Seduced Into Sin
by Roger Gray


INTRODUCTION 

No one who reads the morning paper, who listens to the evening news on the 
radio or on television, can argue the fact that these are troubled times we 
live in. The pace of life in our Western world seems to accelerate 
constantly, with changes following so closely on the heels of changes that 
we haven't a chance to stop and catch our breath and consider what is 
happening to our confusing world. This is true in every arena of human 
existence, but we hazard that the problem is most severe in the personal 
part of our lives. Otherwise, why the current craze for encounter, or 
'"regroups"; why the glut of books and articles on psychological 
self-improvement (i.e. How To Be Your Own Bent Friend, I'm Okay, You're 
Okay, etc.); why the hundred or more dollars which millions dish out for an 
hour on their analyst's couch? 

Here at Fireside Reader we believe that one of the more important causes of 
personal unhappiness and insecurity is that few of us take enough time to 
truly think about what is going on in our society. We're so busy running 
along trying to keep pace with the onrushing current that we forget to stand 
aside and take a good look beneath the facade. Take, for example, the recent 
scandals concerning Watergate and the CIA-until a few brave citizens took 
the time to dig down to the depths and discover the frightening truths, the 
docile and apathetic tax-payer was being taken for a ride. 

The written word can be a powerful weapon in the causes of fighting 
injustice and aiding the population along the path toward personal 
fulfillment, and in this sense we sincerely feel that a publisher has a 
commitment to the public just as much as the attorney or doctor, the social 
worker or educator. Taking the time to sit down with a book gives the reader 
a much-needed interval of respite from the morally and spiritually deadening 
rat-race and infuses a new dose of energy by pointing out the way other 
people have solved their conflicts and overcome their doubts and fears. It 
is for this reason that we take all possible efforts to seek out authors who 
have a talent for, and a dedication to, examining the relevant themes of our 
present-day world. We do not wish to criticize romantic fantasies or 
escapist adventure novels, merely to point out that without some meaningful 
moral message a book becomes as much a flight from reality and 
responsibility as that third martini. An author can simultaneously entertain 
and instruct, as Roger Gray's sure bestseller, Seduced into Sin, 
conclusively proves. 

Seduced into Sin is, in our opinion, the sort of book which is powerful 
enough to help our fellow Americans make positive changes in that perplexing 
area-family life. In addition, it's fast-paced, readable style is so 
professional that we think you'll be as astonished as we were to learn that 
it's Roger Gray's first novel. He came to fiction through the back door; 
after a successful career of writing for technical and scientific 
publications, it suddenly struck him that these articles, important and 
exciting though they might be, were never going to reach the general public 
who most needed to receive the message. In the course of preparing a 
detailed study of a randomly selected group of three hundred women who were 
(a.) members of one or another sort of Women's Liberation organization, and 
(b.) the patients of psychiatrists, he came to the conclusion that he must 
present these facts in a fictionalized form. 

The problems faced by today's modern women are only one of the topics 
treated in Roger Gray's fascinating account of an average family living in 
Midwestern America. Rape, incest, and a score of other very relevant 
subjects which may seem offensive to the over-sensitive, Puritan-conditioned 
mentality are covered in unrelentingly vivid and honest detail. Since he's 
the justly proud father of two charming and refreshingly well-adjusted 
adolescent girls, the author writes of the traumas our youth undergoes in 
these days of "sexual freedom" with particular sensitivity and depth. 

Due to the author's unflinching dedication to truthful portrayal of the 
facts, however ugly and unpleasant, we feel a moral obligation to state that 
we do not recommend this novel to the immature under-twenty-one reader who 
might gain the wrong impression by taking the details out of the context of 
the universally important whole. However, we, the Publishers, feel that this 
is definitely one book no socially-conscious, mature man or woman ought to 
ignore ... not if they're concerned about their country, their family, and 
most of all, themselves. 

-THE PUBLISHERS 

 CHAPTER ONE 

"Well, that's all the news for tonight, folks. But all you faithful fans out 
there in Listening Land can catch Dirk Dilworth's six a. m. farm and news 
report if you stay tuned to WKMI here in Kalamazoo. The early bird catches 
that worm, right?-hahaha! Now at the sound of the tone it'll be exactly 
eleven here in Michigan, home of our great President Ford, and so before we 
sign off the air we wanna remind all you teens under eighteen that it's 
curfew time. Hurry it up with those good-night kisses, okay-doke, 
artichoke-hahaha! 

And parents: do you know where your children are tonight?! " 

The vociferous voice faded into a strident squall of static punctuated by 
siren-shrill squeals, rousing Ms. Denise Aronson from her comfortably 
curled-up position against the couch cushions. FREE AND FEMALE MAGAZINE and 
her package of Camel filters tumbled to the uncarpeted floor as she leaned 
over to switch the station selector dial to some Nashville folk-rock 
nonsense, and one ripe-melon breast dislodged itself from the cotton 
confines of her sensible white percale nightgown. 

"I ride high, high in the saddle an I'm tall, tall, tall in luv..." wailed 
the radio. 

"Oh, for God's sake!" 

Denise switched off the white plastic clock-radio and stuffed the 
offendingly exposed flesh back inside her high-necked nightie. They'd called 
that sort of eardrum-grating junk "music" back in the late forties when 
she'd been a small girl-hadn't human consciousness evolved at all over the 
years? Then, as she realized that there was now no sound in the sparsely 
furnished living room save the hungry hum of mosquitos and faint murmurs of 
animal gluttons gorging on her biodynamic unsprayed garden outside, she 
turned the machine back on. 

"WLS in Cheee-ca-goooo! Bringing you down Memory Lane through them Fabulous 
Fifties with that oldie-but-golden goodie, 'Rock Around the Clock Tonight'! 
Are ya ready! Here we go!" 

"What in God's name's wrong with me tonight?" the dark-haired divorcee 
muttered as she irritably rearranged her voluptuous figure on the lumpy sofa 
and picked up her magazine. "I'm all on edge and I can't even concentrate on 
this great article on rape in FREE 

AND FEMALE. Maybe it's because my tits hurt so much ... or this awful sticky 
heat-it never used to get this way up here in northern Michigan..." 

It had, perhaps, been a mistake to sunbathe topless this afternoon-but if 
you were going to burn your bra, wasn't it an unforgivable compromise to 
continue wearing a two-piece bathing suit? Of course it was! And if her 
breasts were now not only shaped like premium-quality ripe cantaloupes, but 
also the same orange-pink color of this fruit's succulent interior, wasn't 
it her own fault? Hadn't she succumbed over all these thirty-five years to 
the male myths of covered mammary glands originated by profit-greedy bikini 
manufacturers? There was no other reason why this particular portion of her 
anatomy ought to be so supersensitive, and she would have to tell her 
daughters that they should start sunning topless at once. 

Her daughters... 

"Parents, do you know where your children are tonight?" echoed the radio's 
voice in her memory's ear. 

Well, at least that was one positive thing about this inexplicably 
frustrating evening: she knew exactly where her two tow-haired blondes were, 
and had nothing to worry about on that score. Twelve year-old Caroline with 
her coltish skinny legs and pigtails was safe in her survival-style tent at 
the Back to the Basics Camp up in the Upper Peninsula, no doubt sleeping 
peacefully at this hour. As for sixteen year-old Tracey, she and that dull 
but unthreatening Robbie Runions were no doubt still happily sock-hopping at 
the "Rock Revival" dance down in the basement of the local Birch Bay 
Methodist Church. She was bringing up her two darling fatherless children in 
the Right Way, now she'd climb up to her bed and finish this educational 
article about actual legal defenses against the ultimate male outrage, rape. 

Maybe my weird mood's got something to do with the full moon, she thought 
drowsily as she snuggled down under the sheets some minutes later. 

FREE AND FEMALE once again tumbled to the floor as Ms. Aronson's lids 
fluttered down over her big brown eyes and her full-sculpted white thighs 
drew together in a paroxysm of unadmitted yearning, and the droning of 
insects was momentarily muted beneath the half sobbing sighs of her guilty 
finger-induced release... 

 CHAPTER TWO 

His warm, wet hand pressed the especially sensitive stretch of thigh between 
her bare knee and the high hem of her dress, and Tracey Aronson felt 
happiness bubbling up inside her. She leaned her fair head lightly against 
her boyfriend's shoulder and hummed a few bars of "Blue Velvet", the last 
song that had been played at the Methodist Church Rock Revival Hop. Dancing, 
even with a lead-footed partner like Robbie Runions, was something she 
adored. Once the rhythm of the music started throbbing through her 
bloodstream, she forgot to feel shy and inhibited. 

That crazy, wonderful feeling lingered even now, fifteen minutes later, as 
they cruised along the shore-side highway in Robbie's Dad's company car. 
Normally, she pushed his hand away from her leg. In Drivers' Ed they'd seen 
terrifying movies about what happened to people who didn't keep their hands 
on the wheel and their mind on the road; besides, the over-intimate touch 
made her stomach churn in a disturbing way. Tonight, though, she was 
enjoying the strange, tingling sensation too much to rebuke him. 

"I sure had a fabulous time tonight!" she smiled at Robbie's freckled, 
snub-nosed profile, his thatch of sandy hair with its irrepressible cowlick. 
No one could have accused him of being handsome, but at the moment she felt 
very fond of him. "That Birch Bay Bebop Band wasn't half bad, was it?" 

"Yeah, they were far out!" He turned toward her, gray-green eyes blinking 
beneath his bleached eyebrows because his contacts were bothering him again. 
"I dug the way they played all those slow numbers at the end. . . and I 
'specially dug the way you dance. . . " 

The sixteen year-old was grateful that darkness hid her automatic blush-darn 
that silly, childish habit, anyway! It had been great dancing close in the 
darkened church basement for the last twenty minutes of the Hop, but she'd 
never have admitted aloud just how much she relished the slow, sensual beat 
and the almost indecent physical contact. A guy could say things like 
that-everyone expected him to, in fact-but if a girl spoke in the same way 
people might start thinking she was a cheap slut. 

"I specially liked the drummer, and the lead singer was good, too." 

She pretended to ignore his intimation, the significant squeeze on her upper 
leg, though the touch sent quivering white-hot arrows shooting out to every 
nerve-ending in her ripe young body. As usual on a hot summer night, she 
wore no pantyhose-no brassiere, either; in fact, no underwear at all save a 
lightweight pair of bikini panties. Mom didn't approve of bras, and all in 
all it was easier to go along with her mother's views than argue. Besides, 
her firm adolescent breasts stood high and proud without any need of 
support. 

Had Robbie realized she wasn't wearing a bra when they were dancing 
cheek-to-cheek, chest-to-breast? 

"Wonder if the Bebop Band's going play at the Fourth of July Dance, too," 
she continued, her voice shrilling slightly. "Hope so!" 

"What I hope is that I can make it home that weekend..." 

Another more intense press on her tender-skinned thigh, and Tracey caught 
herself just in time before a small shuddering sigh escaped her throat. 
She'd forgotten-funny how often she didn't remember things Robbie told 
her-his news about having found a summer job at last, fairly well-paying 
work as a lifeguard at some YMCA camp downstate near Benton Harbor. Her 
first reaction had been an unfaithful flush of animation, for Benton Harbor 
was quite a long drive from here and perhaps if everyone wasn't thinking of 
her as "Robbie's girl" other boys might ask her out. Robbie was a sweet guy, 
and perfectly acceptable socially since he'd become captain of the swim 
team, but he definitely wasn't the cream of the crop at Birch Bay High. Not 
by any means! Mr. Runions had a respectable job as an insurance adjuster in 
the nearby small city of Harbor Springs, but there were six kids in the 
family and Robbie wore threadbare hand-me-down shirts and had to work after 
school at the A&P. And even with this part-time job, he couldn't afford to 
take her anyplace nice since he turned most of his earnings over to his mom. 

"Yeah, Robbie, I sure hope you can make it the weekend of the Fourth, 
too..." 

She meant it sincerely. Dancing with him this evening, feeling his 
well-developed swimmer's muscles rippling against her thinly-clad body and 
growing more and more aware of the hardness in the crotch of his jeans, had 
put her in an affectionate mood. Also, there was absolutely no assurance 
that anyone else would want to date her. Probably she'd end up spending 
every Friday and Saturday night moping around with her girl friend, Clara 
Pringle, or else sitting home helping Mom type those boring articles she 
wrote for FREE AND FEMALE. What a drag! And if she couldn't find a summer 
job, the days would be just as deadly as the empty evenings. 

"I sure am going to miss you, Robbie," she added, head still cradled on his 
broad shoulder. "Too bad you didn't get that job life guarding at the Birch 
Bay Club right here, huh." 

"Ha! Fat chance! When Hughie Hopkins' Pop practically owns the place. 

"I know, but he only just passed his Red Cross test last month, and you..." 

Her voice trailed off as she suddenly realized where they were. One minute 
the company Chevrolet had been spinning down well-lighted Ridge Roadway 
toward her home, and the next they were bouncing along a rutted lane winding 
downhill toward Lake Michigan. Her tongue flicked out, moistening her oddly 
parched lips, and she drew a deep breath to quell the swarm of butterflies 
which had started swishing around inside her tummy. 

The trees were a fathomless fence around the Chevrolet now, their thick 
foliage eerily iridescent in the glow of a gilded gold, basket-ball-round 
moon, and ferns and other roadside bracken were brushing against the fenders 
of the fat-bellied car as they dove down into the darkness. Although Tracey 
had never navigated this derelict driveway before, she knew exactly where 
they were heading-a private beach belonging to the deserted "Villa la Reja." 
Ever since Old Lady Douse died a few years back and the "For Sale" and 
"Trespassers Will Be Violated" signs had grown rusted and unmenacing, she'd 
often descended the rickety wooden staircase to swim and sunbathe on its 
secluded sands. 

But I've never been here at night, she thought, sensing her heartbeat 
accelerating so much that her naked-nippled breasts swelled to thrust 
against the floral fabric of her new cotton dress. And I've never been here 
with Robbie... 

"How does a midnight swim sound?" He spoke without looking at her, for the 
road was pothole-ridden and limb-littered, and if he messed up his father's 
company car there'd be hell to pay; but his right hand still rubbed 
eloquently along her leg. "I'm not one bit sleepy yet, are you? And-and, 
well, this is our last chance to be alone together for ages. After I catch 
that 2:47 train tomorrow afternoon I don't know when I'll be able to make it 
back to Birch Bay. Whaddya say, honey?" 

The high school sophomore hesitated, uncertain of what she wanted to say-or 
rather, of what she ought to say. A moonlit dip in the lake sounded 
marvelously romantic, but of course she hadn't brought her bathing suit 
along... 

"Well, I-I don't know..." 

"Oh, c'mon!" Robbie jerked the automobile to a halt instants before the 
gravel truck merged with white sand dunes. "The water's real nice now. I was 
skinny-dipping last week and it was warm as a bathtub. Honest Injun!" 
Skinny-dipping. . . ? 

And she detested when he used corny, grade schoolish expressions like, 
"Honest Injun..." 

"But I haven't got my suit with," she protested, imperceptively inching away 
from him. 

On the one hand, she yearned to feel gentle waves washing over her 
inexplicably overheated loins; on the other she was fearful of her new, 
difficult to control erotic urges-urges which had been aroused by the 
dancing-and definitely uneasy about inviting temptation by stripping off her 
dress. 

"I mean, it sounds great, b-but," she stammered awkwardly, "do you th-think 
we should. . . ? " 

"So let's go, if it sounds great!" Robbie interrupted a trifle impatiently. 
"Who cares about bathing suits? We're all alone here on Old Lady Douse's 
beach-and your underwear's no different from a bikini, anyhow." 

There was a vast difference. Her modified "string" bikini-an identical copy 
of the sort everyone who mattered was wearing this season-was pretty skimpy 
on top, but at least it was a token covering of her budding breasts. Yet 
wasn't Mom always saying that there was no reason on God's green earth why a 
Female should be ashamed of her nature-endowed tits? And wasn't it Robbie's 
last night in town? 

"Okay! What the heck! Let's go!" 

She flung open the passenger seat door in a spurt of wild exhilaration and 
sprinted away over the sun-warmed sands toward the seashore. Over her 
shoulder she called out, "Last one in's a rotten egg!" Then, shedding shift 
and sandals as she ran, she plunged into the surf. 

Robbie had been correct-Lake Michigan was delightfully tepid even in the 
middle of the night. Tracey, who'd lived near the water for as long as she 
could recall, set off at a fast crawl for the quarter-mile-away rocks; but 
Robbie, star of Birch Bay's trophy-triumphant swim team, soon overtook her. 
They crawled up onto the moon-irradiated boulders, giggling and panting a 
bit from exuberant exertion, and it was thus a minute or two before the boy 
realized that his date's breasts were indecently exposed. 

"Wow...!" 

Her pert-tipped globes glowed like priceless ivory in the moonlight, and the 
sensuous swells accentuated against the dark tan of her slender shoulders 
and flat young belly nearly drove him out of his mind. He'd explored those 
tantalizing twin thrusts through the impediments of wool pullovers and 
cotton shirts, but so far he'd never dared to make a determined effort at 
undressing the girl he'd been dating every weekend these past months. And 
now here she lay-clad in absolutely nothing except a sopping-wet scrap of 
nylon lace through which he could clearly discern each and every strand of 
her golden-brown pussy hair! 

"Wow...!" he gulped again. No other communication was conceivable at this 
miraculous moment. "Wow, Tracey...!" 

All alone with an almost naked blonde ... isolated from everyone else in the 
world by a quarter-mile of inky-black water ... it was simply too good to be 
true. Was this really happening to him? He felt at least as dazed as if one 
of the rocks on which they reclined had dropped smack on the center of his 
skull; even more out of it than he had that time after the Bay City meet 
when he and the rest of the guys on the swim team had polished off a fifth 
of Bacardi with one of those economy-size cans of Hawaiian Punch. 

Until about one year ago, when he finally shed his baby fat and the 
humiliating nickname of Porky, Robbie Runions dared not risk ridicule by 
inviting a girl for so much as a Coca-cola. Tracey knew she was the first 
girl he'd dated steadily, but she didn't realize she was also the first one 
he'd kissed. It didn't occur to her to wonder why he wasn't a dirty-minded, 
persistent predator like so many other guys; she was simply grateful that he 
was apparently satisfied with tender kisses, hand-holding, and a few 
discreet above-the-waist caresses. 

At sixteen, Robbie had an almost-developed man's body; obviously he was not 
satisfied with his Ann Landers approved sexual life. The other guys were 
always boasting about their conquests, and even if half what they said was 
bullshit, they were having much more fun on Saturday nights than he was. But 
although he was often tempted to introduce a little more spice into their 
good-night embraces, he never quite dared because Tracey acted so uptight at 
tentative touches and off-color jokes. He was certain the cute teenager 
wasn't That Sort of Girl. . . 

. . . or was she? After all, she was running around without a bra-the fact 
that he'd never noticed before proved how timid his advances had been-and 
hadn't needed much convincing to discard her dress. Robbie sighed and wished 
for the hundredth time that he knew more about the opposite sex. All 
women-even his schoolteachers, his plump mother and pubescent younger 
sisters, the housewives in the A&P-had a disconcerting way of changing their 
minds and manners for no apparent reason whatsoever. How on earth was a guy 
supposed to figure out what his girl really wanted? 

An urgent thrust of his eager adolescent thickness against the clammy cloth 
of his jockey shorts weakened the youngster's inhibitions, and then an 
inspiration struck. It was all so simple that he couldn't imagine why it 
hadn't occurred to him long before: the way to find out what Tracey wanted 
was to test how far she'd go before getting really mad at him. Breath 
quickening, cock lurching again, he gaped greedily at the slender figure 
reclining on the rocks beside him and at the expression on her up-tilted 
face. She was staring dreamily at the star-spangled sky, and if her 
near-nakedness embarrassed her she was hiding the fact very well indeed. 

There's absolutely no reason to feel embarrassed! Tracey was telling herself 
firmly as she squinted unseeingly at the clearly-defined constellations. Mom 
never wears a bra, and last Free and Female thing I typed for her was about 
making topless bathing legal in State and National Parks. Anyhow, Robbie 
never tries to get too fresh-I'm sure he would never do anything I didn't 
want him to do. 

Tracey turned off her thoughts. Continuing this train of thought would mean 
admitting that, deep down inside, she was wanting him to do some things of 
which even her liberated mother would definitely not approve. 

"Isn't it a beautiful night," she hastened to start a perfectly normal 
conversation. "Look, you can see all the Heavenly Bodies, just as clear as 
those slides Mr. Wallace showed in science class last term. There's the 
Milky Way, and Orion, and-oh, those bears, what're they called again? I 
forget." 

"I dunno." Robbie leaned toward her, clutching at her smooth arm. "But I 
know one thing-I'm sitting right next to the only heavenly body I care 
about! Honest, Tracey, you're-you're beautiful!" 

No one had ever said that to her before! It made her feel warm and happy 
inside, but she was too afraid of appearing vain to accept the compliment 
gracefully. Also, it was best to keep the tone light, under the delicate 
circumstances. 

"Oh, Robbie! You must've lost your contacts again! Hope they're not at the 
bottom of the lake, like the time they fell out at the swim meet. Your 
dad'll really hit the roof this time!" 

"No kidding, Tracey, I mean it. I always thought you were one of the cutest 
chicks in the class, but tonight you're beautiful! You could be one of those 
models in Playboy." 

"Robbie Runions!" Tracey snatched her arm away from him and folded both arms 
over her exposed breasts. The very idea of posing in the nude before a 
camera, of millions of male eyes leering at her naked photograph, sent 
shivers slithering over her damp flesh. "What a thing to say! I'd never let 
my picture be in that stupid magazine-not for a hundred thousand dollars." 

It was frustrating to have his compliments received as insults. "It's not a 
stupid magazine," he retorted sulkily. "Did you ever read it?" 

"Of course!" It was a lie. Mom would have had a fit if she'd brought home an 
issue; every time she passed the magazine rack in Johnson's Drugstore, she 
loudly and disdainfully declared that male chauvinist trash like Playboy was 
every woman's enemy. "But that doesn't mean I'd want to be in it! No nice 
girl would." 

"Hey, don't get mad." It was this uptight attitude of hers which always made 
him lose his nerve. "I didn't mean anything bad, honest." 

"Who's mad?" What was the point in quarreling on their last night together? 
She reached out to brush an unruly tuft of damp hair from his freckled 
forehead, an uncommonly affectionate gesture for her. "Not me!" 

The young athlete's hopes and potent penis rose in perfect synchronization, 
and he leaned nearer intending to give her a tender kiss as a prelude to 
what he intended to be their hottest yet making-out session. Suddenly, his 
hand encountered something smooth and metallic instead of porous boulder-two 
pop-top malt liquor. Exactly what was needed to loosen Tracey up! 

"Hey, lookit what I found!" he exclaimed, immediately opening both tins. 
"Someone must've had a picnic here and forgotten 'em. What a piece of luck, 
huh!" 

The girl accepted the proffered beer, more because she wanted to appear 
sophisticated then because she wanted it. Before she'd taken more than a 
token taste, however, she heard something that froze her hand in mid-air ... 
a sort of gasp, followed by a shrill but soft squealing noise, then more 
unnatural breathing.... 

"What's that?" she whispered. 

"Huh?" Robbie was still maneuvering his way toward a kiss-he was going to 
try "Frenching," something the other fellows talked about a lot-and couldn't 
hear anything but the loud thud of his own heartbeat. "What's what?" 

"That noise. It sounds like a hurt animal or something." 

Tracey loved all animals, even things like lizards and snakes which 
disgusted her girl friends. It was one of the few things she had in common 
with her mother; so long as they confined their conversations to the 
family's two golden retrievers, three adopted stray cats, and parrot, they 
got along splendidly. Until she'd realized that she'd only avoided flunking 
geometry, biology, and general science because Mr. Wallace and Mr. Kotowich 
happened to like her, she'd dreamed of becoming a veterinarian. 

"Awh, take it easy. I don't hear anything," Robbie swallowed half his malt 
liquor in two giant gulps, hoping it would build up his courage, and since 
he was unaccustomed to alcohol it made him dizzy at once. "Hey, Tracey, you 
look so cute tonight, I just-" 

"Ssshhh!" She interrupted by placing a finger against his lips. "Let me 
listen. Don't you think it might be a sea gull with a broken wing, or maybe 
even a poor dog who fell off a boat? There it is again! I'm going to find 
out what's wrong!" 

Before he could protest she was nimbly navigating the steep slope of the 
jagged rock mass, her snow-white buttocks jiggling provocatively above the 
tiny strip of her nylon bikini panties. He rose automatically, beer in hand, 
and followed like a dog on the trail of a bitch in heat. Jesus! If it wasn't 
one goddamn thing, it was another. Wounded sea gulls, for God's sake! Wasn't 
he ever going to get the chance to get to first base with the sexy blonde 
sophomore? 

Suddenly he, too, perceived the faint noises. 

"OOhhh ... aaaahhhhh..." 

That was no sea gull ... it wasn't a dog either. It was a human being-a 
female human being. 

Robbie's left wrist quivered precariously as he raised the can of Country 
Club Malt Liquor to drain its final drops, then flung in down into the lake. 
Then he took a deep breath and rather clumsily clambered up the cliff after 
his girl. When she suddenly froze, his impulses were so slow that he bumped 
into her ... nor was he sorry, for the pliant globes of her ripely rounded 
buttocks felt fantastic around his out-jutting penis. 

"Oh, nooo!" the innocent Aronson girl gasped softly. "Oh, God!" 

Robbie inclined his head over the smooth slope of her shoulder, prurient 
curiosity churning through his bloodstream even before he viewed the obscene 
evidence. When he actually saw the two lewdly entwined bodies mere yards 
below, he felt as though he were about to faint from excitement. It really 
was a girl-and a guy-and they were going at it like crazy. He recognized 
them: Otto Strang and Mimi Sweeney, two members of the "fast" crowd at Birch 
Bay High, to speak to. 

Tracey was aware that her date had lurched against her, but she was too 
astounded to head the hard swell shoving at her unprotected ass-cheeks. Her 
brown eyes darkened to wide, cloudy pools and her full lower lip dropped 
open in disbelief as she gaped at the older couple, who's spread a blanket 
on a flat slab of stone and were writhing nakedly amidst a clutter of 
discarded clothing and empty beer cans. Oh, God! They weren't just making 
out-they were doing that unspeakable thing which made the boys snicker 
whenever Mr. Kotowich wrote "69" on the blackboard in math class. The "nice" 
girls pretended they didn't understand what was funny. 

"Ohhhh!" she gasped under her breath. "Oh, Robbie, it's awful! We've got to 
get out of here right away!" 

"SShh!" His arms eased around her from behind to press his hands just below 
her tantalizing twin mounds and he ground his aching groin harder against 
her taut buttocks as his fingers grazed the swelling pliancy of the 
undercurve of her naked breasts. 

"They'll hear you! Anyhow, what's so awful? Seems to me like they're having 
a great time." 

Suddenly she was aware how close their bodies were, how his arms encircled 
her bare body. It occurred to her that she should squirm out of the embrace, 
but they were half crouching at the top of the rocks and to move away would 
mean standing up in full view of the couple below. She'd just die if word 
got around that she'd been here watching-and of course everybody would 
assume she and Robbie had been doing nasty things, too. 

"Robbie, this isn't a joke. We can't stay here-I mean, don't you see what 
they're doing?! ? " 

"Sure I see!" His lust leant him enough bravado to cup the warm gloves of 
her breasts in his palms. "I'm taking a real good look, you bet I am. Who 
wants to leave?" 

There was a guttural intensity in his voice that she'd never heard before, 
and when she twisted her neck around to stare into his face she was almost 
frightened. And he'd never grabbed her in this greedy, animal way before, 
either ... he'd been a gentleman and his caresses had always been tender, 
respectful ... 

"Robbie, wh-what's wrong with you?" she hissed. "You're talking crazy. And 
d-don't touch me there! You know I don't like that." 

"We can't leave now-they'll hear us. We're just lucky they didn't already. 
In fact, all they gotta do's look up and they can see us spying on them." 

"B-but ... but-" 

He paid absolutely no attention to her faint protests, and his hands 
remained firmly fastened on the supersensitive spheres of her breasts. 
Before she realized what was happening, he'd eased her over to where there 
was a smooth, moss-coated hollow and maneuvered them both to the ground. 

"Now they can't see us 'cause of the rock wall," he breathed against her 
cheek. "But we can still see 'em fine! Look!" 

Sure enough, a handy crack provided a camera's eye view of the salacious 
spectacle below. Tracey told herself that she definitely wasn't going to 
look at the dirty things they were doing even as she squinted down through 
the peephole, and her lithe young loins tensed as the moon reappeared from 
under a cloud and the blatantly bared bodies were revealed in high-noon 
clarity. Each and every erotic detail was visible, but for the moment all 
she noticed was the girl's thick thatch of darkly tangled pubic curls and 
the scarlet tongue which was lewdly lapping into the strands of dampened 
pussy hair. 

"Oouuggghhh..." Her jagged expulsion of breath echoed over-loud in the 
starlit stillness. "How could any girl..." 

Her horrified suspiration trailed off in a shuddering sigh as she realized 
that her own pussy was vibrating with a peculiar pulsating warmth. It wasn't 
merely the swim which had dampened the narrow crotch band of her bikini 
panties; sinful secretions were playing their part as well. Surely the sight 
of that immoral girl's splayed-apart thighs and coral pink cuntal lips 
wasn't turned her on? Unthinkable! But now the strange heat was flooding 
from her virginal vagina to every nerve ending in her near-naked body, and 
there was no ignoring the evidence of her indecent arousal. 

If only she'd been brought up a Catholic or a Methodist or whatever and 
could pray to God for guidance, for strength to fight the insidious 
stimulation created by Robbie's rummaging fingers on her tender breasts and 
the lurid scene transpiring below. 

Mom had always scornfully stated that religion was the placebo of the 
mindless masses-whatever that meant, exactly-so she couldn't elicit aid from 
her guardian angel or count on forgiveness following the ritual of 
confession. Perhaps religion wouldn't have helped, anyway; Robbie was a 
Catholic, and he was acting wild and weird tonight, fondling her breasts 
until she wanted to scream aloud in an insane ecstasy of pleasure-pain. 

"Robbie, please! T-take it easy, okay. C'mon, don't do that." 

"Lookit them!" he rasped, rolling sideways so that their bodies were wedged 
together like the pieces of a jigsaw-puzzle, his thickened phallus fitting 
neatly into the hollow between her barely parted thighs. His voice sounded 
more frenzied than ever, and his fingernails were digging into the erect 
buds of her nipples so roughly that her breasts tingled with red-hot 
torment. "Jeez, she's really gonna suck him off, I bet. Gonna swallow his 
pecker!" 

Tracey's glassy gaze swiftly shifted from the girl's tongue-abused vagina to 
where her tangled mop of dark hair sprayed out over the beach blanket. It 
was difficult to see her expression, for the boy was crouched above her with 
his muscular buttocks over her face and his knees straddling her head, but 
she saw enough to make her cringe in stupefied shock: Just above her 
uptilting chin and rouge-smeared lips dangled the boy's rigid thing! 

"Oh, God..." 

How huge it was-and it didn't look one bit like the drawing of a "male 
sexual organ" in her Tomorrow's Happy Homemaker health textbook. That 
discreet diagram had been an unalarming black-and-white, whereas this 
real-life specimen was an angry-red cudgel embellished with thick, purplish 
veins and topped with a mushroom-shaped knob of an even brighter crimson. 
His testicles, too, seemed enormously swollen-they were much larger than her 
pet retriever's hairy balls-and the entire rod glistened wetly in the 
moonlight. On the very tip hovered a pearl-like droplet, winking up at her. 

Did all males look this huge, this threatening, when they took off their 
pants? Did Robbie? Out of the corner of her eye she glanced toward his 
jockey shorts, but she couldn't see the outline of his penis because his 
groin was pressed up against her leg. However, she could definitely feel its 
rock-hard bulging length, and it seemed quite as gigantic as the kid below. 
Shivering, she made another weak attempt to ease away from him, away from 
that frightening fascinating, phallus. 

Her boyfriend's hands tightened on her swollen young breasts. "Please, 
Robbie!" she pleaded, alarmed at the illicit excitation engendered by the 
salacious scene and his outrageous fondling of her naked flesh. "You've got 
to stop that..." 

Her voice rang so unconvincingly in her own ears that she wasn't really 
surprised when he paid no attention ... nor was she really sorry. His lips 
mashed against her mouth, his tongue splurged down between her teeth, and 
she found her own lips and tongue automatically responding to his ardent 
French kiss. It was wrong, she knew, but somehow the sight and sounds of the 
passionate pair below fanned the erotic fires of her desire. Never before 
had she felt so turned-on with Robbie ... never before had her body's 
responses blazed out of control of her conscience... 

"OOhhh," she wrenched her mouth away at last. "W-we've got to stop b-before 
we get carried away." 

He drew her flushed face back toward him. "Stop? 

How come-this feels so good, baby, and I won't kill you again for so long. 
Don't spoil our last evening." 

As their tongues lewdly entangled once again, both youngsters kept their 
eyes riveted to the naked couple below, hypnotized by the obscenity of their 
oral embraces and secretly longing to experience the obviously extraordinary 
sensations. Tracey recognized the girl now: Mimi Sweeney, an over-painted 
senior who was famous for (I) her extraordinarily large breasts, (2) 
spending her junior year with green hair after an attempt at peroxiding 
herself into a blonde, and (3) her well-documented promiscuity. Mimi didn't 
have any girl friends, but she had lots of boyfriends, mainly among the 
non-college-bound crowd who wore Easy Rider sunglasses and leather jackets, 
drove motorcycles, and hung out at the Roller Rink or a place called 
Isabella's which served booze without asking for ID's. 

Until now, Tracey Aronson had turned up her nose at Mimi, whom she 
considered a cheap tramp. She wouldn't so much as have smiled at her in the 
washroom or on the street, even though she knew the older girl because they 
were in the same gym class, and she joined in the general mockery of the 
voluptuous brunette's size-too-small tops and out-of-style miniskirts above 
black nylons with runs and patent leather boots. Suddenly, however, she 
found herself almost envying the girl who didn't have any moral inhibitions 
to interfere with her physical pleasure. 

"Aahhhh, oouuhhh..." Mimi's moans echoed up to the entranced onlookers. 
"Yeah, Otto, that's it. Fuck me good with your goddamn tongue." 

In principle, Tracey believed that anyone-and especially girls-who used 
vulgar language was lower-class and unintelligent; but the brunette's 
gasping obscenities were oddly exciting. Robbie's cloth-covered cock was 
prodding more urgently between her trembling thighs now, "dry-fucking" her, 
stimulating her over-sensitive cuntal lips, and she couldn't dream of 
bringing herself to stop him. Not yet ... just a few minutes more...'cause 
it felt sooo gggooodddd ... Besides, she was busy trying to ascertain 
exactly what Otto's prodding red tongue was doing to Mimi Sweeney's 
glistening coral-pink cuntal orifice ... not to mention what his gigantic 
flesh pole was doing as it plunged in and out of her bulging cheeks and 
wide-stretched lips. 

"Ohh, Tracey, honey..." Robbie groaned in demonic delight. "If you only knew 
how bad I've been wanting to touch you like this!" 

His words didn't really sink into the sixteen year-old's befuddled brain, 
but they blended with Mimi and Otto's strangled gasps and moans and 
obscenities to form an impossibly arousing chorus of lust. Fingers of fire 
blazed from her quivering pussy and crushed breasts, electrifying every cell 
in her awakening body with a rising need for fulfillment, and low, unbidden 
mewls spilled from her lips as she continued kissing, encouraged more and 
more caressing. A warning siren shrilled in her brain, but it no longer 
seemed to matter that she was playing with fire and could very easily be 
burned. 

"No, R-R-Robbie ... noooo..." she whimpered under her breath, but it was a 
mere token protest which neither of them took seriously. 

Somehow, before she'd noticed, Robbie had eased off his damp jockey shorts. 
Now she could feel the heated hardness of his slender phallus grazing her 
barely-protected buttocks-just the way Mimi down below could feel her 
long-haired date's plunging penis. Except, of course, that the dark-haired 
senior was actually tasting male cock as the rigid rod seesawed between her 
straining, lipstick-smeared lips ... and Tracey herself would never permit 
such an outrage. . . of course she wouldn't. . . 

"Baby, please!" Robbie stopped kissing her to pant in a hoarse, unfamiliar 
voice. "Let's feel good like they are, okay? There's nothing really 
wrong-it's not going all the way-and I want to taste your pussy so bad. I 
wanna feel you kissing my prick before we leave each other for the whole 
long summer. Please..." 

His unexpectedly lewd suggestion jolted the inexperienced girl out of her 
euphoric trance. She rolled clumsily as far away as possible in the narrow 
space between the rock walls, staring in dismay at his exposed penis, 
cursing herself for having gotten so carried away. A little petting in the 
moonlight was one thing, but an ominous, uncovered hard-on was quite 
another, and the worst of it all was that she couldn't take her eyes off the 
thing. It wasn't as thick as the senior boy's down below, but it seemed 
quite as long ... and growing longer before her incredulous eyes with each 
passing second. 

"P-put your pants on again, PLEASE," she stammered, shrinking so far away 
from him against the cliff that barnacles cut into her bare back. "I'm not a 
slut like Mimi Sweeney and I should hope you know that!" 

"I know you're not, Tracey." He embraced her again, more carefully and 
tenderly now although his balls ached with the urge to slide into her almost 
visible pussy, or at least her sweet heart-shaped mouth. Christ, had he 
blown things just when they were going better than ever before? "But it's 
different with us 'cause we're in love. If I'd just picked you up at the 
dance, it'd be another story; but no one could call you an easy make like 
Mimi just for wanting to be real close before we say goodbye. Anyhow, 
nobody's gonna know about it..." 

In love? Tracey considered his words as logically as she could considering 
the circumstances, her budding body remaining tense as a spring although she 
allowed him to stroke her back and shoulders and presently even her belly 
and breasts and upper legs. The Gothic novels and Romantic nineteenth 
century poetry which were her favorite extracurricular reading material had 
led her to expect that when she finally met her True Love things would be a 
good deal more passionate than they were with the Runions youth, on the 
other hand the flattering fact of having a boy be in love with her made her 
feel all warm and elated. No one had ever spoken these words to her before, 
so she was innocent enough to overlook the possibility that he might be 
exaggerating in the ardor of the moment. Before she knew it, she'd relaxed 
against him, warmly pushing penis and all, and was tilting up her flushed 
face for another kiss. 

"I-I'd never let anyone pick me up anywhere!" she protested, defensive in 
her guilt at allowing their hot necking session to go on. "Never! But, 
you're right, I guess; we've been dating for ages and it is your last night. 
And I really I-uh, think you're the greatest." 

Robbie pulled away from her, and she wondered if he was mad because she'd 
been unable to honestly claim she loved him. But no-he was removing the only 
object which covered his naked young loins, his class ring, and he was 
slipping it onto her middle finger. 

"Would you wear my ring this summer, Tracey? 'Cause I really love you a lot, 
and I'd feel fantastic if I was sure you were gonna be true to me. How about 
it, honey? Shall we go steady?" 

The sixteen year-old's amber-flecked brown eyes widened as she stared 
dizzily at the signet ring on her left hand. Her first fleeting reaction was 
to say no, she hadn't she been daydreaming about dating other guys while 
Robbie was out of the picture-but instead she slowly nodded her tousled 
blonde curls and kissed him tenderly. Deep inside, far below the level of 
conscious thought, she knew why she'd accepted the significant symbol 
binding her to a boy she didn't truly care much about: it made what they 
were doing here on the rocks relatively legitimate. 

"I-I'd love to wear your ring," she whispered. "B-but-but we still don't 
want to do something we'll be sorry for. Promise me you won't go too far? 
Promise? Not even now we're going steady?" 

"Cross my heart and hope to die," he fibbed. 

Another of his uncool expressions which normally affected her nerves like 
chalk scraping on the blackboard, but tonight it scarcely registered on her 
sex-preoccupied mind. One of his perspiring palms had immediately latched 
onto her left breast, thumb forefinger rolling the erect crimson nipple, 
while his other hand began slithering downward over her belly toward her 
panties. Tracey held her breath, closed her eyes tightly. Despite her 
virtuous resolutions and prim protests, thrills of untempered pruriency were 
pulsating through her veins, and the worst of it was that the more he acted 
like an aggressive animal the more he turned her on. 

I must be some kind of sick pervert! she agonized, not aware yet that no 
woman in the world wants her man to be a meek, well-mannered gentleman in 
the bedroom. I like it when he pinches me so hard it hurts, . . and I want 
him to make me do dirty things I know are wrong. Oh, what's the matter with 
me? 

Oddly enough, her shame only served to increase the building tide of longing 
in her healthy young loins. Ripples of strange masochistic excitement broke 
over her awakening body and spread out in wave after widening wave of 
lusting desire, and the voices of Mimi and Otto rising from below were a 
further stimulus. Something about the rock angles made the older couples' 
sensual sounds seem to be issuing from right beside them ... as if they were 
in the middle of an orgy, like in those forbidden "adults only" books some 
of the kids read under their desks during boring classes. 

Robbie, too, was intensely aware of the lascivious back-ground noises. His 
eyes shifted dizzily from his girl friend's curvaceous sun-bronzed figure to 
the salacious scenario of oral love and back again, and his passion-blurred 
vision was so distorted that he failed to identify the approaching circle of 
luminance as a boat's headlight. Nothing mattered to him except the sperm 
churning in his bloated balls and the urgent need to get Tracey's tight 
little panties off so he could kiss her glistening pink pussy and drive her 
out of her mind the way Otto was doing to Mimi. 

"Open your eyes, honey," he hissed as he hooked his clumsy fingers around 
the elastic waistband of her last shred of protection. "Lookit-I think 
they're gonna cum!" 

Of course, she ought to say she didn't want to look, just as she ought to 
order Robbie to get his hand out of her panties, but somehow she couldn't 
seem to manage to speak. Her lids fluttered open and she stared entranced at 
the licking, sucking twosome while her steady boyfriend gingerly traced his 
middle finger along the never-before-touched lips of her virginal vagina. 
Already she was so aroused that the timid caress drove her mad for more, 
especially when she saw the voluptuous brunette spasming and twitching in 
the throes of extreme ecstasy. 

"Good! Goddamn good! Go, you bastard, go on and tongue me to death! Oh, 
yeah! Ooooohhhhhh!" 

Mimi's thighs were disproportionately heavy, her ankles were thick, and her 
legs were pasty white because she worked all day Saturday and Sunday serving 
root beer and hot dogs at the "Dog 'n Suds" drive-in. Yet as far as Otto 
Strang, the two adolescent onlookers, and another pair of as-yet-unobserved 
spies were concerned, she might have been a Playboy or Penthouse centerfold. 
Her unshapely legs had wrapped around Otto's lean shoulders, her heels 
beating a frantic tattoo on his muscled back to drive his delving tongue 
deeper and deeper into her craving cuntal channel, and her chinless, 
acne-afflicted face was now a mask of sheer wanton lust as she gulped the 
boy's tumescent thickness halfway down her throat. 

"Oh, God ... It's too obscene! She's gonna strangle her-" Tracey's 
shuddering whisper broke off in an abrupt, heartfelt mewl as her date's 
inexperienced finger accidentally grazed the nerve-filled bud of her 
sensitive clitoris. Nothing had ever felt so magnificently erotic-it was a 
hundred times more exciting than when she used her own finger to bring 
herself to guilty climaxes in bed. Yet much as she longed to murmur, "There, 
Robbie. Round and round, just there," and direct his inept fingerfucking, 
she was too timid, too fearful of sounding like the wailing, wanton Mimi 
down on the rocks below. 

"AARRGGHHH! I'm almost there! Oh, Otto-gimme your cum! Shoot your nice hot, 
sticky jism right down my throat! Ohhh, do it, you bastard!" 

Even as Mimi's lascivious howls echoed in her ears and her steady 
boyfriend's middle finger once again accidentally rubbed against her 
clitoris, Tracey froze. A small, strangled yelp spewed from her suddenly 
fear-parched lips, and she jerked away from him to cower under the 
overhanging cliffs. 

"What the hell-" 

"Look, Robbie. Look! The cops!" 

Although the sixteen year-old swim team champion was so aroused that cum was 
cartwheeling down in his ready-to-explode testicles, he also froze at the 
word, "cops". It took a moment for his passion-distorted vision to focus, 
but the second he recognized the black hull of the patrol boat, he too 
flattened himself on the promontory and groped blindly, vainly for his 
hastily discarded jockey shorts. As the boat inched forward and its low 
motor shivered to a halt, he even had the foresight to secrete the empty can 
of Ballantine's malt-liquor in a convenient barnacle-plastered cavity. Then 
his arms groped silently for Tracey's shuddering figure and they lay 
clinging to each other, trembling with trepidation as they envisioned the 
dread consequences of being caught out here by the authorities. 

I'll never win that athletic scholarship that Coach told me I've got tied up 
so long's I keep my nose clean, Robbie agonized, his mind abruptly clear and 
concise even though his contrary cock had swollen thicker than ever in his 
panic. And Dad can't afford to pay tuition, even to State, so I'll have to 
get some shitty job in a factory or join the army or some crap. My life'll 
be ruined! 

Tracey was at least as distressed as the youth whose warm, tremulous loins 
were welded to her near-naked body. Her Reputation! If she lost her 
Reputation, it meant two long, unendurable years of social ostracization at 
Birch Bay High, not to mention the fact that Mom wouldn't trust her any 
longer. At present she got away with murder compared to her friend Clara and 
lots of other kids, for Mom viewed curfews, rigid rules and strict 
supervision as parental dictatorship. She advocated self-reliance and an 
occasional democratic family counsel, and was fond of declaring: 

"My daughters have been raised to know better than to let some male talk 
them into drinking or drugs or sex. I've brought them up to think of 
themselves as Women of the Future, so of course I trust them. Smother-love 
isn't love at all! What those mothers need is an interesting career of their 
own." 

This agreeable arrangement would end abruptly if Mom got a call from the 
police department. She'd be a virtual prisoner in her home, and life would 
be a purgatory of lectures. Even if Mom didn't ground her, however, no 
decent guys-or girls either, for that matter-would have anything to do with 
her after she'd been arrested along with the infamous Mimi Sweeney. 

Yet, crazy though she knew herself to be, she was still acutely aware of 
Robbie's turgid thickness burrowing against her tensed-together thighs. 
Instinctively, she wriggled her buttocks against the smooth stones, easing 
her legs apart just enough so that his bulbous cockhead could press against 
the desire-dampened crotch band of her panties. God, his thing felt good 
against her hotly tingling pussy lips ... what would it feel like inside 

Rather to his surprise, Robbie discovered that paranoia had made him hornier 
than ever. Lust filled his veins with liquid lightning as he ground his 
enormous erection against Tracey's warmly responsive vaginal mound, and he 
could see her biting her lips to hold back whimpers of arousal. Then he 
followed the direction of her glowing eyes to where the older couple were 
still loudly licking and sucking as they hovered on the brink of orgasm. 

"Wh-where's the cop boat?" Tracey's soft breath tickled the inside of his 
ear. "Have they gone?" 

He tore his eyes away from Mimi's crazily thrashing figure and gluttonously 
gulping throat to survey the still black water. "I don't see it," he 
whispered, "but you can bet it's around somewhere. There-see that shadow 
over there?-they've cut their motor and put out the lights." 

"Wh-why?" 

" 'Cause they wanna watch the action first." He'd heard stories about the 
same thing happening to kids who'd parked in the forest preserve or the bird 
sanctuary, two "lovers' lanes" popular because of the thick foliage and lack 
of through traffic. "As soon's they've gotten their kicks, they'll move in 
and bust them." 

"But that's rotten! How-" 

Tracey's indignant exclamation was cut short by a wild wail from the 
brunette below. Her voluptuous loins spasmed and jerked till she resembled a 
large, obscene marionette manipulated by some marquis de Sade-minded puppet 
master, and her face was so contorted now it didn't even seem human. 
Goosebumps rippled over the incredulous watching girl, and she squirmed in 
vicarious excitement as Mimi's frenzied hands grasped the boy's testicles 
and massaged them madly. 

"Cumming!" shrieked the uninhibited senior. "Yeah, lover, ggooddd! Stick 
your finger in my ass-hole. Ooohhhh, ggoooodddd! Oouugghh! AAAGGGHHH!" 

The Aronson girl shuddered, unconsciously rubbing her body provocatively 
against her steady boyfriend. 

So that was what happened when you made love ... it looked so wild and 
wonderful that she almost wished Robbie would put his mouth on her burning 
pussy and quell the fires that were raging there, although of course she'd 
never be able to do anything as vulgar as taking his cock inside her mouth. 

"Here goes, you bitchin' slut!" Otto's shaggy dark head reared up from 
Mimi's insanely twitching ass and thighs as his own orgasm raced upon him. 
"Open that cheatin' throat of yours real wide so's you can swallow every 
damn drop! NOW! Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh Christ! Cumming!" 

Tracey continued to stare, transfixed by the sticky streams of cream-white 
sperm which escaped from the edges of Mimi's cock-stuffed lips to dribble 
down over her chin and madly gulping cheeks and gagging throat. A few 
droplets of the obscene seminal fluid even trickled onto her melon-shaped 
breasts. Never in her sixteen years had she dreamed she'd see anything so 
unspeakably lewd, but in fact the most shocking thing of all was that she 
was more fascinated than repulsed by the wanton display of depravity. 

The boy beside her sensed her breath quickening, her body vibrating against 
his own ready-to-explode loins. She was turned on by the sordid sixty-nine 
scene! Turned on enough to let him push his painfully pulsing pole into her 
pussy, whose warm, dewy pinkness was now quivering against his groping 
fingers? He was so stimulated by now that he was going to try, whether she 
liked it or not. Hell, he'd endured the humiliation of being a sixteen 
year-old virgin far too long already! 

"Oohhh!" Tracey gasped, forgetting the still-invisible policemen as an 
electric shock jolted from the tips of her ten white toes to the top of her 
blonde head. 

"Wh-what're you doing? You promised not to!" 

It was as though he hadn't even heard her. His finger was sure and steady 
now as it bore down into the clasping confines of her tight cuntal channel, 
and then he remembered something else he'd dreamed of doing but had never 
dared. Groaning like an uncaged lion, he fastened his mouth first on one 
taut-nippled breast, then the other, nipping the pebble-hard little buds a 
good deal more roughly than he realized. 

"Robbie! Don't-that hurts!" 

The frightened adolescent forgot all about the other couple, who had in any 
case collapsed on the rocks in satiated exhaustion; she'd undoubtedly have 
forgotten the Peeping Toms in the patrol boat, too, had they not chosen that 
moment to turn their spotlight on full-force and activate their siren. Even 
the dangerous high-noon brightness and screaming alarm didn't deter Robbie, 
however. He continued groping at her panties as though he were possessed by 
satanic sexual forces, and she was actually having to fight him off 
physically to retain her last shred of protection. 

"Stop it! You can't do that! Please..." 

Her voice warbled weakly, for the finger digging into her palpitating pussy 
was speeding her into a delirious whirlwind of unwanted passion. Down below, 
the siren cut off abruptly and there were the sounds of gruff, ominously 
official shouts, but she scarcely heard as two conflicting voices inside her 
head commenced a clamorous debate. 

No, no! You'll be sorry if you let him do it-and he'll probably drop you 
cold and boast about it to the other guys, so whenever you go out you'll be 
fighting to keep your panties on like now. That was her conscience, the 
segment of her character conditioned by mother's moralizing, small town 
society's mores and 

Seventeen Magazine and Red Rose romance novels' fantasies. 

Who cares? demanded a second, louder voice rising from deep within her newly 
awakening feminine soul. He can't tell the other guys, 'cause he'll be down 
at that camp Benton Harbor. And does it really matter, anyhow? Does anything 
matter except feeling his big, warm thing inside my aching pussy? I'll bet a 
lot more girls do it than let on, anyhow, especially if they're going steady 
... and I'm not a little kid now, I'll be an upperclassman when school 
starts again in September. I'm ready to be a woman. 

But you don't want to become a woman in an ugly way like this! her 
conscience interfered again. Not with him forcing you and acting so crazy 
you can bet he wouldn't care whose vagina he was screwing. The first time is 
supposed to be romantic and beautiful! Besides, there's a boat full of cops 
just yards away and if they find you balling on the rocks you'll be in a 
real mess. Use your head! Think what Mother would do... 

Mother would definitely never allow any man to compel her to commit any act 
she herself hadn't instigated. 

"Cut it out! Don't you dare!" 

Tracey was suddenly fighting like a tiger, losing her temper, scratching and 
kicking at the lust-demented high school athlete, but even though she was a 
strong, lithe-muscled girl after a childhood of beach and country exercise, 
she simply wasn't as powerful as Robbie. Within seconds he'd literally 
ripped her pink nylon panties from her wiggling buttocks; they drifted down 
the cliff, fortunately attaching to an outcropping crag rather than landing 
on top a policeman's head. 

"You-you bastard," she hissed, and clamped her thighs together so that 
neither his middle finger nor his rampant rigidity could invade the virginal 
privacy of her vaginal mouth again. "You said you'd take it easy! What's got 
into you?" 

Robbie ground his gigantic male weapon against the barrier of her clenched 
upper legs, gritting his teeth in desperation. "Honey, I can't help it! I 
gotta have you now! I'll go crazy if I can't cum in your sweet little 
pussy!" 

If he only knew how badly she wanted to spread her thighs wide open in 
uninhibited acceptance, to scream and sob out her passion at the top of her 
lungs the way Mimi Sweeney had minutes before. But Mimi was the senior class 
slut, and she wasn't about to follow in her footsteps; her hymen must remain 
intact until her honeymoon night ... or at least until she was engaged to be 
married. 

She locked her thighs together tighter than ever, exerting so much energy 
that her muscles ached and wobbled before the savage slammings of his 
hardened manhood. It felt as though a red-hot metal poker were prying apart 
her legs, and despite herself she let her tensed tendons slacken for a 
moment's respite. Immediately his invading penis partially parted her 
pulsating thighs and was rubbing excitingly against the swollen flanges of 
her vagina and even the erected button of her tingling clitoris. 

"Oh, God!" she sobbed, shutting her eyes as wild, wanton sensations sped out 
to every nerve ending in her overheated young body. "Oh, God! Oh, please ... 
nnnoooo...!" 

"Oh, baby, baby! I can't wait! I'm gonna cum. Gonna cccuuummmmm!" 

The innocent sixteen year-old felt her boyfriend's prick expanding between 
her inadequately entrapping inner thighs and groped out to grab it's 
rock-hard length and force it away from her sacred sanctuary. As soon as she 
grasped his pummeling penis it began pumping madly against her palm, and his 
entire body jerked against her. It was a nightmare! Then his harsh, guttural 
grunts reverberated against her ears: 

"Oh, shit! Cumming! Can't stop! Oh, you cock-tease! Aahhhhhh!" 

Hot, sticky fluid surged in spasmodic spurts between her clasping fingers, 
and when she gaped down in horrified fascination she could see his 
life-giving seed spilling out of a thin glans slit in the bulbous head of 
his enormous penis. Jet after jet of white-hot semen bubbled out of his 
long-frustrated cock, splashing over Tracey's golden-blonde pubic mound, 
trickling over her upper legs, slithering down into the quivering pink crack 
of cuntal flesh between her shuddering thighs. She almost orgasmed from the 
sheer sensation. . . but now quite. The climax rose, fell, vanished, and she 
lay like a frozen statue as the last dribbles spattered her defiled, 
frustrated, but still-pure body. A queer moan of half humiliation mingled 
with unsated lust burbled from her throat, and then she fell limply back 
against the rocks, breathing heavily. 

Once Robbie had eased his pumping, panting ejaculation, he also fell into a 
lifeless pool of satiated flesh. Neither boy nor girl dared look at each 
other as the frightening sounds of cops and culprits echoed up to their 
burning ears, and silent tears spilled from Tracey's wide brown eyes while 
her outspread fingers frantically wiped at the shreds of drying sperm which 
decorated her naked body. 

"Okay, kids, let's get it straight." The cop had a broad Midwestern accent; 
his vowels were broad, like Mayor Daley of Chicago on the television. "You 
was having yourselves a late-night picnic out here. Drinking Ballantines an' 
eatin' pussy and cock. Well, that's just fine with us ... so long's you've 
got an ID that shows you're old 'nough to purchase that there booze.' 

"Officer, we was only-" 

"Your ID, kid! On the double!" 

Tracey's tears had dried, but she was still trembling like a leaf in a gale. 
Her fingers fumbled among the rocks for her panties, and when they were 
nowhere to be found she crossed her hands over her cum-matted pussy mound in 
a belated gesture of modesty. It was all my fault! Her conscience accused. I 
let things get out of hand, beginning with this crazy skinny-dipping. But 
God, how could I have been so dumb? 

"Right-under twenty one-jist like I thought!" The loud-mouthed cop turned 
toward his sway-bellied, silent partner. "Guess we gotta run these two in, 
huh? Betcha we find sumpin' else against them once we get down to the 
station, too! C'mon, ya two-get decent and come along with us." 

Both Robbie and Tracey lay unmoving, paralyzed and panic-stricken, until 
Otto Strang and Mimi had sulkily covered their naked bodies and followed the 
cops onto the patrol boat. The black motorboat faded from sight in the 
general direction of Petoskey, one of the larger cities along this northern 
Michigan coast. Then, hesitantly, they gazes into each other's eyes. 

"Jeez, Tracey, I'm sorry," mumbled the chastened swim team champion as he 
tugged his damp jockey shorts over the wilted remnants of his manly member. 
"I-uh, I dunno what got into me. It won't happen again, I promise." 

"It's okay, Robbie." Tracey's voice sounded strained, uncertain as it 
vibrated in her own ears. "It was as much my fault as yours. . . " She slunk 
away from him, feeling dull and disinclined to think. "Let's just go home 
now, okay." 

The quarter-mile swim back to shore seemed to take five times longer than it 
had the first time when they were infused with unconscious erotic energy. By 
the time they were in Robbie's Dad's car and heading toward Tracey's house, 
they were both too tired and depressed to talk much. Robbie, who was so 
nervous he kept grinding gears whenever he shifted from second into third, 
pulled the automobile to a halt just beyond the entrance to the Aronson's 
gravel driveway. He cleared his throat. 

"Hey, Tracey, honey, I hope you aren't real mad at me. I hope you'll wanna 
keep wearing my ring...'! " 

Her eyes slid down toward the unfamiliar circle on her left middle finger; 
it was an ugly thing, actually there were five styles of class rings, 
according to price, and Robbie's was the cheapest sort and fashioned from 
some sort of unidentified metal with a glaringly fake ruby set square in the 
center. No, she didn't want to be burdened by this unattractive thing ... 
she didn't want to feel tied to him ... but after the way she'd behaved 
tonight, what could she say except: 

" 'Course I want your ring, Robbie." 

She planted a quick kiss on his parchment-dry lips, then jumped out of the 
car without waiting for him to drive her up to the darkened house. Best that 
Mom didn't awaken-it was almost four in the morning, according to her 
Timex-and anyway she just wanted to be alone in her bed now. No more 
conversations, no more emotions. She felt drained dry, sad and besmirched 
... and very, very weary. 

But once in bed, sleep eluded her. The fingers of her right hand inched 
surreptitiously up underneath the high hem of her pink nylon nightie, and 
her moans of release figured in her mother's troubled dreams. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

Shortly after dawn, as the blood-red ball of June sun was breaking through 
the scarlet and magenta cloudbank hovering on the horizon, Mrs. Denise 
Aronson awakened with a start. For a moment or two she lay staring through 
her bedroom window at the crimson sunrise streaked away into a glaring 
expanse of cobalt-blue sky, wondering why she felt a gnawing sense of guilt 
in the pit of her belly on a sunny Monday when she had a million things to 
do. Why this lingering inertia, this vague unease and irritable 
dissatisfaction...? 

"Red sky at morning, Sailors take warning. Red sky at night, Sailors 
delight." 

Her grandfather, Aage Aronson, who'd built this frame farmhouse where she 
now lived with her daughters, had sworn by the old sailors' saying, and 
Gramps had been a shrewd old fellow who knew what he was talking about or 
kept quiet. Denise didn't doubt that there'd be a summer storm before the 
day was out, but that certainly didn't begin to explain her peculiar mood. 
For all she cared it could pour down cats and dogs all day long; she'd no 
intention of gadding around in one of those imagine pleasure-boats the 
summer folks kept moored in Charlevoix and Horton Bay and right here in 
Birch Bay-she was a working woman and the draft for her next Female and Free 
article was due before the end of the week. 

"Must just be a dream that's giving me this funny feeling," she concluded, 
and hopped out of bed. "Nothing worth wasting valuable time lying around in 
bed worrying..." 

But when she was vigorously soaping her ripely feminine figure in the 
shower, the touch of the terry-cloth washcloth against her rose-tipped 
breasts and sparsely curling pussy "vee" ignited a humiliating flood of 
memories. Oh, God. She'd been weak again and let her flesh overpower her 
intellect. . . and the worst of it was that masturbation generally left her 
feeling almost more frustrated and tense than before. 

"No use brooding about curdled milk-make it into cottage cheese, instead." 

That had been another of Gramps' axioms, one which the young divorcee 
considered very wise indeed. 

Action was the best cure for the blues, and moody, fretful females only gave 
their sex a bad name. Denise had been raised by her Danish-born grandparent 
and was always pleased when people said she took after him, for he'd been a 
strong man who could do many things and do them well. 

Strong, really masculine men like that were few and far between, she 
reflected as she whistled to the golden retrievers, Carlos and Conchita and 
took them for a brisk walk through the dew-dampened fields surrounding their 
out-of-town house. The exercise made her feel more like herself, and as she 
weeded her biodynamic vegetable beds before breakfast she decided that she 
wouldn't expend energy in worrying about men when she had so many things to 
do. 

Her mother was sipping black coffee and distractedly staring at a few 
scribbles on a pad of lined yellow legal-size paper when her daughter 
entered the kitchen about an hour later, and the girl sighed with relief to 
see her working. When Mom was in the midst of writing, she wasn't-likely to 
ask how late she'd come in last night; or notice the embarrassing red mark 
which Robbie's over-ardent kisses had left on her slender neck, the circles 
under her eyes, the scratch on her thigh from the rocks. 

"Morning, darling," Denise mumbled to her eldest daughter without looking up 
from her notepad. "Sleep well?" 

"Um-hmm." But how to explain those dark circles, or the way she was sure to 
yawn over the supper table after a day of job hunting? "Except it was 
awfully hot, and this darn mosquito kept buzzing 'round my pillow and waking 
me up." 

The pretty blonde plopped down on the bench and helped herself to a brimming 
mug of coffee from the giant-size thermos which always rested at Mom's elbow 
while she was working. Usually the teenager preferred juice for breakfast, 
but after only a few hours of fitful slumber she felt in need of a good dose 
of caffeine to keep going. No doubt she'd be trudging all around town today 
to apply at the last few local spots she hadn't tried yet ... and maybe even 
driving Mom's derelict old Rambler into Charlevoix or Boyne City. 

Denise simultaneously poured more black coffee, lit another camel filter, 
and chewed ferociously on the blue plastic top of her Bic. Somehow her ideas 
just weren't flowing the way they ought this morning, and she decided that a 
short break would perhaps refurbish the creative centers of her brain. 
Laying down her ballpoint, she smiled vaguely across the table at her 
daughter. 

"I know, this dreadful heat wave." At last, a fine excuse for her inability 
to concentrate on her work ... though unfortunately not the sort of alibi 
which appealed to the sympathies of editors. "But it'll break after the 
storm this afternoon." 

"Hope so..." 

Diverted from her own depression by the listless droop in her daughter's 
voice, the mother shot her a sharp glance, then frowned slightly as she 
watched her staring pensively into her steaming cup, nose wrinkling as she 
swallowed the strong brew. Carefully applied cosmetics and a crisp, ruffled 
blouse-feminine frivolities which she herself scorned-couldn't quite 
disguise a wan complexion and slumping shoulders. Something was definitely 
bothering her little girl. 

Little girl? Not any more, Denise thought with a guilty pang. While she'd 
had her nose buried in a manuscript, her eldest child had suddenly 
metamorphosed from a clumsy, coltish kid with pigtails and braces into a 
budding beauty with the body of a young woman. 

"You don't look well, dear," she said with uncommon maternal solicitude. 
"Have something to eat-there's Muslei and yogurt on the table, and fresh 
strawberries and eggs in the fridge." 

Tracey turned to the bowl of homemade yogurt and felt her stomach turn 
upside-down as a thousand butterflies began swarming inside it. Suddenly her 
naked thighs were once again spattered with thick, cream-white sperm, and 
she was seeing Mimi Sweeney's cheeks contorting in obscene greed as she 
gulped down her boyfriend's spurting seed. Two burning spots of scarlet 
flamed on her cheeks. 

"I-I'm not very hungry this morning." 

"But you know breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and that if 
you don't eat now you'll get hungry later and grab some commercial trash 
with no nutritional value." Why were the girl's eyes sparkling in that odd 
way? For some reason that she couldn't quite put her finger on, Mrs. Aronson 
felt uneasy. "Are you sure you're feeling all right? Not brooding about that 
Bobbie boy going off for the summer, I hope?" 

"Robbie. No, Mom. Just worried about finding a summer job, I guess." Then, 
to avoid further argument, she added, "And I suppose you're right about 
breakfast-I'll boil myself an egg." 

Thank goodness she'd not put on Robbie Runions' class ring-it was much too 
big, she needed to put some wax inside it or something-for that would surely 
have been another subject of controversy. Why did Mom always have to be so 
smug, so certain that her opinions were the only right ones? 

Denise watched her pretty eldest daughter trudge lackadaisically toward the 
stove, and her frown deepened as she noted the short skirt, smoothly waxed 
legs, and trendy wedge heel espadrilles. It was a source of constant 
amazement to her that both her offspring were so-so conventional, so 
different from herself. 

"What sort of job are you looking into today," she inquired sarcastically. 
"Modeling work, maybe? That's certainly the way you're dressed. Honestly, 
Tracey. All that make up, and shoes you can't possibly walk in, and that 
silly scarf around your neck on a sweltering day like this. Any employer 
worth working for is interested in your qualifications and abilities-not 
your appearance." 

The sixteen year-old almost dropped her egg as irritation temporarily 
dispersed the persistent memory of last night's forbidden escapades, but 
then she bit her lip and silently counted to ten. By nature she was docile 
and peace-loving, and it always seemed easier to keep out of arguments with 
her strong-willed parent. However, lately the continual criticism of her 
clothes and hairdos and makeup was grating on her nerves, and she often was 
tempted to snap at Mom, saying that she'd look years younger and prettier if 
she took as much interest in beauty hints in Glamour as she did in her dull 
Female and Free Magazine. 

But what was the use? Mom wouldn't so much as dream of wasting time and 
money on her appearance. Too bad, because she could be a far more attractive 
woman than most of her friend's fat, blowsy mothers. 

"First I'm going back to Peerless Department Store to see about the job I 
applied for in the accounts department," she said. "But I don't have my 
hopes up, 'cause Candie Wolfe applied, too, and her aunt works there. That 
leaves nothing but the Dog 'n Suds-so could I borrow the Rambler to drive 
out to Harbor 

Point or Charlevoix?" 

"Take it. I'm working all day, anyway. But what about that 'help wanted' 
sign in the window of the new boathouse? There's a job where you'd learn 
while you earn, and get some healthy exercise, too." 

"No go. I tried there Saturday, soon as I saw the sign. I'm kind of 
sorry-it'd be nice to work outside instead of in a hot stuffy office or a 
smelly restaurant full of noisy summer people." 

"I should think so. What was the matter-had Ted Comfort found someone 
already?" 

"No. But he said he was only interested in hiring a guy." 

"WHAT? Did you tell him you've grown up around boats and certainly know as 
much about them as any boy in town? What did he have to say to that?" 

"Well..." The teenager looked uncomfortable and toyed with her egg, 
meticulously removing the shell and sprinkling on salt grain by grain to 
postpone meeting her mother's flashing eyes. "Well, I really didn't get a 
chance to talk to him. He sort of, uh, slammed the door in my face." 

"Of all the nerve. How dare he," sputtered Denise furiously. "Well, he was a 
stuck-up bully, even when he was a kid-he grew up in my neighborhood before 
he ran away to sea, you know." 

". . . ran away to sea?" Tracey tried to divert her mother's attention 
before she really got on the warpath, but her ploy went unnoticed. 

"Hey, b-boss?" 

The tall man behind the desk swiveled his leonine head to glower at the boy 
who'd barged into Bay Boat Works, Inc.'s small showroom, then drained the 
rest of his second glass of Alka-Seltzer. In his thirty-eight years Ted 
Comfort had survived many a Monday morning hangover, but this one was a real 
winner and he was not in any mood for Toby Turetsky, the stupider and uglier 
of his two deckhands. 

"What's the matter now, Toby? I thought I told you guys to get to work on 
Colin Highsmith's speedboat and not bug me while I'm going over these damn 
accounts." 

When Toby got excited his chinless, flabby-jowled face twitched and he 
stuttered. "B-boss, there's someone to s-see ya. A lady." 

"Well, tell her to come back tomorrow or something. I'm busy right now. You 
get the hell out of here, too, and don't come back till you and Rufus have 
that motor out. Got that?" 

Turetsky's gangly bulk vanished, only to reappear seconds later with an even 
more sheepish expression on his face beneath the greasy strings of long 
dun-colored hair. "She w-won't go 'way, boss. They, I mean. I mean, there's 
two of 'em." 

"What's the bitch's name?" He slammed the accounting pad back into his 
drawer with a bang, deciding that if it were some ex-girlfriend he'd cure 
his hangover with a quick screw. Down in the stateroom of the senior Colin 
Highsmith's Motor Yacht would be an appropriate seduction setting, and 
borrowing the king-sized master bed seemed justifiable in view of the fact 
that his pounding head and queasy stomach were the direct result of an 
evening entertaining his new clients. He'd already noted the built-in bar 
... the stereo and speakers installed in the headboard ... the springy 
mattress and- 

"Aronson, she s-said her name was," Toby's stutter shattered the boathouse 
owner's erotic reverie. "D-Denise Aronson." 

Denise Aronson? It rang a bell, but he couldn't attach a face or body to the 
nametag. But what the hell difference did it make, really? He'd been around 
the world twice and lived and loved in all its important ports, and it was 
his unqualified opinion that all broads were the same: tell them they're 
beautiful and that you love them, and their cunts start creaming and their 
thighs open wide for you. Only thing was to be sure not to get hooked into 
marrying one of them, for after the honeymoon they abruptly became frigid, 
nagging bitches. At the age of twenty-two he'd made that mistake, but he'd 
been smart enough to get out of that ball-breaking domestic dungeon in a 
hurry, and had no intention of falling into the same trap twice. 

"Missus Aronson 'n her friend are two d-damn sexy chicks, boss..." 

Comfort's ruggedly handsome face relaxed into a grin. Already, his hangover 
was drastically improved. "Okay, kid. Go tell them to come on in here." 

A threesome, perhaps? Fine with him. It had been ages since he'd enjoyed the 
supreme pleasure of fucking two beautiful girls simultaneously, for 
Midwestern women had a tendancy to label anything except the missionary 
position "perverted". Things had been far more loose over in Europe, he 
reflected dreamily, remembering a beach orgy in Saint Tropez ... a midnight 
sun party outside Stockholm... 

Aronson sounded like a Scandinavian name. Could this possibly be the 
long-legged girl with flaxen pigtails who'd drunk so much Aquavit at the 
crayfish-eating orgy that she'd poured a glass of the potent stuff right 
down inside her pussy and invited him to lap it up? His testicles tingled at 
the very memory of that amazing night. He'd thought that blonde honey-pot 
had been called Inga-Lisa, but he'd consumed so much 

Aquavit himself that he couldn't be sure of much of anything. "Mr. Comfort?" 

A tall, full-bodied young woman strode toward him, her attractive features 
overpowered by a thundercloud of rage and her ripe curves hidden by jeans 
and a loose-fitting Mexican peasant blouse. She wasn't blonde, and in no 
other way, shape or form bore resemblance to the Swedish girl he'd been 
daydreaming about. In fact, her strident tone reminded him, so much of a 
commanding officer that he couldn't help smiling. 

"Aye, aye, sir," he said, saluting smartly. 

"Very funny, Mr. Comfort. Very funny, indeed." 

There had always been two sorts of women Tom loathed: whiney, helpless 
females with medicine cabinets crammed full of pills for every conceivable 
imagined illness and perfumed lap-dogs which they paraded on rhinestone 
leashes-like his mother; and frozen, fortune-hunting bitches-like his 
ex-wife. Lately a third type had been added to his lust, the ardent and 
aggressive Women's Liberation advocate who denied her femininity and 
considered all members of the opposite sex enemies. The woman standing arms 
akimbo before him was a perfect example of this third category of 
undesirable dames, and his hangover reappeared as abruptly as it had 
vanished. Potential client or not, he wasn't about to let this obnoxious 
intruder get the upper hand. 

"Yeah," he shrugged nonchalantly, and ran undressing eyes up and down her 
statuesque figure in a way that was calculated to antagonize her. "People 
always said I had one helluva good sense of humor." 

"Well, perhaps you'll stop laughing long enough to listen to what I have to 
tell you, Mr. Comfort." 

"You've got something to tell me, Mrs. Aronson? Go on, tell, 'cause I've got 
a lot of work to do this morning." 

"Ms. Aronson, please." Denise squared her shoulders, an action which had the 
unintended result of jutting her ripe cantaloupe breasts against the thin 
cotton of her smock-style shirt. Comfort's eyes glued themselves to" the 
taut little tips of her nipples, correctly concluding that she wore no 
brassiere. 

"Oh, what the hell, a foul ball's a foul ball, no matter what you call it. 
Go on, speak your piece. I told you I've got important matters to attend 
to." 

"You'll think this is important enough when you find yourself with a lawsuit 
on your hands, I imagine." 

"What the hell--? " 

Denise smiled, feeling in control of this conversation at last. "A lawsuit, 
I said, yes. Uh, I believe my daughter paid you a visit day before yesterday 
to apply for a job." 

Ted blinked blearily as her shapely, but un-manicured and ink-stained hand 
gestured toward a figure behind her whom he'd not noticed before. Oh yeah, 
that cute chick in the mini-skirt-he remembered now. And he also remembered 
something else as he stared at the teenager's embarrassment-flushed face. 

"Hey, you're Denise Aronson!" he exclaimed. 

She glared at him. "I told you my name. Men! You never listen to anything." 

"Denise Aronson ... all grown up! Christ, you were a skinny-legged high 
school freshman last time I saw you. No, wait, that's not so ... I came home 
for Christmas a few years later, when I was working trawlers on the Great 
Lakes. You were just about the same age as your cute little gal is now, and 
we went out dancing, if I remember right." 

Denise paled beneath her golden tan. She'd successfully blocked out that 
embarrassing incident ever since hearing that Comfort had moved back to 
Michigan, and wasn't at all pleased to have it dragged back up into her 
consciousness-particularly not in front of innocent her daughter. What a 
naive ninny she'd been with her ridiculous infatuation for the four 
year-older neighbor boy! 

"We did indeed," she replied in her iciest tone, for the faint smirk on his 
face told her he was recalling the degrading details of that date quite as 
vividly as she was. "But I prefer not to dredge up unpleasant memories. As 
you keep saying, we've got important matters to attend to." 

His smile broadened as he surveyed the woman before him and mentally 
compared her richly mature female curves with the lithe Lolita-like body of 
the girl he'd come so close to deflowering that long-ago night. Defiantly 
unprovocative attire could not disguise the fact that she was one of those 
fortunate women who came into their prime in their thirties. At seventeen 
she'd been pretty: today, she was sensuous, alluring ... if she'd make a 
slight effort, she could be beautiful. 

"Can't imagine why I didn't recognize you straight off ... you sure don't 
look much older than back inlet's see, must've been '56. Jeez, you were 
about the cutest chick in town, with your ponytail and bobby socks and all. 
Weren't you the Apple Harvest Princess one year?" 

"No-you're thinking of the Regatta Mascot Crown Contest. But I didn't come 
here to chat about that old nonsense, Mr. Comfort-and I warn you, flattery 
will get you nowhere. This matter of sex discrimination in hiring policies 
is a very serious-" 

"Aww, Denni, c'mon down off your high horse." The boat yard owner rose from 
behind his desk, displaying six-foot-two of solid, sun-bronzed muscle, to 
set up two folding chairs. "Sit down, girls. Great to see you again after 
all these years! But what's this Mr. Comfort shit! Seems to me that after 
we've played kick-the-can together-not to mention kissy-face-we ought to be 
on a first name basis." 

The mother glared down at the metal folding chairs. "No, thanks. I prefer to 
stand, since this'll only take a minute. Anyway, I'm no fragile flower-if I 
want a chair, I can fetch one for myself." 

Finally her aggressiveness was getting to Ted Comfort, and he, too, started 
to lose his temper. He tried to control himself, though, for the memory of 
that long-ago date, Mrs. Aronson's voluptuous figure, and the paucity of 
plausible female partners in this neck of the woods had made him determined 
to start an intrigue with her. 

"I always say there's nothing like old friends," he grinned. "Would've 
looked you up when I first moved back here, but I'd heard all that talk 
about you running off with some artist fellow, so I figured you'd be living 
in New York or 'Frisco or Europe. You divorced?" 

"It so happens I am, but what's it to you?" Her voice fairly crackled with 
fury-there was nothing more infuriating than being in the mood for a good 
fight and finding your opponent determinedly cheerful and friendly. "Now, as 
far as my Tracey's qualifications for your job as a deckhand..." 

Throughout this interchange Tracey remained silent and inconspicuous behind 
her mother. The new high hells had begun pinching her feet, and she stole 
glances at the empty folding chairs out of the corners of wide fawn's eyes 
as she shifted her weight from one shapely leg to the other. Well, Mom had 
been right about the shoes, maybe, but the rude way she was treating nice 
Mr. Comfort certainly wasn't right, and she was so uncomfortable at being 
the cause of all this trouble that she was momentarily tempted to bolt out 
the showroom door. There were, however, certain interesting aspects of the 
adults' conversation which she didn't want to miss. 

Who would ever have guessed that Mother, authoress of a damning invective 
entitled, "Ban the Barbarous Beauty Contest" had once won the annual Regatta 
Mascot Contest? Wearing the Mascot Garland was the supreme honor a girl 
could achieve here in Birch Bay ... better than being Prom Queen or 
Homecoming Queen or Apple Harvest Princess, since competition was limited to 
the exclusive elite whose families belonged to the yacht and sporting club. 
In theory Tracey was eligible since Gramps had been a charter member, but it 
had never crossed her mind that she might be the one wearing the silver 
filigree wreath and opening the Gala with doddering Colin Highsmith I, 
founding father. Besides, everyone knew that the old boy's granddaughter, 
Cressida, would win this year. She'd returned from boarding school back east 
looking stunningly lovely instead of simply cute ... thanks, snide tongues 
whispered, to the best dermatologists, plastic surgeons, orthodontists, 
hairdressers and dressmakers money could buy. 

". . . sailing in competition and winning trophies ever since she was old 
enough to enter, and she helped crew on her uncle's forty-two foot ketch and 
helped with deck chores, too, until he moved to California two years ago. 
She's got her Red Cross..." 

The teenager tuned out her mother's belligerent recital of her 
qualifications and recalled Uncle Norman, who'd looked a good deal like Ted 
Comfort except he'd had a mustache. She'd been fond of extroverted, jovial 
Norm, and Mom had liked her cousin a lot too, though she seldom wrote to him 
or mentioned him since he married "that cheap, gold-digging slut", Verna, 
who'd been working as a barmaid in one of the area's more swinging 
nightclubs. Come to think of it, that had been about the time Mother got so 
obsessed with this femininist stuff. . . though for as long as her daughter 
could remember she'd resented any male who wanted to date her. It just 
didn't make sense. Now here she was alienating handsome Mr. Comfort, who'd 
been right on the verge of asking her out and renewing what sounded like a 
very exciting old friendship." 

". . . as any fool with half a brain can see," Mom was concluding, "my 
daughter's as well qualified as any male in town. And I've raised her to 
believe in honesty and hard work, which is more than most parents can say 
these days. A look at her Birch Bay High records will verify that if you 
don't want to take my word for it, Mr. Comfort." 

She paused for breath, and there was a moment's silence as Tracey squirmed 
in acute embarrassment and Comfort threw up his large, capable hands in 
irritation. For another instant Denise's loud, angry voice seemed to 
reverberate through the showroom, and then its echo died away and they heard 
gulls screaming out on the piers and a tinny transistor playing out where 
the two assistants were working. "Blue Velvet" ... the same song she'd 
danced to with Robbie last night. Although it was overly warm in Comfort's 
stuffy cubicle, the adolescent shivered as visions of erect, ejaculating 
penises, wavered before her mind's eye, and before she realized what she was 
doing she found herself gazing curiously at the sandy-haired boathouse 
owner's crotch. 

Thank God nobody was paying the least bit of attention to her. Mother and 
the man were still glaring at one another in mutual anger-like a lion and a 
tiger stalking each other, thought the girl. 

"Look here, Denise, I'm sure you're kid knows something about sailboats-but 
that does not mean she'd work out for the job I'm advertising for. Hell, 
this is heavy labor, men's work, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna pay some 
dainty schoolgirl this equal wage you keep blabbering about to stand around 
and powder her nose and distract the boys so they don't do a decent day's 
work, either. This is my business, and I'm running it to make it the best 
boat yard this side of Lake Michigan, not to do people favors ... not even 
old girl friends." 

"Old girl friends, nothing, you conceited fool." Mom looked mad enough to 
hit him over the head with her briefcase. "My daughter is strong and healthy 
and she can do the job-can't you. Tracey." 

She nodded miserably. "I-I sure would do my best." 

"Her best-hah." 

"Let me finish, Ted Comfort. What I've been trying to beat into your thick 
skull for twenty minutes is that it's illegal for you not at least to hire 
her and give her a chance to prove herself. I'll send you copies of the 
laws, since you're so uninformed about current events. Women aren't men's 
helpless slaves any longer. We have rights, and I for one intend to fight 
for those rights. I meant it about the law suit. And what's more, I'll write 
to every publication in the country using names and telling about you." 

"Good God, woman, shut up. Okay, okay, I know about equal pay for equal work 
laws-but this is insane. I'll take the girl on-on two-week trial-but I 
guarantee you'll be sorry you pushed my hand this way. Good and sorry." 

Denise smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Ted. I'm so glad you came round to my way 
of thinking. . . it'll save us both a lot of unnecessary trouble. When shall 
Tracey report for work?" 

"Right this fucking minute," he snapped, then glanced at the flushed-cheeked 
teen and made an impatient gesture. "Hell, go home and change into working 
clothes, girl. And get back here on the double!" 

"Yes, sir." 

"And now both you dames get the hell outta my office." 

Denise turned on her heel, took her daughter's arm and hurried to the door, 
unaware that Comfort was staring rather intently at her indignantly 
twitching ass-cheeks. "Thank you again for being so understanding, and I'm 
sure everything's going to work out beautifully." 

She slammed the door behind her so hard that papers rose in a cloud from the 
furious man's desk and the bottle of Alka-Seltzer bounced onto the tile 
floor and smashed into smithereens. Comfort cursed at the top of his lungs, 
swearing to get revenge on the vindictive bitch if it were the last thing he 
ever did. 

"Ram this right between that tight, saucy ass of hers," he raged, stroking 
his semi-erected stiffness. "Show her what a man's got that a dame hasn't. 
Hear her begging for it. . . " 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

By Friday afternoon, after four and a half days on the job, Tracey Aronson's 
healthy young body had adjusted to the strenuous tasks, her blisters had 
hardened into painless calluses, and she'd acquired an enviable suntan. In 
most ways she enjoyed her unusual job, though she was a bit nonplused 
whenever she ran into one of her "cool crowd" classmates and they inquired 
about what she was doing this summer. Most of them, of course, didn't have 
jobs ... nearly everyone in the "cool crowd" was wealthy. 

"You're what?! " Caroline Chittenden's nasal voice had shrilled when they 
met in Johnson's drugstore the other evening. She'd been buying Nivea cream 
for her blisters; Caroline was purchasing perfume and the latest issue of 
Vogue. "Well, I suppose it's something to keep you busy while 
what's-his-name's away, but a boat yard..." 

"Oh, it's kind of fun," she'd pasted on a vivacious smile. "And anyway, 
Robbie Runions and I aren't going steady or anything." 

Caroline didn't extend the hoped-for invitation to a party or beach picnic, 
but simply arched her over-plucked eyebrows and muttered, "oh, really?" as 
though she couldn't have cared less. Then she sauntered away, calling back 
over her shoulder, "Have fun down at the harbor. See you around when I get 
back from Europe, maybe." Then she was gone, and Tracey was left alone 
staring at her ring-less left hand. 

It was going to be somewhat awkward explaining to her boyfriend why her 
finger had been bare in his absence. . . perhaps she could claim she was 
allergic to the metal, or say her Mom had thrown a fit. Whatever. The main 
thing was first, not to incite unnecessary unpleasantness at home, and 
second, not to discourage possible dates. One very positive aspect to 
working in the boat yard was that good-looking guys were always wandering 
around ... summer folks and upperclassmen from the "cool crowd" at High and 
prep school guys and even college men home for the holidays. 

Guys like handsome Colin Highsmith... 

Early this morning, when she'd been energetically engaged in stripping old 
paint and varnish from his Dad's ritzy motor cruiser-Mr. Comfort, in revenge 
against her mother, having assigned her the most arduous tasks he could 
invent all week-Colin had strolled into the boatshed looking crisp and 
elegant in spotless white duck trousers, Easy Rider sunglasses, and a black 
tee-shirt with a little alligator on the breast pocket to prove it wasn't 
just any old ordinary T-shirt. Since the temperature in the sun was already 
up in the nineties, she'd taken off all her clothing except her modified 
string bikini and an unfastened threadbare shirt. At first she'd been 
embarrassed to approach Colin-surely his sister Cressida and her refined 
girl friends never ran around half undressed with their hair in pigtails and 
paint splatters on their hands and legs-but since Toby and Rufus were as 
usual late to work and the boss had gone off on some errand, she'd had no 
choice but to speak to the Highsmith heir. "Hello. C-Can I help you." 

He'd taken off his trendy sunglasses. "Oh, hi there, uh-Gracey, isn't it? 
Yeah, well, I just wanted to find out when my speedboat's gonna be 
finished." 

He'd remembered her name ... well, almost. . . but nevertheless... 

Obviously she knew who he was; everyone in this stretch of Michigan knew the 
Highsmiths, for they were just about the best-heeled family around, and old 
money, too, not like the Holches who'd gotten rich selling used cars and 
invested in a mammoth pick stucco split-level with pink dock, pink 
boathouse, pink powerboat, and pink Cadillac to match. Mrs. Holch had even 
had their poodle dyed pink until the poor thing developed eczema and 
insisted in scratching its genitals in public like a common hound dog. 

No, the Highsmith's had class, and Tracey hadn't dreamed Colin would 
remember a Nobody like herself, even though she had been friends of sorts 
with his sister before Cressida went off to boarding school. 

Once she'd even been to a birthday party in the Highsmith's huge villa, and 
though she'd only been twelve or thirteen at the time she remembered in 
covetous detail the velvet plush dining room with its crystal chandelier and 
the British manor-type gardens with their fountains and rose beds and mazes 
formed of neatly clipped hedges. Instead of the usual layer cake with 
candles and ice cream and bottled soda pop, they'd dined on some delicacy 
composed of raspberry sherbet and pistapeaches called a "coupe ambassadrice" 
and chocolate "truffles," plus a selection of exotic juices. 

While she'd still been suffused in the warm afterglow of Colin's perfunctory 
appearance, something else nice happened. Mr. Comfort, who'd been mean as a 
bear all week long, had come out on the cruiser's deck with a jovial grin on 
his rugged, sun-browned face and had stood watching while she worked. After 
some minutes, to her utter surprise, he'd come up beside her to pat her bare 
shoulder in a kindly way. 

"Okay, kid, guess you've proved you've got guts, after all. C'mon inside the 
office with me. Today I'll let you take things easy-this really isn't work 
for a little gal like you, not in this blistering heat." 

She'd hesitated, blushing. "Gee, thank you, sir, but ... but honest, this 
stripping's not so bad once you get used to it, and-" 

"Hey, don't worry," he laughed, squeezing her upper arm in a paternal 
manner. "You don't have to get uptight about Mama finding out I'm doing you 
special favors just 'cause you're a girl. Somebody's got to cope with the 
inventory while I finish up this end-of-the-month accounting, and I don't 
reckon either Toby or Rufus have enough sense to so much as count the toes 
on their stinking feet. So it's up to you, sweetheart. C'mon, let's get a 
move on-it's already after ten." 

"Right, Mr. Comfort, sir." She positioned herself in what she fondly 
supposed to be a seaman-like stance, too intent on appearing eager and 
efficient to notice his scrutinization of her half-clad figure. "Math's not 
by best subject, but I do fine till Algebra and Geometry came along, and 
Miss Turnbull in Sophomore English said my handwriting was the most legible 
in the whole class. So I'll try my best." 

"Good girl!" His eyes roved hungrily over her budding breasts, her 
half-exposed ass-cheeks. Accounting, a chore he normally abhorred, would be 
a far more pleasant task now that he'd have generous glimpse of tits and 
legs and taut teenaged buttocks whenever he raised his eyes. "Hey, sweetie, 
here's a buck. Run 'round the corner to the Sweetshop and pick us up some 
coffee and Danish before we get started, okay. No-too damn hot for coffee. 
Get me a coke, and whatever you like for yourself." 

"Yes, s-I mean Ted," she dimpled up at him, grateful that he was finally 
acting friendly. "Just as soon as I get into my clothes." 

"Oh, don't bother about that. Scorcher like this, you're better off in your 
bikini. And with all these summer folks waltzing around town in pin curls 
and underwear, no one's gonna mind your cute little swim-suit." 

"Well. . . okay. You're right-it sure is hot today." 

By five-thirty, when she'd finished tabulating tins of paint and coils of 
rope and cases of fiberglass and boxes of nuts and bolts, it was still so 
hot that the front seat of Mom's Rambler burned her bare thighs and the 
steering wheel was almost too hot to touch. In spite of the torpid weather, 
however, the fair-haired adolescent was in high spirits. Work had been more 
like play today, what with Ted making jokes and looking at her in a way that 
made her feel pretty. Un-like her mother, who blew her top if a man stared 
at her on the street, Tracey rather liked the warm feeling a man's admiring 
eyes gave her. And, of course, it was all perfectly okay with her boss ... 
just like with her teachers at school, or with her favorite Uncle, who was 
so similar in looks and personality to Ted Comfort. 

Only one unpleasant incident had marred an otherwise enjoyable day. After 
work, when she was in the crew's quarters big bathroom changing into her 
lightweight cotton shift, she'd overheard her male coworkers talking in the 
corridor outside. 

"It ain't fucking fair!" Rufus Bray was exclaiming loudly, resentfully. "How 
come we gotta work our balls off while she don't do nothing but show off her 
tits to the boss?" 

"F-fuckin' right!" Toby Turetsky echoed. "Ain't fuckin' fair!" 

"And blondeie's getting paid just as much as we are to strut 'round showing 
off her bod! Shit, man, I ain't gonna ... " 

"Well, who cares about them?" Tracey shrugged as she turned onto Main 
Street. "They're just a couple ugly creeps. It's sure not my fault they're 
too dumb to help with taking inventory!" 

She tossed her silky shoulder-length hair back from her face, putting the 
boys out of her mind as she steered the car through the tangle of holiday 
traffic which clogged the narrow small-town street. Overweight businessmen 
with pale-fleshed bellies sagging above their tartan-plaid swim trunks ... 
elegant city matrons in high-heeled sandals and expensive beach costumes and 
Jacqueline Kennedy sunglasses ... squalling kids with sunburns and inflated 
inner tubes and dribbling popsicles ... poodles on sequined leashes snarling 
at sniffing local stray mutts ... Tracey saw all this without really seeing 
it, for it was just exactly the same scene she'd witnessed every summer for 
as long as she could remember. Besides, her attention was focused on four 
sun-gilded young bodies lounging against a new-model Mercedes sports-car 
parked outside the Dairy Queen. 

Colin Highsmith! And his pretty sister, Cressida in a skimpy black string 
bikini unbelievably ... and another extremely handsome blonde youth with an 
Irish wolfhound panting at his feet ... and a large-breasted redhead in a 
bikini only a shade less revealing than svelte Cressida's. The Aronson girl 
was staring at the attractive quartet so intently that she stalled the 
Rambler. None of them noticed her, but she got a good view of the 
over-developed auburn-haired girl fictitiously snatching at Colin's "Mr. 
Misty" crushed ice beverage, then kissing him on both cheeks like a 
mademoiselle in a French film when he finally laughed and gave her a sip. 

All at once, Tracey Aronson's happy mood dissolved, leaving a black cloud of 
despondency in its place. Compared to that self-assured auburn-haired 
boarding school coed, she'd been a gauche and gawky small town simpleton 
when Colin had come into the boat yard this morning. How had she ever been 
crazy enough to consider herself the equal of these privileged private 
school butterflies, these cultured, high-class creatures who'd lounged on 
yachts in the Mediterranean and Acapulco and Nassau instead of scraping 
paint off the same ships here in Birch Bay for $2.75 an hour. She was a 
Nothing, a dun-gray moth, dull and tongue-tied and unattractive ... 
undesirable... 

Traffic began to inch forward again, but instead of continuing on the 
congested county highway which led her directly home, she swung off onto 
Ridge Roadway. The only vehicles on this narrow drive wending its way along 
the coast from villa to villa were elegant limousines and sports-cars, some 
chauffer-driven, and the occasional delivery van or telegram boy's 
motorcycle. It was a dead-end stretch of concrete leading only to private 
seaside mansions like the Highsmiths house and to abandoned villas like Old 
Lady Douse's place. 

"A nice cool swim," the young blonde muttered to herself. "That ought to 
cure the blues..." 

But how could any normal sixteen year-old girl be in good spirits when she 
faced the prospect of a dateless Friday night? Robbie Runions' class ring 
hidden under her underwear in the top drawer of her bureau along with her 
dairy and a copy of Everything You Always Wanted to Know About SEX was no 
consolation; he was just a dumb kid compared to cool guys like Colin 
Highsmith, and she'd just as soon watch some boring television program with 
Clara Pringle-who was pretty boring, too, with her chatter about her job at 
the Baptist Church Bible School-as answer his corny letter promising eternal 
fidelity. 

"Damn!" Tracey's thonged foot sank all the way to the floor in a vain effort 
to accelerate the aged automobile. The reverberating echo of the forbidden 
word made her feel better. "Goddamn everything!" 

The dashboard needle crept up to 40 mph, 50 mph, 60 mph. That was as far as 
she dared tax the tired Rambler, but it was good enough. A cool wind whipped 
through her shoulder-length curls as she hurtled down the highway, 
dispersing some of the wildly exhilarated energy which boiled inside her, 
and as vitality vibrated through her veins she began to sing at the top of 
her lungs. "Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la, Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen!"-a current 
oldie-but-goodie chart-topper on the In Crowd's favorite Kalamazoo radio 
station. 

What a weird mood she was in this evening! She screeched the car to a halt 
underneath a twisted oak just on the outskirts of the Douse's property, then 
vaulted the gate and ran down the rickety wooden staircase two-at-a-time, 
leaving her bikini behind in the back seat. Why not go skinny-dipping? 

And indeed, it felt delightfully wicked to dive into the cool water without 
a strip of clothing binding her healthy young body. Feeling like a mermaid, 
she headed for the rocks where she and Robbie had made out at a strong 
crawl... 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

"Hey, pop open another of them beers for me, willya, pal," Rufus Bray 
demanded, then burped and gulped in satisfaction as Toby Turetsky complied. 
"Yeah, that sure hits the spot. But lemme tell ya, back in Grand Rapids 
where I come from we didn't mess with this low-power shit-we drank '7-7's'. 
" 

" '7-7's'? " 

"Seagrams and 7-Up," Rufus replied, loftily. Rufus was driving, lugubriously 
elongated form hunched over the steering wheel, bony elbows winged out at 
ninety-degree angles, beads of perspiration shimmering on his acne-pocked 
brow. The vintage Studebaker was even older than the Rambler which his 
female co-worker had driven down this same stretch of road some ten minutes 
earlier, but it's engine had been souped up so that he could reach over one 
hundred miles an hour if he pressed the auto to its utmost. This was exactly 
what he was trying to do now, until his watery blue eyes caught sight of a 
car parked beneath an oak tree and he squealed to an instant, bone-jolting 
halt. 

"Wh-what's up?" stuttered Toby, twisting his thick neck to gape curiously at 
his friend. "Whatcha st-stopping for?" 

"Lookit-over there. It's Blondie's short!" 

"Huh?" 

"Y'know, Toby, I betcha you're the dumbest guy in this town full of hicks. 
Who've we been talking 'bout for the last half hour-Tracey Tits, right. 
There's her crummy old car." 

"Wh-what's it doin' here? Ain't nobody lives here no more." 

The heavyset youth was so accustomed to hearing slighting comments on his 
intellect that he no longer reacted outwardly, wasn't conscious of feeling 
insulted. Deep in the back of his brain, however, resentment accumulated in 
an ever-expanding pool of rancid vindictiveness which now and then flooded 
to the surface and caused him to explode in rages of sadistic violence. 
Okay, so he'd been called "Tubby" all through grade-school ... so he'd been 
the only kid in town to flunk second grade twice ... nowadays he wasn't the 
school fat boy anymore, and he figured he was probably strong enough to take 
on any guy in this neck of northern Michigan. Rufus, who was built like a 
limp string bean, wouldn't have a chance against him! But he didn't really 
mind when Rufus talked mean; it wasn't meant seriously, and besides they 
were real pals after having spent several months in the pen together. 

"What it means is that Tracey Tits is somewhere 'round here." Bray turned 
off the ignition and peered into the trees. "Nobody lives here, you say? So 
why don't we find out what she's doing, and have a talk 'bout how we don't 
dig what's happening on the job." 

"There's a b-beach," Toby remembered. "B-betcha she went swimming. And 
there's a road going down-lots of kids p-park there." 

The naked sixteen year-old was still thrashing through the water, working 
off her frustrations by driving her healthy young body to physical 
exhaustion, so she didn't hear the car approaching. Since the boys had 
prudently parked out of sight of the beach, she didn't see them either, and 
clambered out of the shallows without the least trace of self-consciousness 
about her unclothed figure. It was after six now, but the setting sun was 
still warm and the sand was actually hot after the afternoon's sweltering 
temperatures, so Tracey stretched out on the beach to dry off before getting 
into her clothes. She felt much calmer now, so relaxed that after staring at 
the rose-tinted horizon for a minute she closed her eyes and lay back 
enjoying the sensation of the breeze dancing over her naked and sensitive 
flesh between her slightly parted thighs. 

I've missed a lot of fun by not skinny-dipping before, she was thinking, 
oblivious to stealthy footsteps behind her. Being naked feels good ... makes 
me feel more alive, more- 

"Who's the girl without her eenie-weenie polka-dot bikini?" a vaguely 
familiar male voice jolted her from her reverie. "Well, I'll be damned if it 
ain't Tracey! Lookit that, Toby!" 

"I didn't know there was nude beaches 'round here," smirked Toby. "Sure is a 
nice s-s-surprise, huh!" 

Tracey's eyes flew open and she leapt to her feet in alarm, trying to 
remember exactly where she'd dropped her dress and panties. She was so busy 
anxiously scanning the beach, arms hugged to her thudding chest in a vain 
effort to hide the grapefruit-sized mounds of her budding breasts, that it 
was a second before she saw that Rufus Bray was tauntingly dangling her 
clothes from one hand. Far more horrifying, he was as naked as she was ... 
and so was that horrid half-witted Toby. 

"Oh, my God!" she gasped. "Oh, no!" 

Both boat workers were brandishing their fearfully swollen things, lewdly 
massaging the glistening purple-red lengths and easing back the foreskins to 
reveal bulbous brighter red glans ends. Although the innocent teenager was 
half-blinded with shame and dread, she distractedly noted how different the 
two flesh stalks were. Toby's was stubby, even shorter than her sixteen 
year-old steady boyfriend's, whereas Rufus's was as long and thin as his 
gangly body. 

"Blondie looks even better in her birthday suit 'n she does in her bikini, 
don't she?" Rufus took a step toward her, though he still held her orange 
cotton shift and white nylon panties just out of reach. "Bet the boss'd dig 
having her come to work bare-ass like that. Might even pay her a bonus!" 

Rufus giggled, a high-pitched, oddly childish snicker which grated along the 
girl's raw and sensitive nerve endings. 

"Think he'd pay us a bonus, too, if we came 'round tc the yard with our 
peckers dangling? Sure is a fuckin' shame he's not queer, ain't it?! " 

There was something evil in the Bray boy's acne-pitted face which chilled 
the blood in Tracey's veins; the cruel glint in his watery bluish eyes, the 
sneer twisting his thin mouth, those feverish florid spots on his sunken 
cheeks. She especially didn't like the way his tongue kept flicking out, 
snake-like, greedy, to wet his chapped, unusually pale lips. Even Toby, 
whose beady gray eyes were generally vapid mud puddles reflecting nothing in 
particular, now wore a satyric, almost sadistic, mask of animal brutality. 

Of course the trembling blonde knew what sort of fellow eighteen year-old 
"Tubby" Turetsky was everyone in Birch Bay was well aware that he wasn't 
quite normal. Not knowing what else to do with the obese little brat who 
couldn't seem to manage to learn to read or memorize his multiplication 
tables, the local school authorities had shrugged and passed him on from 
grade to grade until, to the relief of all concerned, he'd dropped out of 
High. He'd been in Tracey Aronson's class; even in these bizarre 
circumstances, it was a bit difficult to be afraid of someone she still 
considered the class dummy who'd spent more time standing in the corner or 
out in the hall than he had at his desk. 

Rufus Bray was another matter. All she knew about her unappealing co-worker 
was that he was nineteen, came from Grand Rapids, a city some hours south of 
here, and was also a high school dropout. Since the only pages of the 
newspaper which interested her were the letters to the editor (Mother's 
donations figured frequently here), the women's section with its recipes and 
fashion tips, and the next-to-the-last-sheet featuring a crossword puzzle 
and comics, she'd never read about the two incidents which had landed Bray 
in jail. Two rapes: one, a Northern Michigan State College coed, the other 
his thirteen year-old first cousin. Nevertheless, instinct warned her that 
the lanky red-headed youth could very well be dangerous. 

Stop panicking! she ordered herself. They've got as much a right to go 
skinny-dipping as you do! Just keep cool and everything'll be okay... 

"C'mon, Ruf," she strained her lips into a facsimile of a smile, "quit 
kidding around. Hand over my dress, okay. I-I've got to get home right away, 
or else-or else Mom'll worry why I'm so late getting off work ... " 

"Fuck your mama! You ain't gonna be goin' nowhere for a while, baby doll." 

A piercing shriek shattered the sundown serenity of the deserted beach as 
his outstretched palm whacked against the side of her head. Caught off 
balance, she toppled facedown into a patch of dune grass too stunned to 
scream again as the breath was knocked from her lungs. The prickly weeds cut 
into her naked belly and breasts, but she didn't notice the discomfort any 
more than she noticed her tangerine-toned sundress fluttering to the ground 
beside her like a limp flag of surrender. 

"Shit!" Rufus's voice was reverent with awe for his friend's brutality. "You 
sh-showed her, all right!" . "Yeah, you bet your life I showed her! Get a 
good look at her ass, willya!" 

"Jeez! It's as good as her b-boobs!" 

This can't be real! Tracey's mind wheeled wildly as the clouds of confusion 
started clearing from her head. It's some crazy nightmare! It has to be! But 
she knew perfectly well that it was true; her mouth was full of gritty sand 
and a razor-sharp blade of dune grass was pressed right up against her 
tender bare breasts. 

"Ya know what I'm thinking, Toby?" the tall red-haired rapist drawled. "I 
think it was real lucky we showed up here to find Blondie all ready for a 
party. Now we can have us some fun and let her know it ain't fair for the 
big boss to be the only one getting any action." 

"Don't you dare touch me again! A party! You're out of your minds! I'm 
getting out of here this minute, and if you hit me again I'm gonna tell. You 
couldn't pay me a million dollars to have a 'party' with ugly creeps like 
you guys!" 

"Think you're too good for us, eh? Hell, baby, you're coming to our little 
private party, and you're gonna dig it, too!" 

Terror thrummed through Tracey's veins like liquid lightning, and she 
struggled to her knees, spitting out sand and clutching clumps of weeds for 
support. Sneering, Rufus Bray allowed her to scramble to her feet before 
lunging forward to imprison her naked figure in a lecherous arm-lock. 

"Goin' somewheres, little girl? Party hasn't begun yet." 

Stinging tears half-blinded her as she tried to jerk out of his grasp-oh, 
God, his terrible bulge was actually touching her bare belly!-but her 
clumsily pummeling fists and inept attempts to kick him were to no avail. 
Although he was skinny as a concentration camp escapee, years of gang 
warfare and his stint in the State Penitentiary had hardened his lean 
muscles and improved his technique. Besides, he was experienced at this sort 
of thing ... and also had a more than willing assistant standing at his 
side. 

"Grab her from behind, Ruf!" he panted. "Keep her legs down. The little 
bitch's goin' after my balls, I think." 

Precisely the teenager's intention. A few months ago she'd helped Mom type a 
Female and Free article on the subject of rape, and one section had stuck in 
her memory. 

"A male's Achilles heel is, ironically, that part of his anatomy of which he 
is proudest: his genitals. Criticize his penis and destroy his ego. And a 
well-aimed kick at his testicles should disable him long enough to give any 
physically-fit Sister a chance to flee to safety." 

All this had sounded simple enough when she'd read it, but now that she was 
shamefully squashed between the grinding pelvises of two sex maniacs, with 
her muscles weary from her vigorous swim and head groggy after her fall, she 
was struck by her total helplessness. As one pulsing phallus pressed between 
her shuddering buttocks and the other mashed against her churning young 
belly, she tried desperately to recall what else Mom's magazine story had 
said about self-defense. Something about tear gas pistols, about carrying a 
sharp pair of household shears in your handbag at all times ... helpful 
hints, no doubt, but of little use under the circumstances. And now, horror 
of horrors, pimple-faced Rufus was pinching her tender breasts in his grubby 
hands, digging into the pale brown aureoles and rosy nipples with his 
filthy, unfilled fingernails. 

Ungovernable angry repulsion raced through her bloodstream, speeding 
adrenalin out to every inch of her body. Suddenly she shoved her hands 
between Rufus and herself, pushing his bony chest away with all her might 
while she simultaneously tried to squirm away from Toby. Teeth gnashing, 
fists flailing, she actually managed to fight free of her two fellow 
deckhands before a brutal blow from red-haired Bray send her sprawling back 
down on the sand. She was beaten and she knew it, but still she continued 
wriggling wildly, a frantic animal snagged in a trap, and wailing out 
protests. 

"No, no. You can't do it! Get away from me, you dirty pigs!" 

"What's your problem, anyhow? Ain't we good enough for ya? Ya only like 
screwing old men like the boss?" 

By now Tracey was sobbing, tears rolling over her burning cheeks to puddle 
onto the soft sand. She wrenched her neck around to gape at Rufus, who was 
again massaging his bloated male weapon and whose eyes burned with sadistic 
fires which told her instinctively that he actually wanted her to struggle 
so he'd have a chance to beat her up. Accordingly, she collapsed in a 
passive heap of pain, screwing her eyes tight shut to try to blow out the 
image of his horrifying penis. 

"I n-n-never did anything wrong with Mr. Comfort," she whimpered miserably. 
"Please! I don't know why you're doing this to me, but please let me go! 
Please, please!" 

"Why're you doing this to me?" Rufus mimicked in a high-pitched falsetto. " 
'Cause you're a cock-teasing bitch with a hot cunt that needs a little stud 
action, that's why. So there's no reason for carrying on-that itchy twat of 
your's is gonna get what it wants. Me and my buddy, we got the equipment-as 
ya can see!" 

The innocent adolescent shuddered as he tugged on his turgid thickness 
again, for the thing seemed to grow more enormous with each passing moment. 
Fear surged through her so strenuously that she could actually taste it, a 
nd her tongue was a leaden weight as she whimpered: "You're crazy! You 
can't! I'll-I'll tell the cops, and you'll be sent to jail! I will! 

"Will ya, now?" Rufus took a couple menacing steps toward her pinioned body. 
"And are ya gonna mention you was trespassion and swimming nude? Asking for 
it? Ya gonna tell them how much you loved getting fucked by two big cocks at 
the same time?" 

"WHAT?! " 

"That's what I said, two cocks. You deaf or something? Ya never did it with 
two guys before-hell, honey, you're gonna go crazy. Ain't no bitch in the 
whole fucking world who doesn't!" 

"We really gonna f-f-fuck her, Rufus?" 

"You bet your life we are. Just wait'll you see Tracey Tit's tail twitching 
when we're both banging her. I'm gonna letcha ram it up her cunt, man, 
'cause I wanna try out her cute little ass-hole." 

"W-wow! Outtasight!" 

They really were insane! How could any woman alive stand to have even one of 
these repulsive creatures touch her, much less ENJOY it? And what in God's 
name did he mean by at the same time? She'd never heard of such a disgusting 
thing. One thing she did know, however: she had to get away from these 
monsters at once! 

This was Tracey Aronson's last coherent thought before the Bray boy's 
ruthless middle finger stabbed through her tiny anal orifice to plunge 
agonizing inches into her tight rectal passage. She screamed at the top of 
her lungs, then bit her tongue in panic-stricken alarm as her outcry 
elicited another stinging blow on her impaled ass-cheeks. Blackness swam 
before her eyes form the pain in her backside and on her sadistically 
scraped ankles, and even as frantic pleas gurgled from her fear-parched lips 
she was praying that she'd pass out. 

"Stop! Stop it, you-you animals!" she wailed, beating her balled up fists 
into the sand in helpless protest. "Get your filthy paws off me! I'm a 
virgin! A VIRGIN! Don't you dare touch me, you pigs!" 

Toby Turetsky made a croaking sound, then giggled moronically. "Didja hear 
that, Ruf? She says she's a v-v-virgin! Am I really gonna crack a ch-cherry? 
Am I ? " 

"She's fulla shit! No chick with a bod like hers could be a goddamn virgin." 

As he spole, the nineteen year-old ex-convict yanked his finger out of his 
terrified victim's tight anus, his heinous howl of mirth masking the lewd 
popping noise. Then, still chuckling, he rubbed the finger over the smooth 
pinkness of her vaginal slit. 

"All dripping wet and ready for us!" proclaimed Rufus. "C'mon, Toby, let's 
turn her over and see her boobs better." 

Now brutal male hands were gripping her shoulders as well as her feet, and 
the smell of stale beer and cigarettes suffused her nostrils until she 
wanted to gag. So they were drunk-that made the possibility of reasoning 
with them even more remote. No longer caring whether or not the boys beat 
her up, she commenced a new round of ineffective struggles, sobbing and 
screaming simultaneously in a shrill, inhuman song of despair which 
reverberated back from the surrounding dunes in an eerie way. 

The worst of it all was that, loathe though she was to admit it even to 
herself, her virginal vagina was indeed seeped with shameful secretions. Of 
course, there could be no connection between desire for these loutish 
perverts and the damning droplets which were dampening the petals of her 
pussy. It was simply some sort of chemical reaction of fear, or perhaps an 
inopportune effect of the dune grass tickling her unprotected genitals. She 
pressed her legs as tightly together as she could, assuming she could will 
away the unwanted wetness. 

"I AM a virgin! I am, I am!" she shrieked, fighting with every fiber of her 
healthy young body not only to hold her upper legs together, but to prevent 
them from turning her over. "Get away from me! GET AWAY! Nnnoooooo!" 

Deaf to her frantic cries, the two beer and lust deranged boat workers 
effortlessly slipped the slim sixteen year-old flat on her back. Particles 
of sand cut into the raw bruises which Bray's spanking had left on her 
backside, but she scarcely was aware of the pain. In fact, the only things 
which had any significance for her at this nightmarish moment were the two 
blood-bloated rods looming above her helpless body, with their pulsing 
purple veins and menacingly swaying testicles and an ominous pearl of 
pre-cum secretion glistening on each narrow glans slit. 

"Looks like I've knocked the fight outta the smart ass slut, huh, Toby!" 
gloated Rufus, then turned to stare hungrily at the whimpering teenager. 
"Well, how about getting on with our party. You like the look of our 
peckers? You getting all hot and horny already?" 

"I s-s-sure am horny-I'm gonna go crazy if I d-don't get my prick inside her 
real soon. How're we gonna work this, Ruf? We really gonna both screw her at 
once? How?" 

"What! You never sandwiched a bitch before?" Actually, despite his tone of 
scoffing superiority, the lanky red-haired youth was as inexperienced as his 
friend, but he'd read plenty of graphic literature on the subject. "Jeez, 
man, you guys around here don't know how to have fun with a broad like we do 
down in Grand Rapids." 

Usually Toby was a willing listener to his coworker's tales about his 
hometown, but today his slow brain was pre-occupied with impatient passion. 
"Yeah, but whadda we do? Should we leave her on her back, or turn her round, 
or what?" 

It was a good question, Rufus frowned, thinking back over the paperbacks 
he'd read as best he could considering the clouds of lust and alcohol and 
sadistic glee clogging his brain cells. As far as he could recall, the 
authors hadn't mentioned such mundane practicalities as position: rather, 
there were just two fellows crazily ramming their huge cocks into some sexy 
broad who kept begging for more, more, more. 

"Hold your horses, man," he replied. "I wanna get Blondie's motor humming 
first, so's she's screaming for cock. That way, she'll know better 'n to 
treat us like dirt anymore. And what happened to that six-pack? Gimme 
another can, okay." 

The instant a long-faced Toby released her to grope among clumps of dune 
grass and discarded articles of attire, both the blonde's shapely legs shot 
upward in the general direction of Rufus' heavy, baseball-sized testicles. 
By now the sun had drifted beneath the skyline and the sand hills were 
casting long purple-blue shadows across the beach; even if the lanky 
ex-convict hadn't chosen this exact second to lunge down toward her breasts, 
she'd probably have missed the aimed-for genitals. As it was, her abruptly 
up-kicking heel caught him square on the chin, and with a hoarse yelp of 
shock he tumbled backward onto the sand beside her. 

"Goddamn slut!" raged Rufus, angrily swabbing at the blood trickling from 
the corner of his mouth with the first thing that came to hand-Tracey's 
little lace panties. "I warned you, you bitch. Okay, you wanna play it the 
hard way, I got no objections!" 

Tracey shrunk back down against the suddenly-cool sand, heart thudding in 
her chest as she realized she'd misjudged the malicious hatred this virtual 
stranger somehow held against her. This was no adolescent mating game, like 
the night she and Robbie Runions had cuddled out on the rocks; this was real 
and earnest and very ugly. It wasn't the Little League anymore-it was a 
Major League combat with dangerously high stakes. Deep fear gripped her, 
nauseated her, as she gaped up at the demonic eyes and twisted snarl of her 
enemy. 

"Wow! Sh-shit!" stuttered Toby, and dropped the six-pack. 

Neither the girl nor the Grand Rapids' hoodlum paid him a moment's 
attention. Grinning in mirthless, vindictive glee, the nineteen year old 
sadist slammed the heel of his tennis shoe between her rigidly clenched 
thighs, prying them apart. Then, laughing aloud when she winced and moaned 
in pain, he planted both feet between her upper legs and slowly, torturously 
spread them apart until her legs were spread-eagled. Looking down, he saw 
her glistening pink pussy lips pulling open like the petals of a flower. 

"Oh, God, stop it! You're hurting me! Please stop!" He was going to split 
her right in two! "Pleeezzze!" 

"I'm hurting you? Sure is too fucking bad, girlie." 

Rufus Bray's beady eyes squinted into malevolent slits as he inspected the 
exposed curl-fringed pussy slit. In a way, he longed to drop to his knees 
and lunge his aching stiffness deep down inside the enticing hole without 
another minute's delay. There were, of course, several very good reasons for 
not doing so: intuition told him she hadn't been putting them on about being 
a virgin, and appropriating under-age pussy was what had landed him behind 
bars the last time ... and his probation officer was one mean 
son-of-a-bitch. However, he was only momentarily stopped by the recollection 
of the risks. There was another, far more compelling explanation for his 
hesitance. 

Before he was finished with this conceited cunt, he vowed, he'd reduce her 
to a helpless puddle of pleading female flesh, for the ultimate triumph 
would be seeing her grovel in carnal craving beneath proudly punishing 
prick. Bray gulped down half the can of Budweiser to wet his 
excitement-parched throat while he considered which way of forcing the girl 
to beg would bring him the most satisfaction. 

Whipping a bitch was always fun, he thought, glancing toward the spot 
several yards away where he'd dropped his wide leather belt-that's how he'd 
dealt with the plump coed he'd picked up hitching a ride back to her college 
dorm. Women were always instantly anxious to satisfy his every lewd desire 
when he held his switchblade against their necks or nipples or pussy mounds, 
too, but unfortunately his weapons had all been confiscated when he was 
arrested and he'd not yet been able to afford replacements. Anyway, all 
these sadistic diversions took time, and his balls were already churning 
with a white-hot urgency he didn't dare to ignore. 

He finished off the beer and tossed it to the ground; it landed on top of 
the blood-stained panties he'd used to wipe his cut lip, and for some reason 
the sight brought a rush of inspiration. The sandwiching plan had been 
fantastic-the only reason he was abandoning it was, of course, that it was 
too much trouble to explain to Toby what he must do. Instead, they'd 
sandwich her another way-with their mouths-and with her snotty little mouth, 
too. 

"Get over here, you ass-hole," he barked to his companion, who was still 
standing several feet away in open-mouthed astonishment, hand unconsciously 
pulsing up and down on his stubby flesh stalk. "How come you're beating your 
meat when we've got Tracey Tits to take care of us, you dope?" 

"Please!" the girl was too terrified to sound defiant anymore. "I-I'm sorry 
I kicked you. Please don't do anything bad!" 

"Sorry, are ya? Kinda late for that. But don't worry," he chuckled in an 
ugly way, "we ain't gonna do nothing bad. Just you wait and see how good 
your teasing little twat's gonna feel. But I'm telling you now, any more 
funny business and I'm gonna give like I got. Only I'm gonna kick in every 
one of your little white teeth, and cut up that face so's you won't be 
pretty enough for any guy to wanna fuck again. That clear? You just lie back 
and enjoy it!" 

Tracey was sobbing so hysterically that she couldn't have answered even if 
she'd known what to say. She didn't doubt that the hot-tempered thug would 
carry out his gruesome threat ... but on the other hand it was unthinkable 
to relinquish her precious purity without protest. How would she ever face 
herself or anyone decent again if she did that? 

Bray sniggered at the misery mirrored on the girl's tear-splotched face. 
"First thing I wanna see you do is get down on your hands and knees, like 
the she-bitch you are. And keep that fine ass of yours up high!" 

She gaped at him in horror-stricken disbelief, but to her own surprise found 
herself slowly sinking to a kneeling position. She was too slow for 
impatient Bray, who grasped her hips and flipped her down onto the sand with 
her round white ass-cheeks quivering toward the darkening sky. Then, after a 
couple rough slaps on her openly up-thrust buttocks, he dropped to the 
ground beside her, crouching so close to her that his swollen member dangled 
mere inches from her dread-dizzied eyes and her nostrils puckered at the 
pungent, unwashed odor of his crotch. Automatically, she tensed her thighs 
together-but too late. 

"Get in gear, Toby!" ordered Rufus. "C'mon, get your fat head down there and 
tongue her to death. Drive her out of her dirty little mind, okay, man!" 

"But, b-but-" His voice was muffled as he obediently dropped to his 
haunches, gripped the girl's satin-skinned hips to keep her from moving, and 
wormed a clumsy finger into the coral-pink cleft of her pulsating cunt. 
"B-but-" 

"But what? Hell, don't you know how to eat pussy, either?" 

"S-sure, I do. Done it with a wh-whore in M-Muskegon last summer. B-but-" 

"So then, start licking this here whore!" 

"But I thought you said we was gonna f-fuck her! Crap, my pecker's gonna 
blow up any minute if I don't-" 

"So jerk off or something," interrupted Rufus with an unfeeling shrug. After 
she sucks me off, she'll go down on you, okay. And then we'll screw her. 
Shit, this is sure going to be one long, wild party!" 

"No! Noooo- 

The schoolgirl's shrill shriek abruptly snapped off into a gagging, inhuman 
gurgle of disgust as gusts of scorching breath grazed against the sensitive 
surface of her unprotected pussy and a stubby, calloused fingertip scraped 
along her cringing crevice. There were scruffy tufts of hair tickling her 
inner thighs, and a clammy palm clamped on the side of her buttocks whose 
ragged-nailed fingers cut into her flesh when she attempted to squirm away 
from this ultimate obscenity. Of course, she still kept trying to wiggle 
away, to rise to her feet and run as fast as she could down the beach and up 
the steep dune to her car. Even if they caught her and beat her to a bloody 
pulp, it was better than enduring this outrage. 

"Hold still, girlie, or you're gonna be good and sorry." 

Hold still, when "Tubby" Turetsky, the class dunce, had his filthy, 
slobbering mouth this close to her most intimate female flesh? Impossible! 
Tracey shoved her thighs together as hard as she could-and, despite her 
frail, very feminine appearance, she was quite a strong young woman-but this 
only succeeded in trapping Toby's head deeper inside her quivering inner 
thighs ... and in rousing rage in the other man lurking near her head. 

"Nooo! Stop it-oouuggg-" 

This was too much! Turetsky's slimy tongue had touched her private genitals! 
Tracey raised her hands from the now-cool sand, vaguely intending to scratch 
out Rufus' eyes and then attack Toby in some similar fashion, but before she 
could put this foolhardy plan into effect the tall Grand Rapids ex-con had 
launched his own assault. 

"Fucking bitch! I toldja to behave!" 

Hot, sweat-sticky hands crushed as though the man thought he was kneading 
bread, forcing her little nipple buds into taut round bullets of unwanted 
sensation. She screamed again, acute alarm and infuriated resentment raging 
in equal proportions through her bloodstream, scarcely aware than one of his 
gaunt hands had left her tortured breasts to rummage in the pocket of his 
dirty unbuttoned blue work shirt. Only when his cheap lighter flickered in 
the gray-purple dusk and the glowing end of a Marlboro inched toward her did 
she belatedly recall for the second time this evening that this Bray 
character was a lot more dangerous than she'd first imagined. 

"You gonna sit still and shut up, or am I gonna have to burn a few holes in 
that pretty face of yours?" 

"Aaahhhh!" 

The cigarette butt grazed the delicate skin of her swan-like white neck, 
filling the fresh, faintly fishy night air with the acrid odor of singed 
human flesh although it only ground once against the sensitive sinews, a 
stubbing-out-in-the-ashtray motion. Searing pain shot from the top of 
Tracey's tousled blonde scalp to the tips of her ten involuntarily curling 
toes, but by now she was too terrorized to dare to vocalize her acute agony. 
Rufus Bray laughed, lunging forward. 

"liked that, cutiepie? Now you've got yourself a pretty little scar to 
remember this night. And now you're gonna be a good girl, ain'tcha?" 

The young blonde shuddered, her face transforming into contorted mask of 
unwilling compliance as her muscles froze in fear. It was obvious now that 
there was no hope of defending herself against these drunk, demon-possessed 
morons-to try would be suicidal. No, all she could do was pray their obscene 
appetites would be swiftly satisfied, that she could somehow escape with her 
virginity intact. Horrible as this bestial oral attack might be, it was 
preferable to losing her treasured maidenhead to a couple of despicable dock 
workers. 

I'll close my eyes and pretend it's not happening, she vowed silently. I 
won't let myself even feel the dreadful things they're doing. Maybe I can't 
keep them from pawing at me with their filthy hands and slimy mouths, but I 
can keep them from touching my mind! 

It was a brave, sincere resolution, but one far more easily made than 
carried out. Within seconds, as Toby's tongue delved into the secret depths 
of her precious virgin vagina, she was shuddering in repugnance and 
realizing that no amount of willpower could numb her nerves. Tracey gritted 
her teeth to keep from screaming at the strange sensations between her legs 
and the stinging arrows shooting out from her mauled breasts, nearly 
fainting from the vain effort of training her traitorous body into a stone 
statue. 

"Good eating pussy, huh, Toby? Look, she's already starting to twitch her 
tail! Thought she'd be a hot number once she got going-she's got one of 'em 
sassy asses that always mean a gal's good in the sack." 

The teenager's clenched lids flew wide apart at this atrocious insult. After 
one horrified glance at Rufus Bray's lust-slackened features and ferociously 
fondled cock, she'd begun to shut her eyes tight again when she just 
happened to glance down and her eyes widened in fascinated revulsion 
instead. Peering through her bouncing breasts, she had a clear view of her 
wantonly spread thighs and the strawberry-colored tongue sluicing right into 
her curl-framed cuntal channel. It was the most disgusting thing she'd ever 
seen ... and yet, in a forbidden corner of her brain, she recognized that 
the warm ripples stirring in her veins were born of vulgar, unwanted erotic 
intoxication. Suddenly, fleetingly, she thought of the time out on the rocks 
when she'd gotten so inexplicably aroused watching Mimi Sweeney and her 
lover. 

At last, after much frantic fumbling along the schoolgirl's fresh-tasting 
furrow and puffy pussy lips, the retarded Turetsky boy located the round 
button of her clitoris. That whore in Muskegon-a kindly sort, if a bit past 
her prime-had informed him that this tiny miniature penis was the most 
important part of a girl's body and that he should suck, nibble, kiss and so 
on until it stiffened into a female version of his hard-on. Fate hadn't 
afforded him an opportunity to perfect his technique until now, so he was 
surprised and delightedly proud when the blonde's body responded at once to 
his tongue. 

"W-w-wow!" Toby grabbed for his savagely swollen stiffness and began 
massaging the fleshy stalk furiously. "Sh-shit!" 

To her intense shame, Tracey noticed that she was indeed wiggling her 
buttocks in involuntary response to the lewd oral titillation. Now that he 
was circling her throbbing clitoris in maddening, ever-increasing 
enthusiasm, however, she was gradually losing control of herself. It felt 
wonderful, no matter how sordid and wicked it was. . .far better than her 
own guilty fumblings beneath her nightie, or than Robbie Runions' timid 
finger-thrubbing on their last night together. 

"Go, man, go! You're doing great!" leered Rufus. "Ram your tongue right down 
to her belly! And stick your finger up her ass, too. Show her the works!" 

In order to better appreciate this prurient hors-d'oeuvre preceding his own 
carnal gratification, Rufus Bray had popped open another Budweiser and was 
absently toying with his foreskin. His eyes squinted into narrower than 
usual slits of. reptilian venom as he scrutinized the slavishly kneeling 
schoolgirl; no doubt about it, she was getting hot-her glassy eyes were 
glued to her tongue-tormented vagina, her lithe body shivered sporadically, 
a film of perspiration bathed her flushed, twisted face. It was only a 
matter of minutes now before she was aroused enough to suck his own 
impatient erection with masochistic pleasure! "Ooohhh!" 

Rufus burped, then grinned in lascivious pleasure, as the girl cried out 
from the unexpected pain of a finger ramming into her previously untouched 
little anal orifice. Hell, this imagine-pants bitch was going to discover 
she wasn't one bit better than a five-dollar-a-buck-fuck down in Chicago's 
Black Belt. She was just the sort of bitch he detested-like those 
prick-teasers he'd gone to school with before he wised up and dropped out, 
snide, perfumed snobs who'd scorned him because he had a couple of pimples, 
a bad address, and a mother who did their mothers' washing. 

"Fucking sluts!" he muttered, animal lust burning like a live coal inside 
him. 

At least he wasn't a numbskull like his pal, Toby, who just went without 
cunt, or paid for it, because he'd never figured out that nine women out of 
ten really wanted to be ravished in the most vile, vulgar manner possible. 
He was only twenty, but he'd discovered this invaluable item of information 
back in 1970 when, while still a rebellious Grand Rapids' high school 
student, he'd raped a certain Glenda Grimes, president of the Future 
Homemakers of America Club and a notoriously determined prude despite her 
Playboy centerfold type figure. She'd screamed and writhed and finally 
pleaded for more, and after that night in the forest preserve he'd been 
hooked on rape like some people were on booze or dope or gambling. 

Glenda Grimes hadn't breathed a word about her shameful surrender to 
sexuality, and neither had nine of the other twelve tight-ass broads he'd 
transformed into shivering masses of mindless feminine flesh. Two out of 
twelve had blabbed to the cops, a pretty decent ratio all things considered. 
Rufus figured this innocent little piece kneeling slave-like on the sand 
before him wouldn't dare tell a soul, and even if he'd expected she might, 
he was far too aroused to stop now. 

The young victim, unaware of her attacker's lurid thoughts, was still 
concentrating all her energy on trying to submerge the tide of sexual 
excitation rising in her healthy adolescent loins. It was a hopeless cause. 
With each passing second, her pussy lips throbbed and swelled more 
pleasurably around his deep-thrusting tongue, and as he pushed further into 
her seeping passage, his nose teased at her aroused clitoris. Tears of 
despair welled in her big brown eyes when she felt tingling goose bumps 
rippling across her quivering belly and jouncing breasts. 

I can't be liking this! her tortured mind screamed. Hadn't the article she'd 
typed for Mother claimed that the common saying that all women secretly 
longed to be raped was nothing but a male chauvinistic myth? Tears trickled 
over her cheeks as she realized she must be just as sick and disgusting as 
these two unwashed boat workers ... maybe even more perverted, because she 
knew better but was allowing her body to respond anyway. 

"Nooo ... please, no more! Nooo..." 

Her whimpers rang weak and unconvincing in her own ears, despite the fact 
that Toby had just commenced a new outrageously debasing torture. A few 
minutes earlier, his merciless middle digit had pierced the resisting ring 
of her anus and an electric jolt of agony had exploded inside her; now, as 
she shuddered in shame, his cruel fingers had pried apart her fear-clenched 
ass-cheeks and his hot, wet tongue was licking a lewd path along her 
crevice. After a second, as she'd feared, the outthrust oral member was 
teasing the puckering circle of her rectal mouth. Her taut rosebud opening 
spasmed, tried to shrink itself inward to escape this new lewdly exciting 
sensation, but Toby and Rufus only laughed, and the tongue speared right 
through the elasticized entrance. 

"Oh, God! Oh, please, noooo!" 

Once, twice, three times the tormenting tongue dug into her forbidden rectal 
recesses. Then it snaked back along the damp crack between her nether cheeks 
to resume its maddening manipulation of her crazily churning vagina, and 
although she kept swearing to herself that she'd never fall prey to her 
sinfully prurient desire, she knew his flicking tongue was speeding her to 
the point of no return. Soon, unless he stopped his lappings and lickings, 
she'd be approaching the wickedly exquisite state where nothing mattered 
except total sensual satisfaction. 

"My God, I can't help it. I can't stop myself!" 

Tracey certainly hadn't intended to utter the damning words aloud-they'd 
just spilled from her lips of their own accord. When she heard the voice 
echoing through the darkness, she was so horrified that she bit her lips 
hard enough to draw salty droplets of blood. 

Well, well, guess you're hot enough now, aintcha?" leered Rufus Bray. "Tell 
us how much you like having your cunt eaten, kid ... and remember what 
happened last time you didn't cooperate." 

I have to do what they tell me, the tormented teen rationalized wildly. 
Otherwise who knows what they'll do. It's okay if I say it, so long as I 
don't mean it. 

But the shrill cries which rang out over the still black water weren't 
stilted, sham pretenses ... they were genuinely passionate, and with each 
obscenity she uttered, the more the evidence of her own sordid carnality 
turned her on. 

"Ohhh, yeah! It's good! I love it ... love your tongue in my pussy. K-keep 
doing it! Fuck me with your tongue!" 

"That's a good girl! And sure, Toby'll keep tonguing your hot little twat 
till you cum ... so long's you do just what I want." 

Before the masochistically maddened adolescent had a chance to consider what 
this new threat portended, rough hands had clutched her flushed face and two 
thin thumbs were prying open her blood-flecked lips. "Suck me, bitch! And 
suck me good, or you'll be damn sorry! I wanna see ya swallow every bit of 
my jism, hear?! " 

Her half-daze of deliciously wicked bliss was shattered by this barbaric 
command. She gasped in stunned revulsion as Rufus eased back his foreskin so 
that the bloated head of his long penis pulsed mere inches from her 
forced-open mouth, unwilling to obey him even though she knew full well how 
furious he'd be if she didn't. It had been one thing to plant a gingerly 
kiss on her boyfriend's penis, but the idea of letting her mouth be defiled 
by this monster's sticky sperm sickened her. 

"No, pleeezzzzeeee-" she started to whimper, her voice a grotesque gurgle 
because of the thick digits forcing her jaws wide open. "I can't ... " 

"Sure ya can-ya better!" 

Additional protest was effectively cut off as the hot, spongy-textured tip 
of his lust-throbbing member crushed against her teeth. The innocent 
virgin's eyes widened as she gazed in dismay down the impossible length of 
the gleaming angry-red rod, and a shudder wracked her subjugated figure at 
the piquancy of male pre-cum fluid which seeped from it's glans tip onto her 
taste buds. 

"C'mon," the ex-convict gloated. "Sink your mouth all the way down 'round my 
pecker and suck till you drain my balls dry!" 

A muffled moan burst from her violated lips as the mushroom-shaped head 
crashed forward into the moist softness of her cringing mouth. For a moment 
she thought she'd gag from the feel of his dribbling from its narrow slit 
opening down to the base of her tongue, but as his hands tightened viciously 
in her tangled golden curls she realized dizzily that she had somehow to 
discover the easiest way to endure this humiliating torture. Breathing 
through her nose helped, as did making swallowing motions which flexed the 
walls of her cheeks around the impaling cock shaft. 

"Suck harder, you prick-teasing tramp. Do it good like Toby's doin' it to 
you, or I'll break your fucking neck!" 

Toby! She'd almost forgotten the sinfully salacious pleasure his tongue had 
been bringing her, but now she once again felt a delicious shiver of 
depraved delight thrumming from her orally-abused pussy to every nerve 
ending in her naked body. Her buttocks involuntarily contracted, spasmed, 
and her lips simultaneously started nibbling on the thick flesh rod crammed 
inside her cheeks. Oh, God! This dual subjugation was vile, perverted-but 
unbearably thrilling! 

Unexpected masochistic tendencies were being roused in the naive schoolgirl 
by the two rapists; she didn't understand what was happening to her, but she 
couldn't fight it she knew. They'd driven her to the depths of depravity, 
and she no longer had the will to try to drag herself out of the sordid 
swamp of lust. Groaning greedily, she wriggled her ass and sucked Rufus' 
pistoning penis so deeply into her throat that she could feel his 
sparse-haired testicles bouncing against her saliva-streaked chin and 
cheeks. She was acting like a debauched slut, a bitch-just as they kept 
calling her-and she relished it more than anything she'd ever experienced in 
her short, sheltered sixteen years. 

"Ohhh, crap! She's a natural-born cocksucker!" Rufus Bray's lust-coarsened 
voice rang out across the dunes. "Shit, blondeie, you doin' great!" 

Down between Tracey Aronson's wantonly wriggling buttocks, dim-witted Toby 
continued slathering his tongue from clitoris to anus, all the while pumping 
his right hand up and down on his purple-veined flesh pole like a man 
possessed. By now the teenager was so aroused that the salacious sight of a 
man masturbating as he licked her pussy, plus the almost painful scratching 
of his unshaven cheeks on her tender inner thighs and the licentious wet 
slurping sounds, quickly drove her to the precipice of orgasm. She needed no 
more urging to stimulate the massive male organ which had invaded her mouth; 
eagerly, greedily she experimented to discover what movements made the 
steel-hard stalk pulse most excitedly, made the cock's owner groan most 
deliriously, made the vein on its underside vibrate most vigorously. . 

"Ya love it, don'tcha, baby doll?" Rufus Bray's triumphant voice hissed 
above her madly bobbing head. "Don't think you're too good for me now that 
you've had a taste of my love juice, do ya! Reckon you know you're just a 
broad with her brain between her legs, just like all the other cunts in the 
world. C'mon, play with my balls-an' stick your dirty little finger up my 
ass like Toby did to you." 

Tracey complied willingly, She knew that she was acting like a tramp, but 
something inside her ha snapped so that she no longer cared. In fact, her 
slutishness filled her with a weird sense of exhilaration of wild 
abandonment. He was right-she wasn't on bit different from, say, the 
infamous Mimi Sweene however, she was luckier and, she hoped, more clever, 
so her shameful sensuality would remain a closely guarded secret. These two 
greasy drop-outs had forced her into this and therefore wouldn't dare tell, 
which meant that she'd be able to walk down the halls at Birch Bay High with 
her head high and without the guys saying smutty things about her as she 
passed. 

"Ohhh, shit!" Bray moaned. "I'm gonna cum any minute, the way she's blowing 
me. Christ Almighty!" 

Waves of onrushing climax welled in the young blonde's sweat-lathered loins 
and she ground her buttocks against Toby's mouth in avid invitation while 
teasing her finger into Rufus' puckered anal opening again and uninhibitedly 
fondling his velvety balls. Since there was no risk of besmirching her 
Reputation with these crude workmen, why shouldn't she let herself go and 
try all the wicked things she'd dreamed about? Why the hell shouldn't she 
just go wild?! 

"Gimme your hot cum!" her own voice spluttered, shocking her, exciting her. 
"I wanna eat it up, you bastard!" 

Beneath her fingers his balls tightened, the gigantic phallus between her 
sluttishly straining cheeks seemed to grow longer than ever, and the tube on 
its underside shivered against her tingling tongue. Tracey shuddered in 
wicked delight as the first depraved droplets splashed down into her 
cock-stuffed mouth, but even as she strained every muscle in her lusting 
loins for her own orgasm, Toby's tongue and lips suddenly abandoned her 
craving cuntal crevice. 

"Ouugghhh!" he wailed. "M-me too! C-can't wait! CCUUMMMMMIINNGGG!" 

"Don't stop yet!" Tracey tried to scream back to him, but seething sperm was 
gushing down her throat so the only sound she could make was a gagging mewl. 
And then heated jets of sticky semen were spattering against her wantonly 
kneeling body, dribbling over her suddenly frozen buttocks and thighs and 
even onto the dangling pears of her bruised breasts. Each additional spurt 
acted like a fire extinguisher on the flames of her passion until, by the 
time he collapsed panting on the sand, she wasn't even feeling 
frustrated-just sick and sad and soiled. 

For a torturous eternity after the boy behind her had spent his passion, 
Rufus continued spilling his sticky male seed down her gagging throat. Her 
enthusiasm for swallowing his sperm had evaporated along with her orgasm, 
but when she attempted to tug her mouth away from his endlessly spurting 
hose, vicious fingers tangled in her flaxen hair and held her face tight 
against his groin. Choking and coughing, semen spilling over her contorted 
cheeks and matting her hair, she endured his ejaculation to the last bitter 
drop when he finally sank to the ground beside his bud-dy. 

Tracey, too, fell forward onto her belly, spitting out sperm, but she 
remained immobile for only the briefest second. Without even wasting the 
time to collect her scattered clothing, she set off at a stumbling run 
toward the stairs leading up to the highway. The sated youths, who hadn't 
enjoyed such thrilling sexuality in far longer than they'd ever have 
admitted, hardly noticed her flight until she had already disappeared into 
the darkness. Even when they realized their virginal victim had vanished 
before they'd had a chance to fuck her, it took them awhile to lumber to 
their feet, and as they were unfamiliar with this beach they didn't know 
where the stairs were and presumed she'd run up the driveway. 

By the time they'd reached the highway, there were a few fresh dents in the 
fenders. And Tracey's Rambler was gone... 

"Oh, hi there, dear." 

Mrs. Aronson glanced up from her battered old-model IBM long enough to 
notice that her daughter was wearing a bathing suit and looked very tired. 
Then her glance roved toward the kitchen clock, which read 9:30 p.m., and 
back to the typewriter. If she were going to meet her deadline on "Sex 
Prejudices and Male Employers", she'd have to work another two or three 
hours tonight. She sighed. 

"Home late, aren't you?" she remarked vaguely, her mind mostly on due-dates 
and unpaid bills from the IBM repairman and the plumber and the telephone 
company. "Hard day?" 

"Sort of," Tracey sighed, hoping she'd disguised the bitterness and shame 
from her voice. "And then I-I went for a swim." 

"That was nice, darling," Denise inserted a fresh sheet of paper and frowned 
intently at the illegible scribbles on her yellow legal pad of notes. "By 
the way, that Clarice Pringle girl rang twice to say she was babysitting 
tonight so she couldn't get together with you." 

"Oh." The teenager sidled toward the door. "I'm pretty worn out, anyhow." 

"There's some tuna salad in the icebox..." Denise said, distantly. 

The thought of food made Tracey want to vomit, for the taste of sperm was 
still strong and pungent in her violated mouth. 

"I-I think I'll go straight to bed," she gulped, and hurried upstairs to the 
bathroom. 

For almost one hour she scrubbed and soaped her sullied figure, but she 
still felt filthy when she finally dragged herself to her bed. No amount of 
cleansings, no perfumes nor purgatives, could ever make her feel clean 
again, she thought as she lay down for a night of bad dreams and insomnia. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

The instant his shapely blonde deckhand dragged her slump-shouldered figure 
Ted Comfort recognized that something was the matter. Gone were the enticing 
bounce of firm young buttocks, the pert swing of her flaxen pigtails against 
the graceful curve of her proud neck, the vivacious grin which crinkled her 
cute little nose, the lilting, unconsciously provocative ring to her voice. 

"Good morning," she mumbled when he greeted and approached her. Her 
melancholy brown eyes remained fixedly focused on the ten tiny white toes 
protruding from her sandals. 

"Now, now, what's all this? You sure don't sound like you think it's a 
'good' morning, sweetie. At your age you shouldn't have a hangover." 

"Hangover?" Tracey echoed stupidly. 

Funny, the successful entrepreneur reflected, how fond he'd grown of his 
pretty adolescent assistant-despite her overbearing mother. He shot her a 
penetrating glance, noting the deep circles beneath her oval eyes, the 
bruises on her sculpted legs which he'd certainly have noticed if they'd 
been there yesterday, and the rather wicked scar on her ivory-white neck 
which she'd inadequately attempted to hide with some sort of cosmetic 
cover-up cream. Looked like she'd had one hell of a hard night. . . the 
remarkable thing was that the shallowness of her skin beneath her healthy 
tan and her air of despondency made her look interestingly intriguing, fresh 
and pure in spite of her over-indulgence. The bloom of youth... 

"Hey, honey, you sure look under the weather." Ted wrapped one arm around 
her bare shoulder in a fatherly fashion, chucking her under her chin and 
then rumpling her feather-soft golden curls. "Something bothering you? 
Usually helps to talk about these thing, y'know." 

Was something bothering her? Tracey asked herself with a bitter, silent 
chuckle. That was putting it mildly. Physically, she was a wreck: every 
muscle in her battered body ached, she'd hardly slept a wink what with 
nightmares and agonizing over what she ought to do, and the last thing she'd 
eaten was the ice cream soda she'd shared with her boss yesterday afternoon. 
The mental burden of shame and worry which she had to bear all alone was 
even more distressing. 

Obviously, she couldn't approach her mother. Mom would haul Rufus and Toby 
straight to court with all possible publicity, as a matter of Principle, and 
the sixteen year-old would rather have died than stand before a judge and 
jury and tell her sordid tale. What if the boys told how she'd acted like a 
whore during their vicious oral rape? No, no, a thousand times, no! She'd 
drown herself in Lake Michigan sooner than face that humiliation. 

Since confiding in Mother was out of the question, Tracey'd decided she had 
no choice but to quit her job. Mom would get mad, of course, but she'd just 
have to dream up some sort of excuse. A summer of being nagged at was far 
preferable to a summer spent in close proximity to her rapists' leering 
mouths and bulging crotches. 

"Nothing's bothering me," she lied, still staring down at her feet. "It's 
just that-that I have to tell you I'm qu-quitting." 

"Quitting--? What on earth for?" Comfort pushed her face up, forcing her to 
look into his eyes. "Hey, honey, I know I treated you mean at first-gave you 
a lot of shit jobs, made you work too hard, maybe. But you said just 
yesterday it wasn't too much for you. And hell, if you can't handle the 
heavy work, I can always use help here in the office. This time of year, I 
never find time to get to the paperwork." 

"No, no. I have to quit. Today!" 

Good lord, what had got into the girl. She actually seemed terrified at the 
prospect of working for him, whereas yesterday he'd thought they got along 
fabulously. 

"Look, I'm not saying that about helping in the showroom and office to be 
nice. I'm getting a lot more work than I'd expected this year, and Turetsky 
and 

Bray are all brawn and no brain-can't expect them to do anything but manual 
labor. But you're a clever little gal, and you can do all different sorts of 
things." All this was true enough; it seemed unnecessary to mention that her 
physical charms were one of her more vital assets. "And I thought we were 
getting along real well. . . ? " 

Tracey gulped back the tears which had started choking her throat at the 
mention of her two terrible co-workers, shrugging helplessly. In her concern 
with thinking of something to say to Mom, she'd neglected to consider that 
she'd have to give her nice boss some logical reason for quitting. Now, her 
head was whirling so wildly she just couldn't think of a thing to say. 

"I-I do like you, Ted," she tried. "And it's a great job, too, but-b-but-" 

Suddenly, almost as much to her own surprise as to his, she burst into a 
violent fit of sobs. His hand, which was still resting casually on her 
shoulder, circled her in a full embrace which allowed her tearful face to 
rest on his muscular shoulder, while his other hand gently stroked her 
baby-fine golden hair. Poor kid's really in a state, he thought, not yet 
admitting to himself that her pliant breast pushing against his chest was 
causing a suspicious swell in his trousers. 

"I'm s-s-sorry," the blonde stuttered through her sobs. "I'm being a b-baby, 
but I just can't help it." 

"Nothing to be sorry about, honey. Everyone needs a good cry sometimes." 

The teenager threw him a look of gratitude, and gradually her eyes dried and 
her body stopped shuddering. Mr. Comfort sure was a great guy, she thought, 
and she felt better just being beside him. Once again, she reflected how 
much he was like her favority Uncle. 

"C'mon, Tracey," said the middle-aged man, guiding her limp form back into 
the storeroom and easing her down on a folding cot, part of as as-yet 
unassembled window display. "Sit down and I'll get you some kleenex and a 
glass of water. And then I want you to tell me what's the trouble. Keeping 
problems bottled up inside only makes them worse, you know." 

Kind Mr. Comfort returned, sat down close beside her, and started wiping 
away her tears. Soon there was a tremulous smile on the girl's pretty 
face-this was the sort of sympathetic concern she'd always imagined a father 
would provide. Somehow, before she knew what she was saying, the whole 
disgusting story had burst from her lips in full, incriminating detail. 

". . . And the worst of it all's that-that I keep thinking about, keep 
seeing their things, keep feeling so f-funny inside. Oh, Ted, I just know I 
must be going crazy!" 

Comfort's first impulse was rage, an inclination to rush out onto the dock 
and smash in the faces of those two punks. However, reason told him he'd 
deal with them better when he was cool and controlled and could really 
frighten them; besides, the cuddlesome creature snuggling against him needed 
his help right now. Obviously she was all mixed-up about sex, and he 
understood quite well that she couldn't possibly discuss things with her 
militant Womens' Lib mother. 

"Now, honey, just calm down. Of course you're not going crazy-you're just 
feeling like any normal little girl would after an ugly thing like that." He 
pushed damp strands of golden curls off her flushed forehead and gave her a 
playfully tender kiss. "Don't worry about Toby and Rufus-I'm gonna fix 'em 
so they won't so much as look at you again, and you'll never be working with 
them alone. I'll look after you, sweetie." 

"Oh, th-thank you, Ted. 'Cause I was so worried about what I'd say to Mom 
about quitting, and-" 

"Sure, sure, I understand. I'm real pleased to help you out, Tracey. You're 
an awfully nice girl, and you can come to me with any problems, anytime, 
okay? like I was your daddy..." 

She gave him a warm hug. "Gee, I'm a hundred million times happier than I 
was when I walked in here! But-but, I'm still worried about. . . " 

Her voice trailed away in embarrassment. ". . . about acting like a whore," 
she'd been about to say, but after the initial hysterical outburst she was 
once again hesitant to talk about such forbidden things. Nice as Ted was, 
she really shouldn't have said all that she had. Why, she'd even admitted 
that she'd felt frustrated because she hadn't had an orgasm. He must think 
she was an incorrigible nymphomaniac! 

"About what, baby?" 

". . . about behaving like a slut," she whispered miserably. "I don't think 
I ever want to be with a boy again, after that." 

"Nonsense! Listen here, it's a drag that you learned about sex from those 
two morons, but you did learn something that's good. You're a very female 
young woman, honey, and of course you get pleasure from your body. When you 
find the right man, you'll learn that sex is beautiful, not ugly." 

"When she finds the right man..." His own words rang in his ears as he took 
a good look at the teenager in his arms. Last night he'd not had a date and 
had sat home sullenly drinking bourbon and watching television-an old movie 
called Lolita. The cute blonde could practically be the double of the star 
of the film... 

"The right man..." Who, he asked himself with a quick glance down to his 
bulging groin, was a better man than Ted Comfort. He knew everything there 
was to know about dames, had deflowered at least ten virgins in his travels 
around the globe, and was sincerely fond of her so that he'd treat her with 
the necessary gentle consideration. Yep, he decided, he was elected. 

And what a fantastic way of getting even with her snotty, tight-assed bitch 
of a mother! 

Already, his husky suntanned arm was draped around her so that his fingers 
were nearly touching the ripe grapefruit mound of her budding breast. 
Squeezing her warm body a bit nearer to him permitted his middle finger to 
trace very gently around it from base to nipple in concentric circles. Then 
he opened his palm to tenderly cup the resilient flesh. 

"Oohhh!" gasped Tracey, and blushed a furious shade of scarlet. "Wh-what-" 

Ted laughed softly as he gave the breast a light squeeze. Since she wore 
only a flimsy sundress and no brassiere, it was almost like touching her 
naked skin. 

"Don't worry, darling. I'm just showing you that it can feel good to have a 
man feel your breasts." 

The teenager's body relaxed again. "You know, Ted," she said trustingly to 
her newfound father-substitute, "in a way I liked the mean way they pawed my 
breasts more than when my boyfriend touched them. That's why I think I'm 
sick! Rufus bit my nipple so hard it was bleeding, though ... and then it 
wasn't so good anymore ... but it was nice when they kinda pinched hard..." 

Ted pinched her already pertly erected nipple hard, and she let out a sort 
of giggling gasp. "Ooohhh! Yeah, like that! Oh, you must think I'm just 
awful!" 

"No, honey, not one bit awful. You're a very feminine, sensual person, 
that's all. And that's a great thing to be! The reason you felt like that's 
just because your boyfriend doesn't know much about pleasing a woman yet-and 
you've got a woman's body already, you know. Best thing that can happen to a 
growing girl is to learn about love from an older man who knows what the 
hell it's all about. like those South Sea Island tribes where the custom is 
that the uncle's in charge of the sex education department." 

Tracey figured it probably wasn't right for her to be letting a man old 
enough to be her dad stimulate her breasts, that her mother would be 
horrified. However, she was a little tired of always trying to do what 
Mother thought was best, and Ted's hands felt wonderful. 

"That's funny," she answered him. "Y'know, it was my uncle who told me about 
how people make love, when we were watching the dogs mate. And he told me 
real nice, too, lots better than the book Mom gave me for Christmas last 
year. I mean, the book made sex sound like doing exercises in gym class ... 
but Uncle Norm made sex sound like fun. He was a lot like you, Uncle Norm. 
I've sure missed him since he moved out West." 

"Norm Aronson? Yeah, I knew him when we were kids. Good guy-we used to get 
in all kinds of trouble together!" 

His hands were on both her breasts now, and thrills of delicious erotic 
excitement were slithering through the girl's bloodstream. As she sensed her 
panties' crotch band dampening, she squirmed a little on the cot and blushed 
again. Ted watched her, remembering how similarly her mother had acted at 
the same age and wondering what had turned Denise Aronson into a man-hater. 
Well, he was going to make sure that her daughter didn't suffer the same 
sterile fate, that was the important thing at the moment. 

"It's funny how weird I feel all over when you touch my breasts," confided 
the pink-cheeked schoolgirl. "And what's even funnier is that I can talk to 
you about stuff like that. I never even do much with my girl friends ... but 
with you I feel so-so free." 

"Good!" Ted kissed her again, still paternally but a bit more erotically 
than before. "Now, Tracey, you say that damn fool Rufus hurt your nipple? I 
think I better take a look and make sure he didn't do any serious damage. 
Jeez, I could kill those two for what they did to you!" 

A curiously pleasant shiver coursed through the teenager's ripe loins at the 
idea of exposing her breasts to Ted Comfort. It was somewhat the same 
sensation she felt when she had to go to the doctor's, but much, much 
stronger. "Well, if you think so..." she murmured. 

Her skimpy green sundress was cut high in front, plunged low in back, and 
fastened with a tie round her graceful neck; it took half a second to peel 
it down to her neatly nipped-in waist. Sure enough, there was a vicious 
black and blue bruise on the tip of her left breast, and purplish 
fingerprints on both proudly high-set mounds. Ted's cock lurched in 
lascivious excitement as he bent to kiss the blemishes. 

"Poor kid," he soothed. "There, this'll make you forget all that nasty 
business." 

"That's what Uncle Norm used to do when I fell down and skinned my knee or 
something..." 

"Where else did those apes hurt you, sweetheart?" Ted, with an expertise 
born of much practice, peeled the little green garment all the way off 
before she realized what he was doing. Then he rose and carefully shut and 
locked the storeroom door. "Don't want 

Turetsky and Bray snooping around while we're-uh, examining you, that's for 
sure. Now, just lean back. . . that's a girl..." 

Feeling extremely shy and praying he'd not noticed the wet patch on her pink 
lace panty crotch, Tracey did as she was told. She shut her eyes as dizzy 
waves of delight surged through her virginal figure in response to his 
teasing, testing fingers on her belly and thighs. When she opened them again 
a minute later, her pink panties had somehow vanished from her body and were 
neatly folded, along with her dress, on top of a nearby stack of old 
Yachting magazines. 

"You've got a truly beautiful body, Tracey, you know that?" his voice was 
low, husky as his fingers tangled in the silken golden-brown curls of her 
pubic "vee". "A body made for love, with those long Scandinavian legs and 
these perfect breasts and this delicious pussy. And one of the roundest, 
tightest asses I've seen in many a day. But just look at the ugly marks 
those animals left on your lovely thighs!" 

Gentle but insistent hands pushed apart her unresisting upper legs, and the 
teenager let out a weak whimper as he traced a finger along the damp slit of 
her vagina! God! She thought wildly, I feel like I'm on fire. like last 
night, only better 'cause this isn't vulgar and smutty. I almost wish he'd 
kiss me down there like horrible Toby did... 

As if he'd read her secret thoughts, the older man bent down to bury his 
sandy-blonde head in the "vee" formed by her splayed-apart thighs. Suddenly 
she noticed the huge protrusion inside his tight white-duck pants, and such 
a strong wave of excitation swept through her that she whimpered again. 

"There!" Ted Comfort's hypnotic voice echoed in her ears. "I'm kissing your 
wonderful little cunt, and now you know that it's a good thing to do. Honey, 
I want to help you. I want to teach you about how sex should be-loving, 
tender sex without any anger or fear or ugliness. Let me show you how you 
can use your marvelous body like a real woman, okay?. " 

"I-I don't know, Ted. You make me feel so good, but-but is it right?" 

"One thing you'll learn as you get older, my dear, is that 'right' and 
'wrong' are something you have to define for yourself." 

Generally, the adolescent resented any sort of advice which began with, 
"when you're older. . . , " but Mr. Comfort's words seemed wise and 
meaningful rather than condescending. Maybe she did accept the dictums of 
her mother and teachers and boring people like Robbie and Clara Pringle too 
much at face value. It was high time she began thinking for herself! 

"My motto," continued Comfort, "is, 'If it feels good, do it!'. So long's 
you don't hurt anyone, that is. And there's exactly where those 
thick-skulled louts who attacked you last night were off-base. Sweetheart, 
your pretty pussy's all wet and willing. You know, that's your body's way of 
telling you it needs some good love-making." 

"Maybe," the naive high school girl faltered. "But ... but ... oohhhh..." 

A talented tongue slid into her secretion-seeped passage, putting an abrupt 
end to her unpersuasive protests, then rose to titillate her instantaneously 
throbbing clitoral nerve center. Oh, good God, I'm going to go crazy! Her 
mind reeled as she stared at his hands massaging her bruised, fire-filled 
breasts. They were huge hands, at least twice as long and broad as her own, 
with short, clean nails and skin that was as deep brown from years in the 
sun and covered with sparse white-golden hairs ... masterful hands which 
handled her sensitive body as expertly as they dealt with the motors and 
machinery of sailing yachts, teasing and stroking until she was nothing but 
a helpless mass of quivering desire. 

"What's wrong, honey? Aren't I making you feel good?" 

"Oh, Ted, you know you are!" she burst out impulsively. "I'm in seventh 
heaven! But the trouble's that it feels so fantastic I don't want you to 
stop. I'm scared I'll get carried away and..." 

Her voice trailed off into a sybarite's sigh of out-of-control sensuality as 
he played another Houdini trick and shed his pants before she could blink 
twice. His underpants-not the baggy white cotton kind which Robbie's mom 
ordered by mail from Sears Roebuck, but sexy black nylon ones like swim 
trunks which emphasized his huge hard-on-vanished next. Her boss was as 
naked as she was now! 

Ted smiled as the young girl's big brown eyes filled with excitement and 
alarm. He resumed his position beside her slumped-back figure, resting his 
rock-hard length on her trembling upper thigh. 

"Don't worry, sweetheart. We won't go any further than you want to-I just 
want you to see what a nice thing a man's penis is. Bet you never had a real 
good look and feel, right?" 

"Well," Tracey was again astonished at her utter lack of shyness, "Robbie 
showed me his once, but it wasn't nearly so big as yours, and besides it was 
dark. Before I really got that much time to see it or anything, he came, all 
over my legs. Wow, was I ever embarrassed." 

With an effort Comfort refrained at laughing at her girlish innocence. "You 
don't need to be embarrassed with me. And I promise I won't cum; unless it's 
inside your lovely little pussy, and that's your decision to make. Part of 
growing up's learning to choose for yourself, and once you've decided you 
want to be a real woman at last, then you'll be ready for love-making." 

This twisted logic sounded very sensible to the confused adolescent. Feeling 
secure in the knowledge that nice Mr. Comfort wasn't going to rape her like 
those two creeps on the beach last night, she began caressing his mammoth 
reddish flesh rod from its velvety balls to the glans on its burgeoning 
head. A rash of goose pimples prickled on her naked flesh as the enormous 
penis jerked and swelled beneath her teasing, stroking touches and a droplet 
of fluid seeped from its seminal slit. Just like Toby's and Rufus' excited 
cocks ... except now it was thrilling instead of frightening. So thrilling 
that she bent her head to kiss its slick smoothness. 

"You want to kiss my cock, honey?" Ted asked gently his fingers still busily 
at work on her vagina and breasts. "Is that what you want? Or is is 
something else ... ? " 

Tracey was astounded at her reply, for she didn't realize that she'd 
unconsciously made her decision back when he first touched her pussy. "I-I 
want you to make me a woman, Ted," she whispered. "I'd rather you were the 
first, honest! You're much more exciting than any of the guys I know at 
High, and most of all, I really trust you." 

"Tracey, you're a helluva lot more of a woman than most grown-up females I 
know." he kissed her full on the lips. "I'm 'fraid this is going to hurt a 
little at first, but I promise I'll do my best to make your first time a day 
you'll never forget. Now, lie down and put this cushion under your sweet 
ass." 

Thank God the little girl was already very turned on and lengthy foreplay 
would be unnecessary, Comfort's mind whirled as he eased a boat cushion 
beneath her silken-fleshed little buttocks and stared at the fresh pinkness 
of her upraised virgin vagina. This was the most extraordinary thing that 
had happened to him since returning to live in Michigan, and his impatient 
phallus was throbbing with furious lust the way it had back in his own high 
school days. For a fleeting moment he compared the daughter's eager 
acceptance of her own sexuality with her mother's rigid morality ... times 
sure had changed, and for the better as far as he was concerned, at least in 
this aspect. Who needed all that hypocritical Puritan crap? On the other 
hand, it was getting harder and harder for a guy to make it independently by 
sheer force of will and character. He'd made it to the point where, at 
thirty-eight, he was a financial success and doing work he liked, had 
traveled the world over while learning a trade while working instead of 
rotting in a dusty college classroom for some of the best years of his youth 
and then slowly atrophying in some servile junior executive job: but he was 
an exception, and he knew it. Nearly all his former classmates were 
pot-bellied and balding, their balls broken under the burdens of nagging 
wives and bosses, mortgages and ulcers-whereas he felt every bit as virile 
as the day he'd run away to sea, or the night he'd put the make on shapely 
Denise Aronson. 

The craziest thing of all was that, had his seduction been successful, this 
little girl offering up her beautiful body like a vestal virgin on a pagan 
altar might well have been his own child. HIS OWN DAUGHTER! 

The thought might have been a sobering one if he hadn't already been burning 
with passion: as it was, obscure visions of incest only fires the flames of 
his lust. Maybe he was crazy-certainly nine-tenths of the folks in this neck 
of the woods would think so-but just because he'd moved back here 
temporarily since it was the easiest and most lucrative spot to establish 
himself and win a name in yachting circles, didn't mean he was under any 
obligation to accept Birch Bay's outdated ideas about right and wrong. He 
believed in following his own code, just as he'd told little Tracey, and she 
was giving herself to him of her own free will. 

Enough of this stupid thinking! He told himself as his proud penis gave an 
impatient thud. Time for business! 

"Now, baby," he said, kissing her again, a deep, tongue-twirling kiss that 
caused her to moan. "I want you to relax. Just let every muscle in your 
sweet, sexy body feel loose and easy." 

As he spoke, he was finger-fucking her, circling her erect clitoris with 
soft, insistent and slightly irregular pressure as her moans rose to a 
steady mewl of longing and the fear faded from her long-lashed eyes. She was 
ready! Pulse quickening to a tumultuous tempo, he slicked back his thick 
foreskin and began rubbing his wetly glistening cockhead against her equally 
damp cuntal orifice. 

"Ohhhhh ... aahhhhh! That feels fabulous, T-Ted, but it looks so big. How's 
it ever going to fit inside me without ripping me to pieces?" 

"Honey, men have been fucking women for millions of years now and there was 
always a first time. Don't worry! That cute cunt of yours was built by a 
master-designer who knew his job. Remember, an eight-pound baby comes out of 
the sweet little hole." Suddenly he stiffened, an icy alarm overwhelming his 
desire. "Hey, do you take the pill?" 

Fucking a girl young enough to be his daughter was one thing; an 
illegitimate baby with a sixteen year-old mother and militantly malicious 
grandmother was quite another story. Beads of perspiration broke out on the 
burly boatyard owner's forehead. Of course, he could always pull out before 
he came, but that sure would spoil the fun. 

An oddly mature, husky laugh spilled out of the quivering corners of Tracey 
Aronson's parted lips. "Sure! Because my periods weren't coming on time. 
See, I'm not so dumb as you think!" 

"Sweetheart, I never thought you were stupid. Not for a minute." 

As a vigorous flood of relief shot through the older man, his penis swelled 
larger than ever and he unintentionally flicked his powerful hips forward, 
driving the mushroom-shaped tip a couple inches into her suddenly cringing 
cuntal channel. His throbbing thickness slid in easily enough, thanks to her 
copious feminine secretions, but her sharp gasp of pain told him that her 
inexperienced vaginal muscles were too suddenly spread. Gritting his teeth, 
Comfort forced himself to go slowly, steadily, gently. After all, this 
wouldn't be a true success unless he got the innocent schoolgirl so turned 
on that she craved sex for the rest of her life. 

"Relax, relax," his hoarse voice crooned. "Once I'm in, it'll be marvelous. 
Promise!" 

Tracey was also clenching her teeth together to keep from crying out in 
pain. He was so very big, that was the trouble. Or else she was built all 
wrong, deformed, unable to accept a man like the millions of women he'd 
mentioned before. Tears pricked in the corners of her wide-open eyes as she 
stared, mesmerized, at the salacious spectacle of his huge, steel-hard spear 
inching into her infinitesimal orifice, but no matter how much it hurt, she 
vowed to bear it without crying like a silly baby. If intercourse was going 
to be such a grueling ordeal as it promised at the moment, she was far 
better off with kindly Mr. Comfort than with some dumb kid like Robbie who'd 
probably injure her in a shameful way ... and she'd no intention to remain a 
dried-up prune of an old-maid, or a man-hater like Mom, no matter how bad 
the first time might be. 

"I'm tr-trying, Ted," she whimpered. "Oooohhhh, that helps. When you touch 
me like that, I don't think about the-the other feeling so much." 

"That's my brave girl!" 

He stepped up his strumming motions on her crazily twitching clitoris as he 
forced his way deeper into her tight passage, remarking with relish how his 
manipulations loosened her involuntarily resisting vaginal muscles. Already, 
he'd plunged all the way down to the thin membrane of her mainden head, and 
she was liberally lubricated with dewdrops of desire. 

"Keep those hips up, and keep those muscles relaxed," he commanded, kissing 
her lips and neck. "This is gonna be bad for a minute, but once it's over 
it'll be heaven. Believe me!" 

Tracey believed him, but she couldn't keep her cuntal muscles from 
tightening up anyway. As his hips shot forward and his unbelievably enormous 
thing crashed down, through the protective sheath protecting her purity, 
there was such a flashing stab of agony that she thought she was dying, and 
the elegant stateroom was filled with shrill shrieks of anguish. Even if he 
didn't kill her, she'd certainly never be able to walk again! 

"Aarrgghh! Oh, stop, STOP!" 

The pain continued unabated as he continued to push down until the full 
length of his punishing pole was buried inside her and his sperm-bloated 
balls were bouncing against the bottom of her buttocks. Barbed darts of 
suffering shot from her severed hymen to every nerve ending in her quivering 
young body, but somehow she managed to stop screaming. It wasn't Ted's 
fault-he'd never have done this if he'd known what dire pain his penis would 
inflict. No, she must just be built wrong... 

Comfort felt his proud penis piercing her maidenhead and gloried in the 
primitive rush of power and ultimate manhood which always followed his 
defloration of a virgin. Then, exerting the superb self-control which was 
the fruit of a rich and varied sex life, he held his impatient penis still 
inside her deliciously squeezing vaginal passage so the teenager would have 
a chance to adjust to its immense bulk. 

"Now you're a woman, Tracey," he murmured, and was pleased to see that 
almost at once her expression altered from anguish to awe. 

Indeed, the symbolic significance of the torn, tissue-thin little membrane 
moved the sensitive sixteen year-old so deeply that she forgot the pain in 
her impaled pussy. She was truly alive at last-alive and engaged in the 
age-old act of love-making which had united male and female since the dawn 
of history. Ted had been right, after all: sex wasn't dirty or sinful-it was 
the most wonderful thing in life. 

"Oh, wow..." 

"And now," he whispered, kneading her breasts, kissing her 
perspiration-dewed face, finally moving one hand down to softly massage her 
clitoris again, "now you're going to learn how to fuck." 

Groaning under his breath from the exquisite tightness of her 
no-longer-innocent vagina, the middle-aged man began moving his massive 
member almost all the way out, then back down to the hilt. At first his 
movements were slow, careful, but as her breath quickened and he felt her 
fear-tensed inner walls relaxing somewhat he stepped up the pace to a 
rapid-fire rhythm that shook the mattress of the king-sized stateroom bed. 
"Oh! Ohhh, Ted! Ooohhhh." 

"Stopped hurting, like I said it would? Is it better now, sweetheart?" 

"It still h-hurts a little, but it hurts good," Tracey gasped out. "I ... I 
feel all tingly and excited and ... ooohhhh!" 

"Yeah, that's the way! Move your sweet little ass, too! Jesus, honey, you 
have one of the greatest pussies I've ever felt-you're so tight and smooth 
you're driving me crazy!" 

Tracey glowed at the praise and churned her hips up to meet the pistoning 
penis with vigorous enthusiasm. This wise and experienced older man liked 
the way she was making love! He considered her a real grown-up female-and 
she felt like one, too, the way her body was starting to sing with vibrating 
chords of pre-orgasmic ecstasy. Pleasing a man was, she decided before 
drifting into a mindless frenzy of sensuality, was obviously her true 
vocation. Every woman's true vocation, perhaps, which explained why her 
mateless mother was often bitter and moody and kept channeling her pent-up 
energies into causes. 

I bet if Mom married a guy like Ted Comfort, was her last coherent thought, 
she'd be much happier, and much easier to live with, too. 

Then, as purely physical sensations took control of her curvaceous body, the 
teenager forgot all her problems. Puzzling parents, unwanted going-steady 
rings, snubs from "in crowd" classmates, sex-crazed coworkers and the dim 
rumblings from her guilty conscience played no part in this wild universe of 
lust and flesh. Nothing existed now except belly smacking against 
sweat-slickened belly as a male and a female writhed on the soft furry 
coverlet in the motor cruiser's stateroom, and this magnificent man's 
iron-hard penis thrusting into her love-starved cunt and flooding her with 
undreamed-of delight. 

"God, baby, you're fantastic!" groaned the feverishly bucking man above her. 
He'd abandoned his initial efforts to treat her gently, for by now it was 
apparent that Tracey's innocent exterior had been ripped asunder to reveal a 
wild wanton who yearned to be fucked with all the savage strength of his 
powerful loins. 

It was really hard to believe that this ardently responsive blonde was the 
same naive, shy virgin who'd stood staring in shame at the floor only twenty 
minutes ago. She'd given herself up to lust now, flailing out her sculpted 
legs around his furiously pounding cock to kick up in the air and hammer her 
smooth heels into his back as though spurring on a horse. Through the 
tousled golden strands of her hair, he caught fleeting glimpses of a 
contorted mask of abandoned passion, and a lewd chorus of mewls and moans 
spilled from between her slackly parted pink lips. 

Christ Almighty! She looked as though she were already on the brink of 
climax! Comfort had initiated a good handful of virgins into the joys of 
sex, but this was the first one who'd turned-on like a seasoned whore. It 
was incredible! 

"Tell me when you're ready to cum, baby!" he rasped, thrusting deeper and 
harder than ever to speed her toward release. Her wanton arousal had excited 
him so much that his cock felt ready to explode at any second. 

" Oohhh, good! Hard, harder, like that!" Tracey babbled. "Gonna cum soon ... 
sooooooon! Aahhhhh!" 

The aroused adolescent felt her body rushing toward orgasm,-like an 
out-of-control car speeding around dangerous curves on some treacherous 
mountain road, but she wasn't afraid. She strained her body, striving with 
all her might for the violent explosion of ultimate release. Another two or 
three strokes of his deep-driving ramrod, and she'd be there! 

"Ohohoh ... oh, Ted, I'm CUMMING!" 

For a second everything went black, and then suddenly fountains of stars 
burst before her glazed eyes and her weightless body was rising with them 
into a new universe of pure sensual bliss. Low whimpers of ecstasy burbled 
from her lips, and her whole body spasmed and jerked around the 
pleasure-giving pole still spearing ruthlessly into her quivering vagina. 

It felt to Comfort as though the little girl's convulsing cuntal walls were 
milking his potent penis, and within seconds he was groaning out his own 
release as the first hot jets of sperm shot from his blood-engorged balls 
into her never-before filled belly. "Goddamn!" he groaned. "Cuuummmmmming 
inside you, sweetie!" 

She'd just surfaced from the exquisite unconsciousness of her first orgasm 
when the heated drops of male cum started splashing against her sensitive 
cuntal channel. He was filling her with his life-giving seed! she thought in 
a delirium of delight, and she wanted to drown in this erotic sea of hot, 
sticky sperm. Suddenly her lush loins exploded into a second orgasm, then a 
third, till she was almost insane from the sheer spasms of joy and collapsed 
limply on the bunk in a state of ecstatic satiation. 

For what seemed a long while, the thirty-eight year-old bachelor lay 
entwined around her sex-flushed figure, panting hoarsely as he sought to 
regain breath after the wondrously skyrocketing orgasm. Half-asleep, with 
her pink lips slightly parted and her yellow curls spread over the pillow, 
her face had all the purity and innocence of a little girl playing the part 
of an angel in a Christmas pageant. Only when he ran his eyes lower, past 
the still taut tips of her breasts to where her small hand lay lightly on 
her sperm spattered blonde "vee" could he truly believe what a powerfully 
sensuous woman resided inside this slender sixteen year-old's body. 

After a few minutes of rest, they showered together in the motor cruiser's 
luxurious "head", soaping each other's bodies lovingly. Then he sent Tracey 
up to the showroom while he went out on the dock to bawl out Toby Turetsky 
and Rufus Bray and frighten them away from the girl with threats of 
probation officers and job loss. As he'd expected, the two unintelligent 
ex-convicts cowered sullenly beneath his scalding verbal attack, and he felt 
so satisfied as he strode away that he didn't notice the shadow of young 
Colin Highsmith standing behind a boat within easy earshot of his 
tongue-lashing. 

Colin's dark eyes were thin lines of scheming greed, his mouth was twisted 
into a lewd grin, and as soon as he saw Tracey Aronson's boss disappear into 
his father's motor cruiser, he headed purposefully toward the showroom to 
invite the overwhelmingly delighted to a party at his house that night. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

By midnight, the twinkling strings of Italian Christmas tree lights strung 
through the honeysuckle and lilac bushes enclosing the Highsmith's huge 
British-manor style garden were beginning to blur a bit, and Tracey Aronson 
was forgetting how shy and insignificant she'd felt at first among this 
crowd of older, more sophisticated kids. Something to do with the delicious 
fruit punch, she imagined, but by now she was too giddy and giggly to care 
if she got a little high and accepted another paper cup of the suspicious 
stuff from the bland-featured prep-school type whose name she hadn't caught. 
After all, she was much more sober than most of the twenty-some young people 
milling around the rose beds and mazes and moonlit green glades, and she'd 
like to feel even more relaxed, really get into the spirit of this exciting 
party. 

"Guess I don't really need more, but skoal, anyhow," she dimpled up to 
Preppie, who on closer inspection looked rather pimply and puny despite his 
trendy sunglasses and debonair attire. "What's in this, do you know?" 

Preppie had a nasal Boston accent, simultaneously clipped and nasal and 
snobbish. "Skoal, "he replied-it was apparently the "in" expression of the 
moment. "Passion Fruit juice and Tequila, plus a few pinches of the same 
stuff that's in the cigarettes and the nibbles." 

"Stuff?" Tracey shot a curious glance toward the silver trays of sweet and 
savory snacks grouped around the crystal punch bowl. "You mean--? " 

The youth snorted. "You people here in Hicksville sure don't know the score. 
Hashish, honey-the very finest Nepalese that love or money can buy. Ah, 
there's Celia-'scuse me, must be off." 

Tracey, still staring at the dainty bowls of dips and clusters of marzipan 
and fudge, scarcely noted his disappearance. So that was what was making her 
feel peculiarly lightheaded! Hashish, she knew, was an insidious substance 
akin to marijuana but far more powerful. According to wrinkled old Miss 
Carberry who taught Health and Physical Education at High, it caused 
temporary insanity and permanent brain damage-but no one paid much attention 
to Old Lady Carberry, who was so out of it that she actually advised her 
snickering students not to wear patent leather shoes which might allow boys 
a reflected glimpse up under their skirts. 

Obviously Miss Carberry had overstated the case, but nevertheless the 
inexperienced sixteen year-old felt a little uneasy when she thought of how 
many celery sticks and crackers she'd dipped into the tasty, though 
odd-tasting, sauces. Thank God she'd not smoked any of the cigarettes, 
amusing hand-rolled offerings fashioned from papers printed like dollar 
bills or American flags which, together with piles of gilt-tipped matches on 
whose covers were engraved, "Highsmith Industries, Inc.", were abundantly 
piled on every wrought iron garden table in the lawn. Her chain-smoking 
mother had promised her a hundred dollars if she swore not to smoke until 
she were at least twenty-one. However, this was her third cup of "punch". 

"Who cares," Tracey muttered, gulping down a good swallow of Passion Fruit 
beverage and, in passing, snatching a mushroom-shaped piece of 
almond-flavored marzipan candy. "Let it all hang loose, like Colin said." 

But where had Colin wandered off to? Drink in hand, moving in rhythm to the 
throbbing beat of the rock band playing in the 1890's-style pavilion in the 
center of the gardens, she swayed a bit unsteadily down the high 
hedge-bordered maze's flagstone path in search of her date. Oh-there he was! 
She started to skip toward him, then froze in consternation as she realized 
what was going on and surreptitiously sneaked under the shadows of a nearby 
apple tree. 

Oh, God! It couldn't be true! There stood her darkly handsome date, white 
duck trousers rolled down around his well-muscled thighs and thing in hand, 
watching the most salacious spectacle she'd ever dreamed of. He was pumping 
vigorously on his lust-elongated member, and there was a lust-crazed glint 
in his dark eyes as he gazed at his naked sister writhing on the ground with 
two half-naked guys. 

"Oh, nnooooo!" the immediately aroused Aronson girl gasped without realizing 
she'd made a sound. 

Thanks to her own stunning erotic experiences of the past couple days, she 
was more excited than shocked by the wantonly wild scene transpiring mere 
yards away from her. So this is how the "cool crowd" acts! her drug-dazzled 
brain whirled. What a lot of fun I've missed out on 'cause I didn't know ... 
Her quivering right hand rubbed, almost unconsciously, over her mini-skirt 
covered "vee". 

Cressida Highsmith, her graceful, sun-glided loins squirming on the grass, 
was moaning in obscene arousal as she sucked the swollen stiffness of one 
shirt-and-sandal-clad youth. Saliva dribbled down over her makeup-smeared 
cheeks and chin, glistening silver in the light of the moon, and her 
carefully-coiffed chestnut curls were in wanton disarray as the boy tangled 
his hands in her hair to ram her face closer to his groin. Between her 
brazenly spread-eagled legs crouched another male. At the moment, she looked 
a good deal more like a sluttish barmaid than a beauty queen. 

An audible gasp escaped from Tracey's lips. That must have been exactly how 
she had looked two nights ago with Rufus and Toby! Only two short nights 
ago-Good Lord, it seemed like years, what with that thrilling morning with 
Ted, and now this crazy party. She felt like a different person from the 
girl who'd been horrified by the sight of Robbie Runions' spurting white 
sperm just one week ago. 

She also felt a violent craving for a male penis to ease the burning ache in 
her dampening vagina. 

My God! her mind swam dizzily. I've really gone mad-must be the hash. And I 
have to get out of here before someone sees me. 

Instead of silently tiptoeing off down the path, however, she remained 
mesmerized in the shadows peering in prurient fascination at the lewd 
tableau. How could Colin be jerking off while his very own sister was 
degraded in front of him? she asked herself, though she already knew the 
answer: the more forbidden the act, the more exciting it was. Her own hand 
slithered up under the hem of her short skirt so that she could caress her 
quivering cuntal crevice through the moist nylon of her panty crotch band. 
"Oouuhhhhh ... that hurts!" Tracey's attention snapped back to the Highsmith 
heiress, who didn't sound as though she minded her suffering in the least, 
and she echoed her outcry as she saw exactly what the boy between Cressida's 
long legs was doing. In one hand he held an empty Pepsi bottle, whose nozzle 
he was shoving up into the girl's dark-fringed vagina! 

"You won't go the whole route, bitch," growled the attractive young man, "so 
we'll play it this way instead. And you're loving it, aren't you? Slut!" 

"Keep sucking, cunt, don't stop!" the second male commanded. "Drain me dry!" 

The enthralled onlooker was so caught up in the salacious spectacle of a 
bottle sawing up between Cressida's scissoring legs that she didn't notice 
Colin had disappeared from the scene until his hot, hard hands grasped her 
from behind. Yelping in alarm, she snatched her hand out from under her 
skirt-but she was too late. 

"Gets you hot watching, huh?" he leered in a drug-slurred voice. "Well, I 
guess I better help you do something about your horny little cunt-hole." 

The Aronson girl was shivering like a leaf in the wind in her shame at 
having been caught, and also because his iron-hard length pressing against 
her buttocks was making her dizzy with demented desire. Suddenly she felt 
extremely high-she was too innocent to know that the hashish she'd eaten and 
drunk would take a few hours to be absorbed and take effect-and out of 
control of both mind and body. What she really wanted was to rip off her 
clothes and let Colin screw her right there on the lawn in view of the other 
three orgiests, but despite the fact that perversion was obviously the 
status quo among this older, richer crowd, she was too conditioned by 
middle-class morals to admit her lurid longings. "C'mon, get naked." Colin 
hissed. She felt paralyzed. Incapable of either protesting or obeying, she 
stood staring at him and imagining how thrilling it would be to rip off her 
clothes. Then, as the drugged boy grabbed at her skirt, she was caught off 
balance and tumbled down on the dewy grass. 

"Please, no." Her voice sounded as though it were echoing out of a 
bottomless well. "No, nooo..." 

"Cut the bullshit," he'd already ripped off her skirt, tearing the fabric 
instead of pausing to unsnap the fastenings. "I know you put out and love 
it, so don't try to kid me. Now, get on your goddamn belly and I'm gonna 
give it to you from behind. You can pretend you're a dog-bitch in heat. 
Haha!" 

He must be stoned out of his skull, Tracey thought. It'd be easy to escape 
from him in his crazed condition-if she'd wanted to, and if she'd felt sure 
her legs would support her. But she didn't even make the effort. 

"Okay, Colin," she murmured, those strange tingles of masochistic glee she'd 
experienced at the hands of the two rapists gliding through her bloodstream 
along with the narcotic and alcohol. "Screw me like that! Give me your big 
cock!" 

Since he'd not only drunk the passion-fruit punch and smoked about ten 
joints, but had also taken some speed, Colin's sexual performance wasn't 
much to boast about. Tracey was so turned-on that it didn't matter much. 
Even before his swift ejaculation, she'd orgasmed ... and she climaxed two 
more times as his seething male seed spilled into her no-longer-innocent 
cunt. Then, sated and satisfied that she was now a member of the in-crowd, 
she passed out on the Highsmith's lawn. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

"Goddamn it all!" 

Denise Aronson ripped the half-typed sheet from her IBM, crumpled it 
viciously and tossed it into the overflowing waste-basket. Then, after 
lighting a Camel Filter, she rose from the kitchen table and began pacing 
around the house feeling like a caged tiger. 

"What's wrong with me, anyway?" she muttered. "Why can't I get this outline 
written? And why are my nerves on edge?" 

It would be easy to blame her black mood on the sultry temperatures, but 
Denise, who always tried to be vigorously honest with herself, knew the 
weather was only part of the problem. Several problems had been preying on 
her for the past couple of weeks, the most tangible of which was the letter 
from Free and Female's editor. Sighing, she trudged from the living room 
back to the kitchen and plucked the much-read sheet from among an untidy 
sprawl of papers, pamphlets, and editing pens. 

"Your article on discriminatory hiring and firing policies was, as usual, 
well-written and informative, but for your next contribution we'd like you 
to come up with something along slightly different lines. What really boosts 
our readership is the personal touch, the experience to which they can 
relate their own problems. Facts, figures, and dogma don't interest the 
average Sister, according to our extensive market research: what the Reader 
wants to pay $2.50 for is a magazine which is interesting and exciting as 
well as informative. Remember, we are weaning our Readers away from True 
Confessions, Family Circle, and Readers' Digest! Note that subscription 
sales soared an encouraging 17 per cent upon the addition of our three new 
features: 'Cuisine for the Working Wife'; Florinda Black's 'Sexual 
Satisfaction' question-answer column; and 'My Story-Your Story-Our Story'. 

"Accordingly, we would like you to come up with an outline for the 'My 
Story-Your Story-Our Story' series. Something fairly simple, readable, and 
filled with honest, intimate details. I understand that you have two growing 
daughters-something along this line would surely be relevant to many 
Sisters. May I suggest that you include a selection of appropriate 
photographs, if possible, as we have concluded from the abovementioned 
market research studies that a more visual approach is desirable. 

"Please realize that we do not desire confession stories, merely extremely 
honest accounts of how you, personally, have solved problems which arose in 
the course of rearing your daughters to be proud, self-achieving Sisters. We 
will need your outline by Friday, July 13, at latest, in order to make 
whatever revisions seem necessary. 

"In the meantime, may we remind you of the annual get-together for Free and 
Female supporters, friends, and contributors, to be held this year in..." 

Denise balled up the letter and tossed it into the trash basket along with 
the discarded shards of her attempted outline. Today was Saturday, July 14, 
1975. 

An unwelcome truth surfaced from the depths of her soul: this is exactly why 
you've never made it as a writer-you don't dare put anything of yourself 
into your work. And then a second, even more damning accusation: how can you 
write about solving problems with your adolescent children when you haven't 
solved anything, when things are getting worse and worse with every passing 
day? 

All of which brought her round to the most pressing worry of all-sixteen 
year-old Tracey's peculiar behavior during these past several weeks. 

The phone shrilled, jolting the distracted divorcee from her disturbing 
reverie. She hastened to the living room to answer it, her sensitive nerve 
endings grating with every loud ring. "Hello. Aronson residence." 

"I wanna talk to Tracey," drawled an Eastern-accented voice. The boy sounded 
as though he were either drunk, drugged, or dim-witted. "Is this Tracey?" 
The mother winced, stiffened. "You're speaking with Mrs. Aronson, Tracey's 
mother. She's not here at the moment." But where in God's name was she? It 
was three in the afternoon, and she only worked mornings on Saturday. 
Despite the heat, Denise realized that she was shivering. "Can I take a 
message?" 

"Naaahhhhh ... I'll call another time." 

The phone went dead. Denise very precisely replaced the receiver. Then she 
slowly mounted the staircase to the second floor bedrooms, realizing that 
she was about to do something she considered despicable and unethical: she 
was going to read Tracey's journal. Thanks to her once a month or so 
perfunctory spurts of clean-up, she knew exactly where her daughter hid her 
private diary, and although at first she'd carefully replaced it underneath 
the teenager's absurd collection of frilly lingerie now it seemed imperative 
to find out what was going on. 

Who were these strange, almost inevitably impolite boys who were constantly 
telephoning her daughter? Summer people, she suspected, and older boys from 
the country club crowd which she didn't really approve of-but whoever they 
were, her child was going out every night, usually with a different date, 
and had dropped her former dull but unmenacing companions completely. Tracey 
even looked different: there was in inexplicably odd sparkle in her brown 
eyes, and dark rings beneath them, and she'd been wasting her entire salary 
on make-up and new clothes which emphasized her flowering figure. Also, 
she'd grown secretive. Something was definitely rotten here, and the worried 
mother realized she'd neither write the article which would pay the rent nor 
conquer the insomnia which had plagued her lately until she learned the 
truth. "July 4." She opened at random to an entry sloppily scribbled in the 
silly peacock-blue ink her inscrutable offspring fancied. "Wow, am I ever 
stoned after that wild orgy on the Chittenden's cruiser. We all got really 
smashed on something called Harvey Wallbangers-it tasted like orange juice, 
but there sure must've been something else, too! Then Jay (I think that was 
his name, but maybe it was Ray) had this fab '69' scene! Jay's cool-he goes 
to college back east and drives a Triumph Spitfire, and he'd pretty cute. 
But not as cute as Colin Highsmith! 

"Colin was at the party, but he hardly even looked at me. I wonder why? He 
had a pretty date, but she was real uptight. Just when things started 
getting hot, she made him take her home. Why's he with a chick like that? 
Doesn't he remember how much fun we had the other night?" 

"Oh, God..." gasped the shocked mother. 

She held the diary at arm's length as if it were contaminated while taking 
deep breaths of oxygen to calm herself. All her worst fears were more than 
realized! Her finger shook as she turned the page. 

"July 5. I forgot to write something that happened yesterday. Robbie came 
over in the afternoon-I'd forgotten I'd told him I'd go to the dumb old town 
dance if he came home for the weekend. Well, of course I couldn't go with 
him 'cause I was going to the Chittenden's cruiser bash. He got mad, so I 
told him to take his cheap ugly ring back and get lost." 

"When I told Clara Pringle she thought I was nuts. I said I was on to bigger 
and better game, and she said that was awful. So what? I don't care if she'd 
mad at me 'cause I have lots of neat new friends and she's a drag anyhow." 

"My own daughter-a selfish social climber!" Denise was pale as a ghost, and 
shivering despite the heat. "Oh, no!" She flipped to the latest entry. 

"July 13. Thank God tomorrow's Saturday so I can sleep late-the yacht club 
dance really wore me out. . . especially what happened on the way home! I 
went with a guy called Scott something who was Colin's roommate at prep 
school, and Colin was with that same uptight girl he's always dating now; I 
don't like her-she looks like Tricia Nixon and acts just as dumb. Anyway, 
they went in our car 'cause Colin smashed up his and the girl went home 
early in a taxi 'cause she got mad when he tried to make out with her on the 
terrace, so it was just Scott and Colin and me driving home. We parked down 
by Lake Waloon and they both fucked me at the same time. Out of sight! Scott 
was in my pussy-he has a huge cock, almost as big as Ted Comfort's-and Colin 
was in my ass. Wow! That was the first time someone fucked me in the ass and 
was it ever exciting, especially with the other cock in my cunt. And I feel 
so glad that Colin-likes me again-maybe he'll wise up and ask me out instead 
of that stupid goodie-goodie." 

This was too much! Denise flopped limply back on her daughter's bed, beside 
the fluffy stuffed dog Tracey'd had since she was a little girl. Well, she 
surely wasn't a little girl anymore-she was a common slut! Imagine liking 
being anally abused? Why, she'd left her husband for raping her in the 
rectum! 

The young divorcee's eyes drifted shut, and her daughter's disgraceful diary 
fell from her numb fingers onto the floor. Years vanished as if by magic, 
and imagination transported her back to the cramped, artsy-craftsy apartment 
in Chicago's Hyde Park section which she'd inhabited together with her 
husband, Wade Hardwell, and her two tiny daughters, and, usually, a motley 
collection of Wade's beatnik friends. No, the anal rape hadn't been the only 
reason she'd walked out on her husband-it had merely been the straw which 
broke the camel's back. 

Wade had been the handsomest guy she'd ever seen when he came hitchhiking 
through northern Michigan and she and Cousin Norman had picked him up one 
hot afternoon in August of 1958. He'd reminded her of the photograph in her 
English Literature book of the romantic poet, Lord Byron-same dark head of 
curls, brooding eyes and sensitive mouth, some lean, chiseled features-and 
sure enough, he turned out to be a writer, albeit unpublished, on a 
pilgrimage to Hemingway's boyhood countryside. Arrows of excitement shot 
from the top of her ponytail to the toes of her bobby socks, and she knew 
this must be Love At First Sight. 

"He's a ne'er-do-well," warned Grandpa. "A born loser. I know the type." 

"Sissy schmuck can't even handle a sailboat," scoffed Cousin Norm. 

Denise paid absolutely no attention. She was head-over-heels in love with 
Wade, who wooed her with romantic poems and pretty watercolor sketches and 
gentle caresses instead of trying to get his hands inside her panties the 
minute you let him kiss you, like Ted Comfort-the only guy in town worth 
mentioning-had. Much to Grandfather's annoyance, she offered to let him camp 
in their big back yard. 

"Enough's enough!" proclaimed Grandpa after supporting his unwelcome guest 
for some ten days. "That fellow's bad luck if I ever saw it, and I don't 
understand why you're all starry-eyed over a penniless poet when you turn 
down dates from a good man like Teddy Comfort. I thought you had more sense 
than that." 

"I detest Ted," she'd replied haughtily. "He's a vulgar creep!" 

"Have it your way, but one thing's sure: the Hartwell kid's not staying 
another night on my property. And you can just go and tell him to start 
packing up his gear right now." 

"You're throwing him out?" her voice shrilled. "You can't do that!" 

"I can, and I sure as hell am. With the greatest of pleasure." 

"If he leaves, I leave with him!" 

That was exactly what she'd done, withdrawing her $733.00 college savings 
account to purchase two tickets to Chicago. First-class private compartment 
tickets, of course, so that the honeymoon night could be consummated in 
style. Denise hadn't expected her strong-willed grandfather to ever forgive 
her, but after some six months or so he began answering letters in his usual 
warm way. No financial aid was ever forthcoming-"You've made your bed, and 
now you have to lie in it. . . "-and so when he died five years later she 
was extremely surprised to discover he'd left his three houses and 
considerable acres of property around Birch Bay to her. 

By now, after supporting Wade through his various unsuccessful ventures into 
the arts, the weary young wife had few illusions left about their marriage. 
All during her first pregnancy she'd done secretarial work at the University 
of Chicago so he could continue his literature courses, and after he'd 
flunked his exams and decided his true vocation was drawing and painting, 
she'd borrowed a typewriter and taken in work in between washing diapers and 
making formulas to pay his Art Institute tuition. Wade switched to the drama 
department and made some contacts which got him advertising jobs ... she'd 
hoped to be able to stop slaving away, but somehow his artistic temperament 
didn't enable him to arrive on time, and if he did get some money, he and 
his horrible beatnik friends drank it up before she could pay the rent and 
grocery bill. Finally he'd floated into photography, pawning his expensive 
art materials to buy a Nikon. Her second pregnancy was spent clerking in 
Marshall Field's book department during the day and typing a revolting 
pornographic manuscript for fifty cents a page at nights. 

She was only twenty-three, but there was a hardness in her eyes, a 
bitterness in her voice, and a very cynical streak to her character. 

As if her husband's irresponsibility weren't bad enough, there were his 
disgusting ideas about what constituted a good time in bed. Denise 
considered herself a modern, healthy liberated young woman; sex was 
biologically necessary for producing offspring, and was also a natural 
physical need. However, there were limits. She liked it when Wade lay on top 
of her under the covers and fondled her breasts and pussy and then put his 
penis inside her vagina and brought her to orgasm, like any normal woman, 
but he didn't ever do it that way. Pretty soon she stopped climaxing 
altogether, for every time they got into bed he had some new kinky, perverse 
position he wanted to try. Oral sex ... upside-down and inside-out and 
backwards positions ... coming into her from behind while she kneeled like a 
canine bitch ... and finally the ultimate horror-anal intercourse. 

On the day she'd received the letter about Gramps' will, he'd come home 
half-intoxicated and informed her that he was selling his camera equipment, 
buying a guitar, and singing up for private lessons with a successful folk 
singer in a coffeehouse he and his greasy buddies frequented. She'd blown 
her top, and he'd lost 

J his temper too and raped her back there. Next morning, she and the kids 
were on a train on their way back to Michigan. 

After the ultimate humiliation of having cum with her drunken husband's 
thick cock pulsing in her anus and his indecent middle finger fiddling 
around inside her pussy, how could she stay another day in the same house 
with him? 

"But I didn't want to remember that!" Denise muttered. 

The past evaporated into the present and here she was lying weakly on her 
daughter's bed. And there, beside her sandaled feet, lay that damning diary. 
. . Suddenly, something clicked inside the worried parent's brain and she 
snatched the slim volume up from the floor and thumbed through it in search 
for another mention of Mr. Theodore Comfort's name. Ahah! Here was the 
answer to why her innocent child had been transformed into a debauched 
little whore! 

"Yesterday was the most important day of my life! First, the fantastic 
morning! Ted turned me into a REAL WOMAN! It's fantastic that he thinks I'm 
sexy and a good fuck! I really love him like crazy! 

"Then Colin Highsmith invited me to a party, only it was really an orgy. I 
acted like a whore and it felt fabulous! Who cares if..." 

Red-hot anger flooded through Mrs. Aronson's veins as she slammed the little 
journal shut and threw it onto the floor. No need to suffer through more of 
the prurient outpourings of her abused adolescent's sex-crazed soul ... Now 
was the moment for drastic action. Comfort, the criminal culprit, the 
child-corrupting villain, was not going to get away with this atrocity! 

For once, the militant Feminist was wearing a skirt-all her jeans were 
hanging out on the line to dry, for as a way to procrastinate from her 
outline she'd done a rare load of wash. She passed a full-length mirror on 
her furious flight out of the house, but didn't waste time inspecting her 
appearance and was quite unconscious of how voluptuous her body looked in 
the tight cotton shift she'd borrowed from her daughter's extensive 
wardrobe. 

She was equally unconscious of the strange stirrings of desire which had 
awoken in her frustrated loins upon reading Tracey's salacious diary and 
remembering her ex-husband's bawdy sexual inclinations. Her panty crotch 
band was damp and her uncovered breasts were hot and swollen, but she 
thought only of Revenge as she sped recklessly down toward the harbor. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

"Oh, Ted, Ted!" Tracey's Aronson's woebegone, tear-stained face stared up at 
her boss in abject misery. "I just don't know what to do. How could they 
have said awful things like that about me? I was just acting like the guys 
wanted me to, and I thought they liked me ... I thought I was really part of 
the crowd..." 

Comfort's frown deepened. "There, there, calm down, sweetie," he soothed, 
stroking her tousled golden curls away from her flushed forehead. Then, 
breaking their intimate embrace, he marched toward the well-stocked bar 
which occupied almost an entire wall in his small bachelor's pad and found 
two clean highball glasses. "A drink'll help, honey. What's your poison?" 

"I d-don't know," she half sobbed. "V-v-vodka, or tequila, anything that 
doesn't taste n-nasty." 

He mixed two Tequila Sunrises with a practiced hand: a double splash of 
tequila, some Florida orange juice, a good squeeze of lime, and crushed ice. 
Then he sat back down beside her on his low-slung Scandinavian leather 
couch, once again entwining his burly arms around her slender, shaking 
shoulders. After that delightful deflowering some weeks ago, he'd forced 
himself to hold to a hands-off policy ... an under-age little lover was just 
a bit too dangerous, even for a men of his rebellious temperament. Oh, of 
course there had been lots of touching and kissing during working hours, but 
it seemed that Tracey was being sexually satisfied elsewhere and wasn't 
really hungry for more. In fact, she'd seemed increasingly fatigued, though 
she'd always performed her chores with accuracy and enthusiasm in between 
yawns. 

This evening, however, she needed comfort and renewal of her 
self-confidence, and he wondered if a good fuck wasn't perhaps the best 
method to stop her flood of tears. Poor kid! She hadn't realized what a 
tight, puritanically hypocritical society reigned her in the rural Midwest, 
and she'd fallen into the same trap so many other young girls did of 
thinking she could gain social acceptance through promiscuity. And no 
wonder, either, considering that the lines of communication with her mother 
were so blocked that she'd come to him instead of her parent when the ugly 
truth hit her full in the face. 

Debutantes could get away with murder; rich young scions were expected to 
sow their wild oats. But when an ordinary middle-class girl tried to play 
the same game, she was immediately classified a tramp. The fact of her 
unusually high level of sensuality made the whole question even more 
complex, and Ted felt a bit guilty because he'd helped rouse her slumbering 
sexuality and had persuaded her that acting erotic was a positive quality. 

Well, hell, it was! It was just this stiffling atmosphere in these parts 
that perverted things. Luckily he'd finally gotten the name and capital to 
enable him to sell this boatyard and buy a bigger and better one on the West 
Coast. Three months from now, he'd be thousand of miles away from Birch Bay 
and no more homesick than he'd been the first time he left home to run away 
to sea. 

"That's better, isn't it, Tracey?" he murmured softly against her silken 
hair as she sipped her drink. "Listen, so you've made a few mistakes-we all 
live and learn. It doesn't mean you're not still a beautiful person." 

"Oh ... but I feel so ugly and dirty," she sighed hopelessly. "I feel-I feel 
used." 

"You have been used," he replied, abandoning the warm curves of her cuddling 
young body once again to refill their glasses. "But it's their loss, not 
yours-ultimately, that is. You're a woman with a hell of a lot to offer a 
man, baby, but these guys you've been running around with aren't men-they're 
stupid little boys who just want to prove how cool. Think of it that way and 
you'll feel better, okay?" 

"Oh, I just don't know..." the teenager's voice trailed away sadly. She took 
another sip of her drink, which was indeed raising her sunken spirits, then 
flashed her kind boss a shaky smile. "I just wish I didn't have to go back 
to High, 'cause everyone's gonna be talking about me and treating me weird, 
y'know. But I can't help liking sex, honest I can't! I-" she took another 
gulp, her eyes softening as the tears dried, "I feel sexy right now ... 
I-I'd love it if you'd fuck me. Do you think I'm horrible when I say that?" 

"No, I sure as hell don't!" The older man was, in fact, extremely aroused 
himself. "I think you've things more together than any sixteen year-old gal 
I ever knew, and it's really a drag that you're stuck in this sick part of 
the globe where people are all fucked-up about sex. C'mon, let's get naked!" 

Tracey's cut-off Levi's, skimpy tee-shirt and pastel pink panties were lying 
in a heap beside his blue work shirt and jeans when the front door burst 
open and Mrs. Aronson burst through the unlocked front door looking like the 
wrath of God. Sparks of fire shot from her dark brown eyes, zest for battle 
had painted two scarlet spots on her high cheekbones, and she wielded her 
worn leather handbag as though it were a weapon as she stomped through the 
small foyer into the main room. 

"Ted Comfort, where are you?" her strident voice reverberated through the 
one-bedroom bungalow. "Come out here this instant! I want an immediate 
explanation about-oohhh!" 

Comfort was in the living room; she hadn't noticed the bodies on the couch 
in the far corner until now, or she'd have made a more discreet entrance. 
Despite her rage, she was loathe to have to witness the vile man's odious 
indecency-having intercourse in the middle of the living room and in broad 
daylight, the very idea but it was too late to retreat now. But. . . but. . 
. the sex maniac and his cheap blonde paramour weren't having normal sexual 
relations! 

"Oh, God!" she whispered. "Ugh..." 

Snixante-neuf. . . the same repulsive, unsanitary act her ex-boyfriend had 
tried to persuade her to perform on their long-ago date, and also one of her 
former husband's perverted hang-ups. What sort of woman would allow a man to 
put his mouth against her most intimate flesh while simultaneously touched 
his big throbbing thing with her own lips? she wondered dizzily, then 
noticed on closer inspection that Comfort's naked companion wasn't a woman 
after all. She was a young girl... 

"TRACEY ARONSON!" she screamed, horrified, incredulous. Somehow, even the 
explicit evidence of the teenager's dairy hadn't truly brought home the fact 
that her child was capable of such depravity. "HOW DARE YOU?! " 

The frightened girl's glistening lips drew away from the huge flesh pole 
with a lewd little slurping sound, but otherwise the sinful couple didn't 
move a muscle. Even the penis remained arrogantly erect, and the harder 
Denise tried to ignore the proud, purple-veined phallus, the more it 
obsessed her. Suddenly Comfort chuckled. 

"Well, well, if it isn't Denise. Didn't expect you to drop by this 
afternoon, my dear. Come to join in the fun?" 

"You may think this is a laughing matter," retorted Denise in a voice which 
shook despite her efforts to steel herself against the salacious spectacle, 
"but I don't think you'll still be smirking when you find yourself on trial 
for child molestation." 

"Mother, please!" the young girl cried out. Her first reaction had been 
clammy fear, but Ted's strong, confident embrace gave her more courage than 
she'd dreamed she possessed. "He's not molesting me ... and I'm not a child 
anymore, either!" 

There was a moment's pregnant silence during which Denise's face drained of 
all color and her knees started wobbling weakly. Comfort laughed again. 

"Sit down before you fall down, why don't you, Den-ni? And pour yourself a 
drink-you look as though you could use one." 

The mother shot him a look of loathing, hating him for his calm 
conversational tone, but she did as he'd bid. That's better, she told 
herself as the whiskey warmed her belly. Now maybe I can stop reacting like 
a wishy-washy, weak-willed female. Even as the thought ran through her 
throbbing head, however, she was unable to rip her eyes from the sordid 
scene on the couch. 

"Tracey, get away from that dreadful man this minute!" she tried to sound 
authoritarian. "Put on your clothes, and wait out in the car while I finish 
discussing this with Mr. Comfort." 

"I think Tracey's old enough to make her own decisions, aren't you, honey?" 

The teenager nodded, astonished at finding herself able to stand up against 
her strong-willed parent at last. "I want to stay here, Mom. And-and Ted's 
not dreadful-he's wonderful! You just don't understand." 

"No," Denise snapped, "I most certainly do not under-" 

Comfort interrupted, still infuriatingly cool and smiling more broadly than 
ever as he instinctively sensed Mrs. Aronson's subconscious sexual arousal. 
A lascivious flicker of lust gleamed in his green-gray eyes as he mentally 
undressed his voluptuous ex-girl friend. 

"Now, what were we talking about? Oh, yes-a law suit. Well, I frankly don't 
think you've got much of a case, but if you really want to take this to 
court I wish you'd discuss it with my lawyer. As you may have noticed, I'm 
occupied with other things at the moment." 

"Of course I'm going to take legal action!" Denise spluttered, vainly trying 
to pull her indecently short skirt over her knees as she felt his eyes 
roving over her half-exposed loins. "Look how you've corrupted my innocent 
daughter! You should be locked behind bars so you don't get the chance to 
ruin any other little girls' lives." 

All of a sudden Comfort lost patience. Domineering dames were the ultimate 
drag, and the warm proximity of little Tracey's cuddling curves was making 
him impatient to resume love-making. 

"You stupid bitch!" he swore. Then he gently kissed Tracey and stood up, 
penis jutting from his sparse-haired groin at a ninety-degree angle, and 
strode toward where the woman was collapsed on one of the cushions which 
served as chairs. "You know what's the matter with you?" 

Her eyes glazed over as his weighty weapon approached. She tried to speak, 
but not a syllable passed from her quivering lips. For some inexplicable 
reason she was overcome by an emotion which, unfamiliar as it was, she 
recognized as fear. 

"You've never known a man who had enough balls to put you in your place, 
that's what's your problem. The cure for a stuck-up, tight-assed bitch like 
you is a good fuck." 

He took another couple steps toward her, so that he stood mere inches away 
and she could see the pulsing veins and soft-haired testicles and a dewdrop 
of fluid on his threatening cockhead. To keep herself from admitting 
weakness and retreating, the distressed divorcee swallowed the rest of her 
Scotch. 

"Of all the nerve..." she mumbled in a shaky whimper. 

"Shut up! Lady, you've met your match this time. I'm gonna do what you've 
been wanting some guy to do for years, even if you're much too high and 
mighty to admit it-I'm gonna fuck the hell out of you, till you know what it 
means to be a woman. A real woman, like your daughter here." 

"You must be out of your mind! Put one finger on me and you'll be sorry!" 

"The only thing I'm sorry is that I didn't have the guts to do this when you 
were seventeen, you bitch. You wanted it then-don't try and pretend you 
didn't! Well, now you're gonna get it." 

Anger and dread raced through the thirty-five year-old brunette's veins like 
liquid lightning and sent adrenaline surging through her system. Impulsively 
she reached out and slapped him hard across the cheek. Even as the 
resounding smack still echoed through the birch-paneled room, she knew she'd 
made a serious mistake. 

"All right, you asked for it!" 

Before she knew what was happening, she was flat on her belly, gasping for 
breath from the impact of the blow which had sent her lurching to the 
carpet. A split second later, the skimpy cotton shift she'd borrowed from 
her daughter was torn from her body with a sickening sound of ripping 
fabric, and her panties joined the growing pile of discarded clothing 
another second later. Since she'd long since burned all her bras, she was 
now as naked as the vengeful male and her sinful child. 

Comfort stared down at her ripe white buttocks; they were fuller, more 
mature than Tracey's, as were the golden globes of her breasts which were 
crushed against his fur rug. Painfully crushed, he hoped. 

Damn the women's liberation movement and all its insidious offshoots! Well, 
this particular snooty bitch was going to get a good dose of pain and 
humiliation which would cure her of her cold conceit forever, by God. And, 
as he inspected the dark crevice between her flailing ass-cheeks, he knew 
exactly which punishment would fit the crime. His potent penis was going to 
ram deep into her ass-hole until she screamed out in pain, then began 
whimpering and begging in a frenzy of unwanted arousal. Yeah! that was the 
answer! SODOMY! 

But first, a bit of will-breaking humiliation... 

Denise finally regained her breath. "You pig! You filthy animal!" she 
howled, squirming in an unintentionally seductive manner as she tried to 
summon the strength to rise. How had she ever ended up lying like a helpless 
slave girl on the floor after all those rather expensive karate courses? 
"You'll pay for this! You'll-" 

The naked man laughed as he lunged on top of her to pinion her to the fur 
throw rug ... a sinister, satyric chortle of mirthless lust. "This is how I 
like to see you, Denni," he sneered, digging his fingernails into the tender 
flesh of her resilient buttocks. "Lying there helpless, waitin' for my cock 
in your ass. But first we're gonna play some turn-on games. Tracey," he 
looked from mother to daughter, eyes softening somewhat at the shocked 
expression on his adolescent lover's pretty face, "c'mon over here." 

The schoolgirl obeyed as if hypnotized, her slim, curvaceous figure 
shivering with fearful excitement as she slowly moved from the sofa to the 
naked couple on the carpet beside the fireplace. Mother's face was pressed 
tightly against the rug-thank God, she'd never have had the nerve to meet 
her parent's eyes. 

"Kneel down between your Mommy's legs," directed the demonically excited 
man. "Spread her thighs, and start kissing her pussy just like I was doing 
to you when she barged in uninvited." 

Tracey froze. She'd seen Danish blue movies of women licking each other's 
vagina's at one of the many cruiser parties she'd attended lately, and had 
been aroused by the salacious spectacle, but with her own mother? Oh, no, 
she simply couldn't. . . 

"Oh, Ted, no!" she gasped weakly. 

"Listen, honey, you trust me, don't you?" 

She nodded mutely. 

"Well, this is gonna help your mother, understand. She needs to learn that 
sex is great, just like you did. I promise you it's okay! Honest!" 

Who in her entire life had she ever believed in more than her wonderful 
boss? Very slowly, the teenager dropped to her knees and put her small hands 
on Mother's quivering thighs. She pushed them apart, shuddering at her own 
audacity and shocked at the intense emotions that surged through her at the 
sight and feel of her parent's voluptuous body. 

"Tracey!" whimpered Denise. This whole bizarre situation was too depraved 
for belief, and the worst of all was that her will power seemed to have 
deserted her. She felt drained and helpless, and it was impossible to ignore 
the shameful dampness of her pussy, the strange flickerings of desire which 
were fast .transforming her into a white-hot mass of sinful longing. "Don't 
listen to him! You can't do this! Youoouuhh..." 

After all, the teenager rationalized dizzily as she gently kissed her 
mother's softly-fleeced "vee", haven't I known for ages that Mom needs to 
turn on to sex? And she's all wet-she MUST need it, even if she won't admit 
it. Just like Ted said! Her tongue snaked into the dewy depths of her 
mother's squirming pussy, hesitantly at first, then ardently as her own 
passions flamed higher. Oh, God, how wicked this was ... how wonderful! 

"It's okay, Mom," she heard her own voice whispering. "T-Ted knows what's 
best, really he does..." 

"That's my girl! Tongue her good-get her ready for my cock!" 

In a way, he wasn't surprised to see that his rebellious ex-girl friend was 
almost immediately growing excited. She'd been a hot-blooded little thing at 
seventeen, and probably hadn't ever had the occasions to express her hidden 
erotic nature since ... and she was her sensual daughter's mother ... His 
vision blurred slightly as he stared down at the two different but equally 
exciting female forms writhing beneath him in an incestuous lesbian embrace: 
one lithe, undeveloped, but responding like an experienced call girl despite 
the fact that he correctly suspected she was a novice at this particular 
sort of sexuality; the other more lushly rounded, though without an inch of 
excess flesh on her statuesque figure, unwillingly beginning to respond to 
her long-denied yearnings. An anguished throb of his mammoth member told him 
he couldn't hold back a moment longer. 

"All right, Tracey honey, that's enough." His voice sounded strange in his 
own ears, hoarse and almost inhuman in the throes of passion. "Now get down 
and spread your sweet legs so Mama can do the same to your pussy. I'm gonna 
take care of this end of things!" 

All the while, Denise had been mewling in anguished, but hopeless, protest. 
Now, as Comfort's eager cockhead smashed up against the cringing crumpled 
ring of her anus, she let out a loud howl. 

"Nooooo! Not that! Please! Stop, stop, stop-oh, God, you're hurting me! 
Stop!" 

That was exactly what he wanted to hear. He spread his palm flat and brought 
it down hard against the side of her tender-fleshed breast which was 
spreading out from under her feverishly thrashing figure. 

"Shut the fuck up!" he rasped. "And put your mouth 'round your kid's pussy, 
or it's gonna hurt a helluva lot more." 

"Oowwwhhhhh!" 

"Do what you're told, bitch!" 

He struck her other breast, then dug vise-like fingers into the sensitive 
skin on her pliant buttocks for support as he shoved his rampant rod down 
through the resisting walls of her rectal passage. At last, with a low moan 
of despair, she complied ... a cry which, much to his gratification, soon 
grew to an involuntary croon of prurient pleasure interspersed with yelps of 
physical anguish. 

"Relax, Mom, that way it hardly hurts at all," Denise heard her sixteen 
year-old child murmuring in a tender tone. It was as if, by some strange 
magic, their roles had been reversed and she had switched from mother to 
daughter. "Just make your muscles real loose back there and soon you'll feel 
great! And I'll keep kissing your beautiful pussy so's you'll feel ever 
greater!" 

In spite of the vile obscenity of it all, Denise was deeply moved by her 
daughter's soft words of assistance. She'd felt more rejected than she'd 
realized consciously when Tracey chose to obey Ted and ignore her own 
mother, but now she dimly discerned that the young girl had honestly been 
doing what she believed to be best. And, in all honesty, she couldn't recall 
ever having experienced anything more delightful than her little girl's 
lapping, nibbling lips and gently twirling tongue around her clitoris. 

"Thank you, darling," she said, discovering to her shock that Tracey was 
correct. The instant she stopped fighting against the unnatural invasion of 
her anus, the pain receded to an almost pleasurable pressure which, combined 
with the intensely blissful sensations in her pussy, pushed her to the point 
where right and wrong no longer mattered. "Oohhhh, I-I feel ... " 

She stopped herself before admitting her growing arousal, not wanting to 
give Ted Comfort that satisfaction, but when the youngster replied, "Feels 
what, Mom? Does it feel good? Tell me...", she forgot her resentment in a 
rush of love for her child. 

"Yes, yes, it feels heavenly," she breathed. 

"Then use your tongue just like I'm doing," urged the precocious teenager. 
"Please, Mother ... make me cum, too," 

Until now, Denise had been very timidly touching the fresh-scented folds of 
coral pink flesh without really exploring the slightly quivering little lips 
and passage, but now was so turned-on that all revulsion and guilt faded and 
she gladly set out to satisfy her daughter. Why, she wondered dizzily, had 
she always considered genitals something ugly? Tracey's vagina was 
beautiful-soft and smooth and secreting a fluid more exquisite than the most 
expensive French liqueur. Was a man's penis just as nice? there seemed no 
reason why it shouldn't be... 

"Aaahhh, good!" Tracey bubbled ecstatically. "I never did it with a woman 
before like this-I never dreamed it's be so fantastic! And I can feel Ted's 
big prick with my tongue! Wow-I'm already almost ready to cum!" 

"I-I'm glad it's the first time, darling ... glad I can help you d-discover 
sex, too..." 

"You two beautiful bitches," Ted, who'd kept silent during the tender 
interchange, burst out. "You're all woman, both of you! Denni, you've got 
the sweetest, tightest ass I ever felt-it's driving me crazy! And Tracey, I 
can feel your tongue, too. Christ almighty!" 

Denise remembered vaguely that she should be insulted to be called a "bitch" 
and "all woman", but she wasn't-she was proud and happy and, at last, truly 
free and liberated. She was alive now, she loved and was loved in turn, and 
she was speeding toward the most stupendous orgasm of her thirty-five years. 
What more could any female ask for? 

As the sexually awakened divorcee began feverishly bucking up her buttocks 
to receive his pistoning penis deeper into her anus and crying out, "Yes, 
Ted, fuck my ass! Fuck it hard and deeep and good! Oooohhhhh!", he couldn't 
hold back any longer. Urgent sperm was churning in his heavy testicles, and 
it was evident that both mother and daughter were also ready to explode. 

"Now! I'm gonna cum!" he bellowed. "Cumming in your ass!" 

"Oh, yes, yes, yes! Oh, God ... oooohhhhh!" 

The white-hot spurt of male seed into her spasming rectum, plus Tracey's 
ever-more-enthusiastic tonguing, triggered the mother's orgasm. Seconds 
later, stimulated at the sight of Mother's writhing ecstasy and the sticky 
white semen trickling out of her ass-hole over her quivering buttocks and 
thighs, Tracey was wailing out her blissful fulfillment. All three were 
overwhelmed by the intensity of their climaxes and the powerful new emotions 
their incestual orgy had roused; clasping each other's 
perspiration-slickened bodies, they collapsed for long minutes on the floor 
in a half-conscious haze of post-orgasmic peace. 

Denise was the first one.to stir. Rolling over, she kissed her daughter full 
on the lips, then turned toward Ted and, completely uninhibitedly, kissed 
the sperm-sticky phallus which had raped her-and released her. 

"You were right, both of you," she sighed softly. "Sex is beautiful! And we 
should have done it long ago, Ted." 

He looked deep into her soft brown eyes. "Never too late to make up for lost 
time," he said, his cock rising again. "I'd love to fuck your cunt now, 
Denni." 

Her tangled brown curls shook no above his eager erection. "No, Ted, first I 
want to suck your big prick ... why don't you suck Tracey while I do it? And 
then we'll make love..." 

That's just what they did, till about five in the morning when they 
collapsed in total exhaustion. 

 CHAPTER TEN 

The dogs began barking when Ted Comfort swung onto the wooded drive leading 
to his new house in Boulder Creek, California, but his wife's silky brown 
head didn't stir from his shoulder, and his stepdaughters remained curled in 
each others arms, sound asleep on the bed in the back of the VW bus. After 
parking the van in front of the sprawling redwood home which they'd all 
designed together, he sat quietly for a moment staring at his three women. 

No wonder they were tired-it was three in the morning, and cousin Norman's 
party had been exhausting, though definitely exhilarating. After lots of 
California rose and delicious lasagna in a homemade sauce liberally laced 
with marijuana, Norm's step-son seventeen year-old had rolled some 
cigar-sized joints. During the ensuing orgy, every possible variation had 
been experimented with and enjoyed. 

"I'm one hell of a lucky guy," he murmured softly into the pine-scented 
stillness of the warm winter night. "Never thought I'd say this, but you 
couldn't pay me to be a single guy again. No way!" 

His wife didn't have a jealous bone in her voluptuous body, and she never 
nagged. Perhaps she wasn't the world's best housekeeper, but what the hell; 
she was busy on a new book, a children's story which she'd been inspired to 
start when she learned that she was pregnant last month, and anyway his 
Pacific boatyard was so successful that he could easily afford to pay a 
cleaning lady to come in a few times a week. Most important of all, she was 
never too tired for sex. 

"It makes me more creative," she confided. "You know, I bet that's why I 
couldn't ever really write anything that pleased me before..." 

And his daughters! Tracey grew more beautiful every day, more 
self-confident, more womanly. As for thirteen year-old Caroline, she'd never 
go through the same adolescent traumas of status-seeking promiscuity as her 
older sister had. She was still too small to accept his large penis, but she 
was a marvelous cock-sucker and had the same fortunate capacity for multiple 
orgasms as her mother and sister. 

"Yep," Comfort decided. "Incest is best!" 


THE END
