reached, but the swing can become infinitesimal. 
However, at any time that additional momentum is applied, the swing can 
increase. 

Thus we have our characters on their swing of the pendulum of life. 
Considering the Social Ethic as the "norm" or center, they begin the book in 
the extremism of the Protestant Ethic and subsequently travel the pendulum's 
course to the opposite extreme, the Hang-Loose Ethic. pulls few punches as 
he exposes the hypocrisies of the Protestant extremists and shines the 
spotlight on some of the intolerances of the so-called tolerant generation. 
All in all, the author is quite fair, and is to be commended for maintaining 
an objective view of his characters and of society in general. is a highly 
erotic story, as it must be since so much of the philosophy of the 
Hang-Loose Ethic involves sex and sexual attitudes. However, the story is 
executed in the style of sharp parody or spoof; the sort of intellectual 
farce which guarantees every reader, regardless of taste, great fun. 

Del Grayson, Ph.D. 

 CHAPTER ONE 

He came home one night, laden with cans of paint that he had purchased 
downtown, to find a startlingly sensual Negress lying on the bed in the 
sleeping alcove of his tiny flat, a cigarette in one corner of her mouth. 

"Are you sure you're in the right apartment?" A silly question, perhaps, but 
he asked it just the same. 

She ignored the question; she just lay there, staring at him, her eyes 
boring directly into his until at last she spoke. "I hear that you paint," 
she said, twisting her lips into a mocking smile. 

"Yes. I do some painting, sometimes. How did you know?" 

"My little sister told me," she said with a grin as she ground her cigarette 
out against the wall. "My sister's seven years old, mister. Don't you think 
that's a bit young to start out as an artist's model?" 

Peter Frenum had really never thought of himself as being an artist, but it 
was always fun to pretend. He felt more secure, somehow, when he told 
himself that he was a priest of the palette. After all, he was a man with 
little else to do, now that he was no longer an Army chaplain's assistant. 
With his V.A. check-the fringe benefit of a medical discharge-and his simple 
tastes, he had little need of a full-time job. 

Frenum painted anything, and indeed, it sometimes seemed that he painted 
everything. He painted on canvas, of course, but on occasion he would also 
venture forth from his poorly furnished East Village New York apartment to 
paint breasts on sidewalks in front of churches, or phalluses on the sides 
of mailboxes, or perhaps an occasional cunt, in full close-up beauty, on the 
rear windshield of an automobile. He had to carry out most of these projects 
at night, when there were few if any observers about, but he didn't mind the 
inconvenience; in fact, he found the hours complementary to his insomnia. 

And then there was the time he'd painted the little girl. 

She was six or so, very small and light-boned, with dark hair and a 
delicious olive complexion. He had beckoned to her one evening as she played 
hopscotch by herself in front of her building; when she came over to him, he 
asked if she'd like some chocolate candy. She came with him to his 
apartment, where he stuffed her with Hershey bars, and painted her. 

Ah, how he had painted her! He painted breasts where as yet she had no 
breasts; he painted pubic hair where as yet there was not the tiniest hint 
of fuzz. He painted snakes which curled around her calves and crawled up 
between her thighs, and he painted spiders which crept about her shoulders 
and down to her undeveloped nipples. Ah, how he had painted! She was Life, 
and as he painted her, he was painting Life itself. And when he bathed the 
child later on, washing the still-wet poster paints from her tender skin, he 
had marveled at the wonder of actually illustrating Life; he had vowed to 
devote more of his future time to this new art form, this kind of painting 
so often practiced by hippies and others who regarded it as a game, and not 
as a way of improving on that which God had so graciously placed on Earth. 

And so it was that Peter had embarked on his life's most ambitious venture. 
He began to spend his food budget on Negro and Puerto Rican prostitutes, 
asking them for nothing but the canvases of their skins, which he would 
paint with organs and animals and sexual scenes of every imaginable sort. He 
would go into alleys at night and capture cats, which he would bring to his 
apartment and silence with chloroform, then cover with blobs and stripes of 
bright paint before releasing them with the dried paints still matting their 
fur and making stiff sculptures of their tails. 

Painting was all he lived for; for months, his money had gone for his work. 
He became undernourished, to be sure; but could man live on bread alone? 
There was no real outside world to intrude on his happiness; he cared little 
and read little, and spoke little to others in his self-imposed isolation. 

He caught himself musing. The Negress' question still hung in the air. Then 
a reassuring thought came into his head. 

"No, I don't think she's too young." He hesitated for a second, then went 
on. "Look at all the Madonnas one sees in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 
Haven't you seen them, with the naked babies and cherubs sitting in the 
Virgin Mary's lap or flying around?" 

"Yes. But the children are in the pictures; the pictures aren't on the 
children." 

"That's true." 

The girl smiled and sat up on his bed, then reached out and patted him on 
the leg. "That's all right," she said. "As long as it's strictly cultural. I 
inspected my little sister fairly carefully, and she seems to be intact." A 
chuckle. 

He said nothing, but fidgeted with embarrassment. 

"You can paint me if you want," she said. "That is, if you'll let me tell 
the girls at NYU about it. I won't give them your name, of course." 

It was quite an opportunity, needless to say. She was offering him the 
canvas of her flesh at no cost, and she was one of the most beautiful women 
he had ever seen. And yet it seemed odd that she should have been waiting 
for him this way when he got home. Maybe she was some kind of cop. 

"I don't know. I'll have to think about it." He was cautious. 

"Oh, for Christ's sake! Look, man, you don't have to play games with me. I'm 
a professional model. Got that? An artist's model, baby. Four hours a day I 
sit naked in Alphonse du Buque's studio and show my tits and backside to 
pimply queers and silly middle-aged women who want to be artists. I sit on a 
stool, and I don't really do anything, I just sit there getting a sore ass 
and trying to keep a piece of purple cloth from slipping off my crotch so 
old Alphonse's middle-aged dykes don't get shocked-or aroused. It gets 
boring, you know? I never feel like a true participant. So come on, for 
God's sake! Paint me. Make me feel alive. Is it every day that a 
professional model offers to sit for you free of charge?" 

"Well ... Get ready, then," he told her, almost shyly; and he turned his 
back to her so she could undress in privacy. 

"Get your paints," she commanded. "And watch me undress; I'm not modest. 
Besides, it turns me on to have people watch me taking my clothes off. You 
don't mind, do you?" 

He got his paints and mixed the poster paints as he watched her disrobe. He 
mixed the blue as she removed the dress; as she loosened her Afro-style 
headband, he prepared a little pink. As she slowly and provocatively lifted 
her slip from her body, he mixed a generous quantity of white, and when she 
took off her garter belt and stockings, he added black to his palette. 

Then came the brassiere, and as he watched her unhook and remove the 
garment, he prepared a mixture of green, with trembling hands. As she turned 
away from him to remove her panties, he almost dropped the mixing container, 
barely managing to avoid spilling scarlet on the worn carpet beneath his 
feet. 

"I'm ready," she said, facing him. 

She was astoundingly female, with conical, upturned breasts-breasts tipped 
with nipples that somehow reminded him of sausage ends, and made him wonder 
how it would feel to touch them with the tip of his tongue and hold them 
gently between the outer edges of his lips, centering them in his mouth one 
at a time, as though to suckle like a timid child. As he stood staring at 
her, he felt a lightness in his belly, and a hardness not far below. Then he 
began to paint. 

And how he painted! She was the most glorious human canvas ever to grace his 
humble studio. He covered his hands with scarlet paint, smearing it over her 
body as she pressed hard against him. He let his fingertips dip into 
different colors of paint and swirl down her back, smearing circles and 
spirals over her skin. He pushed her away for a moment to take a brush in 
one hand and paint bright scarlet rings around her nipples. 

"Below," she breathed, her tone urgent. And with hands equally urgent, he 
lowered the brush to her navel, where he painted a snake swallowing a 
prick-a prick nine inches long. 

"Go on," she said, digging her fingernails into his arms, and he moved his 
brush lower, now painting a deep blue triangle on the stubbly field of her 
close-shaven pubic mound. 

"Below," she demanded again, breathing heavily. He placed the tip f the 
brush in the opening between her thighs, trying to put a dab of red on her 
clitoris as she went back and spread her legs for him; he followed it up 
with labial stripes of white and blue. 

As she clung to him happily and hungrily, he put the brush on the table and 
placed his hands between her legs; when he drew it back it was covered with 
pigment, which he wiped off on her buttocks as she pressed her hips against 
his. He pushed her away then, and smeared his face with paint; kneeling 
before her, he covered her lower abdomen with green. 

"Stop painting, for Christ's sake!" she murmured in a voice trembling with 
sexual need. 

Obeying her command, he removed his clothing as he watched her pick up one 
of the paint brushes and wiggle it between her thighs. He stood there a 
moment later, completely bare, his eyes following the curves of her lovely 
body as if lay staining the sheets of his bed. He felt an even greater 
hardness at his loins. 

"Cunt," he muttered, saying the word softly and with warmth. 

"Mother fucker," she responded. It was the sweetest compliment a Negress 
could give. 

He threw himself on the bed beside her; she reached out and grasped his 
cock. "It's a big one," she said. Her lips tickled the underside of the 
glans as she explored the head of it. Soon her tongue darted out and tickled 
the moat-like depression circling its knobby end. The cock grew stiffer 
then; stiffer and bigger than he had ever known it to grow, swelling till it 
stood eight and a half inches tall, throbbing in excitement and just 
beginning to dribble at the tip. 

The girl pulled away from it and moved her head back up to his face, where 
she kissed his lips and drew him into an embrace. Their legs entwined, and 
they rolled together till both of them were smeared with a Pollock-like 
abstraction of colored paint. They fucked, then; like a palette knife 
dipping into a thick-mixed oil, his prick split her paint-slathered cunt 
until it was as far in as it could go. He kept pushing; pushed as hard as he 
could; pushed until she cried out with pain and begged him to take it easy. 
He pulled back then, following up with another forward thrust, but this time 
a gentle one, slow enough so that he could feel his prick being grasped 
again and again by her trembling cunt muscles. They fucked that way for 
several minutes, and then his hips began to fight with her, thrashing his 
body against and into her with furious strokes till she cried, at last, 
"Finish me!" and he bit down on her right nipple as he splashed her cervix 
with ivory-colored seed. 

It was over, and he withdrew. He looked at her, and saw that she, too, was 
satisfied, and with his lips he began to lick off the paint surrounding her 
nipples and the perfectly formed navel which crowned her chestnut belly. He 
had painted her, painted Life; he had fucked her, and in a symbolic manner, 
created more Life. Gently, now, he licked off every smear of paint that he 
could remove with his tongue, spitting every so often onto the bedsheet and 
rinsing his tongue in the warm receptacle of her mouth. 

Afterward, when he had recovered his strength, he went to the bathroom and 
returned with a wet washcloth. When he had finished cleaning her body with 
the cloth, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked into her eyes as he 
casually inserted three fingers in her cunt. 

Then he noticed something. He bent over and kissed the thin black hairs 
growing along the edge of her upper lip. 

"You've got a mustache," he whispered, with a chuckle. 

She smiled. "That's because I used to be a man." 

"What?" Surely she was kidding. 

"Yes. I was born a hermaphrodite. I didn't have a cunt; just a scrotum with 
ovaries instead of testicles. They had to throw away the ovaries when they 
took off the rest of it to make me a cunt. They left the clit, though. I 
don't know how I'd ever have gotten along without the clit." She laughed, 
and guided his hand to the bud which topped the groove of her inner lips. 

He still didn't believe her. "When did all this happen?" he asked, knowing 
she'd laugh and tell him it was all a joke. But she didn't. 

"A little over a year ago," she explained. "Boy, did I look forward to that 
pussy! You can't imagine how bad it is to be stuck with neither a prick nor 
a cunt." 

Suddenly he felt a surge of heavy fluid in his belly; he tried to hold it 
back, but he couldn't stop it when he retched, and it came up through his 
esophagus into his mouth. He tried to hold it there, but it began to dribble 
out at the corners, and he retched again, letting the vomit fall onto her 
belly and he heard her say, "Oh, God." He slapped her, suddenly; in a burst 
of anger, he slapped her hard, even as he was trying to control the spasms 
in his belly. 

"I was only kidding," he heard her say. 

He put his hand in the vomit then, and angrily smeared it down onto her 
pubic mound, taking some of it on the tips of his fingers and trying to 
paint the insides of her swollen labia with it. She let out a frightened 
gasp and struck his hand away with her fist. She grabbed him by the 
testicles before he could stop her, and she yanked. "Bastard!" she cried, 
pulling hard. 

He bellowed with pain. 

"You're some kind of deviate or something," she shouted. Then she spat in 
his face and pulled on his balls once more, and tried to jump off the bed as 
his hand came down on her face, striking blindly but nevertheless hitting 
her hard across the mouth. He attempted to tackle her as she dodged him and 
threw an easel in his path, and managed to grab her dress and escape out the 
door into the hall. "There's a pervert in there!" she sobbed as the young 
hippies and little old Social Security people cowered behind their doors, 
and she headed for the stairs. 

Peter stopped just short of going out the door after her. He shut the door, 
and after a moment of cursing, he went into the bathroom. He ran water in 
the tub, meanwhile holding his scrotum in one hand. 

He began to feel ashamed of himself after a while; he had treated the girl 
rather badly; his temper, like his sexual passions, had gotten out of 
control. Ex-hermaphrodite or not, she had been a good canvas, and his first 
real fuck. 

A few minutes later, he felt his cock growing ramrod-straight as he sat in 
the bathtub, thinking of the chick and soaking his aching balls. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

It was very quiet on the cool October day in Barnes Crossing, Missouri. It 
was particularly quiet on the campus of Ferguson Barnes Christian College. 
Only one sound interrupted the silence of FBCC; it was the sound of singing, 
and of a piano accompanying the voice of a young girl. 

The girl, a freshman, was practicing hymns in the lounge of the women's 
dormitory. She was the only student present on campus; the others had gone 
home for the weekend. There were not many free weekends at FBCC. It was a 
college run by strict discipline, and there were many rules; one of the 
rules was that only three weekends out of each semester could be spent off 
campus, not including the Thanksgiving and Christmas holiday breaks. Two of 
the weekends could be scheduled according to the desires of the student (or 
of his parents, since written permission from the student's father or mother 
had to be secured prior to any overnight absence from the FBCC grounds). The 
third weekend was one which all students took simultaneously. It was in 
mid-October, when the faculty attended a Christian Colleges Association 
convention and retreat in Nashville. But because Wiffie Candace Gilford's 
parents were on a church speaking tour-her father was a minister-she had to 
stay on campus. 

Oh, she wasn't entirely alone; though none of the other girls were there, 
Mrs. Ardsley, the aging housemother of the dormitory, was very much in 
evidence. Her fifty-eight years and two hundred-odd pounds now occupied a 
small suite in which she sat darning the girls' socks (they were not 
permitted to wear nylon stockings) and humming country hymns to herself 
while rocking back and forth in her Lincoln rocker in front of the 
fireplace. 

Perhaps Wiffie should have felt honored to be there with the woman. After 
all, she had the privilege of helping Mrs. Ardsley prepare a bland dinner 
(Mrs. Ardsley was, alas, on a very restricted diet), and the honor of 
joining Mrs. Ardsley in carrying on the tradition of dormitory devotions. 
The two of them would spend a half-hour together before their ten o'clock 
bedtime, singing hymns and reading from the Bible. (Not that Mrs. Ardsley 
actually read from the Good Book; she was able to recite from memory, having 
absorbed large portions of it, including the inspiring begats and more 
begats from I and II Kings and I and II Chronicles, all of which were quite 
sexy in a way, if you stopped to think of all the begetting, which Mrs. 
Ardsley did not. She did enjoy these chapters in another respect; her 
ancestors had come over shortly after the Pilgrims, and she was inordinately 
fond of genaeologies.) 

Wiffie and Mrs. Ardsley would also spend a little time sitting together in 
silence, mentally thanking God for the bountiful blessings which had been 
showered upon the students and faculty of Ferguson Barnes Christian College, 
and then the young girl and the woman would pray together aloud, reciting 
familiar words about the beauty of the blood of the lamb, until at last Mrs. 
Ardsley accompanied Wiffie to her room, where she would tuck the girl into 
bed, turn off the light, and go back to her suite, after having made certain 
that all the dormitory exits were firmly locked not only from the inside, 
but-except for the private exterior door to her own suite-from the outside 
of the building as well. 

Was Wiffie Gilford happy? It was hard to say. She was not the kind of girl 
who often revealed her happinesses, nor was she the sort who often revealed 
her bursts of sadness, when she was struck by feelings not in keeping with 
the Spirit of Joy with which every Christian is Blessed. Oh, she was moody 
at times, and at times she also laughed and smiled and looked almost 
radiant. But the moments of frowning were invariably limited in frequency 
and duration, and so were the times during which she smiled. Whatever her 
expression, whatever her mood, it would cease to be public after a short 
time, and would be replaced by a noncommittal expression which betrayed 
little or no emotion. This state of facial musculature would persist until 
her next brief show of feeling, which would take place hours-occasionally 
even days-later. 

On this particular chilly autumn afternoon, Wiffie sat in the lounge of the 
girls' dormitory playing scales on the piano as she sang to herself softly. 
After she had played up the scale and down the scale, and up and down the 
scale, and down and up the scale, and a number of other variations on the 
keys ranging from middle C to high C, she began to sing hymns such as "Trust 
and Obey." 

"How Great Thou Art." 

"Blessed Assurance," and other songs, some slow in tempo, others practically 
rollicking in tempo, but all of which she rendered in the same calm, 
controlled voice. 

"Sing, Wiffie, sing!" Mrs. Ardsley, who fancied herself a faded Southern 
beauty of sorts, had waddled into the room and now plopped herself down on a 
nearby divan. Wiffie stopped momentarily, then resumed singing in the same 
expressionless voice, and Mrs. Ardsley joined in: 

Mighty Jesus, Savior Jesus, Stand guard o'er all our land; Drive out the 
pagan guardsmen, Send in our warrior bands! 

For we are on your side, O Lord, And we know you're on ours; Help us emerge 
victorious In weeks or days or hours. 

It was a touching, patriotic, Christian sort of song, and Mrs. Ardsley 
rendered it in a suitably dramatic and affirmative manner. The third verse, 
which discussed Christ's ability to crush a Communist uprising in the manner 
of an exterminator squashing a mosquito, was a verse of which Mrs. Ardsley 
was particularly fond, and she rendered it with gusto. 

When the song was over, Mrs. Ardsley stood, and she was beaming with 
pleasure. She strolled over to Wiffie and placed a hand on the girl's 
shoulder. "We have much to be thankful for," she whispered softly as she put 
her face next to Wiffie's cheek. 

Wiffie dutifully murmured her thanks to the Lord for the various blessings 
involved, and tried to move away from Mrs. Ardsley. 

Presently, the two of them went to Mrs. Ardsley's small suite to prepare 
dinner, and after some three hours of knitting and small talk, it was time 
for devotions, and then for bed. 

While Mrs. Ardsley puttered about her sitting room, Wiffie went into the 
communal bathroom at the end of the dormitory corridor to wash up. She 
decided to have a shower. It was nice washing when there were no other girls 
around; she didn't have to wait till she was in the shower stall to remove 
her bathrobe, but could take it off in the main part of the room and examine 
her ever-maturing young body in the mirror. She left her bra and panties on 
as she washed her face, but when she was ready for the shower, she removed 
the undergarments and admired her figure in the glass above the sink. Almost 
unconsciously, her hands wandered to her breasts and cupped the generous 
hillocks of tissue, her fingers touching the nipples until those soft pink 
buds turned red and hard. 

She felt a little odd as she stood there, watching herself hold her breasts 
and noting the unfamiliar sensations that tingled through her body. She was 
so innocent; there was so much that she needed to know. 

A moment later, Wiffie stepped into a shower stall, where she let the warm 
water spray onto her shoulders and run down over her breasts to her belly, 
and below to where it glistened like dew as it accumulated in her bronze 
pubic hair. She soaped herself, doing a leisurely job of it and enjoying the 
freedom of not having to rush through the shower to let the next girl take 
the stall. 

Suddenly, Wiffie heard a noise behind her. Whirling around, she saw Mrs. 
Ardsley standing there, the shower curtain pushed to one side. 

"I thought you might like a clean towel, dear," the woman said. Her voice 
was softer than usual, and had a strange quality to it. It filled Wiffie 
with an unfamiliar fear. Wiffie's hands rushed to cover her breasts and bush 
as best they could, and she bent over slightly in an effort to render her 
body less visible to the staring woman. 

"Please, Mrs. Ardsley!" she exclaimed in embarrassment. Her voice was almost 
a squeak. 

"Would you like me to dry your back?" 

"No, thank you. You can just leave the towel on the floor outside, if it's 
all right." 

"Very well, dear." The woman smiled, still staring at Wiffie's nude body, 
and then she bent to place the towel on the floor next to the entrance to 
the stall. She turned to leave, and then, halfway out of the bathroom, she 
stopped and looked around. "Oh, Wiffie...." 

"Yes?" 

"I just wanted to say that you're a very pretty girl. You should thank God 
for being so good to you." 

"I will, Mrs. Ardsley." 

Still frightened, Wiffie pushed the shower curtain closed and rinsed off as 
quickly as she could. When she was dry, she put on her bathrobe and 
slippers, then snapped off the bathroom light and walked back down the 
corridor to her room, where Mrs. Ardsley waited as she changed from her robe 
to pajamas. Then the old woman insisted on kissing Wiffie good night before 
tucking the covers around her. 

Monday was better. Her fellow students were back on campus, and once again 
Wiffie could take part in the routine activities which, while they deprived 
her of some essential privacy, blessed her with an anonymity which came 
quite naturally to her in a crowd. And it was good not to have to worry 
about Mrs. Ardsley. 

Wiffie began the day with an hour-long session in Old Testament class; this 
was followed by Freshman Civics, an essentially right-wing course which 
explained the relationship of the Bible to everyday American life. Civics 
was followed by Choir three days a week, and on those Mondays, Wednesdays 
and Fridays Wiffie really enjoyed being a student at Ferguson Barnes 
Christian College. For an hour and a half, she and her fellow choristers 
would sing songs of faith and joy and salvation; the songs would range from 
old Negro gospel numbers to Bach chorales and Handel's Messiah, and as she 
sang, Wiffie could truly let go and make all the noise she wanted to, 
without losing the anonymity that came of being but one soprano in a section 
of twenty. 

On this particular Monday, the director was in bed with a virus, and the 
choir was being led by Hampton Budd, a young man more commonly known as 
Hamp. He was a clean-cut sort of fellow; or so he appeared; fairly tall, 
unusually outgoing, and with a self-confident air about him which reminded 
many of Christ's disciple Peter. Indeed, his bearing occasionally reminded 
some of Christ himself, or-when his voice boomed out arias from Handel's 
Messiah-the prophet Isaiah, or perhaps Moses, carrying the stone tablets 
down the mountainside after a summit meeting with God. Hamp was a big man on 
campus; he represented the FBCC ideal of an enthusiastic joiner who spread 
the Good News with an air of good fellowship and genuine joy. 

Wiffie had never really paid much attention to him; she hadn't, up till now, 
had much time for or interest in boys. She had her music, and she had her 
daydreams, and she had her mother and father and her childhood teddy bear 
(not that she really used it any more) back home to occupy her thoughts. It 
wasn't so much that she was a good girl, nor was it any inherent lack of 
interest in the male gender. It was simply that she had always felt more or 
less self-sufficient as far as emotions were concerned. Perhaps time and 
hormones would change her attitudes; she hadn't thought about it to any 
great degree. 

But now, to her slight surprise, she found herself paying unusually close 
attention to Hampton Budd. As he raised his left palm to indicate a 
crescendo, her voice swelled in volume and a thrill coursed through her 
body; when he put his palm up and made hushing gestures with his mouth, she 
joined her fellow singers in the pianissimo passage, and felt her cheeks 
grow happily warm as she did so. 

It was a nice rehearsal, all in all, and Wiffie was sorry when it was over. 

It had been an extraordinarily boring day, Hampton Budd told himself. 
Classes, Choir, poor meals, a few laps around the track in Sophomore Phys 
Ed, prayers, a session of study in the library, a songfest in the dormitory 
before devotions ... A typical day, true enough, and a good one; and yet for 
some reason it had nonetheless seemed like a boring day-an extremely 
tiresome, unbelievably boring day; quite unexciting, in any case. It was 
dreadful, having to be bored like this. Living with other Christians might 
be good for the soul, he mused, but it certainly wasn't very stimulating. 
What Hamp needed was excitement. 

Hampton Budd had done very little sinning, except for an occasional fit of 
masturbation, which he did for health reasons anyway; it kept the testicles 
from bursting due to excess seminal pressure. 

He had come close to scoring a few sin points during his brief 
postadolescent years. There had been the time when the other second-string 
backs on the football team had discovered that he was a virgin and done the 
appropriate thing: They had taken him to the whorehouse in the next town, in 
accordance with local custom. But alas, the girls had priced themselves too 
high for Hamp-ten dollars for a quickie behind the curtain separating the 
two beds in the large back room-so he'd had to pass up the opportunity. Had 
he paid the ten dollars, he would have been unable to meet his tithe on the 
following Sunday. Then too, he had found himself emotionally unprepared to 
go through with it in any case. Perhaps it had been fear of failure; the 
girls weren't much older than he was, but they were obviously blessed with 
considerable sexual experience. When one of them had put her arms around 
him, he shrank back. And worse still, he found that when the young woman 
attempted to entice him into the other room by letting her dressing gown 
fall open a little way, he lost what had been only a partial erection in the 
first place. The journey had ended in fiasco; the other fellows had 
good-naturedly taunted him when they emerged from the building to find him 
waiting on the front steps, and his ears had burned throughout the 
twenty-minute journey from the whorehouse back to the boys' own town. 

And there had been Margaret, the girl from the Baptist Church, whom he had 
taken for a drive after the church-sponsored high school graduation party 
for the Christian youth of the town. Hamp and Margaret had parked on a 
private road, despite her misgivings. Hidden from prying eyes on the back 
forty of the Budd family farm, they had sat and talked over their plans for 
the future. It was understood that she would go to nursing school and he to 
college, and after he'd graduated from college and had spent some more time 
in a theological seminary, he would be ordained as a minister, whereupon the 
two of them would marry and become missionaries in Afghanistan. As it turned 
out, she had become engaged to a medical student eight months after she and 
Hamp went their separate ways the following September. Nevertheless, they 
had crammed a little sin into those two hours they spent together in the 
car. They had held hands, and kissed a little, and he had held her in his 
arms, and as she became enthusiastic in her responses to his soul kisses 
(which she had permitted only with considerable reluctance in the first 
place), he had shoved his trembling hand up under her skirt and between her 
thighs. 

She had jerked back, gasping, and opened her eyes in an expression of shock 
that bordered on terror, but he had ripped her panties far enough down to 
get his hand into them. With his middle finger inserted in her private 
region, he had told her that he was doing it because he didn't want her to 
forget how close they'd been during their senior year of high school. "It's 
a symbol, Margaret," he told her. 

She had called him an animal then, and in surprise he had removed his hand 
from her crotch, wiped it on his trouser leg, and begged her forgiveness. 
She loved him, as it happened, and so she had forgiven him on the condition 
that he would watch his conduct in future. Since he was going away to 
college in the next few months and could no doubt keep his desires under 
control via prayer or self-abuse in the meantime, he promised that he would 
be more careful. 

They had dated regularly for the remainder of the summer, and when they 
kissed now and then-being sure to keep their tongues in their respective 
mouths-she had been as tense as she had at first on that evening in the car, 
and on no occasion did her tension give way to sexual response. 

But it would be different next time. And there would be a next time; indeed, 
Hampton was confident that it would come soon. Before long, his arms would 
welcome a new girl-a girl who would appreciate his special virtues and who 
would let him educate her-for that matter, educate both of them in the 
physical, sinful aspects of love. 

Perhaps Wiffie Gilford was such a girl. (He hadn't known her name when he 
first saw her, but she had impressed him as no other girl ever had so he had 
inquired.) What a creature she was! She was beautiful, with a body that any 
prophetess or angel would envy. She was perhaps five and a half feet tall, 
with a bone structure gently outlined by layer upon layer of soft, utterly 
delectable flesh. Her skin was pure and unflawed, the color of un-thinned 
cream. Her breasts were twin mounds of seductive softness which nestled in 
the bosom of her cotton Empire dress, and the curve of her hips was matched 
by those of her ungirdled buttocks and her sweet, cloth-draped thighs. 

As for her head, it was crowned with straw-blonde hair which reached to her 
shoulders in a single broad, rope-like braid; her face was innocence 
personified, with its lightly freckled nose and puppy-like blue eyes. 

And yet, beneath all the innocence there was a hint of something 
else-something hard to define, but something unquestionably there. It was a 
look of uncertainty, of questioning, of sensual curiosity stirring beneath 
the shroud-like chastity blanket of Christian faith. It was a look of warmth 
not often seen in a girl of Wiffie's background; it was an air of physical 
awareness waiting to be freed. 

Would she be Hampton's Chosen One? Would she be the first girl to enjoy an 
orgasm at his hands; would she be the one to surrender her virginity to him 
as she ended his own by taking his penis into her warm vaginal sheath? 

He could envision it now. He could see the two of them joined as though in 
some gentle erotic ballet, their naked bodies, half-hidden in a morning fog, 
dancing on dew-wet grass before falling to the ground in slow motion, their 
hands reaching out for one another's body and their legs becoming entwined 
as their torsos rolled together on the grass. He could imagine kissing her 
lips, then her shoulders, then the tips of her breasts; he could imagine his 
prick growing hard and strong and reaching out toward her while she watched, 
with a happy titter coming from her throat and a sensual flush appearing on 
her face. 

And he could imagine going into her. It would be so simple, so easy, so 
beautiful; he would roll her onto her back, then kneel between her upraised 
knees, and at last let his organ slip past the love-lips and into her wet 
vestibule, where it would throb against the slick tissues until at last his 
hand would move down and guide it into her vagina in one slow, 
ever-so-loving stroke. She would raise her hips to receive him; his arms 
would tighten about his neck as she felt his member deep inside her, and 
soon they would be rocking to the rhythm of some heavenly chorus. When at 
last he came, he would fill her with semen by the cupful, and she would 
welcome his ejaculation with a burst of her own fluids, so that their 
essences-his semen and her liquid perfume-would anoint their organs in the 
great baptism of mutual satisfaction. 

Afterward they would lie in each other's arms. They would listen to the 
birds and feel the dew on their skin, and kiss each other tenderly until 
their bodies cried out to make love again. 

As Hamp emerged from his thoughts and guiltily noticed the stickiness in his 
pajama pants, he realized that Wiffie had seemed this real to him despite 
the fact that they had never really met. Was it a sign of some sort, this 
feeling that Wiffie Gilford, despite being a virtual stranger, was already 
his conception of the one and only girl? Perhaps. It seemed that way, in any 
case, and he hoped that his wishful thinking would be replaced by something 
more real as time went by. 

At the beginning of November it was decided by the administration of 
Ferguson Barnes Christian College that the United States was in a grave 
state of spiritual deterioration, moral decline and political decay. The 
citizenry suffered from poor bowel habits-or so one could assume from 
watching the innumerable television commercials on the subject-and it was a 
well-known fact that the majority of American men had long since abandoned 
the hygienic habit of washing their generative organs in cold water on a 
regular twice-daily basis. And what with Negro riots, pacifists, beatniks, 
creeping socialism, and everything else that had become everyday in America, 
it was obvious that the country was in trouble. Secularism had seeped into 
every corner (indeed, every nook and cranny) of what had once been an 
American way of life. 

Perhaps nothing could be done about the situation, but the trustees, 
president and faculty of Ferguson Barnes Christian College were not the kind 
of men and women who would give up their country without a fight. And so it 
was that the powers-that-were at FBCC voted unanimously to institute the 
Ferguson Barnes Memorial Anti-Communism Put God First Drive. 

It was also unanimously decided that the young person most capable of 
handling the undergraduate end of the drive (with the assistance and 
guidance of a trusted faculty advisor) was none other than Hampton Budd. 

The drive was launched with a rally. A Campus- 

Wide Kick-Off Rec Night was held in the Thelma Barnes Memorial Gymnasium and 
Auditorium. Hampton Budd was there, and after the school officials had made 
their speeches, he took the rostrum to lead the call for student volunteers. 
He began by leading a cheer for Miss Agatha Bells Barnes, the late Ferguson 
Barnes' senile but much-loved sister, and then he exhorted his fellow 
students to join the drive and help bring publicity to God and FBCC. When 
the pep talk was over, the students went forth to.. .well, to drink Hawaiian 
Punch and eat chocolate chip cookies. But when the food was in their 
bellies, most of them did what was expected of them; they signed the 
volunteer sheets, committing themselves to performing the various chores 
that were involved in a drive of this kind. 

Wiffie, not being much of a joiner, stood off by herself while the other 
students pushed and shoved to be high on the lists for jobs such as Bible 
Reader, Tract Distributor, Convert Counselor, Tactical Organizer, Smelling 
Salts Administrator and so on. Wiffie was, after all, a reticent sort of 
girl; she wasn't cut out for approaching strangers and slapping them on the 
back and looking them in the eye and asking why in the name of John 3:16 
they weren't members of God's team. 

"Why aren't you over there putting your name down?" 

Wiffie turned abruptly when she heard the voice, and was startled to find 
herself facing Hampton Budd. 

"I was waiting for the other people to get out of the way," she told him, 
unconvincingly. 

"And what are you planning to sign up for?" he asked. "How about Button 
Pinner? You're the kind of pretty girl that people would like to have come 
up and stick a pin in their lapels, you know." 

"Oh, I wouldn't have the nerve to do something like that!" she said. 

"Well, what are you going to do?" 

"I don't know yet." 

"You're going to do something, I hope. You're expected to. Everyone else is 
going to be doing something, after all." 

"Oh, I'll do something," she hastened to assure him. "But ... Well, I just 
don't know what it is that I should volunteer for. I'm not much good at 
anything, I'm afraid." 

"I've seen you in Choir." He smiled. "You can sing, can't you? Why don't you 
sign up as a Street Corner Song Witness? It would be right up your alley. Or 
on your corner, rather." He chuckled. She did not. 

"Well," he asked after a pause, "can you do anything else?" 

"I can take shorthand. Not too well, though." 

"That's all." 

"Well, I can type." 

"Great! I'll tell you what: I'm going to be busy in this job, since this is 
probably the biggest thing to hit FBCC in fifty years, and I'm going to need 
someone to help me out with press releases, handouts, programs, and 
everything else that goes into running a drive like this one. How would you 
like to be my secretary? I don't know any other girls who can take 
shorthand, and you have to volunteer for something, after all." 

"I'd love to," she said softly, suddenly feeling happier than she'd been in 
months. "I'm not very good, really, but I'll do my best." 

"That's all I ask." He put a hand on her shoulder. 

At that moment his name was called by Miss Agatha Befle Barnes, and he 
started to move away. "I'll see you," he said with a wave. 

For Wiffie, the evening was over. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

Their friendship progressed quickly and smoothly. At first it was kept in 
the guise of a business relationship; Hamp would dictate a publicity 
release, and Wiffie would do her best to take down his words accurately as 
he spoke in half-sentences and two-or three-word phrases. It wasn't as easy 
as he had expected, for he was given to throat-clearings, mutterings of "um" 
and "uh", and sudden changes of mind (" 'Dear Friends in Christ,-uh, make 
that 'Dear Fellow Disciples', Wiffie..."). But she bore the burden well, and 
with happiness, for she was working with Hampton Budd, who was more than a 
B.M.O.C.; he was a good young man, as well. He treated her nicely, usually 
in his somewhat phonily hearty manner, but with occasional-and, of late, 
increasing in number-lapses during which he spoke less as a personality and 
more as a person. At these times he would become quieter, less overtly 
self-confident, and more concerned with Wiffie's feelings. "Are you tired?" 
he would ask her after a spell of dictation, and when she would say she 
wasn't, he would repeat the question several more times, until at last, she 
would admit that she was. Then he would tell her to put away her dictation 
and come with him to the campus snack bar, where they could sit for a while 
over Cokes. 

Two weeks went by, and then on Friday evening Hampton appeared at the 
dormitory and asked the girl on switchboard duty to fetch Wiffie for him. 
The girl smiled so broadly that it made Hamp blush; she then turned away 
from him and whispered something into the phone, after fiddling with the 
various plugs and cords. Several minutes later, Wiffie appeared in the 
lobby, and the two of them walked over to a worn sofa well away from the 
switchboard. 

"Are you doing anything this weekend, Wiffie?" ("Let me make love to you," 
he wanted to say.) 

"No." Of course she wasn't. 

"There's a Youth Fellowship party at the Baptist Church. I thought maybe 
you'd like to go." 

"I only I could take her someplace else! 

"It's off-campus," Wiffie replied. 

"No sweat. The church has it all set up with the housemothers; the college 
is even providing a bus." Maybe it'll be dark in the bus. Would she let me 
kiss her on the way back? Would I have the nerve to try? 

Wiffie didn't know quite what to say. It would be her first date. And not 
just her first date at FBCC but the first of her life. Parsons' daughters 
did not swing. 

"Do you want to go, Wiffie?" His penis was beginning to swell. 

"I'd love to." She smiled. 

Hamp exhaled heavily and sat with his legs crossed until at last the 
erection went down. 

And on Sunday night, they had their first-and kissless-date. 

It was but the first of many dates. Each weekend, some on-campus or approved 
off-campus activity was scheduled, and before each one, Hamp would ask 
Wiffie if she would accompany him. Each time, she would answer yes. Soon it 
became obvious that they were steadies; nothing was official, but the other 
students began to notice that they always traveled as a couple, and before 
long Wiffie found herself blessed with a plethora of new friends. "Hi, 
Wiffie," some young crew-cut from the men's dormitory would say as they 
passed on the sidewalk; "How goes it?" another would ask with a wink as they 
ran into each other in the library. It was an exhilarating thing, this 
realization that she was being recognized by her fellow students; and it 
made her feel even closer to Hamp. He had not only given her the feeling of 
being wanted by him, but had given her a sense of belonging on the campus, 
as well. 

It was late in November when the first kiss happened. The two of them had 
been discussing the revival drive with Mr. Deidrick, Hamp's faculty advisor 
on the project, when a messenger from the administrative office had come to 
the door and breathlessly informed them that Mrs. Deidrick, who had been 
pregnant for approximately nine and a half months, was at long last laboring 
to divest herself of her firstborn. And so Mr. Deidrick, not thinking about 
the impropriety of leaving his two charges alone in an otherwise deserted 
classroom building, hastily excused himself and departed for the hospital. 

"It looks like we'll have to carry on by ourselves," Hamp remarked. He eyed 
Wiffie's sweater-encased breasts. 

"I guess so." She looked at Hamp's strong, hair-strewn hands. 

"Want to knock off for a while, Wiffie? You work too hard." 

"Oh, I don't mind. I...." Wiffie shrugged. 

"Don't tell me you want to stay." 

"It's just that I hate going back to the dorm right now. Mrs. Ardsley won't 
let anybody play the piano while she's taking her nap, and I kind of hate 
the thought of just sitting in my room." 

"We could go to the snack bar." 

"I know. But don't you ever get tired of going to the same old places." 

"I suppose I do." 

"We could stay here," Wiffie said. 

"Without Mr. Deidrick?" His penis twitched thoughtfully. 

"Why not?" she asked. "We won't do anything wrong." 

"I guess not." But he wished they would. 

They sat for a while, not saying anything; Wiffie doodled on her notepad, 
and Hamp tugged at a shoelace which he had inadvertently allowed to tie 
itself into a knot. Finally, he spoke. "You're a nice girl; you know?" 

Wiffie said nothing. 

"I've known a lot of girls, but I've never met anyone as nice as you. You're 
so, so...." 

"What's wrong?" 

"I don't know how to say it. You just make me react so strongly." 

"What do you mean?" Her voice registered a touch of alarm. 

"I mean that you make feel emotionally nice." (Crossed fingers; forehead 
sweating. "And physically, too," he wanted to add.) A moment later, he moved 
his chair closer to hers and put his arm across the back of her chair. 
Instinctively, Wiffie leaned away from the seatback, drawing her shoulders 
up in a manner which suggested that she didn't know quite what to feel or, 
more importantly, what to do. 

Hamp reached up with his left hand and placed his fingers gently on Wiffie's 
shoulder. "Relax," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you." 

Wiffie started to bite a fingernail, then realized what she was doing and 
removed the offending digit from her mouth. 

"Look, Wiffie...." He put his left foot on the rung of her chair, raising 
one thigh higher than the other to conceal the erection which was now 
forming a noticeable lump slightly to the left of his fly. "Wiffie, stop 
acting so afraid of me." 

"I'm sorry." Her eyes moistened. She lowered her face as though about to 
cry. 

He looked at her; looked at the face turned away from him, at the breasts 
pushing gently against the green wooliness of her sweater, at the softly 
curved belly and thighs showing themselves beneath the fabric of her pleated 
skirt. His organ grew harder; his thigh twitched involuntarily. 

"Wiffie, may I give you my ring?" There was a tremor in his voice as he 
popped the question. 

"Yes," she answered softly. She looked up and tried to smile as he took off 
his high school class ring and pressed it into the palm of her hand. 

"Wiffie?" 

"Yes?" 

"I'm going to kiss you, Wiffie." 

Before she could recover from the surprise of his words, she felt his mouth 
against hers, his tongue darting into the space between her slightly parted 
lips, and his hand resting on her shoulders. When he sat back and looked at 
her as if to gauge her re action, she stared back with glazed eyes and hoped 
he couldn't hear the sudden thumping of her heart. 

"We'd better go now," he told her a moment later, his voice quiet. "It's 
getting late." 

They left the room together; Hampton flipped off the lights as he walked out 
behind her. He hoped she didn't see the stiff bulge of his erection and the 
odd limp with which he walked to the hooks in the corridor which held her 
wool jacket and his long, mercifully crotch-concealing surcoat. 

It was a Wednesday afternoon in late December. In three hours, the students 
of FBCC would depart for their Christmas holiday. Hampton Budd, sitting in 
the campus library with a copy of The Physiology of Erotic Response on the 
desk of the small carrel in which he had secreted himself, thought of the 
journey that lay before him, and of Wiffie, who would be with him for part 
of the trip. 

Both Hamp and Wiffie took the overnight train to reach their home towns; 
Wiffie was to get off at eight the next morning, and Hamp would reach home 
at eleven-thirty or so. In any case, the evening hours would not be spent 
idly, Hampton had decided; he had booked a roomette, and with a little luck 
he would be able to smuggle Wiffie from the coaches and fondle his beloved 
in the privacy of their little Pullman paradise. 

Wiffie. How unfortunate that she was so shy about surrendering to her 
natural passions. How sad that such an innately warm and sensual creature 
should be restrained by the chastity belt of Baptist morality which forced 
her lips to say no when her cunt, if it had the chance, would cry yes. 

He thought of her so often; he daydreamed almost constantly, it seemed, and 
most of the time the dreams would center on a certain part of her body-her 
lips, for example; her lips after she had kissed him and been kissed by him 
until she became afraid that someone would discover them behind the hedge of 
the chapel compound. Ah, those lips! So soft and warm and wet and 
responsive, with the little smacking sounds they would make as Hamp and 
Wiffie kissed, sharing their saliva as though taking Holy Communion from a 
common cup. Take, eat, drink, suck. This is my blood given unto you ... The 
whole sacrament condensed into a single, tonguing kiss. 

And then he would think of her breasts-breasts he had never seen, but which 
he had felt once, through her bra, when she had allowed him to let his hand 
slip up under her sweater. Tender breasts. He thought of what they must look 
like, and visualized rich mounds of white-skinned flesh capped by stiff, 
pink-red nipples. ". . .Late in the excitement phase, the breasts often 
increased in size, reflecting the emotional and physiological desire created 
by the outside stimuli," he had read somewhere; and he envisioned her 
glorious hillocks increasing by a cup-size, growing outward like his 
expanding penis, swelling in testimony to the sexuality which lay within. 

And her genitals. Oh, Christ! he wanted to say, not caring if he took the 
Lord's name in vain (for his Christian faith had weakened as his sexual 
daydreams had increased in frequency and intensity). His right hand slid off 
the book on the desk as he grew excited in the privacy of his carrel, and he 
let his fingers rest on the bulge in his trousers, after a while permitting 
them to knead his swelling cock through the cloth, till soon it was firm, 
hard, standing as erect as it could within its prison of jockey shorts and 
chino trousers, trying to burst through the material and into his gently 
squeezing hand. 

Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus God! He wanted her now; wanted her so very badly; and 
as he felt the pressure building in his penis, he pulled his zipper open in 
one fast motion, then pushed aside the fly of his undershorts, letting his 
prick pop forth to assume a tower-like stance of desire. 

His hands momentarily returned to the book on the desk, flipping to page 238 
and the color illustration of the female vaginal opening. Grasping the 
volume in both hands, he placed it in his lap, and then-holding the book so 
it just tickled the hair on his balls-he wrapped the dribbling organ in his 
handkerchief-lined hand and stared at the illustration as he squeezed and 
rubbed, over and over, till at last there was a stiffening in the base of 
his spine and a sensation of joyous burning in his cock, and finally, with 
his body going rigid, a sudden squirting forth of creamy liquid. Oh, Wiffie! 
he wanted to cry. 

Afterward, with a decided sense of shame, he closed the book, put it back on 
the table and wiped his cock clean with a dry portion of the handkerchief. 
He put the now-flaccid organ back in his trousers and looked to make certain 
that no remnants of the ejaculation had landed on the front of his pants. 

Tonight, he told himself. Tonight he would hold Wiffie in his arms. He would 
make love to her if she would let him; he would cuddle her if she would not. 
One way or another, he would give her some physical evidence of his love. He 
was more than willing to give; would she be willing to receive? 

They were in his roomette. He was kissing her. He was kissing her mouth, her 
shoulders, her breasts, and even the white, closely-shaven skin under her 
arms. His hands moved lightly under the open front of her dress. 

She seemed to be enjoying it. 

"You're beautiful," he said, and she did not reply. He nibbled at her 
breast, noting the way the networks of tiny blue veins spread out from her 
nipples like a finely-wrought spider web. 

Wiffie squirmed happily. So did he. 

His hand slid down to her hip, and for a moment he let it rest on the sharp 
hipbone which he could feel through the fabric of her slip. He pressed on 
it, but got no response. He moved his hand to her calf, where he proceeded 
to stroke her lightly. 

"Your leg feels so soft," he told her, and indeed it did, except for a 
delightful prickliness where the light, whisker-like hairs had grown out far 
to give a delicious tickling sensation to the palm of his hand. 

Then he touched her knee. Such a lovely knee, really; not large and rough 
and hairy like his own. And then.. .her thigh. It had a different texture, 
he noted-not prickly, like the calf, but softly fuzzy. 

Higher up, now he moved his fingers in little circles over the delicious 
flesh. Wiffie pressed her legs together around his hand. My God, she's 
really responding! he thought. 

He tried to move his fingers a little further up, but he couldn't because 
her legs had the hand in such a tight grip, and he didn't want to just pull 
it out and offend her, or maybe even cause her tc want to give up the game.. 
. 

He put his mouth against hers. Her lips were so soft, so yielding, so loose 
and slickly wet on the in-sides toward the gums ... An image of her labia 
came to his mind as he pressed forward with his tongue and felt her mouth 
open wider. His tongue went in, sliding past her teeth, searching for the 
roof of her mouth. He found it-God, this was great-and lost it again, his 
tongue pushed aside and back by hers as she fought back, caressing, lashing, 
entering his mouth, going around and around and in and out, trying to push 
her tongue in as far as she could make it go, scraping over his molars, 
almost making him gag as she searched for the back of his throat. Jesus, it 
was so great and wild and wonderful! 

He tried again to move his hand higher on her thigh, and she opened her legs 
for him. He let his fingers slide around to the back of her leg, where he 
pushed them gently up underneath the elastic of her panties, up and over a 
smooth, soft, firm and lovely buttock. Then he let them slip down between 
her legs from behind, just touching the skin which lined the juncture of her 
thighs. She gasped, spasmodically pushing her hips against his, arching her 
back and clamping her arms around him as though she had no intention of ever 
letting go. 

My penis! he thought. She'll feel it! He stopped for a moment, embarrassed, 
then pulled her to him, pressing her buttocks with both hands to hold her 
against him. He let her feel it through his trousers. He wanted her to know 
that he was excited and aroused and full of pain and desire and that he 
wanted her to be aware of it. 

They were lying on their sides. He pushed her down into the roomette seat 
and raised himself ever so slightly so that they were just far enough apart 
for him to get his hands between their bodies again. He reached for her soft 
belly and touched it through her panties; then he slid his hand under the 
waistband, pausing for a moment to linger at her lovely bellybutton. 

God, what a navel! he thought, picking out the lint and then discarding it 
as he spread his hand out and around and down to where the roundness gave 
way to hair-to the soft, curly and now moist swatch of femininity. He 
fondled it, and started to move his hand down further, and heard her speak. 

"No." 

It was all she said. No. 

He made his hand stop its southward progress, then moved it upward in 
temporary retreat. She seemed to relax slightly, so he let the finger slide 
back to the border of her luxuriant crop of pubic hair, where he fondled a 
few of the curls as he kissed her along the collarbone. 

"Why not, Wiffie?" he whispered. 

"No!" she repeated. 

It was maddening, this sudden change of attitude. It was maddening, 
maddening, maddening ... He felt something then; he felt it happening in his 
shorts, hot and sticky, and he knew he had to do something; that he couldn't 
stop. 

He put his hand in her fur once more. She tried to push it away, and anger 
stiffened his face into a frustrated frown. 

"I love you, damn it!" he muttered in her ear, and he stabbed two fingers 
into the vestibule of her cunt. 

"Stop!" she whimpered. "Please, please stop!" Her tone was almost 
hysterical, but her voice was still soft enough that Hamp had no fear of its 
being overheard in the corridor of the car. 

"I love you," he repeated, using the two fingers to caress one of the 
swollen inner lips. 

"Oh, God, please!" she whimpered. 

He stuck his middle finger in her then; stuck it in as deep as he could 
reach, ignoring the way her thighs stiffened with the hurt and the shock of 
it all. He moved the finger around, then pulled it out and balled his hand 
into a fist, which he moved roughly back and forth outside her cunt. 

"Kiss me," he commanded with an angry tremor in his voice, and to his 
surprise she kissed him even more passionately than before. And as their 
tongues lashed like fighting snakes, he rubbed her crotch, unballing his 
fist and using his fingers to fondle her clitoris, and occasionally to slide 
down and strum her love lips back and forth. With each squeeze, with each 
caress, she squeezed him back, now pressing her teeth into his shoulder 
through the cloth of his shirt as her fingers made rapid movements up and 
down his spine. 

He reveled in it. Manipulation, clitoris.. .all the knowledge gleaned from 
the "Foreplay" chapter of a friend's paperback sex manual came to his aid as 
he caressed her. Then he remembered something, suddenly; he thought of the 
hymen, and of how tight Wiffie was down there, and he realized that she was 
a virgin. Oh, he had known it all along, of course, of the fact, and to know 
that no other man had ever entered her; that, indeed, it was highly 
un-likely that any other man had ever fondled her as he was doing now. At 
that moment Hampton felt a tenderness toward Wiffie; his anger disappeared, 
and his voice took on a kind and loving tone. "I love you," he told her, 
this time in a soft whisper. She squeezed him, then moved her lips from his 
shoulder to his ear, and nibbled the lobe in reply. 

A moment later, contractions. Her bottom was bouncing as her crotch pressed 
itself against his moving fingers, and her upper thighs seemed to crush his 
hand rhythmically as her breath came in gasps. "Oh, Hamp," he heard her say. 

In a few seconds it was over, and she groaned happily, keeping her thighs 
squeezed tightly about his hand as if her organs didn't want to say goodbye. 

Finally, she pushed his arm away and sat up. She kept her face turned away, 
declining to meet his gaze as she picked up her discarded clothing and began 
to put on her brassiere. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

Peter Frenum found his mind wandering to the Negress and her cock-swelling 
hermaphroditic beauty. He discovered himself dreaming of her shaven cunt; he 
saw the smooth mound with its sprinkle of short black stubble, and he 
dreamed of letting his eyes follow that dark mound's curve to the 
indentation of her rich outer lips. 

But those lips were more than an indentation; between her thighs they hung 
like loosely drawn velvet drapes, heavy and full, curtains which, when her 
legs were spread, failed to conceal the delights that lay within. He could 
imagine her inner labia, and above them the sheath of her clitoris, which 
swelled as he gave it a mental caress. 

Could this beauty have been a hermaphrodite? He began to wonder. Surely the 
scar tissue of surgery couldn't display such delightful prickles of pubic 
whiskers; certainly no physician could duplicate nature in creating vaginal 
lips where a scrotum had existed previously. And he couldn't imagine such a 
voluptuous vagina being the product of a surgeon's scalpel, gynecological 
dilators or a bandage full of grafted skin. 

Surely she'd been putting him on. Indeed, she had said so herself, in the 
end. And yet it was almost fun to wonder; he found himself intrigued by the 
possibilities of hermaphroditism. What if she had been born not with a clit 
and scrotum, but rather with a vagina and cock? He could visualize it 
easily, and it excited him to think of what such a defect could mean. He 
could see himself fucking her, wallowing in the juices of her vagina with 
his cock battering against her cervix while her own cock slid back and forth 
against his lower belly, dribbling and finally ejaculating on his abdomen 
and, on his withdrawal, leaving a syrupy trail in his pubic hair. He could 
see the two of them performing fellatio; her mouth sucking his prick while 
his lips grasped her member, his fingers all the while buried in the moist 
cave of her cunt. He could imagine crying, Go fuck yourself! in a moment of 
anger, and then watching her try to do just that. He could imagine fucking 
her in the vagina, then rolling over and feeling her prick stabbing into his 
ass-hole. 

It was exciting; deeply so, in fact, and it prompted him to scrape up his 
week's saving for a pair of new models. 

New York, a summer festival, Peter Frenum told himself. It hardly mattered 
that it was still spring. In his apartment there existed an artistic 
festival; a carnival of cavorting models, of the slapdash application of 
paint, of the thrilling madness of turning human bodies into living Sistine 
Chapels which would change back to normal, Cinderella-style, with the first 
strokes of a bar of soap. 

Peter was, in his way, a liberal; he believed in equal rights for all, and 
in integration, and in the necessity for people to love one another and 
treat each other in the kindest possible way. And so, liberal that he was, 
he would often pose pairs of children, with each child of a different race 
and often of a different sex as well. Today he had chosen as King and Queen 
of his festival two youngsters in the third grade-a flabby-fat Puerto Rican 
boy of nine, and a pretty little black girl who was eight. He gave each of 
them a dollar and told them that if they would continue to visit him and 
reap such benefits, it would be necessary for them to keep their mouths 
shut. The children, dollars clenched in their little fists, were not 
inclined to argue with him, so Peter proceeded to undress them. 

First he undressed the girl, working from the feet up. He took off her 
shoes, and pullover dress. She wore nothing else but panties. "Keep them 
on," he told her, and then he proceeded to work on the embarrassed and 
blushing boy. 

He did the job slowly. Again, he starting by removing shoes and socks; this 
time, however, he tarried before moving to the next item of clothing, 
spending a few minutes caressing the boy's feet. "Jesus washed the feet of 
his disciples," Peter said. "I'm going to paint yours, but the effect will 
be the same." 

He patted the boy's right ankle, then reached up to unbutton the child's 
shirt. Next came the tattered jeans, and soon the boy, like the girl, was 
clad in nothing but underpants. Peter stared at the shorts for a moment, 
noting the small bulge of the genitals, and the damp spot where a dribble of 
urine had worked its way out of the boy's bladder and through the penis onto 
the cotton cloth. "Don't be afraid," he said in a kind voice. "I'm not going 
to hurt you." 

At this point he took the two children in his arms and pressed each of them 
to his hips. "I'm going to paint you," he said. "I'm going to show you how 
art is an expression and an extension of human emotions." 

He then instructed the children to face one another and remove their 
underpants; they did so, and Peter smiled as he watched the Negro girl, 
without a trace of self-consciousness at her nakedness, beginning to tickle 
the flabby body of the blushing, giggling boy. 

Peter spotted a slight swelling of the boy's minuscule cock. In a 
nine-year-old child, no less! "Come here," he said, and the boy broke away 
from the girl and did as he was told. Peter knelt before the child and 
gently, almost shyly, placed three fingers of his right hand beneath the 
boy's undeveloped scrotum and his thumb against the top of the small penis. 
The prick swelled slightly more, and stood halferect against his thumb. 

"That's very good," he told the boy. "You're growing up into a little man." 

Then he began to paint the children. On the fat boy he painted a phallus 
twelve inches long and four inches wide; it was topped by a machine-gun 
flash-deflector, and next to it Peter painted a daffodil, and the legend, 
FLOWER POWER, NOT BULLETS IN VIETNAM. The boy thought it funny, but Peter 
stopped his giggling with an icy stare; art was meant to be appreciated, not 
ridiculed 

-especially when the art had such a serious message. 

"It's like a gun," the boy said. 

"It's a social commentary painting," Peter explained as he painted a hand 
grenade on the boy's lower abdomen. "Politics is a part of Life, so politics 
must be incorporated into art which intends to accurately portray Life." 

'Oh." The boy's incomprehension was obvious. 

"Forget it." Perhaps as the boy grew older, he would come to understand; in 
the meantime, his belly would serve as a useful canvas, even if his mind 
didn't make him a particularly appreciative audience. Peter turned away from 
the boy, and sighed. 

On the girl, he painted breasts, each one was a spiral of black and white, 
and he told her that she could pride herself on being the first eight-year 
old girl with op mammaries. She didn't understand him any better than the 
boy had, so Peter just smiled wanly and tickled her vulva, and didn't bother 
explaining the thought behind the painting-the idea of black and white being 
brought together, drawn out of the swirling forces of a mad society and 
forced into union, feeding together on the spiritual nipples of Life, and 
... Well, the metaphor was a bit extreme, perhaps, but the idea was a clever 
one. 

Tears began to fill Peter's eyes as he surveyed his creations; he faced the 
girl to the boy and thought of how the gun on the one could destroy the good 
on the other, of how bullets aimed at yellow foreigners could easily 
ricochet and kill black-white understanding, and ... Yes, the metaphor was a 
bit much, all right, but the tears continued to come into Peter's eyes, and 
he wished for a gallery, for a place to display the kind of living art 
which, with luck, would affect mankind far more than the fad-and-fashion 
stuff which was made, sold and bought by craze-crazy socialites and 
tax-deducting businessmen and faggy interior decorators and ... well, by all 
the people who claimed to love art but who seemed to avoid looking at or 
sharing in the blood-guts, machine-gun-cock paintings which characterized 
the art of Life. 

"You're beautiful," Peter told the children, a sob in his voice. "You're 
lovely. You're real. You're ... You're Life." Suddenly he knelt and drew 
them to him, pressing their bellies against his cheeks and kissing them, one 
at a time, on their tiny genitalia. He first took the boy's penis in his 
mouth, ignoring the urine that dribbled onto his tongue, and then he parted 
the girl's thighs slightly, sliding the tip of his tongue between them and 
onto her hairless outer lips. 

The children were frightened by this, and by Peter's sudden tearful 
intensity. 

"I want to go home," the Negro girl said, bursting into tears. 

"Me, too!" The Puerto Rican boy tried to escape from Peter's grasp, but was 
held by the artist's grip his arm. 

There were sounds in the hallway, and Peter grew cautious. "Keep your mouths 
shut," he whispered nervously, the tears easing and presence of mind 
returning as he found himself forced to cope with the possibility of an 
unexpected situation. 

"Open up!" came a Negro-accented woman's voice from the corridor. 

"Mom-" The girl tried to call out, but Peter pressed his hand over her mouth 
to shut her up. 

"You better open this door," the woman called from the hallway. "You open 
this damn door or so help me God I'm going to call the cops!" 

Peter had no choice; he whispered to the children that if they didn't want 
to get in trouble they would have to keep quiet, and then he went over to 
the door, which he stood behind as he opened it several inches. 

"My daughter's in there," the woman said in an accusing tone. 

"There's no one in here," Peter countered. "Except me, of course." 

"My little girl's friend said she saw Pearlie Mae come in here," the woman 
insisted. 

"Well, your daughter's friend was wrong." He tried to close the door, but 
the woman had her foot in the jamb. 

"I've heard about you," she said angrily. "I know about the kinds of things 
you do with innocent babies. I don't know why they didn't take you away yet, 
you.. .you white trash!" 

"Oh, come on now!" Peter forced a laugh. "Let's watch the name-calling, all 
right?" 

"Pearlie Mae! Are you in there, Pearlie Mae? Call out to me, honey! It's 
okay. I'm here to take you away from this bad man who wants to hurt you." 

"Mommy!" The little girl's voice rang out loud and clear. 

"You no-good bastard!" the woman hissed, pushing the door open with all her 
strength and running across the room to her child. "I'm here, Pearlie Mae. 
What did the man do to you, child?" She snatched up a palette knife with 
which she could defend them if the necessity arose. 

"He painted me," Pearlie Mae told her mother. "And Paco, too," she added, 
pointing to where the naked boy cowered behind a low cabinet, his face 
crimson with shame. 

"That's right," Peter said, his voice trembling. "I painted them. Two little 
babes, threatened by bombs not of their making, misled by a society which 
says that love and sex are evil ... I painted them, trying to draw on their 
innocence to create a new artistic experience, to-" 

Peter found his momentary eloquence interrupted by the Negro woman. 
"Artistic experience! What kind of imagine talk's that? You go around 
smearin' paint on kids when they're naked as jaybirds and you call it art?" 

"Jaybirds aren't naked," Peter protested. "They have feathers. And if you 
want I'll take your little girl and some blue paint and I'll show you how I 
can make her look just like a jaybird, if you like jaybirds. And-" 

"You just shut up." The woman faced Peter and waved the palette knife 
menacingly as the two children dressed behind her. "You think I don't know 
nothin' about art? I read an article on it in Ebony magazine. There wasn't 
no painting naked children mentioned, either. Now you get out of the way or 
I'm going to cut you wide open!" 

"That knife's not very sharp, I'm afraid. It's for spreading paint, not for 
cutting people up." 

"Well, you just keep away from my child. And other people's kids, too, even 
if some of them are spicks. I've got a brother in the Panthers. We stick 
together, Mister. Us black folks stick together." She grabbed a child with 
each hand, and the three of them rushed out the door, Peter hesitated for a 
moment, then went to the doorway and called out after them, his voice 
somewhat choked, his emotions out of control as he shouted at the departing 
woman. "But I like black people!" he cried. "And I want you to like white 
people! And I want all of us to be brothers and sisters, and...." 

But she didn't hear him, or if she did, she didn't answer. "You're not a 
liberal!" he finally shouted at the stairwell. Then, more softly, once 
again, "You're not a liberal!" 

He closed the door and went into the sleeping alcove. Weeping now, he lay 
down on his bed and almost unconsciously began to jerk off. He held his 
pillow against his loins, pressing the feather-filled bag around his cock 
and rubbing it up and down till he could feel an erection swelling to full 
size. He thought of little boys and little girls, of tiny penises and 
hairless scrotums resting in his mouth; he imagined sucking them, sucking 
till piss flowed from the several organs and ran down his throat, and as he 
visualized this he moved the pillow faster and faster, and the semen began 
to dribble from the knob of his prick. And as the mini-cocks and scrotums 
disappeared, to be replaced in his mind by ten pink child-cunts moving up 
and down his fingers, the fantasy got lost in the burst of sexual heat which 
flowed through his body. His penis jerked and twitched and spewed semen onto 
the pillow, and as he squeezed the prick-tip to get the last of it out, on 
his fingertips as well. 

Peter Frenum carefully removed the pillowcase and buried his face in it, 
anointing his cheeks and forehead with his come, and wishing he could share 
it with a friend. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

It was amazing how much a girl could learn in so short a time. Christian 
morals, chastity, all the other trappings of the faith became meaningless 
once a girl was away from her parents' supervision. Well, maybe not 
meaningless, but at least a whole lot less important. 

It was only February now, little more than a month since Hampton Budd had 
first fondled Wiffie's organs February, the beginning of the semester break, 
and once again she and Hamp were going home on the same train. 

It was Hamp's fault that she was now in his roomette. He had talked her into 
coming with him, and she had been embarrassed and worried as they walked 
together through the coaches. Did anyone guess what they were up to? Were 
there students who suspected that Hamp and Wiffie weren't going to the 
buffet car for a snack, but to Hamp's roomette and into one another's arms? 

And now, here they were. Her dress was off, hanging on the coat hook, and 
her slip was bunched around her waist, leaving her now-naked breasts open to 
Hamp's lips and gaze. She almost wanted to reach for her bra, to get dressed 
and go back to her coach seat and fall asleep with the knowledge that no one 
could accuse her of really doing anything wrong. And yet she wanted to stay, 
too; she wanted to feel his hands on her breasts and thighs and elsewhere; 
she wanted to feel his hard penis pressing against her through his trousers. 
For their activities, wrong or not, never failed to excite her. His hand 
would slip up her leg to touch her parts through her panties, fumbling 
through the thin cloth until he could feel her begin to respond. And then, 
every time, it was fingers inside; fingers tickling the richly-haired lips 
and stroking the clitoris and bringing her to orgasm, almost against her 
will, but somehow with her cooperation, too. 

Oh, yes, it was wrong; all of it was completely wrong by the standards her 
family had so clearly set down for her. Still, she loved it. Her better 
judgment might tell her no, but her instincts told her yes. And Wiffie had 
become a creature of instinct. Hamp knew it, and he made sure that she 
realized it too. 

In a matter of minutes, her fears and second thoughts began to fade from 
Wiffie's mind as Hamp's fingers tiptoed through the tulip stems of her fur, 
and the fluids of passion began to moisten the jungle of hair. Hamp's hand 
moved onward and inward, and before long, Wiffie was quivering in the 
agonizing but lovely quest for sexual release. 

She felt her panties being pulled down. "Leave them there," she mumbled, but 
it was as though Hamp had not heard. He touched her clit again, then let his 
hand go underneath to the perineum, then back and forth between the 
close-lying cheeks of her behind. She didn't fight back when his wrist 
pushed on her panties so that the thin silken garment slid down further on 
her thighs; and seconds later, when she arched her hips in search of greater 
pressure from his fingers, his hand left her clitoris just long enough to 
pull the panties past her knees and off her ankles before her bottom could 
settle on the seat. 

But the panties didn't matter to her now; she sought only his fingers, and 
she let him pull her closer to him, her knees forced to open themselves 
across his thighs until she was straddling his lap and tightening her leg 
with passion as his fingers probed to the fleshy mass of wetness which, 
jelly-like, now quivered more than ever with desire. 

And then, without her knowing it, Hamp unzipped his pants and freed his 
stiffened penis. A moment later, she felt it pressing against her clit,. 
then sliding between the swollen lips and resting in the vestibule, with his 
right hand moving it around and around till it made her gasp with need. 

It was too much for her, this prick at the entrance to her cunt, swirling 
about as the organs of both Hamp and Wiffie bounced against each other to 
the rocking, jarring rhythm of the train. Suddenly she felt it go deeper in 
her, and she forced herself down on it, virtually swallowing the prick in 
one fast and painful move, sucking it into her and squeezing her cunt walls 
about it. 

In an instant she was moving up and down on him, sucking his hardness with 
her quivering cunt, entirely unaware of the blood that mingled with her 
juices and ran down her thighs. Then, hardly seconds after he had entered 
her, Hamp came. As she held his penis fast with her vaginal muscles, the 
semen burst forth inside her, lubricating her cervix in a fountain-like 
frenzy before falling back on the rapidly shrinking head of his prick. She 
tried to keep him locked in her, but her efforts were in vain. In a moment 
he was out, his prick hanging worm-like through the opening of his pants as 
his hand moved quickly to dry it with a handkerchief, and then to staunch 
the flow of blood and semen from Wiffie's aching cunt. 

Barely conscious of her actions, she grabbed his prick and fondled it; she 
squeezed its tip and fondled its underside and tried to make it big again, 
so that it could force its way back inside her and give her the satisfaction 
she needed so desperately. But her caresses were of no avail. 

"I'll cuddle you," Hamp told her, his hand moving to tickle her heartbroken 
clit. 

"No," she said, pushing the hand away. "Come back inside me," she whispered 
with passion and a touch of shame. "Please!" 

He couldn't, of course. Not yet, anyway. And so he did what seemed the next 
best thing. Holding her tight against his torso with one arm, he reached out 
with the other and grabbed his open overnight bag. He rummaged for several 
seconds, then drew forth the object he sought. It was a candy bar. 

He ripped off the red and white wrapper. It was an ugly thing, consisting of 
chocolate-covered nuts with a chewy center; it looked remarkably like a hard 
piece of shit. 

Wiffie didn't see it, but she felt it soon enough. She felt it being pushed 
into her; felt its hardness lacerating the walls of her cunt. She tried to 
cry out with pain, but the sound wouldn't come; her chest held itself in a 
tight knot as the candy violated her sopping crotch. 

But it wasn't long before the intruder was lubricated, and Wiffie let her 
vagina close about it, the muscles caressing the candy bar as her hands 
tightened around the back of Hamp's neck. As he moved the bar, so she moved 
her cunt, and with each thrust, the pleasure was greater. At last there was 
a bursting of sensation within her; a climax of such intensity that it left 
her on the verge of fainting. 

Wiffie collapsed against Hamp's chest and gasped for breath. "Lie back," he 
commanded, a tremor of renewed excitement creeping into his voice. She 
obeyed, rolling off his lap as he moved from the seat. She let him spread 
her thighs as she lay back on the small sofa, and it was with warm 
contentment that she allowed her fingers to play in his hair while he 
brushed his lips along the insides of her opened legs. 

"I love you," she heard him say before his mouth moved to the chocolate 
stump extending from her cunt and then she felt a pleasant tickling 
sensation as his teeth began to nibble on the candy bar's tip. 

When he sank his incisors into the bar and pulled it back an inch or so, she 
felt a tiny twinge of pain; but when his mouth pushed it in again, the pain 
gave way to a tentative tingle of pleasure and before long her knees were 
firmly pressed against the sides of Hamp's head as he ate the candy, at the 
same time moving its remnant in and out of Wiffie's ever-tightening cunt. 

The spasms came, after a while; spasms of pleasure, ending only when the 
last of the candy was pulled from her thrashing crotch. 

When it was over, Wiffie's emotions were tainted suddenly by shame. But her 
remorse was cut short when she felt the hardness of Hamp's penis pressing 
into the palm of her hand. She strove to suppress the tears which had formed 
in her eyes as he lifted her hips from the seat and prepared to mount her. 
She did her best not to cry out as she felt the prick slide into her aching 
cunt. 

May third-three months later. It was clear that Wiffie was no longer a 
virgin. Fourteen fucks had made that pretty obvious. Fucks on the train. In 
the hedges near the chapel, in a motel on the several occasions when they 
had managed to sneak off campus by crawling through a cyclone fence-a hole 
thoughtfully created by Hamp and another male student whose libido required 
regular doses of gratification. 

Fourteen fucks. Her love-hole had been tight at first, but with each meeting 
of prick and cunt it had widened its horizons, until now she could accept 
his penis as painlessly as a child's mouth sucking in the shaft of a 
peppermint stick. 

The early love sessions had been a mixture of shame and passion, but after 
the fifth she had thrown away her guilt for the most part, trading it for 
the touching and heart-warming oneness of physical and spiritual union. They 
had performed their own marriage ceremony, using his prick as a finger and 
her vagina as a wedding band. They needed no minister to bless the union in 
the eyes of God; the Lord knew of their love, and of their sincerity, and 
they felt that to His way of thinking, as to theirs, the union of Hampton 
and Wiffie was as binding as any sanctified in the candle-lit sanctuary of a 
church. 

How Wiffie loved Hampton! Wonderful Hamp. His prick was like a gift each 
time he pushed it in. Each time they made love, he brought her to readiness 
with the glorious tickling of his finger on her clitoris, and then came the 
standard missionary fuck, with him on top; or occasionally a fuck from 
behind, both of them lying on their sides. Or they would do it like dogs, or 
sitting, or standing, or with Wiffie kneeling over him as he lay on his 
back. Unfortunately, there were problems. She had missed a period. 
Twenty-six days had passed since the first stain was to have appeared, and 
not a dribble or a trickle had made its way onto the napkin which, with 
crossed fingers and hope, she had kept strapped to her crotch almost 
constantly for three weeks. 

She lay on her dormitory bed now, unpinning the napkin and removing it, 
baring the furry entrance to her cunt. Holding a mirror between them, 
spreading the love lips and examining the tissues inside to see if anything 
seemed different. 

She didn't know what to look for, of course. Indeed, she didn't know if 
there should be anything to see. Could pregnancy change the appearance of 
her outer organs? She had no way of knowing. But she examined herself 
anyway, figuring that if there were any differences, she would see them. 

She moved the mirror to her left hand and put two fingers of her right 
inside her cunt. Nothing seemed particularly different. The dry fingers 
irritated the sensitive tissues, however, so she withdrew them, lubricated 
them with a generous quantity of saliva, then put them back and pushed them 
in a bit deeper. Again, nothing different, though she absent-mindedly began 
to think of Hamp and his six-inch prick. Her index finger moved out and up 
to her clitoris, which swelled to meet the searching whorls of the 
fingertips. 

As the tingling grew, with Wiffie watching each fondling and swelling in the 
mirror, someone knocked on the door. 

"Wiffie?" The voice was Mrs. Ardsley's. 

Wiffie threw down the mirror and stood up, grabbing her panties and pulling 
them on in one fast jerk. "Come in," she called, in what she hoped was a 
normal voice. She sat demurely, hands folded in her lap, as Mrs. Ardsley 
inserted her master key in the door, opened it, and strolled in to sit on 
the room's only chair. 

Mrs. Ardsley stared at Wiffie for a moment, her eyes boring into the girl's, 
her face bearing an expression which Wiffie couldn't fathom. Finally she 
spoke. 

"There's been ugly gossip about you, honey." 

"What do you mean?" Fear. A tightening in the bowels. 

"Some of the girls have seen you vomiting lately." 

"Oh, for Pete's sake! I can't help it if I get sick now and then." 

"You were seen vomiting on three different occasions, Wiffie, over a period 
of a week. And Phys Ed tells me that you didn't miss your usual three or 
four days of gym." 

"Well, I was sick three different times. Too many candy bars, I guess. And I 
didn't miss gym last month because my period wasn't as serious as usual. I 
took some Midol for my cramps." 

"Of course." 

Mrs. Ardsley sat silently for a moment, then shook her head and muttered a 
tsk-tsk-tsk. "But that doesn't stop the gossip. The last time you went home, 
you were seen going into the Pullman section with Hampton Budd." 

"That's a lie," Wiffie protested. She regretted the denial immediately upon 
uttering it; there was no use quarreling with what obviously was the truth. 

"Don't lie to me, honey. I have it on good authority that you did." 

"All right." Her mind sought frantically for an excuse. A moment later, she 
had one. "I'm sorry. I just didn't want you to get the wrong idea. We were 
just going to the observation car; that's all. Hamp wanted me to see what 
the first-class lounge car was like." 

"Four hours is a long time to spend in an observation car, dear. 
Particularly when there isn't one on the train." 

Wiffie didn't know what to say, so she simply sat with her head bowed in 
shame while Mrs. Ardsley told her of the consequences of her behavior. 
Suspicion of illicit sexual behavior brought automatic expulsion from FBCC, 
and lying to a campus official-such as Mrs. Ardsley-earned the same 
punishment. 

"You're in trouble either way you look at it," the woman warned finally. 

Wiffie was on the verge of tears. "Please, Mrs. Ardsley, don't let them 
expel me. What would my parents say?" 

"You should have thought of that before you started.. .messing around, 
darling." The woman's voice was firm. 

"Isn't there anything I can do to make up for it, Mrs. Ardsley?" 

"There's one way, Wiffie," the woman told her in a soft tone of voice. "Come 
to my room, and we'll talk about it." 

"Can't we talk here?" 

Mrs. Ardsley shook her head. "In my room." 

Wiffie followed her down the corridor, her stomach aching with butterflies 
as her eyes wandered to Mrs. Ardsley's enormous ass. 

"Take your clothes off," the woman ordered as she locked the door of her 
suite. 

"What?" Wiffie wasn't sure she'd heard right. 

"I want you to take everything off," Mrs. Ardsley commanded. 

"Not everything, please!" 

"Well, you may leave your panties on for the time being, I suppose. Undress 
in the bathroom if you wish." 

Wiffie was reluctant at first, but when the woman reminded her of possible 
expulsion, she went into the bathroom and did as she was told. Five minutes 
later, she emerged naked except for her panties, clutching a towel to her 
chest. 

"Drop the towel," the housemother said. 

Wiffie hesitated, but did as she was told. 

Mrs. Ardsley's eyes scanned the youthful body, resting first on the 
bud-tipped breasts, then gliding down to the belly with its pert navel, and 
settling finally on the lace bikini panties with the wisps of pubic hair 
peeping through the leg openings, to lie dark against the creamy skin of the 
girl's thighs. 

"You wear rather revealing underwear," the woman said softly. Wiffie merely 
blushed. 

Mrs. Ardsley, too, was undressed. Her enormous, blubbery body bounced with 
each step she took, and Wiffie could hardly bear to look at the pendulous 
breasts, the Santa Claus belly, the vast black menopausal patch of pubic 
hair. When the woman walked to the closet, Wiffie felt sick, staring at the 
fleshy buttocks and the backs of the varicose thighs; her stomach went weak 
as she watched the woman open her legs slightly and stand on tiptoe to reach 
the top shelf of the closet; it was disgusting, seeing the hint of vaginal 
hair from behind. 

When Mrs. Ardsley turned, she was holding a plain cardboard dress box, which 
she carried to the bed and opened as carefully as one would open a case 
bearing precious stones. She put her hands in the box, then withdrew a black 
corset which hung stiff with wire and whalebone. Slowly, face flushed and 
lungs wheezing, she slipped the corset around her torso, then turned her 
back to Wiffie and with both hands grasped a post of the old-fashioned brass 
bed. 

"Come here, Wiffie," she commanded in a voice heavy with sexual excitement. 

Wiffie obeyed, and stood directly behind her. 

"Wiffie, I want you to lace this up for me. Lace it as tightly as you can." 

Wiffie did so, taking several minutes to get the laces through all the 
holes. Mrs. Ardsley stood gripping the brass bedpost, trying to be patient 
but breathing more erratically with each passing moment. "For heaven's sake, 
hurry up!" 

Finally, when the laces were in place, Wiffie began to tighten them. With 
the first tug, Mrs. Ardsley's body stiffened; Wiffie heard a sudden gasp 
from the woman, and stood back, afraid that she had hurt her housemother in 
some way. 

"Keep tightening, please!" Mrs. Ardsley said with a slight shudder. 

Wiffie stepped forward and resumed her labors, pulling the laces tight until 
she feared that the woman was on the verge of nervous collapse. 

She need not have worried. As the corset was drawn tighter, Mrs. Ardsley 
seemed to grow stronger in body as well as in passion; again she urged 
Wiffie to pull harder, and she continued to show greater excitement as 
Wiffie yanked on the strings until red marks appeared where the top of the 
corset cut into the housemother's Jello-like flesh. "Tighter," Mrs. Ardsley 
hissed once more; and Wiffie, bracing a foot against the frame of the bed, 
leaned back and pulled with all her weight and strength. 

Mrs. Ardsley arched her back, then fell shuddering against the bedpost, 
pressing her crotch against the metal and, in a moment, going limp and 
almost falling to the floor. 

'"Are you all right, Mrs. Ardsley?" Wiffie poked at the woman, fearing that 
the housemother had suffered a heart attack. 

"I feel wonderful, dear," the woman said in a soft, kindly voice. A minute 
or two later, she regained her strength and composure and stood up, taking 
Wiffie into her arms. "Thank you so much." 

"You're welcome," Wiffie replied. It seemed the appropriate thing to say. 

"Let me do something for you now," Mrs. Ardsley offered. 

"That's all right." 

"Please." The woman's tone was pleading. 'That's okay. You don't have to. It 
was nice just seeing you happy." Wiffie didn't want any more of this, of 
course, though she felt a twinge of excitement in her loins. She just wanted 
to go back to her room. 

"I want to," Mrs. Ardsley insisted, her voice losing some of the 
grandmotherly quality now, and becoming more firm. 

Wiffie sighed and shrugged her shoulders. 

"Lie down on the bed," Mrs. Ardsley commanded. Wiffie did as she was told, 
and then the woman grabbed Wiffie's panties in both hands and pulled. Wiffie 
blushed as her pubic thicket sprung into view. 

Mrs. Ardsley patted her thigh. "Just relax, dear." She tried, but without 
much success. 

In a moment the woman had Wiffie's thighs spread and was moving her lips up 
one leg to Wiffie's well. 

"Please," the girl whispered. 

Mrs. Ardsley misunderstood. "Of course," she said, and with a plunge, buried 
her tongue in Wiffie's sweet young cunt. 

A short time later, the girl's fears had begun to subside. Perhaps it wasn't 
so bad after all; she was helping to make an old woman happy, was she not? 
Kindness was the golden rule. 

She lay there, thighs open and hands gripping the sheets, her nipples hard 
and her body tingling as Mrs. Ardsley's tongue ran up and down her slit. At 
last Wiffie's climax came, and her hole was like a waterfall as she pressed 
her crotch against Mrs. Ardsley's face and tightened her legs around the 
fat, gray-haired neck. 

Somehow Wiffie found herself thinking of Hampton Budd's prick, and with that 
image to spur her on, she came, and came, and came again. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

Hardly more than a week after the strange confrontation with Mrs. Ardsley, 
both Wiffie and Hamp left FBCC for good. Wiffie was, in a way, the cause of 
it all; she had refused to go to bed with Mrs. Ardsley for a second time, 
having little desire to spend the next three and a half years of college as 
a sex partner to her housemother. 

"I'll have you expelled," Mrs. Ardsley warned. Wiffie countered that she 
could report Mrs. Ards-ley's erotic tastes to the administration, but the 
housemother made the point-and it was a valid one-that at FBCC the word of a 
campus official was always taken over that of a student. "I've been here for 
twenty-three years," she told Wiffie calmly. "You've been here since 
September." 

Mrs. Ardsley reported Wiffie and Hamp to the proper campus authorities, and 
a special meeting was scheduled to consider the charges. Wiffie did not plan 
on reporting Mrs. Ardslev's Lesbian habits; obviously, to do so would be as 
damaging to herself as to the housemother, and there seemed no point in 
making herself worse than she did already. 

The meeting was to take place on Tuesday morning. On Monday night the 
housemother in the men's dormitory noticed that Hampton Budd was missing 
from devotions, and so she checked his room. His effects were gone; all that 
remained was a note reading, "I hereby announce my resignation from Ferguson 
Barnes Christian College. Give Wiffie my love. (Signed) Hampton Budd." As it 
turned out, then, only Wiffie was formally expelled; she stood before the 
conference table in the administration building and heard the charges which 
had been placed against her, and the verdict which the special committee had 
rendered. "Guilty," the president announced, adding that it was shameful 
that a minister's daughter could stoop so low. 

It was home, then; home to hostile parents and the uncertainty of what would 
come next. Hampton had run out on her, that was the only real certainty. 
Without him, there was little to care about or live for. Oh, she would go 
on, but she wasn't sure why. 

Her father picked her up at the railroad station. As he loaded her bags into 
the trunk of the car, he gestured toward the train and shook his head. 

"That's the cause of it all, isn't it?" he said sarcastically. "I thought my 
daughter knew better. How could you have lost every trace of Christian 
morals!" 

It was a very bad scene. Her mother cried a lot; her father, after the one 
outburst, just treated her the way he treated Negroes who tried to sit in 
his church-that is, unctuously and badly. "Sex is sinful," he told her. "You 
knew that. How could you let yourself? And pregnant! May the Lord forgive 
you. I'm not sure your mother or I can." 

They put her in the guest bedroom that night; "You're not our daughter any 
more," her father said to her. "You won't sleep in your old room until 
you've proven that you're worthy of the family name again." And so she slept 
in a strange bed that night, yet in a room next to her parents-so close that 
she felt they were keeping her there just so she'd feel more imprisoned than 
she would have otherwise. 

At midnight, still unable to go to sleep, Wiffie began to hear noises from 
her parents' room. It was the sound of talking, interspersed footsteps and 
the opening and closing of drawers. As silently as she could, the tiptoed 
into the hall, where she knelt before her parents' door and peeped through 
the keyhole. 

The room was well-lit, and her father's ass was the first thing she saw. It 
was bare, a pallid double hump of flesh that almost hid her view of the bed. 
Yet he was wearing his black clerical vest and round collar, and as he 
turned sideways toward the mirror above the low dresser, she could see that 
his penis was erect. 

"I'll bet they did it like this," her father said. "In front of the roomette 
mirror." He put his right hand on his rod-like member and waved it at the 
mirror. 

"Don't be silly, Jacob," her mother said quietly. 

"All right, then how did they do it?" her father countered with an evil 
laugh. 

"Just like everybody else," her mother replied in an impatient tone. 

"Show me how everybody does it," Wiffie's father said. He walked toward the 
bed. 

"You know how it's done." 

"You bet I know how it's done!" he said, laughing again, and with a sudden 
lunge he grabbed the sheet and blankets and pulled them to the foot of the 
bed. He grabbed his wife then, turning her onto her belly and forcing her 
flannel nightgown up around her waist. He slapped her on the buttocks again 
and again, until at last she begged him to stop. 

"Show me how it's done," he commanded once more. 

"All right," Mrs. Gilford said with a sigh. She rolled onto her back and 
raised her knees, spreading them apart. 

"Not so fast. I'll bet that's not the only thing they did. 

A look of suspicion crossed the woman's face. "What do you mean." 

"I'll bet she sucked him off first," he said. "That's a perversion. 

"Sure, it's a perversion. But show me how she did it." 

"I won't, Jacob." 

"Damn it, woman show me how she did it!" He climbed onto the bed and knelt 
beside her, then grabbed her head in both hands and pulled it forward until 
her lips were in front of his swollen prick. "Show me," he commanded, his 
voice hard and trembling. 

Silently, Wiffie's mother took the prick's head between her lips and held it 
tentatively. 

"Deeper," Jacob ordered. 

The woman obeyed, closing her eyes and forcing her mouth to slide several 
inches up on the penis. He then grabbed her head once more and, in his 
excitement, forced it all the way up, until her nose was buried in his pubic 
hair. The woman gagged and grasped her throat, trying to stop the choking. 

"Then they did it like this," Wiffie's father said, withdrawing his prick 
from his wife's mouth and forcing her down against the mattress, pushing her 
knees apart and forcing his hard-on into her dry cunt. She gasped with the 
pain of it, and her legs stiffened. 

A few moments later, after a series of vicious pumping motions, Wiffie's 
father began to breathe more heavily. "And then they came like this," he 
growled, his throat constricting on the last word as his legs stiffened and 
his ass tightened with the effort of bringing forth seed. 

Afterward, he wiped his soggy prick on the sheet, got up and turned off the 
ceiling light, then switched off the lamp on the night table on his side of 
the bed. Wiffie heard the squeak of springs, and her father's exhausted 
breathing as he lay beside her mother. There were no further sounds except 
her mother's quiet sobs, the tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the 
hallway, and Wiffie's footpads as she tiptoed back to the guest room and got 
into bed. 

In the morning, she was almost glad to hear her father say that she would 
have to go away. "We're sending you to New York," he told her. "You'll live 
in the Wayward Women's Home, a house that the church runs for unwed mothers. 
There you'll be taken care of and taught the importance of Christian morals 
until you have the child. You'll be expected to work to help pay your way, 
of course; I believe the home publishes tracts for distribution to guidance. 
Perhaps you'll want to read a few of your fellow unfortunates and others in 
need of those tracts yourself." 

Both parents took her down to the train. She changed trains in Chicago and 
rode a Penn Central coach to New York City, where an ancient woman was 
waiting for her at the station. The woman patted Wiffie on the shoulder and 
kissed her cheek. Oh, no! Not another Mrs. Ardsley! Wiffie found herself 
thinking. The woman made no further overtures, however, and they rode in 
silence to the Wayward Women's Home in the East 20's. 

Immediately on arriving at the home, Wiffie was given a physical 
examination. The doctor was a palsied man in his seventies or eighties who 
pawed her breasts almost absent-mindedly, presumably in a vain effort to 
find cancerous lumps. He saved the pelvic examination for last, and when the 
time came, seemed barely able to find her cunt. Bending over and peering at 
her crotch, he put a finger forward and felt around. The finger ended up 
pressing jerkily against her rectum. 

"Ow!" Wiffie said as he tried to push the rubber-glove digit into her anus. 

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head as though to clear the cobwebs. He 
bent closer then-so close that his nose was almost tickled by the hair of 
Wiffie's outer lips. "That's it," he said with a friendly chuckle. Then he 
inserted his finger in the opening and felt around. "Very nice," he told her 
kindly. "Firm. You should be happy that you're young." 

When he'd finished, he patted her on the belly and wandered out of the 
examining room, forgetting to remove his gloves." 

"He's something, isn't he?" the nurse said, shrugging her shoulders. 

"Yes, he is," Wiffie replied. 

She tried not to jerk back in embarrassment when the nurse suddenly bent 
over and stared into her cunt. "Don't mind me," the woman said, poking a 
finger inside. "The doctor's pretty forgetful. Once he left a cotton swab in 
a girl, and somehow it got wedged so it wouldn't fall out. The poor kid 
couldn't figure out what was poking her in there until it was time for her 
next examination." 

With that, the nurse stood back and told Wiffie she could remove her feet 
from the stirrups. She stayed in the room while Wiffie dressed, rinsing the 
doctor's examination instruments and putting them into a sterilizer. 

"Tell me something," the nurse asked as Wiffie pulled on her stockings. 
"What's it like, doing it for the first time?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"You know: Doing it with a guy for the first time. Does it hurt much." 

"A little." 

"I've heard that it can hurt a lot. My sister was raped in the basement when 
she was twelve. A couple of the neighborhood toughs did it. When she came 
upstairs afterward, she was crying and her legs were coyered with blood." 

"It must have been horrible." Wiffie felt a genuine sympathy for the girl. 

"It was. My mother beat her. She just couldn't believe that my sister hadn't 
encouraged the boys. 

Then she made Alice lie down on the kitchen table. While my mother filled an 
enema syringe with soapy water, I had to wash Alice off. Every time I 
touched her there with the washcloth, she'd cry out and beg me to be more 
careful. Then my mother came over with the syringe and stuck it inside her 
to kill the sperm. Alice was so nervous and tense for months after that, 
that it made me resolve never to do it with a man." 

"Not even if you got married?" 

"Me? You must be kidding." The nurse twisted her mouth into a bitter smirk, 
then unbuttoned the front of her uniform. Her chest was almost flat-she 
didn't even wear a bra-but on it there were four nipples. "My mother used to 
call me the bitch," the young woman said. "She told me I should have 
puppies, if I didn't mind doing it with dogs." The nurse buttoned up her 
uniform. 

"I'm sorry," Wiffie said, stunned and full of compassion. "I'm really 
sorry." 

"Wiffie ... You don't mind if I call you by your first name, do you?" 

"Oh, no." 

"Great. You can call me Susan." She bowed her head, then looked ;. . her 
gaze boring into Wiffie's eyes. "I'd like to ask you a favor, Wiffie." 

"Yes?" 

"Wiffie.. .do you think you could ever bring your self to play with my 
breasts?" 

"I don't know what to say," Wiffie replied, reacting more from sorrow for 
the girl than from shock. 

"Just say that you will." 

"All right; I'll try." 

"Thank you, Wiffie." Tears filling her eyes, Susan came over to Wiffie and 
pulled her against her flat chest, kissing her on the lips. 'You're so 
kind." 

Susan's hand moved underneath Wiffie's blouse and up to unhook her bra. 
Wiffie tried not to shrink away when the hands moved over her breasts, one 
at a time. Soon she felt her nipples hardening under the roving fingers. "I 
think you'd better stop," she said. 

But the nurse ignored her plea, and Wiffie felt herself breathing more 
heavily as the hands continued to cup and fondle her breasts. She barely 
noticed Susan's other girl's knee pushing its way between hers, and against 
her better judgment she bit her Up and kept her mouth shut when the woman's 
other hand slipped down and lifted Wiffie's skirt. 

The poor thing has been through so much! Wiffie thought as the hand moved up 
between her thighs. Her trepidation dissolved into responsiveness as the 
fingers reached her panties and stroked her organs through the thin cotton 
cloth. 

Life in the home wasn't as bad as Wiffie had expected. Most of the girls 
were friendly; all of them had the same sense of shame and fear that Wiffie 
felt, and their common predicament gave them the kind of esprit dc corps 
that one finds among elite soldiers and prisoners of war. They meditated 
together, not many of them taking their devotions too seriously. They worked 
together, taking turns with washing dishes, doing laundry, and performing 
the other chores which they were required to do if they were to stay in the 
home. 

Several weeks after her arrival, Wiffie was sent on her first 
tract-distributing mission on the Lower 

East Side. "Wear this cross," her supervisor said, handing her a cheap tin 
crucifix some four inches in length and three wide. "Keep it around your 
neck and outside your clothes at all times, and people will know you're a 
servant of Christ. Most of the Puerto Ricans are Christian and won't hurt 
you if you're wearing this, and the Jews are all too old and sick to bother 
you anyway." 

Wiffie was put on a bus and told to get off at Seventh Street; she would 
then work her way eastward until she reached Avenue C, where she would walk 
back toward Tomkins Square and distribute the remaining tracts to anyone she 
might see in the park. 

The work was difficult at first; Wiffie wasn't used to dealing with 
strangers, especially strangers who spoke with foreign accents, if they knew 
English at all, and who left garbage in hallways and whose apartments reeked 
of unwashed bodies and closed-in cooking odors. 

"I'm a Christian witness and I'd like to give you something that may help 
you," she was supposed to say. But most of the people looked at her oddly 
when she did so, and after a half-hour of distributing tracts in the 
officially prescribed manner, she simply began sticking them under doors 
hoping that no one would ask her what she was doing. 

Alas, she had no such luck. "What do you think you're doing?" a young hippie 
type asked as she stuffed a handful of tracks into a mailbox. 

"Passing out tracts," she told him. 

"Groovy. Say, do you want to try a joint?" 

"No, thank you." 

"Come on. It'll make you see God, man." 

"No thank you." She smiled at the oddly clad young man and walked on. 

On east Seventh near First Avenue she almost fell against a man who opened 
his apartment door just as she was slipping a tract beneath it. 

"What's that?" he asked, bending to pick up the-pamphlet. "Hey, a tract! 
Come on in. I used to be a Chaplain's assistant in the service; you know 
that?" 

"I'm not supposed to go into the apartments of single men," Wiffie told him. 
"Is your wife at home." 

"I haven't got a wife. But come inside anyway." 

"I'm afraid I can't." 

"Come in, for Christ's sake!" he commanded, and Wiffie-not wanting to incur 
his anger-did as she was told. 

"What's your name?" he asked as she sat down. He seemed awfully nervous, 
Wiffie noted; as nervous as she was, if not more so. 

"Wiffie Gilford," she said. 

"Really. I'm Peter Frenum. I'm an artist. But I guess you can see that." He 
waved a hand in the direction of the paints and easels at one end of the 
room. "Can I get you anything?" he asked. 

"No, thank you. I can only stay a minute." 

"Don't be silly," he told her. "Look: I need help as much as anyone. You 
have no idea what a fix I'm in. I used to paint kids, but I'm afraid to now. 
This lady said she'd call the police if she caught me at it again. I can't 
afford to hire models more than once every week or ten days, and I'm almost 
going out of my mind with frustration. You have no idea how bad it's been." 
He bit at a fingernail, then looked up and smiled. "Hey, I've got an idea. 
You let me paint you, and I'll let you preach to me. How's that for a fair 
offer?" 

"You mean you want to paint my portrait?" 

"Sort of." 

"Well, all right." 

"Take off your clothes, then," he suggested. "What?" 

"I said to take off your clothes. That's how I paint, you see. I paint 
bodies. Breasts, bottoms, backs, thighs.. .you name it. It's a new art form. 
I call it painting Life." 

Wiffie tried to get up and leave, but Peter motioned her to sit down. 
"Look," he said, "you don't know your way around very well, do you?" 

"No. I'm new to New York." 

"I thought so. Well, pretty soon you'll begin to realize how badly you need 
a friend-a real friend. I'm willing to be that friend, if you'll let me 
paint you. I promise not to take advantage of you in any way." 

After thinking over and discussing it for a while longer, Wiffie agreed to a 
sitting. "But only on my thighs," she insisted. 

"That'll do for the time being," Peter told her, standing up and pointing to 
the bathroom. "You can take your dress off in there. You wouldn't want to 
get paint on it." 

A short while later, Wiffie was sitting on a hard-backed chair and blushing 
as she held her slip around her hips, watching Peter Frenum paint winged 
penises and toothsome vaginas from her panties to just above her knees. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

Hampton Budd reached New York just three days after Wiffie did. As he 
carried his two suitcases through the crowded main concourse of the Port 
Authority Bus Terminal, his feelings were mixed; he rejoiced in the freedom 
he now enjoyed, but in the back of his mind there lurked a trace of fear. 
This was a world new to him-a world of millions of people packed into 
concrete canyons and subterranean catacombs of commuters and subway trains; 
it was a city not known for kindness to strangers, and newcomers, and 
Hampton couldn't help but wonder if he had been wise to leave home in the 
middle of the night in an effort to break the chains of fundamentalist 
morality and to find a new and more exciting way of life. 

And perhaps he could find Wiffie. He had called her parents, disguising his 
youthful voice in an effort to get past her mother to Wiffie herself. 

"Hello. I'd like to speak to Wiffie Gilford, please," he had said. "I'm 
doing a survey on girls who have been expelled unfairly from schools and 
colleges." 

Her mother had replied, somewhat crisply, that her daughter was no longer 
living at home, but had gone to New York. New York! He had started to ask 
for Wiffie's current address, but Mrs. Gilford had hung up on him before he 
could finish the question. 

God, he felt ashamed of himself for the way he'd treated Wiffie! But at the 
time, it had seemed the most sensible thing to do. If he wasn't there to 
testify at the committee hearing, they couldn't force him to say anything 
incriminating about her, could they? Of course, his departure had been 
incriminating in itself; what an emotional and thoughtless dummy he'd been 
not to realize that! In any case, it probably wouldn't have mattered either 
way. And now, perhaps he could find her somehow, and explain that it had all 
been a mistake. 

Before he could do anything, he had to find a place to live; and so he got 
into a taxicab and asked the driver to take him to a cheap hotel. "In 
Greenwich Village," he added. The driver, a former would-be bohemian poet 
who had married a nice girl from Flatbush and traded his Village pad for a 
flat in Brooklyn and three ornery kids, winked into the rear-view mirror and 
did as he was told. "I know a place just west of Washington Square," he 
said. "It's a real dump, but you can get a single for seventeen a week, and 
I've heard the place swings." 

The hotel-The Armitage Arms, it was called-was indeed a dump; paint was 
peeling from the walls of the entrance foyer, and the proprietor was a 
shifty-eyed little man with garlic on his breath. "Seventeen dollars in 
advance," he said. Plus eighty-five cents city hotel tax." When the man had 
stuffed the seventeen eighty-five in his pocket and watched Hamp fill out 
the registration form, he took the lad up to room 304. "The bath's down the 
hall," he said after depositing Hamp in the room. "When you flush in the 
toilet, don't pull too hard on the chain. The lever came loose last week. 
And try not to piss on the floor. Also, I don't care what you do in your 
room as long as you pay the rent, but don't make too much noise." The room 
was depressing. Its linoleum floor was dirty and cracked in several places, 
and when Hamp opened the built-in wardrobe he saw a roach scurry into a pile 
of old newspapers. The chest of drawers was painted a sickly light green, 
and the desk was small and rickety and held a dirty glass. The bedsprings 
squeaked. Still, it was home, and it was nice to know that he had a place to 
stay. Now there was only one thing to worry about-a job. 

He took off his shoes and lay down on the bed. Worrying could wait; right 
now he needed a nap. 

Hamp's first job was that of a theater usher. The Regency, a musical house 
on West 44th, was in need of someone to fill in for an usher who had been 
busted on a pot charge. After four fruitless days of trying to get a job in 
an advertising agency, Hamp heard about the opening from the hotel 
proprietor, whose brother worked in the theater's box office. "You need a 
job, right? Look, this is the world's greatest opportunity. This is how a 
lot of guys break into show business. Who knows? You could become a 
playwright, an actor, a producer ... And in the meantime you'll make enough 
to pay next week's rent." 

And so Hamp took the subway uptown to Times Square, where he located the 
stage entrance and wandered up and down dusty staircases till at last a man 
in janitor's coveralls asked him what he was doing and directed him to a 
dressing room. There Hamp found the head usher, a kid of twenty-three or so 
with the muscles of a discus thrower (you could see through his T-shirt) and 
the poise of a ballet dancer. His name was Ernie, and he looked Hamp over 
carefully, arching his eyebrows and finally shrugging his shoulders and 
rendering his verdict. "You'll do fine. Have you ever ushered?" 

"No." Hamp tried to keep his eyes off the young man's tight jeans, where a 
prominent bulge revealed a more than adequate endowment of masculine 
equipage. 

"No sweat. I'll personally keep an eye on you till you learn the ropes." 
Ernie placed a warm hand on Hamp's left shoulder and guided him into a 
larger dressing room next door, where Hamp saw a half-dozen young men-all of 
them slim, and most with carefully tended hair-standing about in various 
stages of undress. One was wearing Jockey shorts and a T-shirt; another wore 
nothing but tight stretch bikini briefs in red and white stripes. A third 
was bare from the waist up and was busy stuffing a handkerchief into the fly 
of his excessively tight uniform pants. 

"Welcome to the Latin Quarter," one of the boys said. "Or are you dressing 
with the fellows down the hall?" 

"I thought we'd keep him here with us." Ernie smiled, and several of the 
boys laughed. Turning to a rack of uniforms, he studied Hamp carefully and 
pursed his lips. "We'll find you something to wear," he said. "I'll bet I 
can guess your exact size." 

Hamp jumped when, after the performance, a hand slapped his underwear-clad 
buttocks as he was taking off his uniform in the dressing room. 

"Cut it out," he said. 

"Not another bore!" the young man who had accosted him pouted. 

"Leave him alone, for Christ's sake," Ernie said. "He's only here till Sammy 
gets out of jail." 

"If Sammy gets out of jail." 

"Sammy'll get off; just wait and see. I heard they only found the stuff on 
his body. He'll get off somehow." 

Hamp was almost dressed, and as he tied his shoelaces he looked up and asked 
Ernie how much longer the job would last. 

"A couple weeks, maybe. I don't know. But don't worry about it. You ought to 
be able to find something else before Sammy gets back. Wednesday and 
Saturday are the only matinee days, so you can go job-hunting the rest of 
the time." 

When Hamp got up to put his coat on, Ernie grasped him by the arm. "Stick 
around a while," the young man told him, nodding to another of the ushers 
who immediately went over and shut the door. 

Hamp looked puzzled, so Ernie smiled at him and explained. "You're straight, 
aren't you?" 

"You mean.. .not a queer?" 

"Gay, baby," another usher insisted. 

"I'm sorry. Yes, I'm straight. And if you don't mind, I think I'd better get 
home." 

"Oh, hang around for a few minutes," Ernie argued. "Nobody's going to force 
you to do anything. We just thought you should see how the other half 
lives." He chuckled, and was joined in his laughter by the two other ushers 
who were still in the room. 

One of the young men was standing in front of the dressing table studying 
his eyebrows in the mirror and plucking stray hairs out with tweezers. Now 
he turned around and smiled at Hamp, puffing up his bare, well-muscled chest 
and putting his arms behind his head in Mr. Universe style. "You like?" 

"I'm sorry," Hamp answered. "That's not my thing." 

The queen shrieked with laughter. "That's beautiful!" he said. "What a 
really sweet double entendre!" 

He turned back to the mirror, admired himself for a moment, then stripped 
completely, to reveal an uncircumcised member surrounded by wiry black hair. 
He let his right hand move down to his prick and almost absent-mindedly 
began to massage its underside. The organ began to expand, and Hamp couldn't 
help noticing how the knob-like tip swelled forth from its sheath. The youth 
stroked it more purposefully now, and drew back the foreskin to reveal the 
ruddy head. 

Jim, a well-built Negro of at least six-four, dropped his uniform trousers 
and drew them off. He hung them carefully over the back of a chair, and 
removed his T-shirt and Jockey shorts. "You just stand right there, Bill 
baby," he drawled softly to the nude queen as he straightened up and turned 
around so Hamp could see his massive purple-black cock. 

"You sure you don't want to join the action, fella?" he asked, his eyes 
boring into Hamp's. 

Hamp only shook his head. He knew he should leave, but curiosity and an odd 
sense of courtesy made it impossible. 

While Hamp was busy trying to keep his gaze from settling too obviously on 
the Negro's swollen, stallion-like prick, Ernie was undressing behind him, 
and before long Hamp was the only one of the four with clothes on. The 
others were now passing a tube of K-Y jelly back and forth as they 
lubricated their organs and took turns bending over to have the jelly rubbed 
into their asses. 

Hamp's penis was hard, and he surreptitiously reached down to adjust the 
trousers so the erection would be less obvious. Fortunately, the others were 
busy touching each other tentatively and trying to settle on a course of 
action for the coming orgy. 

They ended up with the Negro in the middle, Bill in front and Ernie behind. 
The Negro made the first move. 

"Scream, baby," he snarled, throwing Bill against the dressing table and 
stabbing his enormous cock between the boy's willingly spread thighs. Bill 
stiffened and let out a shriek as the black cock was thrust into his anus. 

"I'm going to fuck the shit out of you, you white mother-lickin' bastard," 
the big black snarled as he rammed his rod all the way into Bill's 
smooth-fleshed ass. Bill's eyes closed and his lips tightened in an ecstatic 
smile as Jim reached around with one arm and let his hand wrap around Bill's 
waiting cock. The two of them moved excitedly, Jim thrusting forward again 
and again as Bill responded with a rhythmic, slightly rotating motion 
accompanied by the steady squeezing and loosening of his fingers on Jim's 
fondling hand. 

Ernie moved toward the two now, smearing another gob of K-Y on his hardened 
cock and gauging the angle of the hole between the black man's buttocks. 
Gently, he placed a hand on Jim's right hip; the Negro responded by bending 
slightly and opening his thighs. Ernie reached between the spread legs and 
felt around for a second, then put his penis in position and eased the slick 
member into the cavity. When he had buried the full length of it, he sighed 
happily, and Jim responded with an extended grunt of appreciation. 

The three moved together, a well-disciplined team; Bill would push back as 
Jim thrust forward, and as the Negro backed off from Bill's ass-hole, Ernie 
would drive his organ more deeply into Jim. It was like some strangely 
obscene ballet, and Hamp could not help being aroused. Guiltily, he let a 
hand slip into his pocket, where he pressed the head of his penis with his 
fingertips. 

The combination of his fingers' pressure and the texture of his underpants 
was almost too much. Unable to restrain himself, Hamp pushed his stiffened 
finger hard against the bottom of the pants pocket. Innumerable washings in 
the FBCC laundry had made the material weak, and it took relatively little 
effort for the fingers to break through the cloth, whence they could find 
the opening of his undershorts and touch the swollen penis inside. He let 
his index finger smear a dribble from the prick's tip down to its underside, 
where there was the greatest sensitivity; in a moment, semen began to pour 
from his penis, not in orgasmic twitching but in a steady stream, as though 
there had been an overflow from his glans, and his cock were" a safety valve 
to relieve the pressure. Hamp hurriedly withdrew his hand from the pocket, 
but it was too late; the stuff had made a sticky puddle in his shorts, and 
in a moment it would soak through the cotton and into the fabric of his 
trousers. 

His eyes still on the three queers, Hamp walked to the clothes rack and took 
his knee-length surcoat from its hangers. Thank God it was long enough to 
cover the inevitable stain. 

The fags were on the verge of climax now. Jim smashed Bill's torso against 
the dressing table and stabbed into his ass-hole as deep as possible; Ernie 
followed, embracing the Negro's torso and tightening his ass as he shoved 
his organ in to its full length. In a moment, Hamp witnessed a three-way 
orgasm accompanied by noisy gasps and groans, and when the three had 
finished their spasms of mutual delight, they slid into a heap on the floor, 
snuggling against each other and breathing heavily with exhaustion. 

Ernie looked up lazily and saw Hamp fiddling with the lock of the dressing 
room door. 

"You're coming back tomorrow night, aren't you?" he asked. 

"I don't know," Hamp replied. He felt ashamed now; ashamed of watching, and 
ashamed of the semen which soaked the front of his pants. 

"Look, come on back. You need the six bucks." 

And indeed Hamp did. For an evening's work, it wasn't much, but it helped 
pay the rent. He would be back, embarrassing though it might be. But next 
time he would wear two pairs of undershorts-for greater protection and 
absorbency-just in case. 

"Good night," he said, opening the door. 

Ernie smiled and blew him a kiss. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

Wiffie was lying on the bed in Peter Frenum's apartment. Each time she 
moved, there was a slight rustling of the waxed paper that had been placed 
beneath her body to protect the sheets from paint. Happily, she stretched 
and sighed as she watched Peter mixing his poster paints on the far side of 
the room. She felt no embarrassment in the fact that she wore only bra and 
panties. She was, after all, an artist's model, and artists were accustomed 
to such sights. Indeed, a good many painters were used to completely nude 
models. An intriguing thought, she mused. 

Wiffie could safely pose nude for Peter if she wished; she was sure of that. 
She could be mother-naked, stripped to the buff, and have nothing to fear, 
Peter was so trustworthy and kind. He had painted only her thighs that first 
day and had done nothing but paint and occasionally touch her with reverent 
fingers to position her legs or to keep her from putting her knees together 
and smearing the work. And when he had painted her back, on another day, it 
had been the same: his brush playing on the vertebrae, making a mural of her 
sweet young flesh; his hands occasionally taking her by the shoulders to 
move her torso forward or back as was required. And when he had painted her 
belly, that had been sweet too. He had tickled her with his brushes, but he 
hadn't tried to molest her in any way; indeed, when she had pushed her 
panties down so he could do her lower abdomen, he had warned her to pull 
them up a bit to cover a stray wisp of pubic hair. 

What would it be today? He had painted all the rest of her by now. Why not 
... Why not her breasts, or her fine pretty buttocks? She wasn't embarrassed 
by her body any more, nor was she ashamed as long as her nudity was 
witnessed by someone she trusted. It seemed time to prove her faith in this 
man who had been so sweet and kind. 

"Peter?" she called softly. 

"Yes?" 

"How come you've never asked me again to pose nude?" 

He put his paints down and came over to the bed. He sat on the edge and held 
Wiffie's hand. "I don't know. I guess I thought you'd be afraid." 

"I'm not afraid any more." She squeezed his hand, and felt him return the 
gentle pressure. 

"Let's do it, then. You can undress in the bathroom if you like." 

"That's all right. I don't mind doing it here." She sat up and swung her 
legs off the bed. "Would you undo my bra?" 

Peter took the back strap in both hands and fumbled with the closure. It 
came unhooked, and Wiffie scrunched up her shoulders as the harness slid 
off. She was a tiny bit-embarrassed, but the feeling passed quickly, and she 
lay back down, feeling her nipples tingle slightly as they began to harden 
in the cool air of the room. 

"Do you want to do my breasts first?" she asked. 

"Why don't we try a full body mural, all at once?" 

"Help me with my panties, then." Wiffie placed her fingers in the waistband 
and slid them down. She blushed as she saw Peter's eyes fix quickly on her 
bronze patch of pubic hair, then shift away. 

Without asking, Peter reached up and pulled the panties down to her knees; 
Wiffie raised her hips to make the job easier. Then Peter paused a moment 
and touched Wiffie's bush with gentle fingers. He smiled. "Don't be afraid 
of anything," he told her. 

"I'm not. I'm placing myself in your hands." She smiled back at him. 

He pulled the thin underpants down to her ankles and held them there while 
she drew her feet from the garment, one at a time. 

Peter tossed the panties to a nightstand and stood up. "I'll get the 
paints." 

Wiffie knew she should feel a bit strange, lying there naked-not necessarily 
embarrassed, but perhaps a wee bit goosebumpy or uncomfortable. But after 
those fleeting moments of shyness while Peter had helped her undress, she 
felt nothing but pride; pride at pleasing a fine person like Peter, and 
pride at somehow proving to herself (and, were they here, to Mrs. Ardsley 
and her suspicious parents) that the human body was not necessarily a vessel 
of filth. 

Now Peter began painting her, and Wiffie lay back and sighed happily as the 
brushes laid curlicues of color on her shoulders and spiraled down to her 
collarbone and the tops of her breasts. When they simultaneously encircled 
and dabbed at the tips of her nipples, a shiver coursed through her body; it 
was a delightful shiver, and Wiffie giggled and beamed up at Peter, who 
smiled back. 

One brush gradually made its way to her navel and then tickled her lower 
belly as Frenum painted seraphim on the abdomen, topping things off with a 
line of yellow paint which traced the trail of light hair-sprouts between 
her bellybutton and pubic triangle. Then, without a word, Peter moved to a 
position closer to the foot of the bed and pushed Wiffie's legs apart, at 
the same time lifting her knees. "Hold it right there," he said quietly. 
(Wiffie failed to notice the tension in his voice.) 

At first it was like being examined in a gynecologist's office, but the 
discomfiture passed soon enough, and she closed her eyes and relaxed as 
Peter's brush dabbed paint in her bush and made tiny fleurs-de-lis high on 
the insides of her thighs. She felt a warmth in her loins, and spread her 
legs slightly wider, unconsciously letting her hands tense slightly and grip 
the edges of the bed. 

When the tip of Peter's brush touched her clitoris, Wiffie tightened up all 
over, and her legs opened even farther. She relaxed slightly when he pulled 
the brush away, but in a moment it was back again, tracing her clit from 
where the bud was buried in flesh to its sublimely sensitive tip. Wiffie 
strained against the searching fibers, and an involuntary gasp burst from 
her lips. 

"This will be beautiful," Peter whispered softly. 

Now he let the brush stroke the insides of her outer lips; it touched the 
edges of her labia minora as it did so, and once again Wiffie's body 
responded with a stiffening and an outburst of pent-up breath. When the 
brush moved inside, to bury its tip in her vaginal opening, Wiffie rotated 
her hips slightly and began to breathe more deeply. 

Peter withdrew the brush and tickled Wiffie's clitoris with it, then slid it 
back down and in suddenly. Wiffie's hand found his wrist and held it 
tightly, not in an effort to prevent his movement , but rather to encourage 
them. Soon she heard Peter breathing hard too, and in a moment she felt his 
lips touch each of her nipples in turn, and then move down to the gentle 
roundness of her belly. 

She was quivering with excitement when his tongue replaced the brush at her 
vulva, and as it painted a line of saliva from her clitoris to the interior 
surfaces of her labia minora, she moaned and let her fingers entwine 
themselves in Peter's hair. 

She did not object when he pulled his head away and got up on the bed, 
taking his fingers from her opening and pressing on the vestibule with the 
head of his swollen prick. The gigantic bulb of his penis lay still for a 
moment in the sweet, hot bath of her love juices, then slid into her, 
followed by the almost wrist-thick shaft. 

It hurt her at first; Hamp's organ had been nowhere near this big, and she 
felt her female pocket being stretched, almost rent by the enormous cylinder 
of hardened flesh. But the pain passed quickly, to be replaced by an even 
greater excitement and the desire to hold, to grasp, to rhythmically caress 
the member in her tight, slick hole. 

Her spasms were completely spontaneous, entirely beyond her control; she 
gripped his cock in an involuntary tightening of her cunt and held it fast a 
moment, finally releasing it, then squeezing it once, twice, three times, 
four times, again and again until the twitching, sucking motions gave way to 
a surge of gentle warmth and pleasure at finding Peter still bucking above 
her, pushing in and out in a furious effort to bring himself to climax. 
Wiffie tightened her arms around his back and kissed his neck as he gasped 
out his thanks and squirted his seed into the sweet, warm recesses of her 
cunt. 

"Thank you!" he gaped again when it was over. She just patted him on the 
back and held him close as he lay exhausted on top of her. It had been good 
for both of them, and in her generosity there had been virtue; she had no 
cause for guilt. 

She heard him singing while she was in the shower, and as she rubbed the 
soap under her arms and down over her breasts, she closed her eyes and put 
her face in the stream of water and hummed along with him. 

Hampton Budd's job at the Regency lasted only a week and a half, but by the 
end of that time, he had acquired two things: considerable knowledge of how 
homosexual theater ushers amuse themselves, and a new job. The job didn't 
pay a great deal, sixty-five dollars a week, plus occasional overtimebut it 
was interesting. He was a clerk for the New York Anti-Smut Society, a 
private non-profit organization devoted to stamping out obscene literature, 
movies, works of art and other threats to the city's sexual morality. 

Hamp's job involved filing, for the most part; "shoppers" for the 
society-mostly unpaid volunteers-would scour the city's bookstores, 
newsstands and the like in a never-ending search for erotically stimulating 
materials. They would bring the offending items to the Society's 
headquarters, for distribution to the permanent staff and Society officials. 
When the senior staff members and Board of Trustees had studied the 
material, they would decide whether legal action was in order. In most 
cases, they considered that it was. For example, the Society was involved in 
a particularly important case when Hamp began work in its offices. It seemed 
that a large midtown bookstore, usually considered a thoroughly respectable 
establishment, had stocked copies of a marriage manual which contained 
actual photographs of unusual coital positions, cunnilingus, fellatio and 
the like. The Society considered it obscene, and had immediately purchased 
several copies of the book, sending one to the District Attorney's office 
and keeping the others for its various files and speakers displays. Hamp 
spent considerable time filing such books in the Society's library, and he 
found the material very educational, though he had to be careful not to 
peruse the books' contents when his superiors were around. 

Not long after Hamp had started work for the Society, one of the paid 
shoppers, an elderly Presbyterian minister, suffered a heart attack. 

"Shit," Hamp's boss muttered. "How the fuck am I going to complete the file 
on our action against Biceptual Publications, Inc.? " He lit a cigarette and 
pondered his predicament for a few moments, then buzzed Hamp on the 
intercom. "Come in here," he commanded. "I've got an emergency on my hands." 

Hamp stuck a collection of "artistic" color slides back on the library shelf 
and went into his superior's office. He was told that due to the minister's 
severe illness, the organization needed a fill-in shopper, and that he was 
it. "Want you to scan all the 42nd Street bookstores and see if you can find 
a magazine called 'Muscle Pix & Poses', " the boss said. He explained that 
it was a homosexual publication devoted to the glorification of the male 
physique. 

Hamp felt rather uneasy when he entered the first store; it was filled with 
sailors and young male office workers and the like, and when he asked for 
the homosexual section, the clerk winked and pointed to an aisle in the 
back. Hamp walked toward the rear, his cheeks burning, and suddenly stopped 
in his tracks when he saw an elderly priest standing in front of one of the 
racks, his fly open and one hand caressing a leathery brown prick surrounded 
by a thicket of white hairs. Hamp tried to pretend that he hadn't seen 
anything, and left the store. But before leaving, he debated whether to tell 
the clerk of his customer's transgression. The hell with it, he decided. 
He'd hate to give the impression that he had anything against the Catholic 
Church. After all, he was no longer at FBCC. And anyway, you had to feel 
sorry for any normal male who couldn't get married. 

The second store was less crowded, and Hamp found the magazine he was 
looking for after a minute or two of searching. He took three copies off the 
rack and took them to the front, where he paid for them and watched the 
clerk count out his change. 

Suddenly, as his eyes absent-mindedly gazed out the front window of the 
store, he saw a sight that made him blink in disbelief. Wiffie! He grabbed 
the magazines from the clerk, who had by now placed them in a bag, and 
without so much as a thank you, he headed for the door and out onto the 
street. 

"Wiffie!" he shouted, and saw the girl stop, stiffen arid turn around. 

"Hamp." She said his name softly, without expression, as though she didn't 
know quite how to react. 

He took her shopping bag from her and placed a hand on her waist. They 
walked along together, toward Sixth Avenue and a bright afternoon sun. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

At first Wiffie didn't fully trust Hamp and his declarations of never-ending 
love. His reasoning about resigning from FBCC and leaving her in such an 
embarrassing predicament seemed less than logical; his leaving her in the 
lurch while she was pregnant (though he hadn't known of her delicate state 
at the time; it hadn't been confirmed by a physician until the morning of 
her expulsion) seemed, at best, unkind. 

Yet there was something so sincere about Hamp that his continued 
protestations of love touched her, inspiring trust and forgiveness. She knew 
that he made little money; he had told her so himself. And yet he had taken 
her to a fairly expensive Italian restaurant for dinner, though she had 
insisted that Check Full O' Nuts would be just fine. And he had seemed 
genuinely concerned when she told him of her pregnancy. "Let's get married," 
he said immediately. 

Marriage was unthinkable at the present time, of course. But it was kind of 
Hamp to be so gentlemanly and proper about the whole thing. 

"I'll have the baby and give it up for adoption," she told him as they 
dawdled over their veal scaloppini. "I can't keep it; it would be unfair to 
the child." 

"Why not get married?" he insisted for the umpteenth time. 

"We're just too young. You know that. Even if we could afford it, it 
wouldn't be right. I'm not ready to be a mother." 

"Are you ready to give your baby-our baby-to some stranger? Not knowing what 
kind of life the kid's going to live?" 

It was a good point. And finally, after much discussion, they settled on the 
only practical solution; abortion. 

Wiffie cried when they talked about it. Oh, the baby didn't seem real to her 
yet-not human; not really-but there was something so revolting, so cold 
about the idea of an abortion. Not murder, perhaps, but something almost as 
bad. In the end, however, she agreed that it was the only reasonable course 
of action, and Hamp promised to set things up for the operation. 

"There's a cop who moonlights as a shopper for the Anti-Smut Society," he 
explained. "I've heard him talking about getting an abortion for his 
daughter, who was running around with a Negro. I'll tell him you were raped 
by a black nationalist or something; that ought to get him to part with some 
advice." 

Sure enough, the cop came through; he gave Hamp a phone number. When Hamp 
called, a male voice answered, and Hamp was told that Wiffie would have to 
wait at the corner of Eighth Avenue and 23rd Street at eleven a.m. on the 
following Tuesday. "She's got to be alone," the man said. 

"But I'm the fa-her fianc'. I mean. I want to go along and make sure she's 
safe." 

"Look, fella, we know what we're doing. And we always insist on the girl 
being alone. Take it or leave it." 

After a moment of thought, Hamp took it. 

When asked about payment, he explained that Wiffie had several hundred 
dollars in savings bonds that had been given to her by an elderly aunt some 
years before. "Well, tell her to bring whatever she can with her-in cash. 
It's got to be at least four hundred bucks," the man said. Hamp agreed, and 
that was that. 

The two men had picked her up in a Ford van. "In the back," one of them had 
told her, and Wiffie had sat on the floor of the truck as ordered. She had 
been unable to see where the van was going, so when they arrived at a 
nondescript brownstone in a run-down neighborhood, she had no idea where it 
was that she'd been taken. Indeed, she was too nervous to care. 

They took her upstairs and into a small apartment. One of the men-the older 
one, apparently the abortionist-took her four hundred dollars in twenties, 
then told her to go into the back room and strip. A few moments later, he 
came into the room and instructed her to lie down. "Over there," he said, 
pointing to a battered leather psychiatrist's couch next to a window covered 
by Venetian blinds. With a certain amount of fear and a greater amount of 
embarrassment, Wiffie did as she was told. It seemed like a less than ideal 
setting for an operation; hardly sanitary, and certainly un-like any 
doctor's office she had ever seen. 

The abortionist went out of the room and returned a few moments later 
bearing a tray of medical instruments. He walked over to a washbasin in one 
corner and washed his hands carefully, then negated the effort by wiping 
them on a dirty towel. 

"My assistant will give you something to put you under," the man said 
curtly. He then sat down on a stool at the end of the couch and directed 
Wiffie to raise and spread her knees. "Slide your ass down toward me," he 
said, and Wiffie did so with trepidation. The man stared at her cunt for a 
moment, then proceeded to stroke her clitoris. 

Wiffie was startled, and tried to pull away from the offending hand. 
"Relax," he told her. "Just take it easy. It makes for an easier job if 
you're lubricated." 

She tried to relax, but the feel of the rough fingers caressing her organs, 
and the sight of the bald head with its rim of unkempt gray hair circling 
the skull, was too much for her. She heard the man's deep breathing, and 
detected a sniff when he leaned close to her opening, and was almost 
thankful when the assistant-a twentish man, rather effeminate-pricked her 
arm with a hypodermic needle and sent her off to sleep. 

When she woke up, Wiffie noticed first that the room was darker than before. 
There was no light coming through the Venetian blinds; night had fallen, and 
the only illumination in the room came from a bare fifty-watt bulb over the 
washbasin. 

She lay still for a few minutes, conscious of a slight ache in her loins. 
She looked down; she was still nude, and there was blood-some of it dried, 
some fresh-on the towel that lay beneath her buttocks. She felt a momentary 
need to vomit, but it passed quickly, and she put her head back down on the 
couch and groaned. 

At the sound of her voice, the abortionist entered and flipped on the 
overhead light. He came over to her and bent down, inspecting her crotch and 
smiling as he noted the only moderate amount of blood on the towel. "Well, 
you're not bleeding to death; that ought to cheer you up." There was an edge 
of contempt in his voice. 

Wiffie lifted her head from the couch, but felt dizziness come over her and 
lay back once more. "Do you think you could cover me with something?" she 
asked. "I don't feel very comfortable, being naked like this." 

The abortionist smiled; it was an ugly smile, and it frightened her. Then he 
chuckled, and there was cruelty in his tone. "You came for an abortion, not 
for comfort, you little whore." 

"I don't understand." Wiffie's voice betrayed her fear. "Look, I paid you 
four hundred dollars. Why can't I have a sheet or a blanket or something? 
And when can I go home?" 

"Oh, all right, you can have a sheet." The abortionist turned his head and 
shouted toward the door. "Harry, get us a sheet." Then he resumed talking to 
Wiffie in a normal tone: 

"You can go home when I say you can," he said. "You're not ready yet. 
Anyway, we have to get the rest of your payment before you can leave." 

"But I gave you four hundred dollars!" Wiffie cried in disbelief. 

"Yes, but our normal fee is a thousand. We did the job for four hundred 
because you seemed young and in trouble, and we didn't want to deprive you 
of the chance to enjoy a decent life. However, we do expect a little 
something extra to make things worthwhile for us." 

"What do you mean?" 

"You'll see." The man laughed harshly again. "Just take it easy. You'll find 
out soon enough." 

The assistant came in with a sheet, and the abortionist told him to wrap it 
completely around Wiffie. Then the older man went to a cabinet and took out 
a roll of heavy nylon cord. While his assistant held Wiffie down, they tied 
her arms to her sides and her feet together, then strung the remainder of 
the cord around the wooden legs of the couch. Wiffie tried to scream, but 
the younger man's hand covered her mouth just in time. And when they 
finished tying her to the couch, she was gagged. "Take it easy, now," the 
abortionist told her. "You're not going anywhere, so you might as well get 
some more sleep." 

She lay like that for almost eighteen hours. She wasn't allowed to get up to 
wash or defecate; by the time the men united her, she had urinated twice 
(involuntarily; she had kept her bladder full till the last possible moment 
each time) and, in one attack of fear, she had soiled the sheet with a 
sudden spasmodic outburst from her aching bowels. When evening came on the 
second day of her confinement, the two men untied her and took her into the 
bathroom. The younger one held an open switchblade knife in his hand, and 
warned that a scream would cost Wiffie her life. 

They watched while she showered. She kept her back to them, wishing there 
were some way she could hide her buttocks as she was attempting to hide her 
breasts and pubic fur. There was something so degrading about washing this 
way; it was awful, rubbing her vaginal opening with a soapy hand to wash 
away the dried blood and urine, and knowing that they watched as she reached 
around to soap her anus with its dried excrement, feeling their gaze on her 
back as she soaped each breast in turn and raised her arms to lather and 
then rinse her underarms. 

As she dried her body with a harsh towel, she felt a hand reach around her 
and grab a breast; she pulled away and heard a contemptuous laugh. She tried 
to feign indifference when strange fingers reached between her thighs and 
touched her vulva from behind, and she did her best to stifle a sob when one 
of the fingers pushed inside her, causing a twinge of pain. 

When she was dry, she scrunched up her shoulders and walked with knees 
together as they accompanied her back to the room; she begged for her 
clothes, but the two men only laughed again. 

"You won't be needing them for a while," the abortionist told her. He took a 
length of cord and stepped behind her, pulling her arms toward him and tying 
her wrists behind her back. When he was finished, he led her to the couch 
and made her lie down on her back. He pulled her legs open and forced her 
feet over the sides, tying each ankle to a couch leg with the sturdy cord. 
"Now you'll pay the rest of that fee," he muttered. Wiffie watched in terror 
as he unzipped his fly. 

She struggled to break her bonds as she saw the man advancing toward her, 
his penis hanging limp through the open fly. He slapped her across the face 
and shoved her back down on the couch, then straddled her waist and pulled 
her torso up. 

"Give it a good hard suck now," he told her, pure cruelty in his tone. 

Wiffie whimpered in protest. 

"Suck it!" the man demanded. He slugged her, and blood began to run from the 
left corner of her mouth. Stunned, she did as she was told, placing her lips 
around the knob of the now semi-erect organ. 

He made her lick it, and each time she was slow in following his 
instructions, he would hit her. Soon she was obeying every command as soon 
as it was given, in an effort to avoid being beaten to a bloody pulp. She 
let her tongue slide over and around the cock's head, her saliva mingling 
with dribbles of semen from the organ's tip. When the man pushed forward, 
shoving the organ deeper into Wiffie's mouth, she sucked on it as hard as 
she could, thankful that his excitement was momentarily sufficient to 
protect her from another punch in the face. 

Suddenly, out of the corner of one eye, Wiffie saw the young assistant 
kneeling behind some kind of tripod. When the first burst of a flashbulb 
blinded her, she pulled back from the abortionist's groin in shock and 
incomprehension. 

His mood broken, the man slapped her across the face, bloodying her nose. At 
the same time, he moved his knees from either side of her waist and shifted 
down between her legs. He hit her again, this time stunning her, and as she 
lay there only half-conscious of what was happening, she felt the hard, 
saliva-drenched prick push into her, tearing her young insides and filling 
the void of her recently aborted womb with searing, almost unbearable pain. 

The fucking went on forever, it seemed. She wished he would have his climax 
and pull the monstrous thing out of her; that he would drag his unwelcome 
shaft from her aching cunt and leave her alone to sob out her revulsion and 
pain. But the minutes went by, and the pain increased with each savage 
thrust of the still firm prick. He fucked her, fucked her, fucked the very 
shit out of her until finally she screamed with the unbearable horror of it 
all. Her scream was cut off by a vicious clout and the stabbing of the man's 
penis even deeper into her pain-racked hole. 

He came, a while after that, but he was not the last. There were a number of 
other men when the abortionist had finished with his pleasure; five or six, 
perhaps-Wiffie was so stricken with pain and fear that she didn't know for 
sure. They came in from the front room one at a time, handing money to the 
abortionist's assistant, then stripping off their pants and plunging their 
organs into the frightened, bloodied girl. Some weren't satisfied with a 
mere fuck. They insisted on beating her, with hands or belts or canes or 
folded lengths of heavy wire. One even turned her over and screwed her from 
behind, using some chilly paste from a dark brown bottle to lubricate his 
condom-encased member so he could penetrate her virgin rectum. The substance 
burned, and the dreadful scorching, coupled with the pain of anal 
defloration, caused Wiffie to black out. 

From then on, she was conscious only half the time. She would come to, feel 
herself being ravished, then surrender mind and body to the welcome escape 
of unconsciousness again, grateful to escape the reality of the innumerable 
fists and pricks. 

When the last man finally came and withdrew, Wiffie just lay whimpering and 
wishing she were dead. She didn't protest when the abortionist's helper 
moved in with his camera and began to photograph her bloodied vulva; when he 
dilated her vagina with a transparent plastic tube and attached a special 
camera to it, she just closed her eyes, winced as the object grated against 
the tortured membranes, and began to weep in long, almost panting sobs. She 
was thankful when, eventually, she was untied and allowed to get into her 
clothes, then leave the apartment for the Ford van. The men hit her on the 
back of the head just before they let her go, and when she came to she found 
herself lying in a vacant lot on the familiar Lower East Side, not far from 
third Street and Avenue C. 

She made her way to Peter Frenum's apartment, hoping he would be there to 
comfort her. He was home, and as he undressed her and put her into a bathtub 
filled with hot water she thanked him half-coherently. She passed out with 
her head resting against the hard ceramic of the tub. 

Afterward, Peter dried her with a soft Turkish towel, being careful not to 
touch her bruised and aching vulva. He carried her to the sleeping alcove, 
where he dressed her in a pair of his pajamas and put her to bed. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

For almost three days, Hamp wondered where Wiffie was. Twice he called the 
telephone number of the abortionist; there was no answer either time. The 
bastard probably rented or borrowed apartments by the day or week, and 
changed quarters after every job. He was on the verge of going to the police 
and telling all, in the hope that she could be found by the missing persons 
division. But he ended up deciding against it; there were too many risks 
involved, and the embarrassment would be awfully hard on Wiffie. 

Finally, thank God, she called. 

"Where are you?" he asked anxiously. He was worried about her, though at the 
time he felt relief at hearing her voice at last. 

"I'm staying with a friend," Wiffie answered. She sounded weary. 

"Where? Give me the address and I'll come over and get you." 

"No. I'll meet you. At the Forty-second Street Library at five o'clock, if 
that's all right with you." 

"I'll leave work early. And Wiffie...." 

"Yes?" 

"Are you all right?" 

"We'll talk about it later." she told him goodbye, and hung up, and Hamp was 
left with two and a half hours to spend in worrying and wondering where 
she'd had been for the past two and a half days. 

They talked over supper, in a cafeteria several blocks west of the library. 
Wiffie described her experience briefly, shuddering as she came to the worst 
parts of her ordeal. Hamp had to pump her for some of the details, and at 
one point, when she was describing the anal attack, she broke down and 
cried. 

An hour and a half later, she said that she felt tired and wanted to return 
to her friend's apartment. Hamp offered to accompany her, but she shook her 
head. "I'd rather go alone," she told him flatly, and she got up to leave. 
They kissed goodbye, perfunctorily; it was as though Wiffie was still afraid 
of physical contact, thanks to the horror of her experience. Could it be 
that she felt Hamp was somehow to blame? 

When Wiffie caught the eastbound bus on 42nd Street, Hamp hailed a taxi and 
instructed the driver to follow. At Lexington Avenue, she got off the bus 
and descended the subway stairs. Hamp waited a few moments and followed, 
careful not to let her see that he was tailing her. He waited in the shadows 
at the far end of the platform; when the train came, he got on and walked up 
through the cars, peering through the window before entering each car, until 
he located Wiffie's 

They got off at 14th Street, and Hamp continued to follow Wiffie as she 
walked south until she reached Seventh, where she turned and headed east, 
with Hamp not far behind. He saw her enter a tenement; he double-timed it to 
the entrance and went up the stairs one flight behind her so she'd think 
that it was one of the other tenants entering the building. He saw her 
knock, then enter an apartment on the third floor. 

When Hamp knocked on the door of the apartment, he found himself confronted 
by a sensitive-looking man in his mid-twenties who was garbed in a 
sweatshirt stained with dirt and paint. 

"Who the hell are you?" Hamp asked in a suspicious tone. 

"I could ask you the same thing," the man replied. "Do I know you?" 

"Apparently not." Abruptly, Hamp pushed the door open the rest of the way 
and stared inside. Wiffie wasn't in sight. 

"Look, I don't know who you're looking for, but you've come to the wrong 
place. I think you'd better scoot along." The painter's tone was 
threatening, and Hamp felt an angry thumping in his temples as the man tried 
to close the door on him. 

Suddenly there was the sound of an old-fashioned toilet being flushed; a 
moment later, Wiffie walked into Hamp's field of vision. 

"Wiffie!" 

"Hamp!" 

"Do you two know each other?" The painter looked at each in turn, and smiled 
uncomfortably. "Hey, why didn't you say you were a friend? Come on in." He 
beckoned Hamp inside and closed the door, and Hamp let himself be ushered to 
a camp stool, where he sat down. 

Peter and Wiffie sat on the floor, and Wiffie handled the introductions. She 
explained to Peter that Hamp was her boy friend from FBCC, and was still a 
dear and trusted friend. Then she told Hamp how Peter had befriended her and 
cared for her during the period of shock and pain that followed her ordeal 
at the hands of the abortionist. "I don't know what would have happened to 
me if Peter hadn't been so close by and ready to help." she said. "I was so 
frightened and stunned by it all-" 

"And she was bleeding, too," Peter broke in, "All over. From her mouth.. 
.even from her cunt!" 

"How do you know?" Hamp stiffened. 

"Don't be silly, Hamp," Wiffie said. "He took care of me. I couldn't eat or 
take a bath on my own until just before I called you." 

The conversation was cordially grim after that, and at eleven o'clock Hamp 
suggested to Wiffie that he'd better take her home. 

"This is where I live now," she said as gently as she could. "I.. .I can't 
go back to the Home. I'm not pregnant any more, and anyway they'd want to 
know where I've been." 

"You could tell them and let them call the police." 

"I don't want to get the police involved," Wiffie insisted, shaking her 
head. "It would be too embarrassing. Besides, I just want to forget it all. 
Please let me forget, Hamp." She looked at him with pleading eyes. 

In due time it was agreed that Hamp would move in with Peter and Wiffie, 
since he couldn't bear the thought of the artist and Wiffie being alone 
together in the same apartment night after night. While Hamp took a cab to 
his apartment to gather up his things, Peter visited the crash pad upstairs 
to borrow a pair of sleeping bags. At twelve-thirty in the morning, Wiffie 
went to sleep on the apartment's only bed, while Hamp and Peter lay 
uncomfortably in the thin bags on the hard, cold floor. 

While Hamp was at work the next day, Peter asked Wiffie if he could do a 
painting. 

"I don't know if I should," she answered. "You know; with Hamp living here 
now...." 

"He's at the office all day," Peter countered. "Come on, let me paint you." 

"Well, all right." She undressed quickly, except for her panties, and sat on 
a stool. Peter suggested that she remove the underpants to avoid getting 
paint on them, and Wiffie took them off. "But please don't paint me there," 
she reminded him. "It still hurts a little. Maybe you should stay above my 
waist." 

"Sure, if that's the way you want it." He mixed his paints, and after a few 
minutes he began to daub Wiffie's shoulders with washable Day-Glo green. He 
painted silently for a while, and Wiffie was equally quiet, slumping forward 
slightly and closing her eyes. When she opened them several minutes later, 
her gaze fell on the fly of Peter's trousers and she saw the huge bulge 
there. 

"Peter...." 

"Yes?" 

"You're stiff, aren't you?" 

He didn't answer for a moment, then sighed and replied in the affirmative. 
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that you're so lovely and I get so excited 
when I paint you." 

"It's all right." Wiffie closed her eyes again, and when she opened the 
bulge was still there. She reached out and touched it lightly; Peter gasped, 
and almost dropped his brush. 

"You'd better be careful," he warned her. "You get me so turned on when you 
do that. And you don't want me to get too fired up, do you? Not with your 
being all sore down there." 

"I don't know." She smiled and touched his cloth-covered penis once more. 
"You've been so good to me that I ought to do something for you in return." 

Peter was breathing deeply, but did not reply. He continued to paint her, 
while Wiffie gazed at and occasionally caressed the bulge. Finally she 
grasped the zipper tab and pulled it down an inch. 

Peter's legs stiffened. His breathing stopped for a moment, then resumed a 
shaky exhalation of air. "Be careful, Wiffie," he warned softly. 

Slowly, she drew the zipper tab down the rest of the way. When the fly was 
completely open, she let her fingers move inside and slide through the 
opening in front of his boxer shorts. Her hand moved slightly to the right 
and settled on the quivering shaft of his tumescent, wood-like prick. 

"Does it help when I do this?" Wiffie asked, moving a finger up and pressing 
the organ's underside just beneath the head. 

"It...." Peter didn't finish; he merely gulped and drew in a deep breath. 

"I mean, is it nice?" She continued to toy with the organ, letting her index 
and middle fingers curl around it while her thumb began to spread the 
prick's slimy secretions down from the tip to the sensitive area just below 
the rim. Peter's hips swayed toward her. He let his paints and brush drop to 
the floor, and with both hands free, he gripped her on either side of her 
skull. Wiffie pressed her face against the front of his trousers, then moved 
it to the open fly and buried her nose in his sweaty pubic hair. She took a 
deep whiff of his musky loins, then withdrew her face and gazed up at his 
smiling lips and closed eyes. 

"You've been kind to me, Peter," she said softly. 

She pulled his penis to the opening in the shorts and let it spring free. 
The cock stared her in the face, erect and swollen to its full eight and a 
half inches of length. 

Wiffie continued her caresses with her right hand, she smeared its 
secretions all along the underside and sought out its areas of greatest 
sensitivity, while with the finger of her left she felt his testicles, and 
marveled at their size. like small hen's eggs, they were; large and full, 
and willing to be gently squeezed through the hair-strewn, leathery, 
wrinkled skin of his now-tightening scrotum. Her fingers let go of his balls 
and drifted back between his legs, playing on the perineal ridge behind the 
sac, then sliding farther back until they reached the junction of his 
buttocks. There were little curly hairs all along the path her fingers took. 
She stroked him gently there, tickling the perineal area with her left hand 
while squeezing and caressing his mighty prick with the right. Peter 
tightened the muscles of his buttocks and leaned toward her, gripping her 
head tightly, his fingers entwined in her hair. 

Wiffie let the fingers of her left hand push back and inward till they 
reached the tight-muscled opening of Peter's ass. He spread his legs 
slightly, and she let her middle finger press in as far as it could, till it 
was on the verge of squeezing through the hole. 

Suddenly, she remembered her recent rectal rape, and the memory caused her 
body to stiffen with revulsion. She withdrew her finger from Peter's anus 
and apologized softly, her face burning with guilt and shame. 

"It's all right," Peter croaked, opening his legs still wider. "Put your 
hand back. Please." 

Wiffie moved to obey, relieved by his interest and apparent pleasure. In a 
spurt of inspiration, she applied saliva to her finger before she put it 
back, then pushed it past the perineum to the anal cavity, and in one fast 
motion, all the way up. Peter rose on tiptoe and moaned deeply, then let his 
heels settle back to the floor and began to tighten his rectal muscles in a 
steady, unrelenting rhythm. 

Wiffie's mouth drifted to Peter's penis and took it in, sucking with a fast, 
wet motion, letting her tongue lather it with saliva. She pressed her teeth 
ever so gently into the hardened spongy flesh of the shaft. 

Peter groaned; he thrust his cock deeper into her mouth, as deep as he could 
make it go, and Wiffie responded by pulling back, at the same time sucking 
even harder, so that she was squeezing the cock tightly with her teeth and 
tongue when her lips reached the ridge beneath the knobby head. She pushed 
forward again just as he shoved forward a second time, and as she felt his 
hot, creamy liquid spurt into her throat, she moved her finger around in his 
anus. His muscles tightened around the finger, gripping it firmly, then 
relaxed as his ejaculation passed its peak and his penis began to lose 
rigidity. 

Wiffie removed her finger and patted his behind. She let his cock fall from 
her mouth; it dribbled saliva and semen onto her thighs as she pressed her 
face to his groin. She sighed with the pleasure of giving him pleasure, and 
smiled as she felt his fingers begin to stroke the back of her neck. 

She let him lift her from the stool and carry her to the bed. She lay 
relaxed, with a smile on her face, as he opened her legs and began, 
cautiously, to lick and caress her clitoris and inner lips, which swelled 
and opened to welcome his tongue while her love juices filled the air with 
sweet perfume. 

In time she felt the tingling of her cunt give way to throbs of passion, and 
she shook with the sweet waves of pleasure which began to sweep over her, 
radiating from the whirlpool of her contracting vagina and suffusing her 
body with an excitement of such intensity that she could hardly stand it. 

Afterward, she lay close to Peter, her hand resting lightly on his penis and 
her face snuggled into his neck. Later he scrubbed the paint from her body 
and together they changed the sheets. 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

It soon became obvious that the new living arrangements had benefits for 
everyone. Wiffie found that she could now spend all her waking hours with 
one or both of the men who meant most to her-Peter, who was like a kindly 
big brother in some ways and a beautifully tender lover in others, and Hamp, 
whose burning adolescent love touched her deeply, and who, if his abilities 
as a lover were not quite on a par with Peter's, made up in enthusiasm for 
his lack of finesse and penis size. 

For Peter and Hamp, the new arrangement meant a cut in rent. They split the 
cost of the apartment down the middle, and now each had more money to spend 
on the finer things in life-paints, paperback sex manuals, flowers for 
Wiffie, and so forth. And the young men chipped in to buy a pair of surplus 
Army cots to make their nights more comfortable. In short, it wasn't long 
before the tangible benefits of threesome living had made Peter and Hamp 
quite happy with one another; and Wiffie, who cared so very much for both 
men, was happiest of all. 

The lack of privacy was irritating only in the evenings, when all three were 
usually at home. During the week, Hampton worked; this gave Peter and Wiffie 
opportunities to be together so that Peter could paint his epidermal 
masterpieces and share physical communion with his beloved canvas. And three 
days a week-Monday, Wednesday and Friday for three hours in the 
morning-Peter went to the Upper West Side Institute of Art; he had decided 
to spend some of his rent savings on a traditional art course, so he would 
be able to incorporate classical techniques of painting. Sometimes when 
Peter was off at school. Hamp would go to work a few hours late, using a 
dental or doctor's appointment, or oversleeping, as an excuse, or would call 
in sick and spend the whole morning with Wiffie, leaving a few minutes 
before Peter was due to return. Hamp did this fairly often; Wiffie's body 
had more attraction for him than a morning spent at the office. 

Neither man knew of the other's intimate activities with Wiffie, of course. 
Hamp had no knowledge of the artist's painting and pronging habits, and 
Peter didn't know that Hamp was remaining in the apartment all those 
mornings. It was a delightful arrangement or Wiffie, who found herself being 
stimulated and satisfied more times than she could count, and who found 
herself excited by the little secret she kept from her two lovers. And, 
thanks to a prescription for birth control pills that she had obtained at a 
public clinic, she had no worries about pregnancy to cast a pall over her 
sexual paradise. 

On one typical Wednesday morning, Hamp called the Anti-Smut Society's 
offices and told his boss that his ulcer was acting up again, and that he 
had to see his doctor. "For Christ's sake!" the man muttered. But he 
refrained from saying anything more; the Society could hardly expect 
time-clock punctuality for sixty-five dollars a week, and Hamp was the best 
clerk they'd ever employed; he took an unusual interest in his work. 

Hamp waited in a luncheonette on the corner until he saw Peter walk toward 
the subway stop a block away. He then gulped his coffee and returned to the 
apartment, where Wiffie greeted him with a hug and took his jacket. 

"Kiss me," she said unashamedly. She opened her lips and waited for him to 
part them further with his tongue. He pressed his mouth to hers, and in a 
moment his hands were under her blouse, un-snapping her bra and moving 
around to cup her breasts. As he squeezed the nipples between his fingers, 
she arched her back and pressed her hips to his groin. Seconds later, he was 
unbuttoning his shirt with one hand and unbuckling his belt with the other, 
then yanking off his tie, undoing the collar button and flinging the shirt 
onto a chair as he let his pants drop to the floor and stepped out of them. 
Kicking off his loafers, he stood in T-shirt, shorts and socks as he watched 
Wiffie slip her clothes off. He was pleased to see that she wore bikini 
panties, they excited him. It always made him feel particularly loved when 
she wore something that turned him on. 

They went to her bed together, Hamp shedding his T-shirt on the way and 
tossing it onto one of the cots across the room. Wiffie sat on the edge of 
the bed and took the elastic of his shorts in both hands, then pulled 
downward until his penis popped forth and stood twitching. 

Hamp climbed onto the bed and lay on his back, looking past his prick to 
Wiffie's head as she bent over his feet, removing his briefs, then his 
socks, rolling them neatly and passing the bundle to him to place on the 
nightstand. He closed his eyes as he felt her lips kissing their way up his 
hairy legs. When she reached his groin, she circumvented his penis and moved 
to kiss his belly, at the same time bringing her arms close together to 
clasp his prick between her breasts. 

Hamp reached down and tickled her behind one ear. He sighed softly as he 
felt her lips moving down his abdomen, burying themselves in his pubic hair 
and then settling on the end of his cock. He felt her tongue dart lightly 
over the sensitive glans; she then flicked the prick's underside gently with 
the moist end of her tongue and sent shivers of excitement up and down his 
body. 

"Wiffie," he whispered. She responded by sliding her tongue along the 
underside of his penis, moistening the entire length of the organ with her 
saliva and making it grow even more swollen and hard. 

She removed her mouth from his prick at last, and moved up on his body, 
kissing him and letting her tongue dart deep into his mouth. He responded in 
kind, his tongue brushing across her teeth and meeting hers in the wet 
cavern. He shuddered with ecstasy when he felt her move her hips toward his 
and press her slick vulva to his throbbing prick. He pushed up slightly, and 
she did not resist. 

"Put it in me," she whispered and he let the head of his penis slip a tiny 
way into her waiting cunt, then fall out. 

A moment later, Wiffie moved into a squatting position. She reached down and 
took the shaft of his organ in her hand, guided it to her crotch and lowered 
her body slightly till it was once more resting in the proper place. "Put it 
in," she told Hamp. But she giggled and pulled back slightly when he tried 
to raise his hips and shove the organ home. 

She tormented him that way for a while, but the torment was filled with 
pleasure. He didn't protest when she surrounded the prick's head with her 
wet love lips, then moved upward once more, and down again, all the while 
touching and letting go of his organ and tickling him beneath the balls, 
occasionally running her fingers through the curls of his pubic hair and on 
up his body to rest on his nipples and tickle them to hardness. 

At last the excitement became unbearable for Hamp. He grabbed her hips in 
both hands and shoved her down on his penis, simultaneously lifting his 
buttocks off the bed and pressing his organ as deep into her as he could 
make it go. A gasp escaped his lungs and burst from his lips, and in a 
moment it was replaced by a shuddering groan. Wiffie curled her torso 
forward and plunged her tongue into his open, gasping mouth, and Hamp 
grunted as he sucked it and plunged his prick up, then down and back up 
again in the sweet, gentle grip of her vagina. 

When Hamp began to shudder uncontrollably, Wiffie's body started to stiffen 
and quiver too. She leaned back and grasped the base of Hamp's penis with 
her fingers, at the same time begging him to hold her breasts. He obeyed, 
grasping the hard-tipped mounds with both hands and squeezing the nipples 
between his shaking fingers. And with that, Hamp and Wiffie began to come. 

Wiffie's contractions came first. An involuntary squeezing spasm seized her 
cunt, and held Hamp's prick tight. Soon the squeezing gave way to powerful 
writhing of pleasure, and Hamp responded by leaking a small quantity of 
semen into her hole. 

"Rotate," he managed to gasp. Wiffie immediately lifted her hips higher and 
brought her butt down again in a curving, twisting thrust. Hamp shuddered, 
and Wiffie shuddered even more; she continued to rotate her hips as both she 
and Hamp moved up and down in rhythm. 

Wiffie cried out her joy, and Hamp suddenly dropped his hands from her 
breasts and seized her thighs, holding them just below the buttocks and 
lifting Wiffie's ass and crotch up and down as he fucked her in a rhythm of 
uncontrollable lust. 

The bulk of Hamp's fluid began to squirt forth in a fountain of ecstasy, the 
pressure of it forcing the sticky mass up through Wiffie's cervix and into 
her spasm-racked womb. She threw her torso forward, flinging herself flat on 
Hamp's body and sinking her teeth into his shoulder, pulling her thighs 
tight around his in an effort to keep his shrinking organ in her cunt. 

They lay there breathing heavily, kissing and stroking one another, telling 
each other how nice it had been. Then they slipped off to sleep together, 
thoroughly satisfied, but knowing that they would want to do it again when 
they awoke. 

It was almost eleven when Hamp woke up. He shook Wiffie's shoulders and 
tickled the hairs of her cunt. "Wake up!" he told her. "We've only got a 
half-hour." 

"Peter won't be back till almost noon," Wiffie said sleepily. "Can't we make 
it forty-five minutes?" 

"We can't take any chances," Hamp insisted. 

"Oh, don't be silly. Peter's never on time anyway." 

The argument soon gave way to mutual excitement, as Hamp's fingers entangled 
themselves in Wiffie's love-fur, and Wiffie's responded with a gentle 
caressing of his cock. Soon Hamp was hard and ready; Wiffie too was moist 
and perfumey with readiness, and after an extended bout of fellatio and 
cunnilingus, they moved from the sixty-nine position and lay side by side, 
breast to chest, pressing eagerly against each other. Wiffie raised her left 
leg slightly, and Hamp slipped his stiffened member into her waiting vagina, 
with Wiffie moving partway over him to make the job easier. When he was in, 
she brought her legs together and held his cock and balls in the darkened 
chapel of her cunt and thighs. 

They fucked the way for a long while; it was a leisurely screw, with neither 
in a hurry to bring on the final climax, preferring instead to draw out the 
pleasure as much as possible. They lay with eyes closed, hearing nothing but 
the sound of each other's breathing, smelling only the sweet secretions of 
physical love. 

Neither noticed when Peter quietly opened the door of the apartment and 
stepped inside. 

Peter's first impulse, when he heard the creak of bedsprings and saw Hamp's 
clothes scattered all over the apartment, was to slam the door and shock 
them out of their passionate embrace. But on second thought, what was the 
point? Instead, he closed the door slowly, as silently as he could. He 
removed his shoes and tiptoed to where he could peek into the living alcove. 

What he saw did not please him. He saw Wiffie's buttocks, slightly spread 
and moving sinuously; lying against her was Hamp, his arms wrapped about the 
girl, rhythmically stroking the cheeks of her ass. 

Peter didn't know what to do. Should he interrupt them after all, or should 
he just steal quietly from the apartment, or ... No, he had no idea what to 
do. He sat down on a camp stool, where Wiffie and Hamp couldn't see him even 
if they stirred from their leisurely passion. He put his head in his hands 
and tried to keep the tears from flooding his eyes. 

To think that Wiffie was balling with Hamp! Still, it wasn't altogether 
surprising. After all, it was Hamp who had made her pregnant, and she loved 
him as much as she did Peter. Perhaps in some ways she loved Hamp more. 

Peter was annoyed at first by the gentle creaking of springs from the 
sleeping alcove. But before long he found himself becoming aroused; his 
prick was swelling fast, pressing painfully against his thigh in the prison 
of his too-tight Levis. When the discomfort became acute, he let his hand 
move down to his fly. He opened the zipper and pulled the penis toward the 
front of his undershorts, keeping it inside the thin cotton. Slowly, almost 
with shame, he began to caress the prick through the shorts, pressing and 
stroking it in rhythm to the creaking from the next room. 

When the sound grew faster and louder, Peter tried to bring himself to 
climax, but found that the semen simply would not come forth. Frustrated, he 
leapt from the camp stool and went toward the alcove, leaning against the 
wall and peering around it, at the same time pressing harder on his penis 
and jerking it more rapidly, in an effort to combine visual and physical 
stimuli to make the fluid flow. 

Again, he found himself coming almost to the point of climax but no further. 
Damn it! It was like being impotent, almost; and it was the fault of Hampton 
and Wiffie, fucking on the creaking bed, that he felt this way. It seemed so 
childish and inadequate, engaging in self-abuse when his darling Wiffie was 
screwing with another man just a few feet away. 

Suddenly the anger and frustration were more than he could bear. He moved 
from the wall and into the alcove. Hamp's eyes widened when he saw Peter, 
but he and Wiffie were too far gone to break off. 

Peter moved close to the bed and aimed his swollen prick at Wiffie's head. 
He gritted his teeth and squeezed the muscles of his bladder, forcing a 
trickle of urine into the urethra. And then the piss broke loose. 

He let the yellow liquid spray onto Wiffie's hair, then down her back to her 
buttocks, where it beat noisily against the twin globes. He stepped closer 
then, and aimed his prick like a fire hose nozzle, shooting at Hamp this 
time. He directed the golden stream on Hamp's hips and shoulders and face, 
causing Hamp to shut his eyes and open his mouth in protest, then close the 
mouth abruptly when the piss hit his tongue. 

Wiffie let loose a cry then, and Hamp plunged his cock deeper into her cunt; 
and as the two of them reached the height of mutual climax, Peter's hot 
urine fell fountain-like on them, raining down until it subsided, as they 
subsided, to a dribble of pungent, staining piss. 

When the three of them were finished, Hamp opened his eyes and stared at 
Peter. Peter stared back. Wiffie sighed and snuggled closer to Hamp's chest, 
then turned over and smiled at the artist. 

"Thank you," she said to Peter. Then she turned back to Hamp and kissed him 
on the lips. "And thank you. 

Peter went into the bathroom, and as Wiffie lay beside him, Hamp mentally 
shrugged his shoulders. He wondered why he was filled more with surprise 
than with disgust. 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

It was two evenings later that the hippies from upstairs invited Wiffie, 
Hamp and Peter to their pad. It was a going away party. Several of the 
transients were leaving the apartment to set up a crash pad of their own, 
and the two hippies who had been acting as their hosts thought it would be 
groovy to send them off in style. 

It was the first time that Wiffie, Hamp or Peter had tried grass. Oh, Peter 
had come close in the Army; lots of the guys had smoked the stuff, but 
somehow he'd never gotten around to it. He supposed it was because no one 
had ever come right out and invited him to try it; he had been a chaplain's 
assistant, after all. As for Hamp and Wiffie, neither had come near the weed 
in their Christ-centered lives; they knew next to nothing about marijuana. 

Peter and Hamp were eager to try grass, but 

Wiffie was slightly reluctant. "What happens when you smoke it?" she asked 
nervously. "I mean, you don't lose all control of yourself and behave like 
some drunken maniac, do you?" 

"Hell, no," said one of the hippies, who was called Jerk because he had a 
tendency to masturbate when high. "You just become more aware of everything 
around you. Booze lowers your awareness, but grass heightens it." 

And so, finally, everyone smoked it. One of the hippies lit several joints 
and passed them out, and they shared them in pairs. The host hippies, Jerk 
and Mabel, shared one joint, two homosexuals named Sam and Gus shared 
another, Peter and a rather ugly girl with blackheads smoked a third, while 
Hamp and Wiffie shared a fourth. 

Wiffie seemed to be affected the fastest. After several deep drags, she felt 
herself floating off, kind of like being woozy, but-as Jerk had said-more 
aware of her surroundings than not. And yet she didn't feel as though she 
were in complete control of herself; she was thoroughly aware of what was 
happening, but there were so many curious distractions. She did find that 
her inhibitions were beginning to vanish, and that she felt freer than 
usual. She was willing to let Hamp fondle her in public-something she would 
never have allowed had she been in complete control of her faculties. 

Hamp too was soon feeling the effects of the grass. He found himself wanting 
to touch Wiffie, and that was precisely what he did. He let his hand creep 
up beneath her skirt to stroke her thigh. In a moment he was touching the 
crotch of her panties, tickling the curly hairs that crept out at the leg 
openings of the skimpy briefs. He noticed that she wasn't trying to 
discourage him, and this spurred him on. He let one finger drift past one of 
the leg elastics, pushing the material aside and beginning to fondle her 
hair-strewn outer lips. 

No one else seemed aware of what Hamp and Wiffie were up to. They were too 
involved with their own preoccupations; Jerk sat with his fly open, 
contemplating his stiffened penis and stroking it slowly while Mabel played 
with his balls. The fags were lying side by side, passing a fresh joint back 
and forth and giggling as they prodded each other with fluttery hands. Peter 
was watching intently as the ugly chick removed her sweater and revealed 
braless, pendulous breasts; at her behest, he reached out and caressed her 
nipples, following up with suckling of each tit. But he seemed less than 
engrossed by this action, though he was obviously interested in the girl 
somehow, staring at her as though considering a potential canvas. 

Hamp looked at Jerk and Mabel again. Jerk had stopped masturbating and was 
sitting in lotus position while Mabel sucked his cock. At first she merely 
held the head between her lips and caressed it gently with her tongue, but 
as Jerk began to groan softly, she took him deeper in her mouth and sucked 
harder, at the same time pushing her hands under his buckskin shirt and 
locking them behind his back. 

The fags were now engaged in similar activity. They were in sixty-nine 
position, each playing with the cock of the other; one sucked his 
companion's prick while the other was licking his friend's penis in a 
dog-like manner, seeming to savor each seminal dribble that emanated from 
the organ's tip. 

Peter was still staring at the ugly girl, who by now was completely nude and 
standing in front of him, her hand at her crotch, slowly caressing her clit 
and squeezing her fingers between tightly closed, flabby thighs. Peter 
didn't touch her; he merely watched. His penis was still in his trousers, 
but revealed its excited state in a highly noticeable bulge. 

By now, Hamp and Wiffie were completely stoned. Wiffie was lying down and 
did not protest when Hamp pushed her skirt up around her waist and pulled 
her panties down to her ankles, then yanked them off and pushed her legs 
apart so he could suck and tongue her loins. After a few minutes of this, he 
knelt in front of Wiffie, pulling her to a sitting position and removing her 
blouse. Finally he removed her bra. 

Wiffie seemed unaware of his actions, or at least unconcerned. She let him 
do as he wished, behaving like an automaton, thoroughly caught up in 
whatever it was that the marijuana had brought to her mind. 

After a few minutes of kissing her breasts, Hamp pushed her back down and 
unzipped her skirt, then pulled the garment off so that she wore nothing but 
her half slip. He returned to her crotch, parting the lips with his fingers 
and tonguing the clit carefully, sending shivers of response through 
Wiffie's body. She stiffened and grasped his head in her hands, pulling his 
face harder against her crotch as he continued to lick her labia and clit in 
a slow, and rhythmic manner. 

A few minutes later, Hamp unzipped his fly and let his cock stand free. He 
slipped his pants off, then moved up on Wiffie's body and guided his penis 
into her vestibule, where it rested for a moment in the slick bath of her 
love juices. Then he pushed it in, slowly, and Wiffie swallowed it up until 
the full length of the shaft was buried in the sweet cave of her cunt. She 
seemed unaware of any pain or discomfort as Hamp pressed it in until his 
pubic hair was buried in the moisture of her quivering love lips. 

They began to fuck in a leisurely manner; slowly at first, but gradually 
building to a faster pace, moving their hips back and forth to the rhythm of 
Jerk's mounting sighs. As their ardor increased, Wiffie wrapped her legs 
around Hamp's back, just above the buttocks, and slowly worked them upward 
on his back, bringing the angle of her cunt more and more to the vertical, 
with Hamp adjusting the angle of his strokes accordingly. In due course his 
hips were well above the floor, his legs were slightly spread to give a 
firmer base to his steady fucking. 

Suddenly Hamp felt spit-laden fingers part his buttocks and lather his anal 
opening. He started at first, but then heard Wiffie moan with excitement, 
and began to fuck her faster, trying to concentrate on the tightening grasp 
of her cunt. A moment later, he felt excruciating pain as a penis was forced 
into his ass, distending his virgin anus and filling his rectal cavity with 
its swollen shaft. 

Hamp shoved his cock deeper into Wiffie's cunt and froze for a moment, 
crying out in pain. But the alien prick only pushed deeper as Hamp 
involuntarily spread his thighs; and as he loosened his anal sphincter in an 
instinctive effort to ease the pain, the member moved still deeper, then 
stopped and lay still, as though waiting for Hamp to make the next move. 

Hamp felt Wiffie pull back slightly, then push her cunt forward once more on 
his still-hard prick. Aroused, he resumed his fucking, half aware of 
Wiffie's cunt and half concentrating on the foreign flesh buried in the 
depths of his ass. He tried to take his mind off the offending member, but 
without success. However, as the pain seemed to lessen with each additional 
stroke, he grew somewhat resigned to its presence and let it move in and out 
of his anal depths as he moved his own member in Wiffie's quivering cunt. 
After a while the rhythm of the moles tor's prick became almost pleasant; 
Hamp found that his ass was accomodating the organ with less reluctance, and 
that his sphincter muscles had managed to relax thoroughly, causing less 
resistance. He found himself warming to the movement of the penis which was 
steadily reaming with his rectum, and he established a compatible rhythm in 
Wiffie's vagina. There was something charmingly communal about the 
sandwich-like situation; he felt oddly secure, with a body beneath him and 
another above him, both moving against him. It made him feel more wanted 
than ever before. 

A few minutes later, Hamp's anus tightened on the other man's cock and 
shuddered in a series of orgasmic spasms; at the same time, his penis 
reached a peak of sensation in Wiffie's cunt and began to spurt seed to the 
depths of her womb. Wiffie responded with a series of uncontrollable 
contractions; her vagina twitched about Hamp's prick in a seemingly endless 
climax, and when her movements finally subsided, he felt the organ in his 
ass-hole pouring its hoard of creamy liquid into him. 

When the man had finished, Hamp felt the organ slipping out, leaving a 
sticky trail in the vestibule of his anal opening. Hamp moved off Wiffie and 
turned halfway around, to find himself staring at Peter. 

He was stunned. 

Peter seemed almost equally confused, but patted Hamp's hip affectionately 
and opened his mouth to speak. 

"Love," he said "I.. .I love you, man. I love you for what you do to Wiffie, 
and for everything else." Peter's mouth widened in a silly grin. 

Hamp didn't speak. He just looked from Peter to Wiffie, and back to Peter 
again. Wiffie was thoroughly pleased with the result of their fucking; with 
one hand she stroked Hamp's thigh. 

A moment later, Jerk came over with a freshly lit joint, and handed it to 
Hamp, who inhaled the dry smoke and passed the cigarette to Wiffie. She 
puffed lightly and handed it back; Peter reached out, and Hamp found himself 
giving him the joint. 

"Love," Peter said again, squeezing Hamp's arm lightly. 

"Yeah." Hamp was still confused. He looked at Wiffie, and noticed that her 
crotch was still exposed. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped 
her sticky bush with it, then pulled her half slip down and covered her 
breasts with her skirt, which lay nearby. 

The three of them rested there for a while without conversation. They passed 
the joint back and forth till Hamp at last had to throw it down to keep the 
glowing butt from burning his fingers. 

Later that night, the three new potheads went to bed in a solemn mood; there 
was little talk, only the necessary good-nights, and Hamp's kissing Wiffie 
lightly on the lips. None of them knew quite what to make of the activities 
of the evening, but each knew instinctively that the best course was to 
simply go to sleep, and if necessary talk things out in the morning. 

Wiffie was least concerned of the three. She had no worries about sodomy or 
homosexuality; what the men did was their own affair, really; as long as 
both were potent with her, she considered them masculine enough. She knew 
the strength of their pricks well enough to have no fears. 

Peter was in between. He was perhaps the most broad minded where sex was 
concerned; he had painted children of both sexes, and was something of a 
bohemian in any case. To him, morality had little to do with sex: the 
important thing was love, and to avoid prejudice and violence. As long as 
Wiffie seemed to have no qualms about his activities with Hamp, Peter wasn't 
particularly worried. His main fear was that Hamp would hold a grudge 
against him, resulting in unpleasantness all around. Hamp was seriously 
worried. He had been raised in a strictly traditional Christian environment 
where one did not even think about homosexuality. To fuck or not to fuck was 
the big question; homosexual activities were something engaged in only by 
secular, totally lost perverts. Hamp couldn't help feeling guilty about what 
had happened. 

And yet he could console himself with the knowledge that Peter had initiated 
the activity with his forcible anal penetration. Hamp had been busy with 
Wiffie; he could hardly have been expected to be on guard against a 
homosexual attack. Furthermore, he had brought Wiffie to orgasm, had he not? 
Regardless of Peter's act and Hamp's involuntary enjoyment of it, Hamp was 
essentially heterosexual. 

Furthermore, he had read that most young males-a good many, anyhow-had one 
or two homosexual experiences before reaching full adulthood. It was right 
there in Kinsey's report on the human male, which Hamp had read in the 
Anti-Smut Society's library. Also, even the heterosexually oriented books in 
the society's library contained elements of homosexuality, as well as just 
about everything else that one could imagine. This was not the result of 
perversion on the part of the authors; such books reflected society more 
than it influenced it. Human beings had elements of sadism, masochism, 
incest-longing and so on. And all men had elements of homosexuality in their 
personalities, just as they had both male and female hormones in their 
bodies. It wasn't unreasonable to expect that a practicing heterosexual 
might enjoy a bit of variety now and then. 

In short, Hamp felt guilty, but not guilty enough to move out of the 
apartment or automatically rule out similar activities in the future. If 
this was what marijuana brought out, so be it; if the erasing of inhibitions 
and the accentuation of natural tendencies led to an occasional bisexual 
experience, Hamp wouldn't condemn himself for the effects of the grass he 
had smoked. He might feel ashamed of himself on a purely emotional level, 
but in more rational moments he would know that there was no real cause for 
guilt. 

Hamp and Peter didn't talk to each other the next morning; it was as though 
Peter was waiting for Hamp to make up his mind on how to resolve the 
situation. Hamp decided to let things ride; soon enough they would find out 
if such activities would occur a second time. 

It was Peter who finally broke the ice. That evening, he asked if Hamp would 
mind his using Wiffie for a body painting. 

"Do you want to?" Hamp asked Wiffie, trying to be open minded. 

"Yes." Wiffie took his hand and squeezed it, then kissed him lightly on the 
lips as if to show her loyalty. 

"All right, then. I guess it's okay with me." 

Peter thanked him, and crossed the room to mix his paints. He discreetly 
kept his back to Hamp and Wiffie as the girl removed her clothing. 

And when he set to work, he was careful not to paint Wiffie's nipples or 
genitalia, not wanting to upset Hamp any more than necessary. Hamp seemed to 
realize this, and he paid Peter a compliment to show his appreciation. 

"That's a nice job," he said as he viewed the back. 

"Thank you." Peter was genuinely pleased. After a while, Peter turned to 
Hamp. "What would you think if I asked you to pose?" he asked. 

"It's for the sake of art," Peter explained. "And friendship. I'll stop, if 
you change your mind halfway through." 

"Well, all right." Slowly and self-consciously, Hamp removed his clothes. 
Then he stood next to Wiffie, who reached out and squeezed his hand. He 
tried not to jump when Peter touched the brush to his back and smeared paint 
over his shoulders and down to the cleft of his buttocks. 

Involuntarily, and to his great embarrassment, Hamp felt his penis growing 
hard. He shifted position and straightened up slightly, hoping somehow to 
get the partial erection to subside. 

"It's all right," Wiffie said softly, smiling and reaching out to touch the 
expanding organ. "There's nothing wrong with reacting physically. It's 
normal, Hamp." 

"I suppose so." He blushed and looked down to watch as Wiffie caressed his 
organ. 

After a while, Wiffie beckoned to Peter and took the brush from him. 
Kneeling, she began to paint the knob of Hamp's penis, eventually adding a 
stripe from the cleft of the head to the base of the shaft. Hamp shuddered 
as the brush tickled the sensitive underside of his cock. 

Then Wiffie handed the brush to Hamp and lay down on the floor, lifting and 
parting her thighs. "Paint me down there," she commanded in a soft voice. 

Hamp obeyed, kneeling between her legs and applying the brush to her. labia 
and clit. When she moaned and pulled him down on top of her, he obliged her 
bv slipping his penis into her juice filled hole, and after a moments 
hesitation he parted his thighs and raised his buttocks slightly, so that 
Peter, who was now kneeling behind him, could place his saliva-lubed prick 
against Hamp's anus and ease it in. 

The three of them moved together excitedly, and when they came it was a 
tremendous three-way climax. 

Afterward, they lay on the floor with Wiffie in the middle, each man 
embracing her loosely and sharing in the communal spiritual bliss. 

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

Hamp, Wiffie and Peter were upstairs again; it was the second time the 
threesome had been invited up by Jerk and Mabel. "It's going to be a groovy, 
swinging party," Jerk had told Peter on the phone. "We're havin' a special 
guest, and mean, you can't miss this one!" 

And so they had come. They were sitting on the floor, trying to make 
themselves comfortable on the surplus army mattresses spread about the room. 
They were waiting for the special guest, whoever he was; Jerk and Mabel 
weren't saying, preferring to maintain an air of suspense. They killed time 
by listening to the latest rock records on Jerk's stereo set. (like so many 
hippies, Jerk and Mable made up in hi-fi equipment what they lacked in 
furniture.) 

At ten p.m., the doorbell rang. Jerk jumped up and pushed the buzzer button 
that opened the downstairs door. Everyone heard a heavy tromping in the 
stairwell, and a few minutes later Jerk opened the door and admitted the 
fattest man any of them had ever seen. 

Indeed, fat was hardly a sufficient word for the creature. Jelly-like, 
obese, pudding-like, rotund, balloonesque.. .There was no word or phrase 
which could adequately describe this man's fatness. He was middle-aged, and 
only a few inches over five feet tall. In circumference, however, he was 
huge. His trousers were a good size seventy (specially made, needless to 
say), and still his belly hung over his belt. His jowls were like those of a 
St. Bernard, but were full, as if the dog had been partially inflated. His 
multiple chin was so pronounced that it appeared that he had no chin at all. 

"Meet Zonk," Jerk said to his guests. "Zonk is only the world's greatest 
authority on love. I've asked him here to teach all of us the secret of 
coming closer together." 

"Thank you, dear ones," Zonk wheezed in reply to the muttered greetings of 
the group. His voice was high and almost girlish, except for the old-man's 
shortness of breath. "I hope tonight to bring everyone to new heights of 
love and human understanding. I shall employ a variety of methods, including 
verbal communications, sex and drugs. But before we start, could someone 
turn out the lights? I think that candles and glowing incense will be more 
conducive to a suitable mood." 

Jerk turned off all but one of the lights, and helped dig a quantity of half 
burnt candles and incense from Zonk's duffel bag. While Jerk lit the candles 
and placed them about the room, Zonk put pieces of incense into homemade tin 
holders and waddled about, placing them around the perimeter. 

Finally, Zonk took a small sack from his coat pocket and beckoned to Jerk, 
who brought over a packet of cigarette papers. He and Jerk began to roll 
joints. They passed these to Mabel and another girl, who lit them and 
distributed them to the half dozen or so guests. 

"Let us meditate for a moment," Zonk said when everyone had a joint. "Let us 
allow our minds to wander free among the infinite galaxies of consciousness 
until we are ready to receive the wisdom granted to us by the great Guru up 
above." 

A few minutes later, when everyone had begun to feel the effects of the 
Marijuana, Zonk-accompanied by Jerk and Mabel, who appeared to be familiar 
with his routine-began to remove his clothes. "Nudity is essential to our 
activities here tonight," he explained as he revealed a bloaty belly topped 
by two breast-like bags of fat. He dropped his trousers and slipped off a 
pair of enormous boxer shorts, to reveal a drooping lower belly fold and a 
miniscule prick and balls, entirely free of pubic hair. 

"I see that we're ready," he announced with a smile when all the guests had 
removed all their clothes. (Wiffie had undressed with a certain amount of 
embarrassment, but Hamp had made her take another deep drag on her joint, 
and her inhibitions had begun to vanish.) "And now, let's get underway." 

"The first stage of our prospect is to communicate verbally." he told the 
group. "We must try to reveal our innermost secrets and desires, not our 
personal hang-ups, our embarrassing and humiliating experiences. By exposing 
our weaknesses we open ourselves more completely to an influx of 
understanding and love. Now, all of this is strictly voluntary. I cannot 
make you tell such things to the others and myself if you are not willing. I 
can only hope that you will cooperate, and that you will remember one 
important thing-I am here to help you, not to hear you entertain me. Jerk, 
would you like to begin?" 

The young hippie nodded. He took a drag on his joint and, with his free 
hand, began to fondle his prick. He looked down at the fingers on his organ 
and laughed slightly, then took the hand away and looked around at the 
group. 

"Okay," he said. "I guess everyone knows what my hang-up is. I can't help 
masturbating. I do it all the time. I do it right out in the open if I'm 
high, and when I'm not high I do it in private. Sometimes I even do it in 
bed, with Mabel watching. She wants me to stick it in her, but I'm too busy 
jerking myself off. So she has to help me, either by taking my hand in hers 
and squeezing with me, or by bending over and licking or sucking my cock. 
You see, masturbation excites me more than fucking. In fact, sometimes I go 
for weeks without a lay. It's pretty hard on Mabel, isn't it, babe?" 

Mabel reached out to pat his cock and smiled wanly. "Yeah, I guess it is. 
But I love you, Jerk, and somehow that makes it easier to take. Hear that, 
everyone? I love him, even if he is a Jerk." She laughed self-consciously at 
her pun, and everyone else joined in with a certain amount of embarrassment. 
Mabel went on. "So I guess you're wondering how I get my satisfaction. Well, 
it's simple. Watch." 

She got up and went to a cabinet in one corner. Opening its door, she 
withdrew an enormous rubber dildo. It was bright red, a good two inches 
thick and nine long. At one end there was a rubber bulb with a plastic screw 
cap. Mabel unscrewed this, then took a bottle from the cabinet and poured 
part of its contents into the syringe-like dildo, finally giving the rubber 
bulb a slight squeeze and nodding with satisfaction when a small amount of 
glue-like liquid emerged from the rubber organ's tip. Mabel replaced the 
bottle in the cabinet, then walked back to where Jerk sat and showed the 
device to the group. 

"This is what I use when Jerk can't bring himself to screw me," she 
explained. "It cost us thirty-five bucks, but it's worth it. It's bigger 
than Jerk's cock-sorry, Jerk-and it doesn't go down halfway through the act. 
It comes when I want it to; all I have to do is squeeze, or have Jerk 
squeeze, the rubber bulb. It used to hurt a lot. My snatch wasn't big 
enough, you know. But now I'm used to it, and it's just great. I have Jerk 
tongue it up to get it wet, then in it goes. Watch." 

Mabel knelt, resting her weight on knees and elbows, her butt well off the 
floor. Jerk picked up the dildo and slathered it with saliva, then took two 
fingers and applied more spit to them. He reached between Mabel's buttocks 
and smeared the saliva onto the girl's vaginal opening. 

"Jerk warms me up a little first," Mabel told the group, her voice softer 
than before. "We've got it down to a science now, so it doesn't take too 
long." She stopped speaking for a moment to sigh with pleasure. "He just 
works his fingers around, like if he was masturbating himself. And then-" 
She cut off her words with a groan, and finally grunted out a command to 
Jerk. "Now, Jerk! Now!" she begged. Jerk responded by grabbing the rubber 
prick in both hands and pointing it in the direction of her cunt. Mabel 
reached back with one hand to guide it into the waiting cavity. 

While Jerk moved the dildo forward and back, Mabel breathed slowly and 
raspingly, at the same time rocking her hips back and forth to meet the 
rubber organ each time Jerk shoved it in. "A little faster," she managed to 
tell him, and Jerk responded by speeding up the rhythm, letting go of the 
dildo with one hand and pushing harder and faster with the other. With his 
free hand, he began to caress his swollen penis again. 

"See how she humiliates herself," Zonk interrupted in a soft voice. "See how 
she reveals her every shameful hang-up and desire. Look at her-being fucked 
by an inanimate object in front of her friends and acquaintances. Mabel has 
no pride." 

Zonk's words seemed to increase Mabel's excitement. As he continued talking, 
his voice taking on a tone of contempt, she increased the tempo of her 
movements. Jerk responded by speeding up the motion of the rubber dildo and 
his own masturbating hand. 

"Look at her!" Zonk hissed loudly. "What a strange, sick, masochistic 
bitch!" Mabel responded with a moan which ended in a gasp as she suddenly 
hailed her movements and squeezed the dildo with her vaginal sphincter, her 
buttocks quivering, her thighs stiffening with the approach of climax. 

"Sock it to me, Jerk!" she whispered. Then she let out a cry as Jerk shoved 
the organ full-force into her vagina. Mabel shuddered with excitement and 
pain, and threw her body down on the floor so that the dildo, tightly 
clenched in her cunt, was almost pulled from Jerk's grasp. As she lay there 
quivering, he pushed it in again, starting the movement slowly and ending 
with a savage thrust, and squeezing the bulb when the rubber prick was all 
the way in. 

Mabel shuddered several times, the muscles of her buttocks stiffening and 
loosening in rhythm with the contractions of her vagina. When she was 
finished, she moaned softly and rolled over, then pulled the dildo from her 
cunt and tossed it aside. She took Jerk's right hand in hers, and together 
the two of them squeezed and stroked his penis till he came. 

After that, the rest of the confessions seemed almost anticlimactic. No one 
seemed too interested when a fag stammered his way through a heavily 
censored account of his first homosexual experience at age twelve, and 
similarly, there was little attention given to the girl who explained how 
she had spent half her childhood in an incestuous relationship with a 
deformed older brother, who would kiss her breasts and fondle her cunt while 
she played with his penis and clubfoot. And when Wiffie haltingly told how 
she used to feel guilty about sex but had learned to accept it as a natural 
and wonderful part of human existence, no one paid any attention at all. 
When it came time for Peter to confess, he briefly mentioned his experiences 
with the alleged hermaphrodite, but gave up when he saw that no one was 
listening. 

Hamp was entirely free of nervousness when his turn came, for it had become 
obvious that he didn't have to say anything at all. 

Things perked up a little when Zonk picked up his duffel bag and began to 
rummage through it. After a short search, he brought out a small bottle of 
gelatin capsules. He counted out nine, and walked around the room 
distributing them to his pupils. Mabel managed to lift her exhausted body 
from the floor and go to the kitchen, returning with a large bottle of ice 
water. She took it from guest to guest and waited as they placed the 
capsules in their mouths and swallowed enough water to wash them down. When 
everyone had swallowed a capsule, Zonk gave a brief explanation of what they 
were taking and what was about to occur. 

"You have just swallowed a new and experimental drug known as HMH-one," he 
told them. "Un-like LSD, it does not pose the threat of a bad trip, nor is 
it a hallucinogenic drug in the usual sense. It does not bring on visions of 
spiders or colored lights, or strange sensations outside the realm of normal 
human experience. Rather, it stimulates a certain element of the human 
psyche and body by working on that portion of the brain which is concerned 
with sex. 

"In a few minutes, you will begin to feel aroused. Your arousal will be such 
that you will feel an immediate need to fuck. Unless, of course, you are a 
homosexual, in which case other activities will suffice." Zonk nodded to the 
one fag in the group. "John, I will help you in your experience with the 
drug." 

Presently, both Hamp and Peter noticed that their cocks were swelling 
involuntarily, accompanied by powerful throbbing sensations and an intense 
desire to feel the slick grasp of a cunt. Both looked at Wiffie, and then at 
each other. Who would get to fuck her? Hamp found that his hands were 
tightening into fists, and he noticed that Peter was reacting the same way. 
Would they have to fight for her? It looked like it was going to be a bad 
scene. 

Fortunately, a girl intervened. She had come to the party alone, and had no 
one to screw. "I'm Elvira," she said softly to Hamp as she knelt before him 
and pushed his shoulders down on the thin Army mattress. "Relax." 

He felt his cock throbbing with greater excitement than it had ever 
exhibited before; it seemed bigger, longer, thicker than ever before, and on 
the verge of bursting with its load of semen. He grasped Elvira's hips in 
both hands and tried to guide her crotch down on his prick. 

"Not yet," she told him with a laugh. "Let's play a little, first." She 
walked forward on her knees, thighs straddling his body, until her furry 
cunt was above his face. "All right?" She lowered her cunt till the hairs of 
the outer lips were tickling Hamp's nose. He smelled the perfume of 
excitement coming from within her, and he pressed his nose up against the 
cunt. Suddenly, liquid began to flow from the opening, dousing his face. He 
would have thought it impossible for a girl to react so violently to his 
physical proximity or his touch; it must be the drug, he told himself. Then 
he lifted his face slightly and parted her labia minora with his tongue. 

Elvira reacted by stiffening her thighs and gasping. She pressed her loins 
down on his face until his nose was completely buried in the vastness of her 
swollen inner lips. What a big, juicy cunt she had! Hamp found himself 
hoping that it wouldn't be so large as to deprive him of satisfaction once 
his throbbing penis was buried in it. 

He licked and kissed her there for a while, letting his tongue play over her 
labia and occasionally sucking on her oversized clitoris with puckered lips. 
He felt her shudder each time he pulled the enormous clit head into his 
mouth, and as his tongue pushed its way into her vaginal opening again and 
again, he heard her groan repeatedly. Finally he forced her cunt away from 
his mouth and gave her a shove in the direction of his penis. She took the 
hint immediately, and in a moment she was kneeling above him and reaching 
down with one hand to guide his organ in. 

On entry it was as though Hump had been swallowed by a vast mountain of 
juice-soaked flesh. For a moment he felt little stimulation to his penis; 
there was the sensation of being enveloped, but it was nowhere near 
sufficient to quell his need. Then the girl started to tighten the muscles 
of her vagina. She held his cock in her grip, squeezing it in rhythm with 
the motions of their rocking hips. Hamp felt as if his penis were swelling 
even more; it was as though the organ were trying to fill the vastness of 
Elvira's pulsating cunt. He felt incredibly excited, unbelievably in need of 
satisfaction, yet it seemingly took him forever to come. 

When he did, it was in a geyser of hot creamy fluid. Elvira responded with 
contractions so violent that he was afraid, for a moment, that she could 
crush his organ in her twitching grasp. He felt as if his penis were being 
sucked up inside her, swallowed completely by a vacuum created by her 
violently pumping muscles. He burst out with a pleasure-filled groan that 
ended in a gurgling in his throat as the last of the passion left him. ' 

When it was over, he let the girl he limp on top of him. His penis, only 
partially flaccid despite the intense orgasm, continued to bathe in the 
warm, semen-flooded entrance to her cunt. He turned his head slightly and 
watched Peter fucking Wiffie; both of them were moaning softly. 

Curiously, the momentary pang of jealousy passed as Hamp saw Wiffie come 
excitedly in Peter's embrace. Why shouldn't she enjoy herself? he thought. 
And then he smiled as he realized that Zonk's drug was, indeed, filling him 
with greater love and understanding. 

Hamp and Elvira fucked three times more before the drug wore off, and ended 
the night with a switch of partners so that Peter was with Elvira and Hamp 
was plunging away in the cunt of his darling Wiffie, who seemed to come more 
powerfully in his embrace than she had in Peter's. 

When the party was over, everyone was exhausted. When they went downstairs 
to their own apartment, the happy foursome-Hamp, Peter, Wiffie and Elvira, 
whom they had invited to stay the night with them-had to admit that they 
felt more like a family than they ever could have imagined. 

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

They slept well that night, with the girls sharing the bed and the men 
sleeping on their respective cots. When morning came, Hamp got up and went 
into the bathroom, where he showered and shaved as quietly as he could. When 
he was dressed, he kissed Wiffie on the lips, and as an afterthought, leaned 
over and kissed Elvira's cheek. He was about to leave when Peter woke up, 
and looked over to see what was going on. Hamp gave him a brotherly pat on 
the shoulder as a gesture of communal friendship, and left the apartment, 
heading for work. 

Peter and the girls got up not long afterward, and spent the morning 
talking. Elvira discussed her past life, and the illegitimate pregnancy that 
had brought her, at age twenty-three, to New York. Wiffie surprised, told 
Elvira how she had come to the city for the same reason, and with that the 
two of them were friends. Later in the day, Peter got out his paints and 
proposed a mural; the two girls quickly undressed and let him paint them. 

Elvira thought being painted was great fun, and asked if she could try it 
again sometime. 

"Stick around," Peter told her. "Why not live with us for a while?" 

"Oh, I couldn't!" the girl replied, though she was obviously pleased by the 
invitation. "I wouldn't think of imposing. There just isn't enough room in 
the apartment for a fourth." 

"Where there's friendship, there's always room," Peter insisted. "Isn't that 
right, Wiffie?" 

Wiffie, who was becoming enthusiastic about the idea of having a friend of 
her own sex around, agreed. 

At three-thirty, Peter announced that he was going uptown to buy art 
supplies. "A fellow in one of my classes told me about a place on Third 
Avenue that has some great bargains in paints," he explained. "I figure I 
might as well stock up, and maybe I'll look around at the galleries while 
I'm up there." He kissed the girls good-bye and departed, leaving Wiffie and 
Elvira nude and covered with paint, to clean his brushes and their bodies. 

While Wiffie began to wash Peter's brushes, Elvira dug into her large 
shoulder bag and came up with a small vial of grass. "Want some?" she asked, 
holding the bottle up so Wiffie could see it. 

"I don't know. I mean don't you usually save it for special occasions?" 

"Don't be silly," the girl answered. "Besides, this is a special occasion. 
After all it's not every day that I move into a new apartment with three 
groovy people." 

Elvira rolled a joint and lit it, then handed it to Wiffie. Wiffie smiled 
self-consciously and took a deep drag then passed it back. They sat on the 
floor, handing the joint back and forth and rapidly getting high on the 
marijuana. 

Soon Wiffie lay back, and failed to protest when Elvira began to play with 
her pubic curls. 

"Have you ever thought of shaving your pussy, Wiffie?" Elvira asked. 

"Why?" 

"Oh, I don't know. I guess it's just that you're so young and pretty that 
you'd kind of look cute with a bare snatch." 

"Why don't you shave yours?" Wiffie asked, hearing her own voice filtered 
through the sweet reverie of the pot. 

"I just wouldn't look right. I had the baby, you know, and it stretched hell 
out of my cunt. I don't want to advertise the baby to every guy I meet the 
minute he sees my crotch. It turns some guys off. They're afraid you've got 
the baby hidden somewhere and are just waiting to pounce on them and get 
married so you can make the kid legit." 

"Well, they find out once they start playing with you down there, don't 
they?" 

"Yes, but most of the time they're too far gone by then. I just don't want 
them to notice my droopy flaps the minute I undress." 

Wiffie lay quiet for a while, puffing on the joint each time Elvira handed 
it to her, not seeming to mind that her friend's fingers had moved farther 
down the mons and were now resting just above the hidden bud of her 
clitoris. She tensed slightly when Elvira let the middle finger move below, 
but the sensation of pleasure was greater than her inhibitions, and with 
another drag of grass smoke, Wiffie simply sighed and let the girl have her 
way. 

Soon Elvira shifted position so that she was lying with her head near 
Wiffie's pubic patch. She pulled one of Wiffie's legs toward her slightly, 
pushing the other back and revealing the vaginal lips. She moved her own 
pussy close to Wiffie's mouth, and hoped that her genital perfume would 
inspire the younger girl to take a more active interest in the proceedings. 
Elvira's index finger prodded Wiffie's clitoris, followed up by a quick 
darting caress with her tongue. Wiffie stirred slightly, and exhaled deeply 
with pleasure. 

Elvira's tongue was expert, and as it moved up and down Wiffie's love lips, 
occasionally settling on her clit for a moment before dashing back to the 
hole between the inner labia, Wiffie began to respond with gentle stirrings 
and secretions and sighs of pleasure. Soon she had her own face buried in 
Elvira's pubic hair, and was breathing deeply of the heavy odor from 
Elvira's crotch. 

When Elvira thrust a finger into Wiffie's vagina, Wiffie hunched closer so 
that the older girl could suck full-force in and out. Wiffie, meanwhile, was 
using her mouth, too; her tongue was exploring Elvira's voluminous 
vestibule, caressing the organs of another female for the first time. 

Wiffie pulled her face away for a moment and exhaled with tension, then 
asked Elvira if she was doing all right. "I've never tried this before," she 
explained. 

"You're doing fine," Elvira replied. She returned her tongue and lips to 
Wiffie's crotch, and parted her legs more. Finally she rolled over so that 
she was straddling Wiffie, her cunt hanging over Wiffie's face. She began to 
move her hips back and forth excitedly as Wiffie tongued her swollen 
clitoris, and Wiffie responded by bringing her knees up and opening them 
wider, pressing her genitals up against Elvira's mouth and enjoying the 
passionate work of the older girl's tongue. 

They heard the door open, and looked up. It was Hamp, returning from work. 

"Hi." He seemed slightly puzzled by their embrace. 

Wiffie blushed and looked straight up at Elvira's bush, keeping her eyes 
where Hamp couldn't see them, and refraining from touching her lips to 
Elvira's cunt again. Elvira, on the other hand, merely nodded a greeting and 
resumed licking Wiffie's clitoris, seemingly unperturbed by the intrusion. 
Wiffie tried to bring her legs together, but Elvira forced them open all the 
way, and continued her licking. 

Hamp came closer, to sit on the edge of the bed. He saw the look of 
embarrassment and fear on Wiffie's face, and smiled. "Don't worry," he said. 
"I understand. You just go ahead and enjoy it." 

"That's all right," Wiffie replied, hoping to make him think that she was 
participating solely for Elvira's benefit. "Elvira's had her fun. Haven't 
you, Elvira?" 

Elvira replied with an extended no, the word coming from her throat, since 
her mouth was busy on Wiffie's clit. 

"Go ahead. Let yourself go," Hamp urged, patting Wiffie on the thigh. He 
leaned over and squeezed her leg affectionately, then let his hand drift 
down to the edge of her fur, so that his fingers were almost touching 
Elvira's mouth. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. After all, you know what 

Peter and I have done with you watching, or at least with you.. .around." 

The caress of Hamp's fingers on her fur and the touch of Elvira's tongue on 
her organs was enough to make Wiffie force aside her embarrassment and give 
way to desire. She reached up with one hand and squeezed Hamp's knee as he 
sat on the bed, then resumed kissing Elvira's cunt in a tentative manner. 
Finally, as Elvira's tongue started her crotch to quivering, Wiffie sank her 
own tongue deep into Elvira's opening and felt her friend perform a similar 
motion in Wiffie's smaller but equally eager hole. 

Shortly afterward, they came, with hips thrashing and mouths pressed to one 
another's organs, their vaginas contracting around inserted fingers and 
tongue-tips, and their lungs bursting forth with uncontrollable gasps. 

In a moment, Elvira rolled off Wiffie and sat up at Hamp's feet. 

"Let's do something together," she said, winking at Wiffie and slipping a 
hand onto Hamp's zipper. She pulled his fly open and pushed her fingers 
aside. His cock was already swollen, and wet at the tip. 

Wiffie sat up and helped Elvira remove Hamp's shoes, shirt and trousers. 
Then Elvira pulled off his T-shirt while Wiffie slipped off his shorts. 
Elvira kissed his chest and stomach, running her tongue over his nipples and 
through the hair on his belly until it settled in his navel, then drifted to 
the abdomen below. Wiffie already had his penis in her mouth, stroking it 
rapidly with the tip of her tongue and smiling within as she felt him lift 
his hips with a passionate arching of his back. 

"Go ahead," Elvira whispered. "What?" Wiffie answered in confusion, pulling 
her mouth from Hamp's penis.. "Get on him," Elvira commanded. "What? By 
myself?" 

"He's only got one cock," Elvira said with a chuckle. She prodded Wiffie 
with a fingertip, and Wiffie obeyed. Squatting over Hamp's organ, she let 
Elvira reach down and guide it. Elvira's hand then drifted about, tickling 
Hamp's balls and fondling Wiffie's clit, and with that Wiffie proceeded to 
move her hips up and down, gradually slipping into the twisting pattern that 
she knew Hamp loved. 

In the meantime, Elvira had squatted over Hamp's face, her back to Wiffie. 
She held his head in her hands and stroked his hair as he cooperated by 
tickling her clit with his tongue. 

When he and Wiffie reached their climax together, he sucked the whole of 
Elvira's inner lips into his mouth, bringing her to a state of shuddering 
contractions until, at last, she got off him and flopped down. Soon Wiffie 
was sprawled across the two of them, groggy and utterly satisfied. 

Peter returned to the apartment not long afterward, and Elvira immediately 
pounced on him like a bitch in heat. She undid his fly before he could hang 
up his coat, and proceeded to lick his penis until it swelled to its full 
eight and a half inches of length. 

She made him fuck her from behind; lying on her side on the bed, she 
masturbated her clitoris while Peter lay behind her and moved his prick in 
and out in a fast, furious rhythm. His hands squeezed her breasts, his 
fingertips pinching her hardened nipples, and in less than two minutes, with 
Hamp and Wiffie looking on, both Peter and Elvira came, in a wild climax of 
groans and shudders, and heavy ejaculations of semen and love juice. 

After that, the four of them had a light supper and sat around smoking pot 
and drinking cheap Chianti. When they'd become thoroughly stoned, Elvira 
made a suggestion. 

"Hey," she said, "do you know the Hell's Angels?" 

"Not personally," Hamp replied, his voice slurred. 

"They're in California, man," Peter said. "There's no Hell's Angels in New 
York." 

Elvira nodded. "Right. But there's a new group in Jersey City called the 
Horse's Balls. They're real tough, and they ride motorcycles, and they.. 
.well, groovy. I know; I've ridden with them a few times. What do you say? 
Why don't we go over and groove with them tonight? They hang around in 
Mugsy's Bar, and we can get there on the Hudson Tubes." 

Hamp was only half interested, but Peter thought it sounded like an 
interesting idea. Wiffie was only half-conscious; The wine had affected her 
more than the pot. She didn't have any opinion at all. Finally they decided 
that the matter warranted more discussion, and that while they wouldn't go 
that night, they might go over a day or two later if the idea seemed good at 
the time. 

"It's going to be really groovy," Elvira kept insisting. "You just don't 
know what it's like. These guys are really wild, and their chicks are pretty 
far out too. It turns me on just thinking about it." 

Suddenly Elvira grabbed Hamp's hand and placed it on her cunt. "Finger-fuck 
me, man," she told him as she pressed his hand against her swollen love lip. 
"Make me think of those cycles and those wild, wild rides." 

Hamp let two fingers slide into her vaginal opening, which was still slick 
with the semen Peter had pumped into her a few minutes earlier. "Come on; 
your whole hand," she insisted, and Hamp responded by bringing his four 
fingers and thumb together and shoving them in up to the last knuckles. 

"Deeper, for Christ's sake!" Elvira loosened the muscles surrounding her 
vaginal entrance and pushed her crotch down on Hamp's hand, which she held 
in place by tightly grasping his wrist with both her hands. His hand sank 
halfway into the gaping hole, and finally, with a great sucking plop, she 
drew the whole hand into her cunt, clear to the wrist. 

"Horsepower!" Elvira said between gritted teeth. "Cylinders, Hamp! And 
pistons!" She grasped his arm and pushed it even deeper into her quivering 
vagina. The heavy odor of her juice filled the air as she squeezed her 
organs about his hand. 

"Rev that engine, baby!" she shouted, and began to rotate her hips, at the 
same time thrashing her crotch up and down on Hamp's juice-covered hand. She 
pulled his face to her bosom and held it tightly as he let his mouth open 
and surround the end of her right breast. "Bite me," she said softly. When 
he didn't respond, she shouted it. "Bite me!" 

Hamp obeyed, sinking his teeth into the swollen corona of her nipple until 
blood began to trickle forth. As he bit harder and harder, a series of 
spasms took hold of Elvira's cunt, causing it to close about Hamp's hand and 
wrist again and again, gripping so tightly that he actually felt pain at the 
peak of each pulsation. 

When her orgasm had subsided, she fondled Hamp's now-erect penis until it, 
too, discharged its energy in an excited climax of seminal squirts. 

"That was nice," she whispered when both of them were completely finished. 
"I'm a nympho, you know. I'm absolutely insatiable. You're good to me, Hamp, 
and I won't forget it. Just wait till we get to Jersey City, and I'll show 
you a real wild time." 

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

They took the path train to Jersey City, going under the river in what had 
once been called the Hudson Tubes. Mugsy's bar was three blocks from the end 
of the line; it was a grubby-looking establishment with a dirty front window 
and a large cluster of high-powered motorcycles parked along the curb and on 
the sidewalk. 

A juke box was playing when Elvira led Peter, Hamp and Wiffie inside. "Hey, 
gang!" she called out to the motley crew assembled in the dingy room. 

"Elvira! You horny chick!" The source of the bellow came toward them; it was 
a gangling, greasy-haired man of twenty-eight or thirty, on the lean side 
but with wiry muscles in the bare arms that extended from his sleeveless 
denim jacket. "You old cunt, you!" he said as he tickled Elvira's crotch 
through her tight-fitting jeans. 

"Horse, I want you to meet Peter, Hamp and 

Wiffie," Elvira said. She waved back and forth from the cyclist to her 
friends. "Kids, this is Horse, leader of the gang. He's got the biggest 
rocks in Jersey City. That's why they call his gang Horse's Balls." 

"I got the biggest cock, too, baby," the leader said, pressing his bulging 
groin against the girl. "Don't forget to tell 'em that." 

Elvira laughed. "I'll bet they'll be seeing that soon enough." 

Horse led them all to the bar and waved to the bartender, who immediately 
poured five beers. "Drink," Horse told them as he handed a stein to each of 
his guests. "It's on the house. Right, Mugsy?" 

The bartender frowned, but then nodded affirmatively, shrugging his 
shoulders. 

Horse told a group of grimy cyclists around a table to make room, and they 
did so, some girls sitting in the men's laps to free three chairs. Wiffie 
sat on Hamp's lap and Elvira on the knees of Horse; Peter was saddled with a 
heavy-bosomed chick in faded denim coveralls who had shit embroidered across 
her chest. She was half-drunk and apparently high on some drug as well, and 
paid little attention to Peter once she had plopped down on his skinny 
thighs. 

Elvira chatted with the Horse for a while, gossiping about old friends. 
Peter, Hamp and Wiffie looked on, feeling a mixture of uneasiness and 
boredom. Then their eyes widened as they watched Elvira unzip Horse's 
dungarees and draw forth what must indeed have been the world's most 
gigantic cock. 

It was absolutely stupendous in size. It was at least nine inches long in 
its flaccid state, with a thickness of perhaps one and a half inches. It 
seemed to be jointed in two places, as though three normal pricks had 
somehow grown-together to make one giant-sized model. And as Elvira caressed 
its baseball-like tip, the super prick began to swell even larger, finally 
reaching out a good twelve inches, and achieving in diameter at its thickest 
point. 

"I don't believe it!" Hamp's jaw hung open in amazement. 

"Christ!" Peter breathed, unable to tear his eyes from the monstrous organ. 

Wiffie said nothing, merely staring at the prick in hypnotic fright. There 
was something radiantly evil about a tool of such great size; it was as if 
Horse had acquired the penis of Satan himself. 

"Let's show 'em how it works, Horse," Elvira said with a chuckle as she got 
off his knees. She headed for a door leading to the back of the building, 
and Horse, his prick bobbing before him, walked along behind her. 

Peter boosted the glaze-eyed girl off his lap and followed eagerly, and Hamp 
and Wiffie, after a questioning look passed between them, rose and went 
along. They had come this far with Elvira; somehow it would seem rude to 
turn away from their new friend-and from Peter-now. They both felt certain, 
however, that whatever was about to happen in the backroom of Mugsy's bar 
would be thoroughly distasteful. Without words, they shared-and knew they 
shared-an awareness that Elvira, Peter and the freakish Horse were leading 
them into a new phase of their life together. 

The backroom contained an ancient, battered pool table and a shielded bare 
bulb suspended from the ceiling; nothing more. There was an open door 
leading outside, and Elvira, saying curtly, "Wait here," went through it and 
disappeared. 

Horse leaned against the pool table, his organ extending stiffly from his 
fly, and a slow grin spread over his lean, rat-like face. Peter, Hamp and 
Wiffie waited in silence, looking uneasily at one another and out into the 
darkness where Elvira had gone. 

She returned only moments later, and she was leading a huge and very 
bedraggled looking St. Bernard dog, grasping the thick ruff about its neck 
and coaxing it softly. "It's a female," she said as she closed the door. 
"Hangs around here all the time, and Horse keeps saying he's going to screw 
it someday. Now's your chance, Horse. I promised my friends I'd show them a 
wild time today, so how's this for starters?" 

"Sure, baby. Why not? You want to call the crowd?" 

Elvira opened the door to the barroom and called out, "Dog show, gang!" 

"Dog show!" the words swept around the room and everyone smiled and stood up 
eagerly. It was something familiar but unusual, apparently; a very special 
occasion. The cyclists and their girls picked up their beers and crowded 
toward the backroom. 

Soon the room was packed, and befogged with the heavy smoke of pot and 
tobacco. Elvira locked both doors, and with the help of two of Horse's 
cronies, hoisted the bewildered St. Bernard onto the pool table. The dog 
stood quivering, turning her head in all directions to eye this rabble of 
humans who were suddenly so attentive to her. 

Horse, meanwhile, had shed his boots and trousers. Wearing only the 
sleeveless denim jackets with the swastika on its back, he now leapt onto 
the table beside the dog, clasping his hands above his head boxer style as 
the crowd cheered and whistled. 

Elvira produced a tube of lubricant from somewhere, and passed it up to 
Horse, who squeezed a gob onto his fingers; he bent and gripped the dog's 
broad haunches between his left thigh and upper arm, and began to smear the 
jelly onto the flaccid cunt lips of the massive bitch. When she struggled 
forward out of his grasp, whining in perplexed discomfort, he gestured to 
the closest cyclists, and they grabbed the dog by all four legs, holding her 
in place. Another whipped off a wide, metal-studded leather belt and looped 
it about the dog's muzzle. 

Horse finished his preparations on the quivering St. Bernard, who could now 
only switch her hips nervously. Her tail tried to curl between her legs, but 
Horse held it aside. Wiffie and Hamp watched a dribble of urine fall from 
the frightened beast's genitals. 

Now the grinning Horse spread lubricant on his monstrous phallic knob and 
along the vast length of the organ's shaft. The crowd was hushed as he went 
to his knees behind the helpless animal, grasped his shiny prick in both 
hands and angled it toward the dog's vagina. He drew his hips back and 
hobbled closer, then thrust forward abruptly. The bulbous cock head struck 
and stuck at the opening, and when he tried to plunge it in, grabbing 
handfuls of hair on the dog's flanks and jerking her torso back against him, 
it was in vain. 

The St. Bernard whimpered and writhed, but was held fast, and Horse 
continued to strain forward, his organ reddening, sweat breaking out on his 
brow. 

At last he gave up. "The fuckin' dog's too small," he muttered, clouting the 
animal across the hindquarters. 

"They're always too small," one of the cyclists called out. "What you need 
is a cow!" 

The crowd laughed, but the laughter died rapidly when it became obvious that 
Horse was about to try again. 

Picking up the tube of lubricant, he slathered his fingers again, and coated 
his cock more heavily. But when he applied a gob to the trembling bitch, his 
target was higher-the puckered ring directly below her tail. He plunged two 
fingers in, causing a violent shudder and a squeal of pain. 

Horse smiled grimly, his lips drawn back from yellowed teeth. He stood up 
now, and bent over the dog's broad back, positioning his prick's head 
against her anus. Sinking his hands into her ruff for a firm grip, he pushed 
forward slowly and steadily. 

The dog's tissues resisted at first, but finally gave way to the pressure. 
The head and perhaps three inches of shaft sank out of sight. 

The dog's front legs gave way, her chest and head thudding to the felt of 
the table, and the motion pulled Horse off balance. But he responded with a 
new thrust of his hips, his bent legs straining, and the huge organ was 
driven in another six inches. 

Blood began to seep from the raw-looking ring of flesh that gripped Horse's 
cock. The dog's quivering had stopped, and its eyes were closed. Horse 
lunged again, gaining another two inches depth and perhaps an inch of 
circumference, as the fullest thickness of the shaft began to enter. 

"Fuck it to death, baby!" one of the girls called, and with that the gang 
began a rhythmic clapping. 

All their eyes were fixed on the grisly point of contact between their 
leader's gigantic tool and the St. Bernard's torn, tortured anus. Their 
faces were twisted by leering, insane grins. 

Hamp's expression could only be described as stunned, but his eyes too were 
fastened on the gory spectacle. Wiffie was covering her eyes and pressing 
her face to Hamp's shoulder. Her body shook with heavy sobs. "The poor dog!" 
she whispered. Hamp heard, and slid his arm around her waist, but still 
seemed compelled to watch. 

Horse plugged away at the half-conscious animal beneath him with powerful 
strokes, his penis now moving in and out of her bowel to the extent of 
several inches, gradually gaining new depth on the forward lunges. Blood 
flowed more heavily now, smearing his abdomen and matting his pubic hair. 
From behind him, one could see between his thighs to where the red fluid 
dripped from his bulky, low-slung balls, to puddle on the worn felt of the 
table. 

Suddenly a new spasm shook the dog, and its hind legs collapsed. Horse fell 
with it, still embedded, and jabbed his prick forward in a series of rapid 
lunges, his face contorting with climax. 

As he pulled out, the St. Bernard's body twitched once, eerily, and a 
strangled growl came from its throat. Then her whole form seemed to slump 
and shrink a little, and the onlookers knew she was dead. 

Horse wiped his flaccid organ with a T-shirt which one of the cyclists 
proffered. He tossed this bloody trophy to a chick near the table, and in 
return, tore off her blouse and used it to mop up the blood that covered the 
front of his lower body. Then he took his trousers from another cyclist and 
sat on the table's edge to put them on. Two of the girls worshipfully put 
his boots on his feet. 

"Let's go ridin'! " Horse bellowed as he stood up. A roar of agreement went 
up, and the gang surged through the door to the barroom, heading outside. 

Peter, Hamp and Wiffie hung back. "Pretty grim, huh?" said Peter; but there 
was a glint of excitement in his eyes. 

"Revolting," Hamp muttered. He turned away from Peter to embrace Wiffie, who 
was still sobbing. 

Elvira stuck her head in then, and called, "Come on, dammit! We're goin' for 
a ride!" Peter followed her immediately. 

"Wiffie.. . ? " Hamp said. But she could not or would not answer; she stood 
trembling in his arms, her hands pressed to her face. 

She let Hamp guide her through the empty barroom and outside, where four of 
the cyclists waited, their bikes rumbling in readiness. Peter was mounted 
behind one of them. 

When Elvira grabbed Wiffie's arm and began to pull her toward the closest 
motorcycle, Hamp tried to protest. But his words were drowned by the roar of 
the machines, and Wiffie seemed willing to be led, and to be pushed onto the 
seat of the bike, behind its long-haired, bare-to-the-waist driver. 

Resigned, Hamp straddled the bike next to her, and when Elvira had climbed 
on behind the fourth cyclist, they roared off into the night. 

The careening, deafening ride was merely frightening to Hamp, and his worry 
was increased as he looked ahead at Wiffie, who still appeared numbed by 
shock and was only holding on loosely to the belt of the cyclist before her. 
At every turn, he expected to see her thrown from the speeding bike. 

Elvira rode closest to Hamp, and she appeared to be building to an orgasm as 
she clung to her driver, her thighs grasping the seat tightly, her eyes 
closed, her hips grinding slightly to rub her crotch into the leather 
saddle. 

Perhaps twenty minutes later, the cycles swung off the highway onto a dirt 
road. Here all four moved side by side, as clouds of dust billowed behind 
them. They came soon to a battered shack in a grove of trees. The other 
cycles were parked in deep grass beside it, and flickering dim light shone 
through the open door and a single glassless window. 

Hamp put his arm about Wiffie as she dismounted, and she looked into his 
eyes with an expression of mournful resignation as they followed the others 
inside, to be greeted once more by the smells of dirty bodies and burning 
pot. 

Most of the men were in various stages of undress. Some had stripped 
completely, while others had merely taken off their trousers or let their 
cocks pop out of their open flies. The girls had stripped from waist to 
ankles, for the most part, and were either being fucked or working up to it. 

Horse was kneeling in front of a tall, long-haired girl, his face buried in 
her crotch. He was licking and sucking furiously, and his right hand gripped 
a soggy tampon which he had apparently pulled from the girl's cunt. 

Elvira immediately shed her sweater and jeans and went into a corner with 
the cyclist who had brought her to the shack. She put her arms around his 
neck as he literally tore her bra from her body and unzipped his fly, poking 
his penis past the sagging leg band of her worn panties and into her 
juice-filled cunt. 

Hamp and Wiffie looked on, struck dumb by the immensity of the orgy which 
surrounded them. Then Hamp whispered, "Come on. Let's stay outside." 

As they turned back toward the door, Horse looked up from his girl friend's 
bloody cunt and called out to them. "Hey, where are you two goin'? Come join 
the fun." 

"No thanks," Hamp called back. "I'm afraid this is a bit too wild for us." 

"Your friend seems to be enjoying it," Horse retorted, waving toward Peter, 
who was being blown by a dark-haired girl dressed in black vinyl. Peter's 
eyes were closed, and his hands were clasped beneath his balls as he pressed 
his loins against the face of the gurgling, prick-swallowing girl. 

Hamp and Wiffie didn't reply. They went outside and walked around to the 
rear of the shack, where Wiffie collapsed against Hamp's chest and began to 
sob again as Hamp gently stroked her hair. 

"It's so horrible!" she moaned. "Especially what they did to that poor dog!" 

"I know." He took her face in his hands and lifted it so he could kiss her 
lightly on the lips. "I wish I knew where we were, so we could get a bus or 
a cab or something and try to get home." 

Suddenly they were interrupted by a wild-eyed cyclist who was obviously high 
on some drug. "Come on inside, man," he slurred, grabbing Hamp's arm. "You 
take my chick and I'll borrow yours." 

"No thanks." Hamp pulled away. 

"Look, man, I said I want to trade chicks. Now don't tell me you don't want 
to fuck my chick." 

"I said no thanks." 

"That's not nice, fella." The cyclist's eyes had taken on an evil glint, and 
he now spoke softly and distinctly, spitting out each word in a vicious 
tone. "We're all friends here, buddy. We share and share alike. You should 
have figured on that when you came along." 

"I guess we didn't know what we were getting into," Hamp said politely, 
hoping the hophead would give up and go away. 

"like shit, you didn't!" In one motion, the cyclist yanked a motorcycle 
drive chain from the belt loops of his trousers and whipped Hamp across the 
face with it. Hamp lurched back, his face bleeding profusely, and Wiffie 
tried to grab him as he tripped and fell to the ground. 

"Leave him alone!" Wiffie cried. The cyclist was now swinging the chain 
lariat-like above his head. "Out of the way, bitch," he hissed. 

Wiffie didn't move; she was rooted to the ground with fear. The cyclist 
stared at her for a moment, then reached out and grabbed her arm before she 
could draw it away. He squeezed it till Wiffie cried out in pain. Then he 
threw her to the ground and moved in on Hamp, who was groggily trying to 
wipe the blood from his face with his sleeve. 

The cyclist kicked him in the stomach, and Hamp curled up in agony. Then the 
maniac kicked him again, and this time the tip of his boot slid between 
Hamp's thighs and hit his balls. Hamp cried out, but his scream subsided to 
a moan as the cyclist kicked him in the head, knocking him unconscious. 

"Sorry about your boy friend, baby," the man muttered as he stalked toward 
Wiffie, who was back on her feet a few feet away, her eyes wide with fright, 
her feet still unable to transport her from the horrible scene. "I'm going 
to fuck you, kid. I'm going to put my big greasy cock in your tight little 
cunt and fuck you till your juice turns to motorcycle oil and your tits 
swell up like tires." 

He unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock, then cast off his denim jacket 
to reveal a sweaty chest, hairless, with a tattoo reading God Sucks. He made 
a lunge for Wiffie and forced her to the ground, pushing her skirt up and 
trying to wrench her panties down her legs. Wiffie held her knees together 
and screamed. 

The madman drew a knife from the pocket of his jeans. He pressed a button on 
its side and a blade snapped out from the case. Slowly and carefully, he 
slipped the tip of the blade beneath one of the leg-bands of her panties. 

"Lie still," he told her. "You take it real easy, or you'll get your clit 
cut off. Do you hear me?" Wiffie obeyed, trying to keep her body from 
shaking with fright. She wept in tiny, almost inaudible sobs as she felt the 
blade sever the crotch of her panties and then move away from her organs and 
up to her throat. 

"Hold still, now," he said again. "Just relax and enjoy it. You look like 
the kind of chick that could use a good screwing." 

He spread her legs with one hand and knelt between her thighs, then fell 
forward to ram his prick into her vagina in a single rending stroke. He 
fucked hard, fucked her so that she cried out in pain again and again. He 
forced her lips down on hers and pushed his tongue into her mouth. He tasted 
of garlic and cigarettes, and Wiffie almost retched as his tongue raped its 
way past her teeth. 

Finally he grunted and stopped his fucking motions, apparently having 
reached a feeble climax. "Wasn't much of a fuck, was it?" he said as he 
pulled his soggy organ from Wiffie's vagina. "It wasn't much of a fuck at 
all. Well, what can a guy expect from an uptight chick like you?" The 
cyclist got up and pushed his penis back into his trousers, zipped his fly 
and spat on the ground. "So long, baby," he said as he walked off. 

Wiffie lay still, sobbing, then rolled over so that she could bury her face 
in the grass as she wept. After a while she felt a hand on her buttocks. She 
looked up and saw Hamp, his face disfigured by a long gash which was coated 
with congealed blood and dirt. 

"Are you all right, Wiffie?" he asked in a solemn voice. 

"Oh, Hamp!" 

"Jesus Christ," he moaned suddenly. And with that he buried his face in his 
hands and wept with long, body-racking sobs. 

"I'm sorry, Wiffie! God! I couldn't even protect you from that punk!" 

"It's all right, Hamp." Wiffie turned on her side and began to stroke his 
head, trying not to touch the gash. 

They lay there for perhaps half an hour. Finally they managed to get up, and 
headed out across open marshland until they reached a two lane paved road. 
In time, a truck came by and the driver, seeing the disheveled and bloody 
couple at the roadside, took pity and gave them a lift to Newark, where they 
took a cab into Manhattan and to the apartment. 

 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

Peter came in a few minutes before five a.m., drunk, his clothes disheveled. 
He smelled of sex and piss, and his trousers were stained with dried semen. 

"Where's Elvira?" Hamp asked. 

"She's going to ride with the gang for a while," Peter replied in a slurred 
voice. "She really digs being fucked by those motorcycle cats, man. Pistons 
and cylinders.. .all that shit." 

Peter flopped down on his cot and immediately fell asleep, snoring in 
drunken exhaustion. Wiffie and Hamp, who were lying on the bed but had not 
slept, held each other a little tighter and were thankful that Elvira hadn't 
returned. Finally the two of them fell asleep, snuggled up for warmth and 
safety beneath the blanket. 

Hamp awoke first, and as he stirred, his motions caused Wiffie to wake up 
too. 

"What time is it?" she asked in a whisper. He looked at his watch. "About 
seven-thirty." 

"Let's go." 

"What?" Hamp wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. 

"I want to leave, Hamp," she said quietly. "I want to get away from here for 
good. I just don't think I can take it; not after last night." 

"What about Peter?" 

"You saw how he liked it. Didn't you notice how he looked when Horse was 
murdering that poor St. Bernard? And didn't you see how he fell right into 
that gang's orgy, letting himself be.. .sucked by that girl while a.. 
.pervert was beating you up and raping me." 

"I see what you mean." Pain shot through Hamp's gut and caused his facial 
wound to ache as he thought of what had happened behind the shack. 

"Let's go, Hamp. We don't have to take much with us. If we're quiet, Peter 
won't wake up." 

They got off the bed and dressed quickly. Then they went to the apartment's 
single closet and began to pack their clothing. 

Wiffie jumped when she heard Peter stir. 

"What's happening?" the artist mumbled, half opening his eyes and trying to 
make sense of what Hamp and Wiffie were doing. 

"Nothing, Peter. You just go back to sleep." Hamp braced himself for the 
possibility of a fight. 

"You going somewhere? What's going on?" Peter was more fully awake now, and 
had pushed himself into a half sitting position on the cot. 

"Just go back to sleep, Peter," Hamp said in a tense voice. 

Wiffie put a hand over Hamp's mouth and turned to Peter. "That's right; go 
to sleep. While you were sleeping a telegram came. My mother's sick, and I 
have to go home. Hamp's going with me." 

"Why?" 

"Because I don't want to face my parents alone." 

Peter frowned and rubbed his eyes. "Hell, I'll come along too, then. That 
should make it even easier for you." 

Wiffie shook her head. "I don't think that would be a good idea. A threesome 
would look a little strange, don't you think?" 

Peter thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, I suppose so." 

"All right, then. You just go back to sleep. We'll be back by Thursday or 
Friday at the latest." She went over and kissed Peter on the cheek, hoping 
afterward that he hadn't seen the distaste in her face. 

They left the apartment as soon as Peter had flopped back down on his cot. 

They didn't know where to go, at first, but finally took the subway to the 
Port Authority Bus Terminal. It was warm there, and not too heavily peopled 
by perverts at eight in the morning, and after putting their bags in a 
locker, they had breakfast in the coffee shop and talked things over. 

"Let's get an apartment in Queens," Hamp said. "It's supposed to be fairly 
decent out there, with trees and even squirrels if you get into the right 
neighborhood, and if you look hard enough you can find a furnished place for 
not too much. You can get a job as a secretary or something until I find 
something that pays better." 

Wiffie thought about it for a moment, then grasped Hamp's hand. She pressed 
his fingers between her own and looked him in the eye as she spoke. "Let's 
go somewhere else," she said. "Where the air is really clean, and where 
there aren't any motorcycle gangs or perverts. Someplace away from New 
York." 

"But we haven't got any money!" Hamp told her. 

"You've saved a little, haven't you?" she asked. "Well, maybe seventy-five 
or a hundred dollars, at most." 

"Good. And I had some of those bonds left over. You know; the ones my aunt 
gave me? I said there was only four hundred dollars, but I was lying, I'm 
afraid. I was saving the rest for a real emergency-like getting out of town 
if my parents or the Home found out that I'd tried to get an abortion. Hamp, 
I have three hundred and fifty dollars in my purse, all in traveler's 
checks." 

Hamp was stunned but pleased. "Three hundred fifty and ... Wiffie, I'll bet 
we have close to five hundred dollars, if you count my next paycheck! I'll 
quit my job and...." 

Wiffie interrupted, putting a finger to his lips. "Tell them by mail," she 
said. "They can mail you the money, and so can your bank. Let's leave today. 
This morning, Hamp!" 

"But where will we go?" 

"How about New Hampshire? Or Vermont! I've always wanted to live in a little 
cottage in Vermont." 

Forty-seven minutes later, they were sitting side by side in an 
air-conditioned bus, moving through the streets of Manhattan. Wiffie leaned 
on Hamp's shoulder and held his hand, and both of them entertained visions 
of the green, clean Vermont countryside in which they would soon reside. 

Peter awoke for a second time, this time with a hangover. He stumbled to the 
bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, intending to take a couple of 
Wiffie's aspirin. They weren't there. Neither were her toothbrush, hand 
lotion, shampoo ... Everything was gone except Peter's own toothbrush and 
razor. Why had she taken so much if she intended to be gone only a few days? 

When he looked in the closet, he saw that all but her least attractive 
clothes-the ones she never bothered to wear-had disappeared. How had she 
packed everything in so short a time? And why? Most of Hamp's stuff was 
gone, too; even his fall suit, which he wouldn't have needed at this time of 
year. Something was very wrong. 

Peter went back to his cot and lay down, covering his eyes to shield them 
from the light which tortured his retinas, causing his aching head to throb 
all the more. 

He moped about the apartment for the rest of the week. He clung to the hope 
that his suspicions were groundless; that Wiffie and Hamp would come back. 
But when they hadn't returned by Saturday, he knew they wouldn't be 
returning. The missing items from the medicine cabinet, the clothes they'd 
taken, and the fact that they hadn't even called ... Well, it was a 
depressing scene. 

Sunday evening, Peter got cleaned up and packed his toothbrush and razor in 
a battered toilet kit. He tossed the kit, his few clothes and a box of 
brushes and paints into his old tin suitcase, and looked around the 
apartment. It was good-bye to the old place now; the rent was due on Monday, 
and he didn't have enough to pay it. He had assumed that Hamp would be 
around to help out. 

Anyway-and this was his real reason for leaving-there was nothing to hold 
him there any more; nothing but the loneliness and the painful memories and 
the sadness that had come with the departure of Wiffie and Hamp. Peter 
headed for Jersey City, and Mugsy's Bar. 

There were only three or four cycles in front of the place. Sunday was a 
quiet evening, he supposed; everyone was probably still hung-over from 
Saturday night. But when he went inside, he found Horse, fucking a chick who 
was sitting in his lap. And Elvira-blessed Elvira-was leaning against the 
bar. 

"Peter!" she cried. 

"Hi, Elvira. Do you know of anyone who's got a spare seat on the back of his 
cycle?" 

"I'll steal a cycle for us, Peter baby. Hell, I'll even teach you how to 
ride!" 

Peter patted her on the ass, and nodded to Mugsy, who smiled as he took a 
stein from the rack and filled it with cold, fresh beer. 

 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

Peter was fucking Elvira; they were on a massive Harley, speeding along a 
deserted country road. Peter was driving, his hands distractedly grasping 
the handlebars as his teeth nibbled Elvira's neck. She leaned forward from 
his lap, her legs wrapped back about his waist, her forearms and breasts 
near the center of the handlebars. 

Vrooooom! He gunned the engine, eliciting a happy moan from her. She 
squeezed her cunt more tightly around his aching cock. He advanced the 
throttle again, and shifted to a higher gear, accelerating and causing 
Elvira to move even faster on his swollen organ. 

Wild vibrations came up through the seat into his body and on to Elvira's 
cunt and thighs. She moaned and panted, and squeezed her legs more tightly 
around the waist, at the same time milking his cock with her cunt, in a 
series of wild pulsations that nearly made Peter lose control of the bike. 
He barely managed to keep it on the road. 

Peter kicked the gearbox down to first and hit the brakes just as he shot 
his load into her. When they'd stopped, Elvira slowly disengaged herself as 
Peter sat exhausted, one leg holding the bike upright. 

"Peter?" she gasped into his ear. "Yeah?" 

"You've got one big prick, Peter." 

"I am one big prick, baby." They both laughed gleefully. 

It was their wedding night; they'd been married that morning, and had spent 
the rest of the day strolling through the woods, petting in the grass, 
chasing each other through clumps of trees. Wiffie had rebuffed Hamp several 
times when he'd tried to make love to her. "Later," she whispered as she 
kissed him on the lips and squeezed the wrist attached to his eagerly 
clit-stroking hand. "We can wait till tonight, can't we?" And they had. 

Hamp was in the motel bedroom now, wearing a new pair of pajamas-ski 
pajamas. The clinging knit material did a nice job of showing off his 
equipment, he thought. He was waiting for Wiffie, who was getting ready in 
the bathroom. Hamp grew impatient after a while, and went to the bathroom 
door and knocked. 

"Stay out!" Wiffie called. "I want to surprise you." 

Hamp went back to the bed, where he sat on the edge and absent-mindedly 
began to caress his hardened prick through the pajamas, his mind churning 
with images of her: Wiffie nude; Wiffie in black lace; Wiffie in only a 
garter belt and net stockings; Wiffie lying on the bed, her legs over her 
shoulders and his cock sliding into her cunt.. . 

The bathroom door opened, and he saw his bride silhouetted in the light that 
poured into the darkened bedroom. She was beautiful-more radiant, if that 
was possible, than she had ever seemed before. Her hair hung soft and loose 
about her shoulders, and her body was clad in a translucent gown of white 
nylon and lace that subtly accented the voluptuous curves of her figure, the 
pink tips of her breasts and her dark pubic triangle. 

"You're beautiful," Hamp managed to whisper. He stood up and held out his 
arms as she walked ' oward him. He held her close when she entered his 
embrace. 

They sat on the bed, Wiffie on Hamp's left, her face blushing pink as he 
looked down at her breasts and pubic patch through the sheer white fabric. 

"I feel.. .silly," she said. "I mean, you've seen me lots of times, but 
tonight it's as if you'd never seen or touched me at all." 

"I don't think it's silly," Hamp replied. His fingers slid up to caress the 
nipples of one nylon-clad breast. "I feel the same way-like this was the 
first time. like I'd never made love to you or.. .or felt your hand on my 
penis." 

Wiffie leaned against his shoulder and let her right hand drift down to his 
lap. She ran her fingertips along the bulge of his organ. "I still think 
it's a little silly," she said as she squeezed the glans gently, causing him 
to tense with desire. "But it's still nice. Very nice." 

Hamp slipped Wiffie's nightgown off her shoulders and stood back to watch as 
she pulled it down her body and let it drop to the floor. His eyes moved 
from her feet up the smooth young legs to the patch of bronze fur that 
shielded her loins. Then his gaze moved to the curve of her belly, and its 
sweet navel. 

As his eyes beheld her breasts, he felt a lump grow in his throat. He 
thought of how those pretty tits would someday suckle a child. He stepped 
toward her and cupped a breast in each hand, and as he gazed into her eyes 
he bent slightly and kissed her on the forehead. 

Wiffie pulled down the covers and slipped between the sheets. Hamp quickly 
removed his pajamas, walked around the bed and got in beside her. Almost 
shyly, he moved across to her, feeling the mattress rock slightly as she 
turned to him. 

There was no cunnilingus, no fellatio, no entering from behind or in a 
sitting position or with Wiffie on top. All that could wait. For now, they 
would settle for a traditional, simple wedding night fuck. 

It was a long one and a delightful one-a fuck that got their marriage off to 
an auspicious start. They came together, gently but entirely satisfied, and 
afterward they lay together, Wiffie's face pressed into Hamp' neck and her 
arms circling his hips. His hands rested on the dimpled cheeks of her smooth 
bottom. 

"I feel like I've been deflowered," Wiffie murmured with a slight giggle. 

Hamp was worried. "You mean it hurt?" 

"Just a little. But only at first. It was psychological, I guess. 
Anyway...." She paused to kiss her husband. "I enjoyed every minute of it. I 
really did." 

Wiffie giggled again and lifted her face so Hamp could let his tongue play 
over her open lips. They fell asleep together, content to spend the night in 
the same bed, with dreams of the fucks of the morrow, and of the wonderful 
life that surely lay ahead. 


THE END
