- 7 months ago
- 49 min read
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Rafia Saad rang the doorbell and waited for someone to answer. Looking down the quiet residential street, she felt nervous, awkward. She smoothed the light cotton fabric of her new party dress. It was a festive lime print, and its hem fell just above her knees. Despite its modest cut, Rafia's father—a wiry man, with a shiny brown head—had clucked his tongue disapprovingly. Rafia didn't care. This party, she knew, was her big debut with the other students from Roosevelt.
She wanted to look her best.
Rafia rang the bell again.
She could hear faint music coming from inside the house. Looking at her reflection in the glass of the door, she flicked a tangle of long dark hair from her shoulder and licked her dry lips. Under her dress, Rafia wore a sheer black panty, the single piece of racy clothing she owned. It was her one prized possession, a secret indulgence she hid from her father. She imagined later tonight lifting the hem of her dress ever so slightly so that her date might get a glimpse of what she wore underneath.
Veronica suddenly burst out of the door and the sound of loud house music spilled out onto the porch. "Rafia!" Veronica said, her arms outstretched, a large plastic cup in one hand.
She kissed Rafia delicately on the neck. Leaning back and giving her an appraising look, Veronica pursed her lips and then smiled. "You look fabulous," she said. "The color of that dress looks amazing with your skin." She held the storm door open with her foot, motioned with her head for Rafia to follow. "Come in, come in," Veronica said.
Rafia grinned and made her way into the house. Veronica had an intensity about her that both intimidated and intrigued Rafia. Part of what intimidated her about Veronica was her incredible beauty: green eyes, creamy skin, high cheekbones. Her dark hair was straight and shiny, unlike Rafia's own hair, which was wild and tangled and always needed some sort of attention. And part of it was Veronica's abundance of confidence. Her father was wealthy so this probably accounted for much of her self-assurance. She was also Roosevelt's homecoming queen this year and—as Veronica herself liked to point out—had been on the varsity cheerleading squad since she was a freshman. Not only did she always get what she wanted, she always seemed to get the best of everything. Veronica was, Rafia thought, a classic American girl—sexy, popular, and assertive.
"Rafia's here!" Veronica announced to the party.
As she marched Rafia into the kitchen, girls smiled and nodded. The boys were off clustered in small groups of their own. Rafia knew most of their faces, if not all of their names.
"Do you want a drink?" Veronica asked.
Not waiting for an answer, Veronica took an oversize red plastic cup and filled it with punch. "Always make your own drinks," Veronica said in a low, conspiratorial voice.
Rafia nodded, reaching for the cup. She sipped the drink, a fruity concoction spiked with hard liquor. Realizing at once the punch was much too powerful for her, Rafia hid her displeasure. Better to nurse the drink, than risk offending her host.
"I'm going to find Logan," Veronica said. "You'll like him. He's nice—and so excited to meet you!"
Veronica had promised to introduce Rafia to Logan Reese. He was a football player. An attractive boy, he had a barrel chest and a large head, which rested on his thick shoulders like an upturned pail. Rafia had already decided that—if she had the opportunity—she would sleep with him later tonight. That is, if he'd have her. If he'd want to have sex with her, a freshman girl new to Roosevelt. She imagined he would, and her body tingled with willful anticipation. To Rafia, it seemed as if all the American boys were eager to sleep with most any girl. Likewise, all the girls seemed pretty obliging themselves.
Veronica appeared in the crowded kitchen, this time towing Logan behind her along with her own boyfriend, Chet.
"We meet again," Chet said. Taking Rafia's hand in both his own, he grinned.
Chet was the first-string quarterback for Roosevelt's championship football team, the Yellow Devils, and he seemed the perfect match for Veronica: strong-jawed, well-muscled, with an outgoing, exuberant personality. He made small talk about the school's chances on the gridiron this season, refreshed his drink, then stood there sipping. Logan, on the other hand, didn't seem to have much to say at all. Rafia chatted with the three of them and gingerly sipped her own drink until finally, Logan, at Veronica's urging, took Rafia into the living room to dance.
Logan gestured for Rafia to lead the way, then followed close behind. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, guiding her to the middle of a room where other couples were dancing. A curious boy, Logan always seemed to duck his head shyly before meeting Rafia's eyes with his own.
Rafia and Logan danced with half a dozen other boys and girls. Logan seemed to have even less to say in the living room. Rafia wondered if he found her attractive. She wondered if they'd find their way into one another's arms later tonight. But he seemed attentive enough and the volume of the music prevented talk, so Rafia resolved to be grateful for whatever came her way tonight. She held onto her drink and nodded to the couples Logan introduced her to.
Logan wore his blonde hair in a clipped crew cut. There was color in his cheeks, perhaps from the heat of all the bodies in the room, and his forehead grew moist with the exertion of dancing. Rafia longed to run her fingers over the short stubble on his head.
When Logan finally leaned toward her and suggested they go upstairs, she smiled and took his hand, eagerly nodding her assent.
Rafia was no shrinking virgin herself. She loved to be petted, especially between her legs. When the time came, she loved to straddle a boy's thigh, grinding her hips and crotch against him until she came. She knew well how to use her mouth and hands to satisfy a date. She'd managed to obtain a diaphragm and had already had intercourse one time, though it had been a big disappointment. Quick and over before she knew it. She longed for a satisfying sexual experience, a partner with staying power who wouldn't fade.
As she ascended the stairs behind Logan, Rafia enjoyed the other girls' glittering eyes and whispers to one another. Likewise, one or two of the boys slyly popped their chins at Logan or offered a shaking fist of encouragement.
Rafia enjoyed the attention. She enjoyed the idea that everyone knew she would soon be making out with this popular boy. For Rafia understood what her father did not: this was all part of being an American girl. You had to go upstairs with the boys. You had to be sexy and obliging. A girl had to be willing to give a little.
In the upstairs room, Logan took Rafia's drink from her hand and set it aside.
He held her tightly, pressing his tongue into her mouth, his hard cock against her hip. Rafia sighed as she felt his body against her own. He was big between his legs. She grinned up at him, eager to be with someone so self-assured, feeling her own blood quickly rising.
The easy grin Logan had worn most of the night disappeared, replaced now by a look of grim determination. "Come on baby," he whispered, his hand sliding down over her hips, then doubling back, slipping up the front of her dress, and deftly cupping her sex.
She hadn't expected him to touch her there so soon. She could feel the moist fabric of her panty rubbing against her sex. Her crotch was undeniably wet. She felt a little embarrassed that he now held proof in his hand of her intention for the night.
"Hum," he softly leered. "You ready baby?"
"Easy, easy," Rafia said.
She chuckled and pushed his hand from between her legs. He nibbled on her neck and mumbled, "You're going to like this baby."
Rafia wondered if Logan had somehow forgotten her name. She tried to remember if he had called her by name even once tonight. He hadn't said much, so she couldn't be quite certain. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He massaged her breasts, and Rafia closed her eyes and purred. She enjoyed being touched, the electric pleasure of physical attention from a boy. He nibbled her earlobe, running his hand down her back. Suddenly Logan took fistfuls of her bottom in his meaty hands and groaned deep in his throat like an animal.
Rafia felt her dress riding high on her hips and groaned herself. His rugged abandon triggered something inside her, an unmistakable desire to be with someone exactly like him, someone who wasn't afraid of sex and who knew how to perform. But his vise-like grip pained her. As she tried to squirm out of his grasp, she succeeded only in thrusting her own groin against his already hard cock. Rafia felt her dress rising over her hips, up her back.
She wanted to tell Logan to slow down. She wanted to say that she liked him, that he could simply have her. That he didn't need to be so rough. But it was no good. She couldn't get the words out fast enough, and he wasn't listening anyhow. Her dress came over her head as she backed away from him, a delicate gasp falling from her lips.
Rafia panted from exertion, standing in the middle of the room in only her panties and bra. The blood thumped in her ears.
For a beat, no one said anything.
Then Logan grinned and ducked his head—that same shy-boy grin from earlier in the night—and Rafia felt a huge surge of relief. She laughed, shaking her head, eager to forgive him. The last thing she wanted was to race downstairs wearing only her underwear. What could be more humiliating?
Rafia recovered quickly, kicking off one of her shoes, then the other.
Logan let her dress fall to the floor and then fell upon her again, kissing her mouth and neck and touching her breasts. To prevent him from ripping her bra, she quickly unfastened it and let her small breasts free.
He took one of her nipples between his fingers, twirling it like a pebble. He backed her onto a nearby couch, laid her down, and then knelt between her legs. As he clumsily tugged her underwear from her hips, Rafia heard the fabric give. She sighed with great disappointment. He'd ruined her favorite panties.
He unfastened his pants and lowered his fly. Rafia saw the head of his thick penis in his hand, and then he was on her. His weight pinned her to the couch, his hand fumbling between their bodies. Rafia smelled whiskey from the punch and a minty aftershave lotion. She could feel the head of his cock press against her sex and then he filled her. He was inside her. She gasped aloud, as much from the shock of being penetrated as from accepting his full weight onto her slim frame.
He extricated his hand and rose up onto his elbows, and she found she could move just a bit. Hard thrusts followed. Rafia peered between their bodies and saw his wet cock disappearing between her legs. His hands cupped her shoulders, his hot breath warmed her neck.
"Fuck, baby, fuck," he whispered.
Rafia wrapped her long legs around his body, accepting him. Riding him. She ran her hands along his torso, the cotton fabric of his T-shirt. He had kept most of his clothes on, while she lay nude underneath him. Their unequal dress made her feel vulnerable. Wanting the comfort of his bare skin, she sent her hands as far down his backside as she could, grasping for his bottom. He rode her this way for the next few minutes.
Finally, he raised himself up, ground his cock inside her, and groaned loudly. The wide expanse of his chest loomed over Rafia.
"Take it baby," he whispered in a throaty voice. "Take it!"
He twisted his mouth with lust, and screwed his eyes shut. And then he collapsed, sighing deeply. Rafia listened to his heavy breathing, felt the bulk of his sweaty head nuzzled beside her own.
Then Logan snorted.
He rose, made a shushing noise with his mouth and gently touched his fingertips to Rafia's lips. Snapping off a nearby lamp, he pitched the room into total darkness.
Rafia felt grateful for the shadows.
She wanted to collect herself. She felt aroused, but not sated. As she lay there, she was aware that he was moving about the room. She heard the door open, the sounds of the music and the people downstairs momentarily growing louder, then fading away as the door softly closed.
She had done it. Not entirely as she had expected, but things never seemed to happen the way you thought they would.
Her skin felt wet. A mixture of his sweat and her own. As she lay there, she became aware of his cum leaking out of her. She hoped he had gone to retrieve a towel even as she heard the door to the room open again. The sound of the party, then the soft muffled thud of the door into its jamb. His return.
Feet padding around in the dark.
Rafia willed herself not to look at him, though it would have been impossible to see him in the dim light anyhow. She wanted to affect the role of the wounded date. She meant to tell him about how rough he had been with her. Had he really ripped her sexy black panties? She felt annoyed. She meant to make him say her name—Rafia. She wouldn't accept another "Baby" from him for the rest of the night. American boys respected assertiveness.
But she didn't want to be shrill.
Not a bitch.
She raised her arms over her head and nuzzled her bottom into the couch. Tone was important. She felt the cool air on her damp underarms, enjoyed the stretch of her torso. She draped one of her slender legs over the back of the couch.
He knelt nearby the couch, his hand on her tummy. Rafia kept her gaze averted. Let him do some work to get her attention.
His hand moved to her breast, massaging her nipple. Cocking her arm over her eyes, Rafia enjoyed the feel of his fingertips on her body. He'd returned to make sure she'd get to come tonight. This thought pleased her. Sure enough, Rafia felt his hand on the inside of her thigh. She licked her lips, trying to remain absolutely still as he explored her. Perhaps he would use his tongue on her. When his light touch moved up her thigh to the hot spot between her legs, Rafia gave a soft moan. His thumb rubbed her clit. Gently rotating her hips, she wanted more of his touch. She could feel her own desire mounting.
He withdrew his hand and Rafia heard him unfasten his fly, lower his pants.
Rafia smiled as he raised her knees toward her chest. She opened herself wide, giving herself over to him. He mounted her, remaining upright. Though she had already surrendered the role of wounded date, Rafia kept her arm mostly across her eyes, the better to focus on her own hard breathing, the orgasm steadily mounting in her body.
She listened to the wet sounds coming from between her legs as he pumped his hips. His earlier deposit had left her wet, slippery. His cock popped out of her and he rubbed its fat head on her lips before sliding himself back inside. He pressed his hands on the backs of her thighs and pumped his hips with abandon. Rafia felt her own pressing needs rising.
Then he leaned forward and put his warm mouth on her nipple. She groaned out loud. Reaching for him, Rafia got the shock of her life—a head full of soft curls, a slim torso. This wasn't Logan!
If the boy recognized her gasp of surprise, he didn't let on. Rafia's mind raced. Perhaps there were other rooms on this floor and he had been up here with his own date. Perhaps he left to go to the bathroom, got mixed up and ended up in the wrong room. He stopped suckling her breast. His head was only inches from her own, but Rafia couldn't make out who he was in the dim light. Rafia felt her stomach lurch, even as her body strummed with desire. Whoever this was, she had willingly opened her legs for him. Now he was inside of her. His hips jacking in and out.
Filling her with his slick cock.
What would Logan think?
What to do? What to do? —Tap this boy on the shoulder, say, "Excuse me?"
Rafia lay still, listening to her own heavy breathing. The discovery had cost her some sexual momentum, but the further she got from the find—and the longer the boy pumped his cock between her legs—the less it seemed to matter. She was so very close to orgasm, her first during sex. A deliciously dirty idea took shape in her mind—Rafia decided to wait until after her own orgasm to reveal the mistake this boy had made. Of course, she would allow herself to be appropriately appalled, but only after she had come. As she gave herself over to this course of action, she let go, lost her inhibitions and began to roll her little bottom and moan.
She rode that slippery fat cock, sliding between her legs.
Suddenly the door burst open and loud house music filled the room with a rich, driving beat. The boy raised himself stiff-armed on the couch and shouted with great irritation at the door: "Not done yet!"
Rafia quickly glanced toward the door and—as it was being hastily pulled shut—saw a small crowd of heads and shoulders standing outside. The boy on top of her continued to thrust himself between her legs. In the dim light, she could just make out his white teeth. He was grinning down at her.
"Logan?" Rafia said. She had meant it as a question of the boy, but then she immediately turned her head and called the same name to the door. "Logan!"
"He's downstairs," the boy said softly. "He can't hear you."
The boy slowed his thrusts. Now he used a gentle grinding motion of his hips. "Logan doesn't mind," the boy said. He sighed tenderly and settled into a comfortable rhythm with his hips. Rafia considered this new information.
Her mind raced.
No one said anything for a bit.
Then the boy silently began resuming his thrusts. Softly at first, then with growing intensity and purpose. Rafia listened to his breathy grunts, the sound the couch made as it received his efforts. She realized the crowd outside the door was a line.
A line of boys.
Boys waiting to come inside here.
To come inside her.
Then the boy's body stiffened. He groaned loudly. And for the second time that night, a boy ground his cock between her legs, filling her with warm semen.
Rafia heard the door open and close and someone else was in the room.
A light came on.
Chet stood looking at her, his hand on a small lamp at the far end of the couch. Rafia turned her head, looking away. She felt embarrassed that Chet should see her like this—on her back, without any clothes, having just finished sex with some boy who was not Logan. Her face warmed with shame.
The boy rose, his wet dick still thick, bobbing.
Rafia recognized him as Roy Talbot, from the senior class, who was also on the football team. He had large brown eyes and a swimmer's slender body. Earlier this evening, Logan had introduced her to Roy, along with Roy's date—Becky something or other—one of the cheerleaders.
Rafia tentatively glanced at Chet. He smiled warmly—without judgment—his confident movie star smile. Rafia's cheeks burned. She regretted her decision to allow Roy to keep fucking her—she should have told him to stop, to get off. She wanted to explain, but she didn't know where to begin. Everything had happened so quickly!
Chet wore an expression that was difficult to read, and Rafia thought he might be preparing for a fight. He removed his running jacket, looking squarely at Roy. The light nylon shirt Chet wore wasn't tight, but somehow it accentuated his muscular torso. Tossing his jacket over the back of the couch, he looked like a prince, a crusading knight come to rescue her.
"That was great," Roy said quietly to Rafia, pulling up his pants.
He had an impish grin, curly brown hair, and full lips. Rafia hated to admit that she found him attractive. She refused to meet his gaze, turning to Chet instead. He stood with his hands on his hips. As she marveled at his body, he kicked off his sneakers, then lowered his sweat pants.
He was here to fuck her, not rescue her.
Rafia's eyes were drawn to the thick patch of dark hair between his legs and his long, throbbing cock. She felt a heavy pulse of desire between her legs. As she raised her eyes, she found him grinning hungrily at her.
Rafia scooted to the far end of the couch, pressing her thighs together.
He was next!
"Damn," Roy said with a grin. "Give a brother a minute to say goodnight."
He tousled Rafia's hair, then brushed his fingertips across her cheek. Rafia raised her eyes to Roy in a silent plea, but it was too late. He was already striding from the room. As the door swung shut behind him, he high-fived some of the boys in the hall outside.
Chet loomed over her, his meaty cock in his hand.
Rafia raised her knees, using her shins as a shield. She wondered how she'd allowed herself to get in such a position, even as some small part of her understood that Chet was exactly the type of boy she'd hoped to meet tonight. He definitely wasn't afraid of sex. He put his hands on each of her knees and easily pried her legs apart.
A shuddery breath escaped her lips.
Rafia draped her arm over her breasts, a last-ditch effort to protect her modesty. She hated herself for admiring the little cleft in his chin, his clear blue eyes and rakish grin.
He took her by the waist and tugged her flat on her back. Rafia gave a startled little cry and grabbed for the cushions. His palms went right to her breasts, and her nipples sent urgent pulses of desire to the hot spot at her core. She tried to close her legs but only ended up clamping her thighs against his warm haunches.
He lowered himself onto her, and Rafia whimpered.
His warm chest against her body comforted and calmed her. She didn't know what to do with her arms so she wrapped them around his bare back, aware of the oddness of this act. She nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck. "Please," she whispered breathlessly into his ear. "Oh, please," she begged.
He slipped his hand between their sweaty bodies. She felt the head of his cock pressing against her sex.
"Veronica?" Rafia suddenly thought to ask.
Chet stopped his assault, but kept his hand between their bodies.
"Veronica!" Rafia repeated.
She had him.
She put her palms flat on his chest and pushed. His body moved a few inches from her own. Looking him right in the eye, she said it again: "Veronica." Rafia's breathing was heavy and stilted, but her voice came out firm and strong this time. It wasn't question or pronouncement, but accusation.
He gazed hungrily at her sweaty chest, then met her eyes and grinned. "Veronica's downstairs," he said. "She's waiting for me to finish up."
With those words, Chet sank himself deep inside Rafia, his big dick displacing a copious amount of semen. Rafia groaned as she felt it ooze from her pussy. She would have more than panties to hide from her father now.
Chet whispered in her ear: "None of the cheerleaders care."
Her mind flashed to the whispers of the girls as she'd ascended the stairs. Their glittering eyes.
All of them had known.
And they were downstairs right now—chatting, drinking. Waiting for their boyfriends to finish up. They had needed some little no-account girl, someone new to Roosevelt who didn't matter much. Someone their boyfriends could fuck in an upstairs bedroom. The cheerleaders were using her pussy tonight just as surely as any of the boys.
"Veronica hates it rough," Chet said. He lifted Rafia's legs, hooking them over his shoulders.
"Rough?" Rafia asked, her voice shaky.
He shoved his cock into her with purpose. It didn't hurt as much as astonish her. No sex had ever felt so physical before. Each of his plunges reverberated through her slim body, all the way up to her cheeks. Rafia listened to the wet slapping sounds his body made as he filled her with his cock.
Soon Chet stopped.
He brushed her legs from his shoulders, took her face in his hands, and kissed her full on the mouth. She accepted his tongue, eagerly exploring his mouth with her own. A hot rush of cum flooded her pussy.
Rafia held him.
As Chet finished, a young man silently entered the room and began removing his clothing. Chet kissed her cheek, surrendering his position between her legs. He'd stopped before Rafia could come. She needed a release now more than anything.
She scrutinized the new boy in the room, a wiry black senior. He stood nude before her, slender arms and a slight, hairless chest. He didn't look like much, but she desperately wanted to come. She opened her knees and he climbed into position. Suddenly his cock—without a single touch—lurched and twitched, ejaculating warm semen all over her tummy.
She gasped as the hot cum splashed on her abdomen and inside her thighs.
His face fell like a popped balloon. He dropped his head, looking forlornly at his cock. He didn't bother to touch or stroke it. For a moment Rafia thought he might cry. He raised himself from the couch and began the long task of putting all his clothes back on again.
Rafia used her hands to wipe his cum from her body. Someone had left a cup of punch and she downed it, enjoying the warm burn in her chest.
She waited for him to leave. For the next boy to take his place.
They were all upperclassmen.
They came in from the hall one at a time, toting plastic cups of punch in their hands. Instead of trying to recall their names, Rafia found herself focusing on how each of them undressed. It was a small thing, but there was so much variety in how they each did it. Some of them didn't bother to take off their sneakers. They simply opened their fly and pulled out their cock, as if they were going for a pee in the woods. Still other boys yanked their shirts over their heads, and then pushed their jeans down to the middle of their thighs. One boy took off every stitch of clothing except for his athletic socks. Rafia watched him stand there, stroking his cock, waiting to climb onto the couch, to climb onto her.
She opened her legs for all of them. She held onto the cushions as each man took his turn. For the most part, no one spoke.
What was there to say?
Rafia came close to orgasm, but never quite made it over the top. They filled her with cocks, cum, and then the dregs from their cups. Rafia gave each boy a try, and the night proceeded in a blur of sweat, grunts and semen.
Lots of semen.
RAFIA FELT A cool cotton sheet against her breasts.
She heard the sound of curtain hangers skipping across a rod. Bright sunlight cascaded into the room. Turning to the sound, her head pounded with a merciless pain that ended somewhere behind her eyes.
She groaned and discovered her mouth was dry.
And filled with a terrible taste.
Gingerly laying her head back down, Rafia cast her eyes down. The sheet fell just above her nipples. Tugging it toward her neck, her feet popped out. Tucking her knees, she felt the crisp cotton sheet on her shins. She felt it on her hips and thighs. Even her tummy.
Rafia was nude.
Then she heard the deep, gravelly voice of a man: "You're up." Rafia instinctively drew herself in—she closed her legs, crossed her arms over her chest, and curled her back. She felt a dull soreness on the insides of her thighs, as if she'd been riding horses or water skiing. For a moment, she wondered why her body ached. And then all at once she knew. She didn't so much remember the previous night as feel a sudden pang of guilt so sharp and piercing it made her chest throb and took her breath away.
"Morning," he said.
Rafia swallowed, though she had precious little saliva in her mouth. He had a square chin, close cropped hair and rugged good looks. Graying at his temples, he wore a shiny burgundy robe and carried his shoulders squarely, with purpose. He could have been a diplomat, a retired general, or maybe just a cop. Rafia smelled the coffee before she noticed the two heavy ceramic mugs in his hands.
He sat down on the couch and she had to scoot her hips to give him room. She winced at the unrelenting pain in her head, the soreness inside her thighs. The room seemed unfamiliar in the cheery morning light.
"Here," he said, thrusting one of the mugs at her. It warmed her hands.
"Head hurt?" he asked.
Not waiting for an answer, he produced a small silver flask from his robe. Pouring a generous helping into his coffee, he took a swig, pursed his lips and then breathed deeply from his nose.
He smiled at her.
Rafia held out her mug, and he shared what was in his flask.
The two drank quietly for a few minutes.
The coffee was a balm. It wetted her mouth and warmed her chest, reducing the pain in her head to a manageable thump. She kept her mind blank. What she'd done last night was apparent, but she couldn't afford to think about it right now. Looking around the room, she tried to spot her clothes. Something about lying nude under this thin sheet and drinking with a stranger—a wealthy American—felt exciting and dangerous to her. Her nipples stiffened and she moved to ensure he wouldn't see this development.
"Who are you?" she finally asked.
"Me?" he laughed. "This is my house. I came home early from a business trip last night and found the downstairs loaded with kids."
He sipped his coffee, adjusting his robe.
"Threw the lot of them out," he said softly, absentmindedly. He shook his head and said he'd suspected his niece was using the house for parties while he was out of town. Now he knew. He turned to look at Rafia. "I should have checked up here before I went to bed."
Rafia lowered her eyes.
"I put this sheet on you," he murmured.
Rafia sucked in her breath, unable to mask her shock. He'd found her nude. He wore a little half smile on his face that was hard to read. She could feel her cheeks warming.
His hand went to her thigh. He wore a heavy gold signet ring on his finger. His nails were manicured, neat. He gave her a little reassuring squeeze, then removed his hand.
Her leg tingled where his hand had been.
He inhaled. Tilting his head, he raised one eyebrow. "There is a pale green dress downstairs. When I came in last night, it was hanging from the chandelier in the room where everyone was dancing."
Rafia cast her eyes to the door, hiding the shame in her face.
"Is it yours?"
Rafia said nothing.
He laughed softly, just a series of soft, breathy exhales.
"In my day," he said, "we had a name for this sort of thing. We'd have called someone like you a public bicycle."
Rafia narrowed her brows. A bicycle? She had no idea what he meant, but it didn't sound good. She turned to look at him, to see what expression was on his face.
He put the coffee on the floor and raised his eyes to hers. "Anyone who wants," he said, moving his head close to hers. "Can climb on." He put his hand on her hip and gave her another squeeze.
"Give it a pump."
Rafia snorted, her face flushing with shame. She looked away. It was such an old-fashioned thing to say. He wanted to make her feel bad. He was trying to humiliate her. She remembered her decision to let Roy keep fucking her. So much blood coursed into her face it made her cheeks hurt.
"I . . ." Rafia began.
Her voice sounded small and meek, even to her.
His eyes twinkled. He'd left his hand on her hip and it felt heavy. Warm. She needed a pose, a place she could stand, but the only position available to her was for a place she wasn't entirely sure she could go.
"I . . . liked it," she squeaked.
The words seemed to come from outside her, from someone else, but she knew they'd come from her own mouth. She blew air from her lungs and let the confession fill the empty space between the two of them.
He raised both his brows, straightening his back and grinning broadly.
Rafia enjoyed the look of shock on his face. The words had tumbled from her mouth before she'd had time to consider them. But now that it was out there, it felt right, somehow, what she'd just told him. It felt right, and it felt wrong—both at the same time. She remembered how deliciously dirty it felt to allow Roy to keep fucking her.
"It was fun," she said, sipping her coffee.
Rafia set the mug on the floor. The sheet fell, exposing her nipples, but she didn't bother to adjust it this time. Between her confession and his touch, she felt something stirring in her belly, some deep thing, longing for release. She scooted herself further into the couch and felt the soreness inside her thighs. He moved his hand up her body and she allowed this, too.
He took her nipple between his finger and thumb and massaged it. She closed her eyes, raised her arms over her head, stretching her torso.
"She liked it," he cooed. "Liked giving all those boys a ride."
He worked first on one breast, and then the other. He wet his fingertips and rolled her nipples until they were stiff. Rafia lay there, basking in the feelings he was awakening in her. He soon stopped massaging her breasts and stood. She kept her eyes closed, looking forward to whatever would come next. When nothing happened, she looked and found him on the other side of the room, sitting in an upholstered armchair.
He beckoned to her.
Rafia gathered the sheet around her and crossed the room. Her legs felt weak, her pussy moist. "I'm ready," she whispered huskily, when she stood by his side. By this she meant that she wanted an orgasm.
He smiled. Patted his thigh.
Rafia lowered herself into his lap, the sheet wrapped around her. He took her shoulder in one hand, her thigh in another, and tucked her body against his own. Opening her sheet, he put his warm mouth on her nipple, his hand on her hip. She shuddered with delight. Soon his hand moved between her legs, stroking her pubic patch with the back of his fingers.
"What's your name?" Rafia asked, her voice a weak quiver. She squirmed her hips, trying to bring her clitoris into contact with his hand.
He snorted, moving his hand to the soft, moist folds between her legs. Rafia sucked in her breath and opened her thighs.
"You can call me Mr. Smith," he said.
"Mr. Smith." Her voice came in a hoarse whisper. "I'm really ready."
Rafia wanted to express her needs, her desire. She wanted him to know that it had started last night, and that for some reason she hadn't been able to finish. She wished he knew how badly she craved a release, an orgasm. Rafia looked at him. Her mouth open, dry. To convey all this emotion welling in her body, she said, "Really, Mr. Smith. I'm really ready."
He took his hand from between her legs and moved it under her thigh. He moved his other hand to the middle of her back. Suddenly Rafia felt herself sliding from his lap, and she gave a startled little cry. She ended up in a heap on the floor, tangled in her sheet. More shocked then hurt, she scrambled to her knees.
He stood and opened his robe, revealing his nude body. He had a thick mat of dark hair on his upper chest that narrowed and extended down to his abdomen and beyond.
"Your needs?" he snapped, his voice rising. "What about mine?" He had a reasonably flat stomach and a long cock. He stood holding it in his hand. "You drink my whiskey. Spend the night on my couch. Now I have to service you?
"What about me?"
He looked imperiously at Rafia, a fist on his hip. His cock thickening in his hand.
He reminded Rafia of her father, how he could fly into a rage over the smallest thing. She knew the best strategy was to appease. Drawing the sheet over her shoulders, she crawled to Mr. Smith and knelt at his feet.
Rafia looked up at him meekly, taking his warm cock in her mouth.
He placed his hands in her thick hair, guiding her head. Rafia hoped he wouldn't come in her mouth. Partly this was because she'd never taken a boy's semen inside her mouth—she wasn't sure she was ready to swallow cum—but mostly it was because she still held out hope that he would use his cock on her. Give her the orgasm she needed so badly.
Mr. Smith rocked his hips, holding her head firmly in place.
Rafia buried his shaft in her mouth. Slipping her hand between her legs, she cupped her palm over her vagina and applied steady pressure. She took one of her nipples between her fingers, too. Soon she began twisting and squirming from her own ministrations.
"What is this?" Mr. Smith said. "No, no, no. This is no good." He jerked his hips back, popping his cock from Rafia's mouth.
He reached between Rafia's legs, taking her wrist in his hand. "This isn't about you," he declared, placing her hand on his testicles.
"This is about me."
He arranged her other hand on his shaft and then stared down at her with his fists on his hips. The sheet had fallen to the floor, and Rafia felt small and defenseless under his gaze. She put her mouth on his cock.
She kept her eyes cast up, the better to gauge his satisfaction. She hefted his balls and massaged his shaft. Rafia tried hard not to even squeeze her thighs together or squirm her bottom too much. Better to deny herself than risk displeasing him again.
After a time, he pulled her to her feet. His cock bobbed between them, glistening with her saliva. He motioned with his head to the couch and Rafia's heart soared. She scampered across the room and got into position, an all too familiar position. She opened her legs to allow him to mount and felt a dull ache inside her thighs.
"I'm sliding into you," he cooed. "Riding on top of spent semen, spit from the cocks of how many boys?"
Between her mounting desires, the tenderness between her legs, and the odd way in which he phrased the question, Rafia couldn't understand what he was asking of her. They had to go back and forth a few times with clarifying questions. He persisted. She finally realized he wanted to know the number of boys she'd slept with last night.
"Three," she said.
He grunted, wordlessly working his hips.
"No wait," Rafia said. "Five." Her voice sounded small, far away.
She felt so relieved to finally understand the information he wanted from her that she answered quickly, without giving it much thought. Now she worked backwards through her memory, as much to satisfy her own curiosity as his.
"Six," she said.
A sly smile appeared on Mr. Smith's face and he made a noise deep in his throat.
Rafia felt her cheeks warm. It suddenly occurred to her that she'd been passed out this morning. It was humiliating to admit, but she had no way of knowing how many boys she'd slept with last night.
She met Mr. Smith's gleaming eyes. "Seven or eight . . . I guess." Rafia swallowed hard. "I really don't know," she said.
Mr. Smith grinned. He lowered his head and nuzzled her neck. "She doesn't know," he whispered in her ear. Rafia could hear him softly snicker. "Seven or eight boys," he said. "How about nine or ten? Maybe a dozen. A dirty dozen?"
He gave a lusty grunt, his cock throbbing between her legs. "Pretty little thing has no idea how many dicks she's had shoved up insider her in the last twenty-four hours."
His cock grew thicker as he spoke and Rafia ignored her shame and focused instead on the orgasm rising inside her. It was maddening because although she was very close, each time that hot feeling began to take over, she would feel a small jolt of pain between her legs, just enough to distract her and make her start the long climb all over again.
Mr. Smith had been watching her carefully and suddenly he stopped. She gave him a pleading look but he pulled his cock out. It was hard and veined and wet.
He took her hand and led her to another room with a king size bed and heavy drapes on one wall. Rafia stood with her hands clasped under her chin. He turned down the bed, then piled soft white pillows into a great stack in the middle of the mattress.
He had her drape her body across the pillows.
Rafia felt the blood rushing to her head and then he wedged his tongue into her ass. She gasped and arched her back. She felt embarrassed that he should put his mouth back there, and she tried to twist away, but he held her ass cheeks firmly in both his hands. After the initial shock, she found she rather liked this sort of attention. She felt his fingers clutching and spreading her cheeks apart, his tongue darting into her anus. Tucking her knees on either side of the stack of pillows, she arched her back and groaned her assent.
It was good. So good.
He soon stopped. As much as she was enjoying herself, Rafia felt grateful for the respite, the chance to catch her breath.
"This might hurt," he murmured.
Rafia felt something cold and wet on her ass. It didn't hurt. His finger went where his tongue had been. She rocked her hips. By the time it dawned on her that he intended to follow his finger with his cock, he'd greased her ass and she'd assumed the ready position.
"Mr. Smith," Rafia whispered urgently. "Mr. Smith!"
She wasn't sure she was ready to have a dick in her ass. She tried to unfold her legs, but it was already too late. He clambered up on her, pressed his cock against her asshole, and with a mighty heave of his hips, buried his cock deep inside her slippery ass.
"Oh, Mr. Smith," Rafia cried.
There was sharp pain in her ass but it soon dissolved into a dull burning sensation. And then there were his strokes, which filled Rafia completely. She took fistfuls of the sheets in both her hands. He reached his hand down her tummy, fingered her clitoris, and Rafia groaned. She bucked her hips, riding his hand, making his cock slide in and out of her ass. He put his other hand on her nipples and Rafia felt the release start from way down in her toes. Raising her hips, she tried to escape his hand, the explosion of sensation in her pussy and ass. Even her hair felt as if it were exploding into fire, bursting in the new heights that racked her body.
Rafia came, moaning and writhing. After, she lay splayed out, her ass raised by the pillows. Mr. Smith’s weight pinned her to the bed. She pushed the hair from her face, wiped her sweat from her forehead. He gave her a moment to recover, then sank his cock deep inside her. It hurt. Without the momentum of an impending orgasm, it felt like he had his arm shoved up her ass. He pulled back, then sank into her again.
"Mr. Smith," she cried. "It hurts. It hurts!"
"Why did you come?" he asked without hiding his irritation.
He moved his hips and Rafia gasped. "Please," she whimpered.
He stopped moving.
"I haven't come yet," he said.
"Mr. Smith," she begged. "Please."
He inhaled sharply. He shifted his weight and she could feel his fat cock lodged in her ass. She felt embarrassed for coming. Guilty for being unable to allow him to finish in the manner in which he had started. He buried his head in her thick hair. He didn't say anything for a bit and Rafia didn't want to risk annoying him.
"If I take it out," he finally asked, "will you put it in your mouth?"
Yes," Rafia said. "Yes, yes." She answered immediately, so grateful he had given her an out.
Without another word, he shifted his weight. She thought he was getting up but then his full body weight came crashing down on her again, and she flattened underneath him. He gave her ass two quick pumps, making her squeal. He was being cruel, Rafia knew, but then his cock was out of her and she was free. She rolled off the pile of pillows and lay flat on the bed for a moment, feeling great relief.
He got off the bed and crossed the room. She listened to him in the bathroom.
He urinated. Flushed. Ran the tap.
As he strode back into the room, Rafia scrambled to her knees. Reaching for his cock, she briefly thought about where it had just been. She hesitated for just a moment before opening her mouth, placing his cock inside. He tasted salty. His dick was warm. Pliable.
She used both her hands to massage his shaft and fondle his balls.
Soon she felt his palm on top of her head. His cock thickened. She could tell by the way he planted his feet, the way he held her head, he intended to come in her mouth. Had she agreed to let him come in her mouth? She had said yes, of this she was sure. But her ass had hurt so badly and she just wanted him off. Rafia put her palms on his thighs, her anxiety mounting.
He took her head in both his hands now. He was moving his hips, fucking her mouth. At any moment, he would erupt, splashing warm cream into her throat. She thought about how warm it would be. How bitter it would taste. How he would moan and hold her head tightly. How his penis would quiver as it sprayed its pungent jets. The more she thought about it, the less it bothered her, and the more it turned her on.
Rafia made herself ready.
She shifted her weight from one knee to the other. His hand went to his shaft and he worked himself. Rafia raised her eyes to gauge how close he was. Now that she was ready for it, she found herself wishing it would happen, but it seemed to take the longest time. She wished he would just get it over with, give it to her. Fill her mouth with his warm gift. Her anticipation grew and then suddenly . . .
Rafia got her wish!
The first shot went to the back of her mouth and down her throat. She had to concentrate on working her throat to accept the rest, to keep from choking. Her mouth exploded with his acrid taste. She put her hands on his ass cheeks and felt him clenching his bottom in time with the spurts filling her mouth. He petted her head and groaned. Long after he finished, long after there was nothing left for her to swallow, Rafia nuzzled him.
He soon pried her head from his cock.
They ended up on the king size bed together. Rafia's whole body tingled. He held her in his arms and soon she heard his even breathing. She slid out from his arms and sat in an upholstered chair, watching him sleep.
For a man of his age, he had a reasonably athletic body.
She would go downstairs and make him a sandwich. Let him sleep for half an hour or forty-five minutes more. When he woke, she would get some protein into him. Hope he could go at it again. Once more before she would have to leave.
Twice more, if she were really lucky.
Her pussy trembled with anticipation and she squeezed her thighs together. She would have to find her dress, her panties. Her shoes. She would have to come up with a story to explain her overnight absence to her father.
Rafia felt she could do it. It was all within her grasp.
THREE WEEKS LATER, Rafia discovered she was pregnant.
When her father found out, he clucked his tongue disapprovingly and stormed around the house. Eventually, though, he relented, throwing himself into the paternity suit. He petitioned the court. In this case, the "court" was the Justice of the Peace, Maynor Smith, Veronica's father, and the older brother of Mr. Smith, who Maynor ultimately named the father of the child. Maynor never liked his younger brother much anyway. After a review of the facts, the younger Smith was deemed the only potential father capable of paying. All the other boys were attending Roosevelt on scholarships.
Mr. Smith protested his innocence.
He demanded DNA testing and the court duly sent technicians to both Rafia's home and to his, collecting swabs and blood samples. Maynor ignored the results. He was more concerned with the questions of his daughter's culpability than his brother's pride.
And as with most things in Carnal, it was all settled in the court of public opinion anyway. Everyone knew Mr. Smith—an arrogant prig of a man—had enjoyed sweet Rafia. And for that enjoyment he would pay a tidy sum. With the new child support laws, his obligation extended even to the child's college education, which (eventually) would come in the form of an endowment for the child at Roosevelt, his mother's Alma mater. Mr. Smith never spoke to Maynor again, nor did he ever visit the child.
Meanwhile, Rafia became a minor celebrity.
She moved out of her father's house and into subsidized housing—Hoover Homes—where the upperclassmen from Roosevelt would visit her. They came alone. They came late at night, often in a drunken stupor. The first time it happened, Rafia peered through the peephole of her steel door. It was Roy Talbot. Butterflies tickled her stomach and she fussed with her hair. He kissed her hard on the mouth and his hands went right to her swollen breasts. They necked in the hall for a few minutes. No sooner was he inside, he unzipped and leaned his back against the door.
Rafia knew she shouldn't, but she went right to her knees.
She would get two or three different boys each week. All upperclassmen. On rare occasion, she might get a second caller in the early dawn light. Soon her tummy grew to enormous proportions and she waddled when she walked. Rafia enjoyed the attention these men brought to her door. In fact, it went beyond mere enjoyment—she needed them. She needed their affection, their adulation, the attention. She gratefully satisfied most of them on the threshold of her apartment, kneeling just inside the door, one hand atop her great belly. A few others—Roy, Logan, Chet—she invited onto her couch.
The night she gave birth was a trauma.
It was a difficult birth, extending for hours and hours, through three different hospital shifts. Always there was a new nurse hustling in and out of her room through the long night. The experienced hospital staff knew well what lay in store for her, but as the night unfolded they offered Rafia only their kind smiles, sympathetic nods of the head. There could be no reprieve. Somehow, it reminded Rafia of the night she'd conceived the child. In the morning, when she woke, her bottom felt achy and swollen and a beautiful newborn lay by her side.
It was a boy.
Rafia named the child Morris Talbot Reese Saad, but she just called him Moe for short.
She didn't immediately take to parenting. It took some time. Infants, she knew, were forever born without guile, but it was hard for Rafia to think of this one as anything but a tyrant. He had needs. He demanded much. She tried to anticipate his requests, but she was new to motherhood and always unsure if she was ready for this thing or that, and there was so much more that she didn't even know. His cries felt like indictments. And then one day, Moe was about nine months, he looked at her, standing on chubby pink legs, crushing crackers on the end table with his fists, and he smiled. A toothless grin, from his wispy head.
Her heart melted.
From that point on, Rafia had a new relationship with Moe. She adored him. She nurtured and fed him. He was still a tyrant, but now he was her little tyrant. And Rafia served him well. He offered her many of the things she craved.
But he couldn't satisfy all her needs.
Sometimes in the wee light of dawn, after Moe had nursed and fallen back to sleep, she thought of Mr. Smith. Rafia held no animosity for him. She knew he wasn't the father, but she didn't mind receiving his support. Most of the time when she thought of him, it was with a wistful something buried deep inside her that was hard to admit. She ignored the talk around Carnal about him.
One afternoon Chet knocked on her door. Moe had just gone down for a nap and Rafia planned to nap herself. She wanted to shoo Chet away, but he'd brought her a grocery bag filled with diapers and perishables. On her stoop, Chet confessed that his mother had raised him on her own. Rafia invited him in for a quick cup of tea.
Soon they were necking on the couch. He had his hands on her breasts, his warm breath on her neck. Rafia took his face in her palms. She could feel her own needs rising, but she took a moment to inspect the bone structure in his cheeks.
Moe had Chet's nose, she could see that now. She fluffed the curls on his forehead.
"Lick me," Rafia whispered.
Chet grinned. He slipped to his knees. He took the waistband of her leggings and tugged. Rafia took his ears in her hands. "Not my pussy," she said.
Chet gave her a puzzled look.
Rafia tugged her leggings and panties past her bottom, then removed her pants. "My ass," Rafia said. "Lick my ass for me."
She took his head in her hands, stroking his cheeks. He kept his face even, but his smile was gone. She felt embarrassed to ask for his attention down there. Rafia looked toward Moe's bedroom door. She knew he'd be up in a short while.
"Lick it," she cooed.
Rafia put her feet on Chet's shoulders. Scooted her bottom to the edge of the couch. He was such a nice boy, such a clean-cut American boy.
He closed his eyes and Rafia felt the first tentative licks from his tongue. She groaned appreciatively and he amplified his efforts. His fingers pried her ass cheeks apart. He sank his tongue deep into her asshole. It didn't shock her the way it did the first time Mr. Smith had done it, but it felt good in a different way now. It was the dirty feeling of asking another to perform a task such as this. It was acknowledging to someone else that you enjoyed something so shocking, enjoyed it enough to bear the shame of asking for it. Chet's eyes were closed, a look of concentration on his face.
She grabbed a hank of his short hair.
He cast his eyes up to her.
"Does Veronica know you're here?" Rafia asked. His hooded eyes and the long, sidelong glance that followed were all the answer Rafia needed. Veronica had no idea he was here. Rafia laughed, a lyrical, happy noise.
"It's okay," she comforted. Rafia took the back of his head and pulled his face back into her ass. She stroked her labia and squirmed her bottom, riding his tongue.
"It's okay," she said again.
In her heart, Rafia knew these were just empty words, but she repeated them anyway, over and over, in her throatiest voice. She didn't have a strong opinion one way or the other. She just wanted something to whisper to him as she used his mouth.
"It's okay," she murmured. "Everything's fine." And it was fine. It was just desire, first his and now her own.
Rafia was an American girl.
COPYRIGHT © 2020 Huck Pilgrim. All right reserved.
Huck Pilgrim has lived on the streets of New York City, in a communal home for Christians, and on an American submarine out of San Diego. He has washed dishes, made costumed helium balloon deliveries, and robbed designer jeans from department stores.
Huck writes gritty stories about submission, blackmail, and coercion. Occasionally he tosses a hand grenade of action and adventure into the mix. Huck’s stories are vivid fantasies, exploring the darker sides of submission and exposure. In Huck’s stories, the mousy girl becomes suddenly bold and capable, often discovering the hidden slut inside her. The men are handsome, hard-bitten, and cruel, enjoying all manner of debauchery.
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