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Little Sister

By: Rambler



My name is Cindy and I've just turned eighteen last week. To begin with, my family is filthy rich. My father was usually away for extended periods; my mother preferred to circulate with her upper class, prissy acquaintances than to spend time with her children. Don, my elder brother, and I were therefore closer to our nanny than our own parents. When we were in our early teens the nanny was sacked and we were left to our own resources. Don turned into a normal teen yet I took a different path. At an early age I discovered religion and the peace and harmony it gave me. This is the only favor I asked my parents for----I did not want to go to just any old school ---I wanted a private school, one that was run by nuns. This was the form of my schooling for five years. I just graduated and am thinking of becoming a missionary, perhaps in Africa or South America. 

I am therefore not the average teenager who dresses in the latest fashions; nor do I hang around burger joints with the guys. I prefer the library or attending bible studies, the museum and the art classes, which I've recently found an interest in. I dress myself in conservative clothes, wear lots of baggy sweaters and long peasant-style skirts that camouflage my body. I'm short, about five-foot-one and considered to be a little on the skinny side. I have a 34-20-32 figure and a full-rounded, C cup bust. On my slender frame they look bigger than they are, but unfortunately there is nothing I can do about that except to hide them as much as possible. I know that I'm fairly pretty but I have no interest in boys. I am not a late bloomer as some people claim----I'm just not too keen about exploring the animal lurking within me. I have had urges----I'm blushing right now----but I've learnt to suppress them. Sister Judith, my friend and mentor, has helped me greatly in this department. She has been with me since I joined the nunnery and has been a tower of strength these last two years. 

My parents are away again. Dad's on another one of his lengthy business trips and Mom has gone to spend the weekend with a friend of hers out in Burlington. I'm not alone, though. My brother Don, who's twenty-two, just returned from boot camp. He's a real big guy, well over six feet and his ego matches his size. He's egotistic, arrogant and to pardon my language----really full of it. Okay----so he's the neighborhood football champ and the most popular guy in town----big deal! He is not only arrogant and snobbish but I think that he has developed a mean streak, too. Not a day goes by where he doesn't make fun of me one way or another. He either laughs at my style of wardrobe or pokes fun at me when he catches me reading the bible. He claims that I'm a hippie and that I probably smoke pot behind our parent's back. That is utterly mean of him. I don't do drugs and I'm definitely not a hippie! And what is worse than his evil tongue is the strange way he's been leering at me lately. His eyes are always on my chest. I've never worn anything tight-fitting so he doesn't really know about my large breasts. I try to hide them by wearing loose shirts or heavy sweaters, but I think he suspects that they are a lot bigger than I make them out to be. His eyes are constantly on me as if he's trying to figure out my true bust size. It gives me the creeps and I am forced to tug my knees up under my chin. 

At seven o'clock I left the house to attend a poetry reading and I waved Don goodbye as I made my way out the front door. He was lounging in the den, watching television, and he mumbled something that I couldn't make out. I closed the door and left.

When I came home around ten o'clock the house was dark. It was a chilly November night and I had put on white, thick cotton, high-necked blouse that had ruffles down the front and a long, ankle-length pleated dark blue skirt. For extra warmth I had put on a frilly slip-like petticoat, one that was longer than the skirt so that the ruffled, lacy hem hung out from below it. Since it was rather cold I was also wearing a big, black woolen sweater and leather gloves. I knew that I looked like an old maid or a woman of the late eighteenth century but I didn't care. The clothes were actually quite comfortable, a lot more than tight jeans and a school jersey would ever be. Okay---so I didn't look cool but at least I wasn't shivering to death! I slipped off my gloves as I crept up the dark stairs to my room. I clicked on the light and tossed the gloves on the dresser and pulled the black sweater over my head. Suddenly someone grabbed me from behind. A man's big, hairy arms were clutched around my waist. I cried out with shock as I was drawn against him. I was lifted off my feet and half-carried, half-dragged along the hall. I kicked out with my feet and screamed bloody murder but the man had the strength of a gorilla. The hallway was dark and I couldn't see who it was although I suddenly had a terrible suspicion. When the man kicked open the door to Don's room I knew that my first instinct had been right. It was Don and no other. Any other man who had ill intent on his mind would have simply thrown me over my own bed. Dragging me towards another room just didn't make any sense.

The room was lit and I could see that it was indeed my big brute of a brother. Don hurled me into the room so that I collided heavily with the edge of his dresser. Breath was expelled from my lungs and I cried out with pain. I rose shakily to my feet and stared at him with shock. "Don! Are you nuts or something? What's gotten into you?" He was wearing a big, loose-fitting bathrobe tied around the waist. I could make out the white contours of his shorts whenever the flaps opened a little when he moved his legs. "Shut up!" he snarled at me. 'Take off your clothes!" My face went white. God, he wanted to rape me! I shook my head and stared at him pleadingly. "Please, Don. You can't do this. It's not right." 

An idea formed in my head and it gave me new strength. I took a small step forward and shook my fist at him. "Wait 'til I tell mom and dad about this. They're going to whoop your ass!" "Bah!" he snorted. "I don't care. I'm leaving this dump anyway. Before I go I'm gonna show you what it's like to be with a man. I'm sick and tired of hearing you babble on about the bible and sinners and blah, blah blah! I've been watching you real close. I think you have a real nice body under all that dopey shit but you go to lengths to hide it. Prove me wrong, sis. I want to see you naked! Take off those damn clothes or I'll rip you out of them!"

I had problems breathing. I was having another asthma attack and my frail body was shaking. God, this wasn't happening. I folded my hands pleadingly and begged him to let me go. "Please! I'm your sister. This is incest! Please-----it isn't right!" "Take off your clothes!" he hollered at me. I took a frightened step back. Then he took a step towards me. "Take 'em off, you little bitch!" I shrank back against the dresser and nervously brushed back a strand of blond hair that had fallen into my eyes. He slapped my face suddenly and I slammed back against the dresser with shock. My cheek was stinging from the pain and it brought tears to my right eye. "No!" I spat at him. "Stand aside and let me pass!" 

I snarled at him angrily. He reached out real quickly and gave such a backhanded slap that my face blew to side. I have never been like that struck before and the pain was unbearable. I cried out and rubbed my sore cheek. He came at me then and sank his two beefy hands around my throat. I struggled and tried to kick out at him but the long skirt prevented me from getting a good swing. My foot just lifted a little before it got stuck in the frilly hem. I gasped and panted as I tried to fend him off. But Don is a foot and a half taller than me and very strong. He was shaking me about like a rag doll. Before I knew it he had slipped his hands under the high collar of my blouse. I shrieked: "Noooooooooooooooo!" as he ripped his arms apart, tearing my blouse open to the navel. 

Numerous buttons sailed across his room. That's how strong he was----the heavy cotton blouse tore as easily as if it had been made of paper. He clamped one hand around my small throat and I immediately went limp. I gazed at him with wide eyes as his other hand traveled across my tummy, massaging it. Then his hand slipped into the waistband of my skirt and he commenced yanking the rest of my blouse out of it, tucking it behind my back. His eyes were on my breasts. His mouth was open in shock. "Man! Look at those tits!" he breathed as he stared at my full breasts. 

"I was right! Why have you been hiding these glorious pups?" I was wearing a white, lightly laced bra and my tits had almost heaved out of the cups as the blouse had been torn. "Let me go," I pleaded and clawed at the arm pinning my neck against the wall. He gave me an evil grin and released my throat. "Will you be a good girl and remove the rest of your clothes on your own?" 'Never!" I spat at him. He gave me another slap, much, much harder than before and it brought tears to my eyes. My face was on fire. His hands were as big as frying pans. You can imagine the red marks they left on my cheeks! My head swam and I could hardly see. Everything was a blur.

I heard a clanging sound and suddenly he had slapped a metal handcuff on my right wrist. I cried out in horror as he spun me around and attached a similar one to the other. He frog-marched me towards his bed and threw me down in front of it on my knees, then bent my upper body across his bed. He reached over my body and pulled out a long rope that was tied to the headrest, a rope I hadn't noticed earlier. He tied my wrists to the rope, then got off me and pushed my body up higher on the bed so that my rear end was up off the floor. I couldn't budge an inch. 

"Will you take off your clothes if I ask you again?" he snarled at me. "I'm giving you a choice. Be a good girl and I won't have to slap you around anymore." I shook my head. "I will never, never strip myself in front of you or anybody else. Never!" Then there came a swooshing sound and a horrible pain shot through my body. He had whipped my buttocks with his belt! There I knelt, my ass up in the air, unable to prevent myself from being beaten. And he wasn't gentle with the belt, either. I cried out with shame and humiliation, not to mention the stinging pain as the belt came down again and again. He must have given me at least forty beatings-----after the tenth I simply lost count. At first I screamed and trashed about. The pain was so horrible. Luckily the skirt I was wearing was of a strong material which muffled the blows to some degree. 

After the tenth or twelfth strike I couldn't scream anymore----my throat was dry. I bit my teeth and started to whimper. I filtered out the pain and tried to think of something other than the horrible position I found myself in. At one point I was sure that Don had managed to cut tears in the skirt-----certain areas of my behind felt sorer than others did. Those places, the ones that almost made me pass out with the agony of pain must've been the ones where the belt connected with my bare skin. Schlack! Schlack! Schlack! It just wouldn't stop. In the end I almost did pass out. Thankfully the beatings stopped after awhile and he just let me lie there, sobbing and moaning. "Will you remove your clothes now?" I couldn't answer him. My mouth was dry. All I managed was a muted gurgle. Schlock! I emitted a groan of pain as Don spanked my sore ass with his belt again. Schlock! Schlock! Don seemed bent on turning my ass into pudding! Suddenly I couldn't take it anymore. "Yes! Yes!" I screamed at him as I tore at the handcuffs. "Yes, damn you. I'll strip for you. Just don't hurt me anymore. Please." 

I heard the crashing clutter of metal on would as Don dropped the belt to the floor. I prayed to God for thanks that Don hadn't been that demented to use the buckle on me. It would have killed me for sure. I felt his body stretched out over mine as he released me from the handcuffs. I cried out as his thighs brushed my sore behind. He gave a chuckle and lifted me off from the bed; but I couldn't stand upright. My knees wobbled and with a groan I stumbled to the floor. "Get up!" Don screamed at me. "Take off that ridiculous skirt. Come on, bitch. Move it!" 

With a sob I lifted myself shakily to my feet and struggled to slip the torn blouse off my shoulders and down my back. I reached behind me to unbuckle my bra but he interjected quickly, ordering me not to. I shrugged and started to tug at the elastic waistband of my pleated skirt instead. I wiggled my slim hips to and fro, working the tight skirt down my legs until it gathered in a heap around my feet. I heard a laugh and gazed up to see my brother bent over, holding his stomach as waves of laughter overtook him. The bastard was laughing at my white, frilly petticoats! "Jesus!" he burst out. "Women still wear these things?" "No," I answered him fuming with humiliation. "But I choose to. Otherwise people could see right through my skirt! I can't have them ogling my legs!" "You're a nut case, Cindy." Don wiped the tears from his eyes and shook his head at me. "This is the 20th century, man. Whatever happened to tank tops and mini skirts?" "I don't wear that kind of revealing trash! " I yelled at him, suddenly more annoyed at his laughter than the actual predicament I found myself in. Anger took over. "Stop making fun of me, you sexist pig!" He reached out and gave me another heavy slap across my right cheek. "Shut up, you stupid cunt! Don't tell me what I ought or ought not to do. I give the orders here, not you. Take that silly thing off!"

I gave a cry and untied the waistband strings of the petticoat. Tears were streaming down my face and my tits shook to and fro as I struggled to pull the slippery, shiny material down my legs. The sight of my shaking tits must have excited him for he rushed forward, slapped my hands aside and started to yank and rip at the thin material in a frenzied fit. Shards of it flew off in all directions. I screamed and struggled as his hands tore at the petticoat. Within seconds he had torn it into pieces and I now stood before him wearing only my bra and panties. My body was shaking and I was having a real sobbing fit. 

My brother produced a short, wooden barstool and bade me to sit on it. I hesitatingly made my way towards it and sat down. But he had something else in mind. He ordered me to lower my body backwards until my head reached the floor. I stared at him in disbelief. That was impossible, I told him. I would simply fall off. He made a face and pinned my back to the stool by holding my tummy down on it with his huge hands. "Go on. Arch yourself backwards!" I made a gurgling sound and tried to do as he ordered. My tits almost plopped out of my bra as I arched my upper torso back. "Don't move." Don let go of my stomach and bent down behind my head. Suddenly he snapped the handcuffs back on my wrists and clapped them onto the feet of the stool. I couldn't dare budge without risking falling entirely off the stool. My legs shot high up into the air. I was virtually balanced with just the small of my back perched across the narrow top of the stool. My neck and shoulders ached! Don got up and proceeded to walk towards my legs. He stepped between them, brushed them aside and fell to his knees. I gave a cry as I felt his strong hands caress my thighs. I couldn't believe that my own brother was torturing me like some sex slave! I was his sister, damn it! Didn't that account for something?

"Man! What a petite, little ass you have," he muttered as he caressed my tummy and toyed with the hem of my panty. "You have the smallest hips I've ever seen. I'm really gonna crack that skinny cunt of yours wide open!" Then his hands were on my crotch, massaging my most private parts through the material of the panty. The panty was one of those bikini types, pure white silk with sheer lace trim at the sides. I shrieked with horror as I felt his mouth on my crotch. He was kissing me there! And he wasn't just kissing, either. He was pushing his whole face roughly against me, rubbing the silky material of the panty back and forth across my vagina. He sucked on it, kissed and slobbered over it. At first I was terribly humiliated, but after the first few minutes a strange sensation came over me that I have never experienced before. I can't really describe it-----my whole body was tingling and it felt as if my pussy had received an electric shock. And then I felt my pussy lips suddenly moisten, and it wasn't from his spittle! I was oozing pussy juice, my first ever! I clenched my teeth and tried to fight the mounting tension that overtook my young body. And then his tongue was pushing through the thin, wet panty. 

He forced his worm-like tongue deep into me, rubbing the insides of my labia with the soft silk of the panty. My body was on fire. I arched my back and emitted a shriek of pleasure, a shriek that I couldn't have suppressed if my life depended on it. I just couldn't help it. My cry excited him and he was suddenly jabbing and munching on my entire vagina with renewed energy. His tongue was relentless. It poked, it jabbed and it flicked me everywhere. I started to groan; the pain in my arms and shoulders momentarily forgotten. It felt so nice! 

And then he rose a bit, slipped a hand into the hem of my panty and simply tore the thin thing off me with one powerful yank. My hips bounced and I gave a surprised squeal. "Oh yeah, baby!" Don groaned as he fell back between my legs. "I love the taste of your virgin pussy!" He spread my moist lips with his fingers, bent forward and started to flick his tongue across my swollen clitoris. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Don kissed my whole vagina, ran his tongue around and circles and when he actually started to chew on my clitoris, raking his teeth over it, stars exploded in my head. I came then for the first time in my life. 

My heart was pounding and my brain was as if numb, but the sensations wouldn't stop. I arched my back way off the stool and emitted a very long, panting squeal. "Ooo---Ooooo---Ooooooooo---Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo" But Don wasn't stopping. He sucked and slobbered on my swollen pussy, pulled and nibbled on my sore labia and relentlessly flicked his tongue across my clitoris until I came for the second time. And it was more intense than the first one. I couldn't breathe----I couldn't see straight. My head was pounding as the orgasm overcame me. I could feel cum shooting down my vagina in crazy squirts. I just couldn't stop the wonderful sensations that shook my whole body from head to toe. "A-aagh! A-aagh! A-aagh!"

Don finally pulled his head away. I couldn't see him for my head was stretched far back. All I saw was the opposite wall and that from such a crazy, upside down angle that my head was starting to spin. The orgasm was over and now the pain in my shoulders returned. He undid the cuffs from the legs of the chair and helped me to a sitting position. My body wobbled and my breath was coming in heavy gasps. He reached out suddenly, clasped his fingers around the section of the bra between my tits and ripped it off me. I cried out as the bra straps tore and as the hooks of the back band tore into my flesh. 

I clawed at his arms as he cupped my breasts in his hands. He gave them a rough, brutal squeeze and I cried out with pain. "Keep your hands off me!" he hissed at me and gave my tits another fearful squeeze. Because I'm skinny my 34C breasts aren't all that round and firm but swing forward a little like long, fat torpedoes. The tips of my breasts come to a conical point and therefore my nipples are very evident. Their protruding nature makes them very sensitive. I cried out when he pinched one. "Oh----look at those nips!" He thrust his face between my tits, squeezing them together and mashing them against his cheeks. His thumbs kneaded my nipples and I squealed with discomfort. And then his mouth was over my left breast. I cried out with shock as his mouth closed over it, compressing it hard between his lips. Then he attacked the other in the same fashion. 


Little Sister



I walked into the laundry and there she was, bent over the drier taking some things out. She was wearing one of those micro-mini skirts she favours and a tiny pair of pink lacy panties, and the way she was bent over there was more panties on display than mini-skirt, and there wasn't much panties to show.

I looked at those long legs of hers, running smoothly up to where the panties held them together, and my mind was running wild. What would happen if I just walked up behind her and ran my hand up those sexy legs until it cupped that fine pussy straining against those panties?

The temptation to find out was high, but other temptations came crowding in. What would be the result of gently tugging on those sexy panties? Would they slide all the way down those smooth legs or would I have to help them?

If her panties did slide down, what would be the result of my placing my hand over that pussy and squeezing? What would be the easiest way to check if she was wearing a bra? Should I slide my hands up under the front of her t-shirt where it sagged forward? If she was wearing a bra, what would she do if I undid it?

The woman was a walking, breathing piece of temptation, but if I yielded to temptation, would she yield to me?

If my wife hadn't been in the next room, then my wife's little sister may have got a nasty shock right at this moment. Or a pleasant surprise. Who knows which? Instead, I beat a hasty retreat from that delectable sight. Maureen would probably have a few words to say to me if she caught me eyeing little sister, Christy. 

Mind you, I can't complain about Maureen's looks or sexiness. She was only a couple of years older than Christy, and I still found her as exciting as ever and we had a healthy sex life. But healthy sex life or not, that doesn't mean I'm blind to temptation. 

Maureen and I had been married for several years now and things were going smoothly. We both had good jobs and had managed to save up a good deposit on our house, which we now owned jointly with the bank.

Two months ago, Maureen's parents departed on a cruise and they were going to be gone for three months. However, they didn't want Christy to be alone in the house for that period of time and so Maureen came to their rescue. Christy would stay with us for the duration of the cruise.

I wasn't exactly consulted on this offer, but I had no real objection. I've know Christy for as long as I've known Maureen and I've always got on well with her. What I hadn't bargained on was just how grown up she was now and just how incredibly sexy she was.

Maureen and Christy were both natural blondes. They call themselves ash blonde, whatever that means. As far as I'm concerned, blonde is blonde. Actually the only real difference between the sisters was a couple of years. Describe one as blonde, sexy, vivacious, intelligent and enchanting and you've also described the other.

Come to think of it, there is one other difference between them and that's their taste in clothing. I had never really considered Maureen's clothes to be modest, and heads turn when she walks past. Christy's clothes, however, are a little more extreme, with the result that heads don't turn so much as swivel rapidly. I'm sure some men have come down with whiplash, heads have snapped around so fast to watch her.

And that piece of mobile temptation is wandering around my house every day, dressed in clothes that came in two styles. Scanty and scantier. This is not to say she is immodest. In the two months that she's been here I haven't met her wandering around the house in her underwear, whereas Maureen does that as a matter of course. Not that I'd object if Christy followed her example. Far be it for me to try to stifle her natural instincts.

Anyway, I only had another month to sweat out. And sweat it out I did, right up to the weekend before the old folk got back from their cruise.

It was a Saturday, and Maureen had some things she had to do and she was gone for a few hours. Anyway, the same scenario that I described at the start of this story, or damned similar to it.

I walked into the laundry and there she was, bent over the drier taking some things out. She was wearing one of those micro-mini skirts she favours, and a tiny pair of lacy panties (pale green this time, and I'll swear semi-transparent), and the way she was bent over there was more panties on display than mini-skirt, and there wasn't much panties to show.

I probably would have backed out again but something suddenly occurred to me. I'd been in the kitchen for about ten minutes, which meant that as Christy hadn't passed through the kitchen, and I hadn't heard the back door open, then Christy must have been bent over that drier for at least that ten minutes, as I would have heard the drier if it was on.

Ten minutes bent over the drier, flashing her panties to the world? Somehow I thought not. So what do you do when you're not certain? You take steps to find out of course.

I stepped up behind Christy, and there's no way in hell she didn't hear me coming. I just reached up and pulled those pale green panties slowly down. Once they were free of her bottom I let them go, and sure enough they slithered down her legs. I'd been fairly sure that her legs were clean shaven and smooth. 

So now Christy is bent over the drier, not moving and not saying anything. I didn't have anything I wanted to say either, so I also stayed quiet, letting my hands do the talking.

I ran my hands over her bottom and then down to cup her mound. A freshly shaved mound. I could tell from the absolute smoothness of it. I could feel heat coming from her as I squeezed and gently rubbed her mound, feeling the smoothness, the little crannies that were inviting my fingers to slip inside. 

I released Christy, hearing a little gasp from her. Disappointment, I wondered? Now I reached around and along her tummy, seeking the globes that were there. I encountered no bra, and my hands closed around Christy's breasts, hearing another little gasp. Satisfaction this time, I thought.

I spent some time massaging her breasts, feeling them swell in my hands, feeling the nipples becoming prominent. A slight pinch on her nipples brought another breathy little gasp.

Leaving one hand to amuse her breasts I brought the other one back to the main attraction. However, before closing on her pussy again I unzipped my trousers, making as much noise as I could so that Christy would be fully aware of what was going on. Taking out my erection I leaned forward slightly while I reached for her pussy.

Now my erection was lying against her bottom, resting comfortably between her cheeks, while my hand was exploring her pussy. My hand moved slowly back and forth, agitating her, building excitement within her. Moisture was beading on her lips, and her lips were flowering, enticing me to enter.

My fingers slid deeper into her, tantalising touches into her vagina, and then moving around, seeking her clitoris. Finding it I flicked it lightly, finally getting a reaction that wasn't just a gasp and silent permission. Christy squeaked, pushing herself towards me, now in a state of wanting and willing to let me know it.

I knew when it's time to accept an invitation. A slight adjustment to the position of my erection and it was pressing firmly against Christy's slit where my fingers lingered. Easing my fingers apart, I slipped between them, hearing Christy's faint gasp of satisfaction. I wondered if she'd still be pleased with me in a few moments.

I moved into Christy slowly, and I mean very slowly, taking my time and barely edging my way into her. I was holding her hips firmly so that when she tried to press against me to take me in faster she found herself unable to do so. I could feel her twitching against my cock as she tried to hurry me along. I just continued inching my way in. Actually, the speed I was moving makes inching sound a lot faster than it was. 

After a minute had passed and I still wasn't in, Christy broke.

"Oh, god, you bastard, stop it. Put the damn thing in," she pleaded, her excitement racing and wanting to be assuaged.

I ignored her, continuing my slow progress. Actually, that's not quite right. I should say I laughed at her and continued my slow progress. I won't tell you the name she called me, but it definitely hurt my feelings.

Christy was squirming, her nerves being shredded by that slow progress. Desperate, she tried to push herself back against that slow nightmare but found herself held fast. She started swearing quietly. What the hell was I trying to do?

All good things must come to an end, and eventually I was fully inside Christy. I paused and transferred my hands from her hips to her breasts, closing upon them and massaging them.

Christy was poised expectantly, waiting for the real action to start. I still held off, waiting for her to start pressing against me, but she seemed confused by my lack of movement.

Her body was twisting slightly now, rubbing gently against me, urging me to action. And then Christy was verbally urging me to action.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" she demanded. "A fucking bus? Do something, damn you."

I took this as a hint that she wanted me to start some serious cock action. I'm pretty cluey this way. I can pick up on these subtle hints.

I delivered a quick slap to her bottom, warning her to watch her language. While she was gasping at the shock of that I suddenly pulled back and then thrust back in, and then she promptly lost the air she'd gasped in, in a sudden shriek as I slammed against her.

Now that I was moving I was quite happy to slam into her as hard and as fast as she liked. I started thrusting hard, encouraging her to lift her hips to meet me as I plundered her body. 

I was very quickly breathing heavily, while Christy was making little breathy sounds and begging me to go harder, to take her, to drive her wild. I willingly did all those things, repeatedly driving into her.

It wasn't long before Christy was giving out little screams, her climax hovering just there, and she was frantically reaching for it.

So naturally, I slowed down. I was still enjoying myself, ripples of pleasure radiating out of my erection and letting me know that I had this woman where she was supposed to be. Why hurry?

It took a few moments for Christy to twig that I was deliberately delaying her climax and she called me a nasty name again. She really wanted me to move my arse.

I held off, keeping her nicely balanced on the wrong side of climax heaven, while I enjoyed myself and Christy's protests and screams grew louder. Like I said earlier, all things have to come to an end. My own climax was coming so I let Christy off the hook.

Slamming into her hard and fast, I exploded, but I have to admit my climax wasn't a patch on Christy's. She screamed, loud and long. I wouldn't be surprised if the cops turn up to investigate. 

Christy finally calmed down and leaned against the drier, panting, while I stood behind her, semi-erect inside her and caressing her breasts.

Pulling back I tidied myself away. Glanced at Christy and suggested that a shower wouldn't go amiss.

She turned and looked at me and pushed past, heading for the bathroom.

Lying in bed with Maureen that night, she was snuggled up next to me while my arm was around her, cupping her breast.

"So, how did you find Christy?" she asked.

"Interesting," I said. "She's enthusiastic, but passive. She needs to learn to give more instead of just waiting and accepting what is being done to her. I will say she seemed to enjoy the exercise, and I'm sure she'll be more pro-active as she learns."

"Are you going to offer to give her lessons?" Maureen asked.

I shook my head. "No, love. Once was an interesting experience, but you're all I really need. Are you going to let her know that you know?"

Maureen shook her head this time. "No need. She already knows that I know. She just doesn't know that you know that I know."

Maureen paused. "So, why don't you tell me how it happened and I'll see if I can do better."

I laughed and started talking.



"Little" Sister



Author's note: This story takes place in the Richard's Enterprises universe: Kitty & Teddy, LLC; K&T, LLC; [K][T] and Family. At least some understanding of the events of those three books is necessary. This story is about Siobhan. I consider this a coming of age story, even though the main character is in her mid-20s.

There is no sex in this installment.

Prologue—Moving Out but Not Going Away.

I dreaded my return to Hanover. Summer in New Jersey had been, quite literally, coming home. It was not to a place I had never been before, but it seemed like it more than once. I reconnected with a brother I had long adored, met a new sister I dearly loved and found my place in the family. Unlike three months before, the crusty old manor was home. So, I was leaving home to finish school.

What can I say about Ivy League graduate programs, that has not been covered by a dozen movies? The campuses are beautiful. The classes are impossibly difficult. Student life is student life. Politics are politics.

T. Woodrow Wilson, when he ran for President, claimed faculty wife's lunches as his grounding in politics. Washington did not overwhelm him. Politics in academics is the same give and take on a smaller scale. In the humanities and social sciences, we study politics as a subject, so we have a grounding in theory on which to base our practice. While I was home, I had abandoned almost all my political friends.

I was bound for New Hampshire. The signs said I might be there a while. Wheels were already turning and my name was closely associated with the process. If I was the mother, then I needed to be prepared to change the diapers. Politics being what it is, I wondered how my new look would go over. It was certainly better suited to the cameras and donor luncheons. On the other hand, a number of people had given me support when I wanted to dress down. What would they think?

Chapter 1—In the Beginning

I should tell you about myself. My name is Siobhan Richards. I grew up hating the name, because no one could pronounce it correctly (shuh-VAHN), even when I sounded it out. Jo is the usual nickname, so I went by that. It was a good nickname, because I hung with the guys and flirted with the girls, not that it worked.

I am 181 cm tall (5' 11"). My famous and powerful brother is only 177 cm (1½" shorter). In addition to my unreasonable height, I have a face not even my mother loved. "Fleshy" and "strong boned" are not words of endearment when describing a young girl's features. A scar or other disfigurement might have helped. Those are subject to surgery. As you might image, my high school years were not pleasant.

Sean, the rich and powerful brother I mentioned, was always my protector. He is several years older and acted as my parent for most purposes. Mother and Father fought with each other, sparing me no notice. This lasted til I was ten. They never divorced, but everything short of that was done in one weekend. Father did not attend my graduation.

When Mother threw Father out, it was worse. My maternal grandmother was a famous socialite. Mother's childhood was full of mother/daughter events. She had hoped to repeat them in the parental role, so my lack of suitable looks cramped her social life. During my developing years, mother's attention was usually to inform me that I was unattractive and always would be.

Puberty was something else. For once I was the best in my class in something nonacademic. In 5th grade, Theresa Waltermuth was tallest in the class at 158 cm [5' 2" (she still is)]. When school started that fall, I was 160 cm and growing fast. More to the point, so was my chest. I was first in my age group to develop adult breasts and also had the largest ones. The attractive girls quickly decided I was a threat and ramped up the attacks. Bless Sean, he tried.

Sean is my big brother, which is ironic because I am now close to two inches taller, more like five inches when I wear heels. Sean is shortish and compact, fit and fairly attractive for a guy. I have always looked up to him, from the time I was barely walking and he reached down to hold my hand. His face, over my upraised arm, is one of the enduring images of my childhood.

I think Sean was about ten or eleven, which is an age when many older brothers decide that younger siblings are contagious. Sean was never said I was someone else's sibling or a child of one of the staff. Such things happened. There were not a lot of occasions the cute girls made me feel sympathetic, but that story is one of the times.

It could not have been easy for Sean. He was several years older and two schools ahead, but he would not tolerate anyone treating me badly. One girl, Trina, insisted that it was her right to treat me as a punching bag, since I was unattractive. Sean scolded her the first time. The second time, he notified the school. For once I was in the Principal's office when someone else was in trouble.

It did not end there. Trina had an older cousin, who tried to shake Sean down. Oops. The guy came back with two friends. While that fight was going on, there was a chance to settle with Trina. I may have been seven years old, but I understood how torn clothing and bruises could work against me.

First, I kicked off a shoe and pulled off a sock. Then I grabbed Trina by the hair and dragged her around the corner. Before she could cry out, I stuffed the dirty sock in her mouth. In the process, she grabbed my shirt and tore it, along with some scratching. I do not know which was more satisfying, roughing her up or watching her admit she had torn my shirt. Regardless, Trina stayed far away for the next two years.

If you are getting the idea that my childhood was difficult, you have the right track. Father was rarely around and Mother disliked how I reflected on her social standing. Sean filled a big part of the gap. He was really cool to be around, because he always treated me like an equal. Even better, I always know what he was thinking.

Sean has this habit. He thinks aloud almost nonstop. If you listen, it comes as a low confusing mumble. That never bothered me, because I learned to read his lips. It's ironic, because Sean has trouble putting his finished thoughts into words. I could always follow his thinking as it unfolded, which is much more illuminating. Over time it has proven a useful skill. A great deal of my famous timing is based on it.

All good things end. My childhood ended early in many ways, but puberty was just the most obvious. It was also where I needed to draw my own line it the sand. I was the tallest kid in my class and the only one with frontal development. What had been sniping and back biting became continuous warfare. Sean kept trying, but he was out of his depth.

The problem was that Sean was not a parent or guardian. No standing. Worse, he was still in high school, which made him suspect in many adult minds. Sean met with the Principal and several girl's parents. In each case, the parents asked why he was interested in their underage daughter. Before things became ugly, I asked Sean to pull back.

With Sean out of the way, my tormentors thought it was open season. Verbal sparring quickly went to new levels. In passing, learned how much could be accomplished with a sneer or a disdainful look. It only spurred my tormentors on to physical means. All was not lost. Sean's otherwise futile efforts gave me time to plan strategy. Indeed, deferring to him had preempted some creative payback. When new attacks came, I was ready.

Physical intimidation was never an easy option, since I was biggest and strongest. A couple of girls gathered packs and tried anyway. That played into my hands. In groups there is always a hierarchy. Physical confrontations became a matter of figuring out who to take down first. That was easy, but aftermaths could be messier. Following one dust up, the girls tried to bring in official parties. With Sean at my side, I explained that five to one is unfair, even if I was bigger. I received detention. They were suspended and lost places on various sports teams and spirit squad.

After that incident worked its way through the culture, things became more covert. In this my ability to read lips was invaluable. My locker was broken into and drugs were stashed. When the Principal asked me to open my locker, I knew to insist that the police be present to dust for prints. One cheerleader's boyfriend was expelled. That did not stop the smaller stuff. During gym, my bra was cut up. I went without from that day on.

Not surprisingly, I was soon on a first name basis with the office staff. I did not report problems, but the lack of bra was noticed in my first class. I was able to pull the two pieces out of my backpack. More often I was accused of something. Occasionally it was even true, but usually my payback was more subtle than their imagination.

My speed was more along the lines of wardrobe malfunction. The wrong bra size is a real pain, but who will complain in public? I went through whole bottles of red ink. Buttons popped off. Zippers stripped. Purse handles failed. I rarely bothered to watch, which helped create solid alibis.

Most of the time my accuser's story was pure fiction and easy to disprove. Once or twice I had to do some investigating before I could quiet things. A pattern developed. Eventually, the office would simply take statements and file them as unsubstantiated. By junior year, it was acknowledged I was too much trouble to mess with. Rah team.

That, of course, is ironic. There was no team. By then, Sean had done two years at Brown and joined the Army. Both were designed to irritate my mother. She believed in Harvard Med, Yale Law and Princeton Engineering. Brown was bad enough, but Sean's enlisting in the Army was close to the last straw. Sean joined me on the list of disappointing children. It did not matter that Sean essentially took over running the company, by email, two years before his Army term was up. As soon as I finished high school, Mother moved to California and discovered tequila.

It all sounds lonely, and it was, but even high school loners have peers. A couple of the computer geeks would talk to me, but my real circle were the outcasts. Many were Goth, before Goth was cool. Several claimed to be lesbian. I did not exactly fit in, but they did not throw me out. For my adolescent years, that counted as a win.

By senior year, I was attracting another kind of attention—the kind that comes from elite test scores. Computers and math were never my thing, but I was death in everything else. I could have graduated after my 11th grade year. I finished while taking full load of advanced placement and remote classes through the New Jersey University system.

For Senior Composition, I did a paper on Huckleberry Finn, describing him as a victim of child abuse. It worked its way to the Sociology department at Yale. One thing led to another. Two weeks before graduation, I drove the Mercedes to New Haven, Connecticut and met the Social Sciences faculty.

That day at Yale I also met Alice Dumervil, the vice chairwoman of Women's Studies. We connected on a fundamental level. She was more than forty years older and in poor health, so social contact was out of the question. After my freshman year, she retired and died not long after. Still, I refer to her as my mentor.

Chapter 2 -- Yale

You will hear that it is extremely hard to get into Ivy League schools. That is usually true. It is also true that top schools recruit, sometimes fiercely. Alice pushed me to file the proper forms and essays, while greasing the wheels at her end. I spent my 19th birthday moving into a shared flat in New Haven. It would make a fine story to say that there was a coven of witches in residence, but it was just one pharmacy major named Fiona. She dabbled a little in Wicca and sold herbs on the side. Most of them were legal.

Yale was both harder and easier than high school. Academically, few students are ready for the workload and most cannot handle it. That made it a simple challenge—just do the work. Simple may not be easy, but the grades tell you how you have done. I did very well. The easy part is that everyone left me alone to study. It was almost Halloween before I noticed I never did anything but house chores, class and homework.

Fiona organized an All Hallows house party. It was not my first experience with alcohol, but it remains the deepest. Instead of ordinary weed, our pharmacy major obtained genuine hashish, plus other things. Halloween was Friday. I woke up Sunday in a bed full of naked female bodies, with someone licking my pussy. I passed out again and never even knew her name. It suffices to say Monday's first class was not a highlight.

From that point on, I was acknowledged as a member of the house lesbian circle. I could never remember what I said or did, but there it was. For the most part, it made no difference in my life. Six days a week were consumed by school and homework. Saturdays I would occasionally go out with the other girls.

Five years later, I looked back on those two years with a critical eye. My alter ego, Frau Doktor Richards, dissected the string of one night stands. It is not something I am proud to acknowledge, but I had made progress. This was a tribe. I became a member in good standing—complete with appropriate dress.

The piercings were the simplest. I paid money, bought jewelry, endured some pain. Viola. I had a new ring or stud. Tattooing was common, but not universal. I never bothered. My look was distinctive enough without it. I almost never wore a bra, though I kept one around. Cut pants, heavy boots, torn T-shirt and black makeup can be done with surprising variety. For example, try a small bell dangling through a tear in the T-shirt, from a nipple ring.

Chapter 3 -- Boston

The summer between my junior and senior years was the first big change. All the social sciences require field work. The one I chose was to the slums of Boston. In some ways it was like living in the flat, without the homework. My alcove became a dorm bed, with half a closet and a military foot locker. Showers were communal and hot water a rare privilege. Food was done on a chore schedule. Same old, same old.

Forty hours a week I spent working at a transient shelter. Another twenty were at a legal aid office, filling out government forms for people that could barely read. It was something that stayed with me when I went into politics. Another few hours were spent on daily notes. The rest were spent with Veronica.

Roni loved Elvis Costello's song Veronica. She would hum it all the time. Whenever we were about to do something daring, or even just a bit risqué, she would sing the line, "You can call me anything you like, but my name is Veronica." Her name in lyric seemed empowering. Certainly, she was as wild as the girl in the song.

We met standing in line. Veronica sang that line, over and over, til she was called. In seconds, she was a screeching harpy, gouging flesh out of a civil servant's hide. I stood to one side and handed her things as the need arose—paper, pen, copy of the regulations, etc. I was the perfect contrast, standing quietly, but towering over the desk.

Eventually, the clerk picked up his phone and progress was achieved. Roni hrumphed with feeling. I presented my paperwork for the clerk to stamp. That done, we left the office. Once the door was shut behind us, she threw her arms around me and said, "I don't know who you are, but I owe you coffee. They never give in that fast."

Veronica bought two lattes to go, then I walked her home. She invited me in. We spent an hour on her sofa necking. Things might have gone further, but her roommate came home. Introductions were made and I left, promising to call. The next night we attended a poetry reading. The night after, Saturday, it was a 1930s art film marathon til five AM. We slept together and had sex for breakfast. She could not cook any better than I could.

It's easiest to describe Roni was a stereotypical redhead Irish New Yorker, with temper to match. She was Dutch, brunette and no freckles, from Providence, but her attitude was so familiar my New Jersey roots felt at home. For two months Roni led me around. Perhaps that's why I let her put a ring in my nose. Actually, it was three rings, but one sufficed to give her control a literal reference.

When I say it that way, it sounds bad. It was not one sided. I learned a lot of things about sex, women, the club scene and politics. Always the politics. Veronica was a master of offering you three ways to make her life better. She could make you grateful for having a choice. Fortunately for me, she was not the Mistress of choices. That might have ended more badly.

I was an intern for my thesis research. Time with Veronica was like a second internship. Of the two, Roni taught me more. My sister, Sheila, has a lovely phrase for it, "Learning hurts, because part of your innocence died." They make up words like bittersweet to describe my relationship with Veronica.

The end came a few days before I was going to blow off fall semester and stay on at the shelter. As was my normal routine, I left the legal aid office, stopped by the news/coffee/sundries store and picked up two lattes with an extra shot. I knew as soon as I opened the door that something was wrong. Two hours later, still with two lattes in hand, Veronica was gone from my life. She always told me a clean cut heals best.

I did not cry then, or ever, about the break up. Cruel cuts were an old enemy. I knew how to hold the edges together til scar tissue formed. Oddly, it made things easier at the shelter and legal aid center. No one knew Veronica, but they knew her tactics. If you read Othello, the only person that believes Desdemona was unfaithful is her husband. I was the only one that thought Roni had deep feelings for me. All the people I worked with considered her a manipulative bitch.

Maybe Roni's abrupt approach did leave less scarring. It kept me from taking some irrevocable actions, for which I am thankful. Not having her around allowed me to focus on my notes and preparation for my thesis. My new emotional state caused me to reconsider my basic approach. It may be funny to think that a sociologist would forget human factors, but that is what I had done.

Work proved good therapy. My last Monday, I dragged in on less than three hours of sleep. Mimi Montenegro, the director, told me to grab a cot and get some sleep. Four hours later, they had pulled together a going away lunch. I was touched. While I made no friends that summer, several people respected my work and my dedication. We had a fine time over chicken wings and pizza.

It came as a shock when someone asked about Veronica. Suddenly, the whole room went quiet. It was so much like a movie, I had to laugh. That broke the ice and soon everything was back to normal. Later that morning, Mimi told me that she had been worried about suicide. I did not mean to laugh, but I couldn't help myself. Then I couldn't stop.

Mimi pulled me into her office and closed the door. When I stopped shaking, she said, "OK. Not exactly what I expected, but it's something. Why does suicide strike you as funny?"

I may have been a bit loopy, but I could tell this was a very serious question. Since I did not want men in white coats visiting, I had to chose my words carefully. To stall for time, I put my head my hand and waved the other index finger at her. Mimi allowed it.

Looking up, I said, "Thank you. I appreciate the concern. It is not entirely misplaced, but it is not really needed.

"If I understand your thinking, it goes like this. Jo is an unattractive girl, who has never had a serious affair of the heart. Along comes a major league player, who uses that heart for a doormat. Break up happens. Heart shatters. Jo throws herself into her work, while self medicating with God only knows what. After a long binge of a weekend, she shows up looking like something the cat threw up, then goes into hysterics.




"Little" Sister



"Is that about right?"

Mimi stared at me. Eventually, she blinked and let out her breath. She shook her head and said, "Damn. I've seen you Ivy League types come and go, but no one is that clinical about their own love life. That's damn near perfect. Where did I go wrong?" It was a very good question and still loaded.

I thought for a moment, then said, "I guess at the heart shatters part. Hmm. Who'da thunk it? Look at it this way. I have no experience at emotional break ups, but I have much experience with cruelty. That and I had a shitload of work to catch up on. And..."

Mimi took it from there, "Work is therapeutic. Not the first time I heard it. As of now, you are on half day. Take the rest of today off and come in at noon the rest of the week. I'll log it as assigned paperwork, which it will be. Just not paper work I need to file. You're a tough bitch. I saw the hard shell and figured a soft center. Now, get out. I got work to do."

I killed a couple of hours, then went to the legal aid office. Since my position was pure volunteer, I just informed them I would be switching to morning hours my last week. All that got me was a raised eyebrow. I explained that my morning conflict was resolved. With a shrug, my schedule was reset.

It was liberating. For four days, I had the chance to explore Boston from the vantage of a resident. Veronica was into clubs and parties. I had a chance to sample the local art and theater scene. That was how I met someone who would become important later—Elspeth Otis-Endicott.

I had just seen Waiting for Godot, the quintessential play on existentialism. It is a good choice for local theaters, because there are only five parts and no set to speak of. As with many simple things, the play is difficult to do well. This production managed a bit above mediocre, mostly because the actor playing Estragon was so convincing.

Every theater district has its associated discussion point. I was in the mood for a little heated debate, so I followed the crowd to a coffee shop. By the time I arrived, the resident blow hard was already in full blather. We agreed on one thing—that the production was mediocre.

The reasons were diametrically opposed. He favored the actor playing Vladimir, and disdained the set and setting. Since the setting is supposed to be bleak, the rundown auditorium suited well. I did not give a damn whether the lights showed what time of day it was supposed to be and said so. So it started and developed from there.

My debating opponent, David Winthrop, was a Harvard alumnus, with honors he said. I had to choke down a laugh. Haughtily he asked my credentials. I admitted to some hours from Rutgers, which is the state University of New Jersey. It is a good school, but not Harvard. I let Mr. Winthrop develop a good sneer, then mentioned graduate school at Yale. Mouths fell open. One smallish young woman stared daggers at me.

That smallish woman was Elspeth. With names like Winthrop and Otis-Endicott, you expect Boston brahmin and you get it. I would learn that Elspeth liked a firm hand, so it is not surprising she clung to a bombastic pile of self important shit. Elspeth later told me Winthrop was a mid level accountant for First Boston National Bank. Small wonder he needed to prove his virility in kaffeeklatsches.

We argued a good hour before Winthrop started foaming at the mouth. While he was, literally, incoherent, I spared a look at Elspeth. Because of the impact, I would polish the technique over the next three years. It was nothing more, or less, than a clinical assessment of the person inspected. In my mind I cataloged the details, good and bad, with no emotional content. The emotional detachment is key. While it meant little to me at the time, I noticed an effect. Elspeth says it changed her life.

It would make an interesting story to say Elspeth and I contacted each other, but no. After destroying Mr. Accountant Winthrop, I went home and forgot about him—and her. Two weeks later I spent days recounting my experience to thesis advisers, faculty members, flatmates and social acquaintances. Not once did I mention either Mr. Winthrop or his shadow. At that point I did not even know her name.

She remembered mine.

Chapter 4 -- Kickstarting the Motor

Summer turned quickly to fall. I was piling on hours to graduate at mid-term. To consume the rest of my time, my thesis spawned. There was enough material in my notes to do at least three solid papers. My original concept was a discussion of the impact of shelters and halfway houses on the inner city. A necessary thread running through this was a description of how shelters, and legal aid services interacted with local and state governments.

The original topic became my senior thesis, mostly because it was easiest. I graduated. Nothing much changed, because I turned to the legal aid aspect and kept working. During winter break, the University emptied out, but I barely noticed. Over the break my graduate thesis got fat, turning into a 400 page monster. When I met my new thesis adviser, Madalyne Stone, she was not amused.

People are impressed that I graduated Yale in two and a half years. You need to understand I transferred most of the core credits. In high school, I did not have a social life, so I studied. By my junior year that included courses for undergraduate credit, through the state university system. That was why I mentioned Rutgers to Winthrop. Add the summer sessions to the transferred credits and it comes out eight semesters, just like it is supposed to. I am much more proud of getting a PhD in a year and a half.

It was not easy. I mentioned my thesis adviser was not amused. I think Madalyne expected to spend the spring semester telling me to settle on a topic. Since she planned to be gone by fall, I would become someone else's problem. Instead, she had work to do, starting with 400 pages of reading. I give her this much, she had a good supply of red ink.

Madalyne and I butted heads from the start. For example, I would not call her Professor Stone. Her PhD was still damp and she was not on a tenure track, hence the job search. For her part, Madalyne did not want to allow research done as an undergrad. Within a week, we were in Donald Eisenmann's office. He was not yet Dean of Graduate Studies, but that was a formality. He already did the job.

From my perspective, the meeting went well. Madalyne started by objecting to my dress. I had safety pins in my face and a nipple ring showing through a hole in my shirt. This was the Assistant Dean's office, so she had a solid point. Dr. Eisenmann nodded, then motioned for her to proceed. Madalyne did for about ten minutes, while I said nothing. Once Madalyne finished with her objections, Dr. Eisenmann said to me, "Your turn." I liked that.

Rather than speak, I started laying paper on the desk. First was the Beast, complete with sticky notes, colored paper clips and all of Madalyne's red ink. Next to that I lay the footnotes, references and bibliography. Next to those I stacked my summer notes and raw data. It was a big desk, but I came close to burying it. For the first time, Dr. Eisenmann smiled. "I see the difficulty."

Madalyne probably has mixed feelings about the meeting. Dr. Eisenmann cut her in pieces with polite precision. Then he gave her the relief she wanted. Her new assignment was to coordinate another summer in Boston. I was to focus on the legal aid aspect of my work. As my adviser, Madalyne was to provide a list of points to cover with the research. In exchange, her duties toward my first draft were suspended.

With my next year thus parceled out, he said to me. "Alice Dumervil was very taken with you. She warned me you would be a shock, which you are, but she said you were smart. She might have added, you have a flair for politics. Nine out of ten times, these meetings end with me tearing strips from the grad student's hide. The tenth time, I call security. You are literally the first student to answer with silence and documentation. I'll assign someone tenured in the fall. Go make Yale proud."

I write that last line, with the source, in every notebook I carry. No one ever told Madalyne to make Yale proud. Given that, I could cut her some slack.

Chapter 5 -- Boston II

That summer was like and unlike the previous one. I stayed in the same flat. I worked at the same legal aid clinic, doing the same job full time. Once again I took notes and rewrote them every night. A lot of the people were the same. I was different.

Everyone said so. I dropped in at the shelter. Mimi hugged me and told me I had grown. Some of the recurring clients at legal aid said similar things. Two of the girls from the flat said so. I hooked up again with an old one night stand. She said it. Things went smoothly for two months, then Veronica said I was different.

Boston is a big city, but neighborhoods are small. I had been in Boston a little over a week when I first saw Roni. She was with a date, so I did not confront her. Instead, I kept an eye out. I saw her three times in the next two weeks. Then I was too busy to go out for a week, followed by another dry week. It was more than a month before we made eye contact. Veronica winked and turned away.

It was getting toward the end of the summer before we communicated. We never spoke. Instead, she sent me a note when we happened to be at the same restaurant.

Hello Jo.

I am glad to see you looking well. I wish we could have parted better last summer, but it was necessary to make a clean break. You were thinking of doing something stupid and I couldn't allow that. We were friends, with benefits of course, but it was never long term. I hope you don't hate me, because I truly did it for you.

This time, I hope you will forgive me staying away. I don't know if I love you, but I think I might a little. Parting would be much harder. I have a guy now and he would not understand.

Roni

I did not cry, but that seemed less of a problem than the first time. I folded the note and reread it at least ten times the next morning. At lunch, I went to the shelter. Mimi saw me right away. I just handed her the note. She read it, then sat back with a stunned expression.

Finally she said, "Life sucks all over. You had no idea this was going on last year. I could see that much. Can you tell what she's talking about now?"

That was easy. "She meant that I was thinking about skipping fall semester to stay in Boston. I could have graduated in the spring."

Mimi disagreed. "But, there was a chance you might never go back. I agree with her. I would not want that on my conscience either. I think better of her. I think a lot better of her. I even like her style. She's right about something else. It would not be good to get close now. Still, that can change. If you ever want to contact her, let me know." I had not cried, but Mimi was.

Chapter 5 -- Riding the Beast

The next year at Yale should have been hell. I wanted to finish Grad school in spring, which meant a heavy class load, on top of my dissertation. Once again, I had no life. Fifteen grad hours is a lot. I took eighteen in the fall, then twenty one in the spring. Fortunately, I arrived with a new draft of the thesis. This time my adviser was a full Professor, Dr. Gupta. He used almost as much red ink as Madalyne. On the last page he gave me a wink.

Dr. Gupta had specific ideas. As part of his process I had to digitize the work, so I hired a service to type it all in. Once that was done and checked, we worked on getting the footnotes in place. Through it all again, then again. Spell check. Grammar check. I noticed my speaking patterns came to match Dr. Gupta's hatred of contractions and adverbs. By Thanksgiving, I was feeling good. He told me to set it aside til after finals. Like Forest Gump and money, it was one less thing to worry about.

After my last final, we met in Dr. Gupta's office for tea. He had family in Sumatra, India. They would send him a quarter pound of local product every month, which is a lot of tea. One of our rituals was to use some of it. I still have the tea habit, when working on an article, a bill or an amendment. Speeches take coffee. That's just the way it is. Winter break took tea, coffee and No Doz, because Dr. Gupta wanted me to reduce the word count by a third.

I tried. God knows I tried.

Over the break I managed to cut out about twenty percent of the verbiage. The problem was that every time I found something I could cut, I found some other thing that needed elaboration. It was two steps forward and one step back, til I wanted to scream. The day after New Year, I went to Dr. Gupta's office with my tail between my legs.

Dr. Gupta waved me to one of the good chairs and poured tea. He insisted on finishing one cup and beginning the second before discussing business. When he judged the time right, he asked, "How much did you add?" I must have looked shocked. Dr. Gupta smiled, indulgently I thought, and shook his head.

"Please. It was an exercise in reexamining your work. Removing text requires careful examination of the content. Like any good argument, there are things to add, elaborations to make. If it is only twenty pages longer, I am satisfied." This time I know I looked shocked. He asked, "What?"

I said, "I managed to carve off almost twenty percent, about sixty five pages. The big gains are in the notes." Dr. Gupta started laughing. Before long I joined him, even though he was a sneaky SOB.

He said, "Leave it here. I will get some third party readers to comment on it. If it is done as you have begun and progressed as you have described, you may be asked to defend it. For now, go. Do such things as young women do for entertainment. I do not wish to know. We will meet in one week."

It was not that easy. Yale does not hand out graduate degrees like candy. I had substantial revisions and editing still to do, but perhaps that was the point. At the beginning of my third graduate semester, I was already polishing my dissertation. This was a good thing, because my class load was a bear. Dr. Gupta told me to do what young women do for fun. Mostly I slept. In my spare time I filled out application for fellowships.

Sociology is not the best degree for job seeking. It was not that I needed to work. The family had plenty of money, so I could cultivate roses or something equally useless for the rest of my life. Sean was done with the Army and had become CEO of the family business. There was a guaranteed job if I needed one. As with many other things, I wanted to cut my own path.

The traditional avenues are law, consulting and teaching. I leaned to the latter. If I wanted one of the top teaching positions, even a Yale PhD would not be enough. Rather than go out in the world and make a mark, I chose to go into post graduate work. Yale and Harvard are names everyone knows, for good reason. That did not make them the best schools on Earth—alumni opinions to the contrary. Penn's Wharton business school, for example, often tops both Harvard and Yale in the annual rankings. Dartmouth was nearly as good in the social sciences and they needed a teaching Fellow. I made calls and filled out forms. In March I drove up for an interview. If it is any indication, at 22 I was not the youngest PhD applicant.

Hanover was like going home for me. My small city in New Jersey backs up on forested land. Much of New Hampshire could loosely be described as forest. Trees are the rule, not the exception. A corner is as likely to blind because of foliage as from anything man made. It should be no surprise this is where sugar maples grew wild.

Hanover the city is really just a large town, with a famous school for a neighbor. The main drag has single story businesses—a bookstore, cookware, houseware, and hardware stores, cafe's, bank annexes. There are no big office buildings or big chain stores. It's about as far from inner city Boston an hour of driving can take you. That said, they took me in stride: tall, braless, punk hair, safety pins through my skin and artfully tattered clothing. I gave them points for that.

The interview turned out to be a breeze. The youngest applicant, a nineteen year old whiz kid from Stanford, was more interested in computer models than actual people. I heard he landed in the business school. Of the other applicants, I was the only one with dirt under my nails, so to speak. One of the women doing the interview flirted with me. I think I would have earned the job anyway, but that likely sealed the deal.

Back in New Haven, I prepared for company. I had blown off my high school graduation to piss off my mother. I missed my collegiate graduation because of my thesis. There was no way I was going to miss my hooding, which meant visitors. Sean came. Mother and George did not. Mimi came, bringing good wishes from Veronica. She and Mimi were working together occasionally. Veronica's note to me had mended more than one fence. I told Mimi that I would like to see Roni again—someday. She laughed in understanding.

After the ceremony, Sean took me out for steak. His life had been almost as eventful as mine. He spent two years at Brown, then four in the Army. Trust big brother to not do that the normal way. Back in New Jersey he stepped into the Board of Directors of Richards and Sons, Inc., while attending Brown's business school. He received his BS and MBA the same day. The next day he became President and CEO of the company. By my hooding ceremony, it was named Richards Enterprises and Sean had a feature story in the Wall Street Journal.

The dinner was a bit awkward. Sean gave me a family hug. I seriously missed those. We talked about what had gone on during the last eight years. That much was fine. The problem was that my looks caused problems with some of the restaurants. It took three tries and a bribe. Worse, they made Sean uncomfortable. He was a suit and tie businessman. Grunge did not fit. For the first time I was forced to consider that objections to the way I dressed might have merit.

Regardless, we talked til the restaurant closed, then found a coffee shop and talked until two AM. Sean had a motel room, so I crashed with him. For what it may be worth, in the morning Sean went down to the office and paid for multiple occupancy. We had waffles, cereal and juice, then headed different directions. That was when I discovered my graduation gift.

In the same stall as my old Honda Accord was a midnight blue BMW 503 cabriolet, with a bow on the rear fender. Thus I met Shadow. On the dash was an envelope, giving the address of a garage and a paid invoice for three years of car storage. Jotted at the bottom was a note, saying I could find my Honda there if I needed to "slum for a while." Sean gives the best presents. Shadow has been the source of much amusement through the years.

For example, the first time I went to the garage, I parked Shadow out of sight of the office. When I went in to get the clunker, they refused to believe I was me. After wrangling for maybe fifteen minutes, the owner came in. He said, "Who owns that sweet 503 outside?" Looking the asshole clerk straight in the eye, I held up the keys. I have had some experience inflicting pain. That is the whitest I have ever seen a man.

Chapter 6 -- Hanover

Shadow would cause problems in Hanover, so she spent a lot of time in storage. I arranged a parking sticker for her, but even that much was an issue. I smoothed things over by saying she was owned by Richards Enterprises and driven by the CEO's sister, who might visit. That was good enough for the parking police to issue a visitor's permit. I could not park in my usual lot, but what could I do?

Much of the summer was spent in Connecticut, wrapping up my situation at Yale. My dissertation had attracted international attention. I made sure everyone knew that Dartmouth had been first in line, something which earned me thanks in the fall. In the press I was attacked from both ends of the political spectrum. One interesting sidelight was a panel on Sean Hannity's radio show. Both of the other guests claimed that my work supported their opposing position. Idiots. They were both wrong.




"Little" Sister



It was a big fight, which may have been the point. Hannity seemed to have at least read a precis of my thesis, because he asked the best question, along with some ridiculous ones. Of course I had read Karl Marx. He was a founding sociologist and well respected as such. I did not give a damn about his economic theories. When I said so, Hannity seemed taken aback. It is sufficient to say that it was not the last time I was on his program.

August came, so I formally moved to Hanover, New Hampshire. The flat threw me a going away party. We had a night of five girls in a bed, but I do not remember any of their names. I went back to New Jersey for a week. It was a trying time. For one thing, I needed the Honda worked on. Shadow stayed in New Hampshire, so I was on foot. As a family member, I had the right to check out the cars, but that meant dealing with security. By then, that meant Gerald. I had a mother. I did not need a male version. What made it worse was that Gerald is tall enough to look down on me. There are a lot of ironies in that.

In any event, I mostly stayed in and sulked. I had learned to play decent pool in Boston, but Jerry, one of security guys, taught me another level. Sean has incredible hands for massage. It turns out mine are not bad with a stick. Jerry started me on 8 ball and 9 ball, followed by full rack rotation and straight pool, then changed tables to snooker. Strange game. Finally, it was billiards, which really stresses your judgment of spin and angle. When I ran 20 shots at billiards, Jerry quit playing me for money. Oh well. I considered my losses to be tuition. Veronica taught me that.

That Sunday afternoon, I threw my bags in the car and headed north. During the week I moved into my new apartment, attended faculty orientation, had my lesson plan approved by the Dean and learned the campus and town. On the weekend I cruised south, toward Concord and Manchester.

I found a nice place to get old concert shirts and a couple of bars to hustle pool. I won two dates. One was scared shitless, so I sent her back to the guy that lost her. Her panties I kept. The other girl, Marci, was at least bi-curious, so I bought her dinner and half a motel bed. Either my technique had improved or she was already leaning lesbian. Marci went off and kept going off all night.

Feeling satisfied, I drove back to Hanover to teach my first class. I was about two minutes late, so I was the last one through the door. I set my books down, wrote my name on the board, then turned to see what I had to work with. As soon as I did, I heard, "Oh my God. No way. No freaking way." That was how I learned Elspeth Otis-Endicott's name. Small world.

There is not a lot to say about the next two years. I only had Elspeth in the one class, but she never was far from my awareness. In retrospect, she was trying to get my attention. At the time, I was not secure enough to consider that she might find me attractive. Since then, we have had a couple of long coffee talks, about how misconceptions came close to ruining a good relationship.

Otherwise, I fit into the Ivy League sisterhood fairly well. Campus life was a lot like Yale, braless and piercings not-with-standing. Off campus life was quite different, but that was good. I grew up in rural New Jersey, so rural New Hampshire was soothingly homelike. Summer's I did research in Manchester, New Hampshire's version of big city.

I was grading final exams when I received a call from Sean. This was not unusual. We talked every week or two. However, this call was for a big announcement—Sean was engaged to be married. His previous call had him worried about losing a chunk of the company, so I was not sure what to think.

Sean sent follow up emails, including contact information for his fiancée, Sheila Schwartz. The next day I received a text from her, which I did not understand. I text a query, but she called back. I have a recording.

"Hello. Is this Sheila?"

Phone: Yes it is. I wanted to cover the plans for Tuesday. Another of my witnesses will be joining us, Francine Martel. You may have heard of her.

"Oh my God. Sean said you liked to drop bombs, but I had no idea. I love theater and I have seen her many times. She's one of the wedding party. Wow. I am guessing this is not something to spread around, but there had better be pictures."

Phone: You are quite correct that discretion is appropriate. As to the pictures, maybe not Tuesday, but rest assured, we have a camera bug on tap. Justin is really obnoxious with his Nikon.

"Justin, as in Justin Immons? I have heard some rumors about him here at the school. One of the big universities is doing an e-book of ritual and fetish items. Sean as much as said that they were from his auction. Well, not really. You have to be able to read big brother. Justin Immons was the name."

Phone: I will confirm, without comment. How involved do you wish to be in this, uh, endeavor? I understand you have considerable background in the social sciences. I want to do a period theme, hence the corsets. Interested?

"You cannot be serious. No. My God. Do you realize you are asking an Ivy League anthropologist if she wants to be involved with the re-creation of a period social event? In my, literally, own back yard? I would do this if the wedding was in Sri Lanka, in summer. How many grad students should I bring? "

Phone: What do you mean, grad students?

"Think of them as slave labor. I can think of three girls, off the top of my head, that could use this for their thesis research. I know half a dozen more that would do it for the fun. You do understand this is what some of us live for, right?"

Phone: Just so they understand that I am a dominatrix in my day job.

"I can see why Sean likes you. You cut through the crap. He does too, but you knew that already. Ummm. Personal question, and you don't have to answer, what do you call him?"

Phone: Teddy Bear.

"You have known him, what, less than two weeks, and you call him Teddy Bear? Did you ever have him tied up? Whipped?"

Phone: Reverse it.

"Short answers for important content. Good to know. I'm a lesbian, I'd marry you myself if you weren't engaged. I am insanely jealous. OK. Maybe not insane. Sean deserves something nice. Have him reserve six rooms wherever. I will double them up and tell them to use birth control. I am going to like having you as a sister. I assume you want early 20th. Europe or US?"

Phone: US. Pool table green and white. Top hat and tails. Gloves. You claim you want to marry me and you have not even met Francine yet. Tsk, tsk. I will tie them up and whip them, with photographs, signed in red lipstick, as full compensation for their time. You drive a hard bargain. I already have one submissive. $1000 says she can take more abuse than any of them. Tuesday, 9:00 AM at the Residence. Be there.

Sean says Sheila can deliver a thirty minute brief in fifteen seconds. The call took barely two minutes, but it changed my life.



Little Sister



And he wasn't gentle---by no means. He sucked hard on my tits, compressing and pulling on them so that they would pop out of his mouth with a loud popping sound. Then he suddenly started to nibble on my nipples. At first a wave of pleasure swept through me, but when he started to pull at them with his teeth the waves of pleasure were suddenly mixed with a stinging pain. Oh, he pulled and tweaked my nipples, chewing and yanking at them with his teeth. My nipples were aching. They were red and swollen and sticking out now like the eraser end of a pencil. He liked that and really pulled at them. I clawed his back and begged him to stop. But he wouldn't. His attack on my tits just increased every time I begged him to stop so that in the end I just grit my teeth and let him do as he pleased. 

And he did just that, sucking and feeding on my tits until the nipples were red and extremely swollen. He sucked on my tits for what seemed like a long time, slurping on them like a madman so that loud, slurpy sounds erupted from his mouth. His attack was relentless and within minutes the stinging pain I felt in my swollen nipples were suddenly replaced by a burning sensation deep inside me. I suddenly wanted him to suck my tits and I shoved myself against him and clutched his back. I could feel another onslaught of pussy cum slide down my vagina. I couldn't believe that Don was giving me another orgasm! My nipples hurt like hell but I didn't want him to stop. I threw my head back and let rip a long, gurgling wail as I came. "Ooooooooooooooooo!"

Don pushed himself away from me and grinned. "I just love your tits, Cindy. They're absolutely amazing! I should have thought of doing this much sooner." I brushed tears from my eyes and spat at him. He had made me come at least three times and I hated him for it. "Swine!" He laughed. "Oh, you loved every minute of it. I bet you're thinking about my big cock, eh? I bet you want it inside you!" My face went white. "No! Not at all. Don't you dare put your thing in me. This is as far as we go. It's over, got it?" Don shook his head. "I'm not done with you yet, little sis. Trust me on this one----once I'm done with you, you won't be able to walk!" I gave a cry of horror. "Don! Please!" 

"Shut up!" He untied his bathrobe and peeled it off his strong shoulders. Man, he was built like an ox! I gazed down at the bulge in his shorts and I cringed at the thought of him throwing me across the bed. This just wasn't happening. I watched him pull down his shorts. And he did it slowly, too. I got to see the top of his penis and the hairy mound of his crotch. Then his testicles came to view, lurking in the shadows behind his penis. I have never seen a naked man before but his balls seemed huge----they were the size of oranges! I gasped with terror as he continued to pull the shorts down his legs. 

How long was that damn penis of his, I though and bit my lips. It was only when he pulled the shorts down past his knees that his whole glory popped into view. Now I have no idea how long a penis ought to be but I was sure that Don's was bigger than I ever thought a penis could be. It was impossible to be so huge! It must have been at least twelve inches long and at least three inches in diameter around the base. The pink, oval-shaped head was about four inches long, thick and swollen. The whole twelve-inch shaft was thickly veined and full of lumps and bumps. I clasped a hand to my mouth and almost fell off the stool. "Oh my God!"

Don grinned as he kicked his shorts aside. "Yeah, I've busted many a virgin pussy with this thing. Now it's your turn!" My face turned as white as a bed sheet. "Busted? Please, Don. You'll kill me with that thing. Please!" Don shook his head. "It's a figure of speech, pet. You know----take a girl's virginity. You'll walk out of here alive. Well, stumble is more like it. It's sort of awkward to walk straight after you've had this monster inside of you.' I jumped off the chair and made a dash for the door. But Don's hands were on me in a flash. He sank his hands into my short, blond curls, spun me around and hurled me towards the bed. I fell against the bed, my body stinging from the pain. My head was on fire and I was sure that he had some of my hair in his hands! 

"Get on it, you little vixen!" 

"No! No! No! No!" I screamed and tried to get to my feet. Don was right there and he yanked me to my feet----by my hair! I screamed again and tried to kick him but it was a fruitless attempt. He lifted me off my feet and simply threw me on the bed. He was on top of me in a flash and he pinned my body down. I cried out, spat and clawed but he was much too strong. He rolled me over so that I was lying on my side, reached over my head and proceeded to strap my wrists to the headboard with the handcuffs he had used earlier. Then he got of me, tore my left leg up and wrapped the end of the rope around my ankle, tying it fast. He then got off the bed, picked up the end of the rope and tied it to the brass headboard. He then started to reel in the slack rope until my left leg was high up in the air. I shrieked with terror and my free leg plopped up and down. I could hardly move! 

Don fastened the rope such so that my leg remained high up. Then he got on the bed next to me and slipped up behind me. His huge penis poked my lifted thigh and I cringed with fear. He drew me close towards him, slipped one hand under my body and cupped my right breast. Then he grabbed his huge cock in his free hand and guided it slowly towards my swollen pussy. I cried out as I felt the massive head push against my lips. "Here we go, Sis," Don groaned. "I'm gonna crack that tight virgin cunt of yours wide open!" I cringed with fear. "No, Don! Please . . ." 

"Sssh! You're gonna like it!" 

"Please, Don," I begged him. 'I'm not on the pill! This is the time of month for me, damn it! Do you know what that means?" 

Don let loose a load, roaring laugh. "You're fertile? Excellent! I'm gonna give you something to remember me by. My huge balls have so much jism that I never miss. You won't be the first bitch to bear my child!"

"No, Don! Please!" He pushed a little, lifting his hips and the massive head slowly slipped into my pussy. I thought that he was going to split me open! Only an inch or so of his bulbous head was in me but it was enough to make me cry out with pain. He pushed a little harder and I thought that I was going to faint. My poor pussy lips were being stretched to the limit as his huge head wormed its way deeper into me. I tore at the handcuffs and shrieked in agony. "Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!" Don wrapped his free had around my lifted thigh and gave a strong, forceful push. The whole four-inch head slipped into me. My pussy lips slapped shut around it with a loud sucking sound. The pain was unbearable. My head was swimming and I felt as if I was drowning. 

Then Don started rocking his hips back and forth, slowly slamming the massive head in and out of me. I could feel how my pussy sphincter was being stretched wider and wider. "Oh yeah, baby! It's so nice and tight!" Don groaned as he started to heave his huge penis deeper into me with every push. I tore at the cuffs and screamed. Suddenly he couldn't push any further----he had reached that virgin barrier. I started to sob between my cries and begged him to stop. But Don was to far gone to think of stopping now. I could sense from his tense body that he was going to put it in all the way, all twelve inches of it. 

He suddenly clutched me tightly and heaved his buttocks forward. I emitted a shrill shriek as he burst through my hymen with one, brutal push. I could feel something wet slosh past his massive shaft and knew that it was blood. He gave me a few, slow thrusts----then pulled out. I breathed a sigh of relief as my pussy lips slowly closed. The pain I had experienced from his large penis and the pain from my ruptured skin was still dancing in my head and I though that if he continued that I would surely lose conscious. But my evil brother wasn't finished with me yet----far from it. 

I heard him chuckle and before I knew it he had thrust that big beast inside me again. He slipped in about five inches of it with one push and surprisingly it had gone in without a hitch. I let loose a fearful scream as that big thick split me apart. He started to ride me then, pushing not more than half of his long penis in and out of me with soft, gentle strokes. It was still painful, but not as much as before. In fact I started to like the feel of his thick penis rubbing the soft insides of my vagina. It was definitely something I've never experienced before. It was pain, but a pain that I was willing to endure! I started to pant and groan, suddenly overcome by a wonderful sensation. Don started to push harder and harder which sent tingles down my spine. I arched my back and groaned. I was torn between various emotions. The swine was raping me and I wanted him to stop yet it felt so damn good that I wished he would never stop. It was so confusing. I started to cry with the shame of it all. And then suddenly he was ramming it in and out with hard, powerful thrusts. The pressure against my vagina as unbelievable and I could not help but to cry out with uncontrollable pleasure. I came then for the fourth time that night and I think it was the most violent one. I trashed about the bed, gasping and groaning while Don held me tightly in his big arms. 

Soon the wave of pleasure subsided. Don's huge penis was now starting to irritate me for he still had half of it in me. His constant little jabs were driving me insane. And then he really started to push forward. I threw back my head and cried out with shock as another inch was thrust deeper into me. And he was taking his time, too. He would draw back about an inch or so of his huge cock only to thrust it back, shoving it in deeper than it had been before. He rode me like this while I screamed my throat dry. Inch by inch, deeper and deeper. My pussy was on fire. The pain was excruciating but I couldn't help feeling terribly turned-on at the same time. 

My whole pussy was being stretched beyond any imaginary limit. The deep end of my virgin pussy was being forcibly stretched as the monstrous head wormed it way deeper into me, deeper than I thought any man could venture. At the same time my swollen labia were being stretched even wider as the thicker base of Don's penis inched past it. I trashed about the bed, whipped my hips up and down and moaned. And Don liked it! He started to worm his immense cock in and out faster and faster, ripping my pussy wide open. Then with a grunt he came then and I could feel hot liquid gushing deep inside of me. "Yeah, baby. Yeah!" Don moaned like some wounded animal, a deep growling sound that came from deep within. He pulled out his penis and gallons of cum and blood squirted out of me to stain the bed sheets. I sighed with relief, thinking that the ordeal was over. How wrong I was!

He started again. I couldn't believe that he was still rock hard! He slipped it in again, real slow this time. He did it so slow, so very slow, allowing my swollen pussy to get accustomed to the massive intruder. He didn't ride me at all----none of that agonizing thrusting in and out. He just kept inching that huge monster deeper into me! Deeper than he had gone before! The pain was out of this world and I couldn't help but shriek with every push. Yet the most wondrous sensations were ripping through every nerve ending at the same time. 

Eight inches, nine inches, ten inches of his massive penis ground its way deeper and deeper into me so that I thought that I would burst apart at the seams. And then the massive head nudged my cervix and a titillating sensation exploded throughout my body. I gasped and gasped as a fifth, even more powerful orgasm ripped through my body. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think or see. All I wanted to do was scream. And scream I did as my mind exploded and loads of pussy juices swept down my pussy. It acted as a lubricator, allowing Don to push even further. I cried out with agonizing pain as he stretched my cervix, flipping it back. And with one final heave he was in all the way, all twelve inches of it, the massive and bulbous head buried deep in my womb. He left it buried in there and clutched me tightly against him. His right hand started to squeeze my breast and he bent down and sank his teeth into my neck. That set me into orbit. My whole body shuddered as another orgasm, the most violent one yet made me trash around and grind my hips against him. "Oh my God! Oh my God! Yes! Yes! O-o-o-o-o-o-ooooooooooooooooooo!"

Don suddenly reached up and unfastened my leg. He pulled his massive penis slowly out of me and rolled me over onto my knees. He lifted me up off the bed by my tummy and spread my thighs wide. I was panting and gasping and I stared back over my shoulder as he positioned the bulbous head against my pussy again. And then he was in with one push. I thought I was going to die right then and now. The pain was out of this world. My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as his huge balls slammed against me. He was in to the hilt! With one massive push and he had buried his entire length deep inside me, ripping through my tight cervix again so that his head lodged itself inside my womb. I threw my head back and screamed like I've never screamed before. But Don didn't seem to care. He was heaving himself in and out like a madman while he simultaneously grunted: "Take it, you skinny bitch! Take it!" 

In and out he slammed his huge monster. He would pull out until only the head was lodged inside me and then lunge forward. All the way in. His huge head would slam through me like a piston, the huge swollen head spreading my cervix wider and wider. Relentlessly he pumped himself in and out of me, again and again. I thought that he was going to rip me apart. My whole body ached. His huge balls slammed against me with every push and it drove me crazy! His cock was starting to swell, too, stretching my sore vagina even wider than before. I suddenly couldn't help the burning sensation that was burning through me like a forest fire. It was a new feeling, one that was impossible to describe. I probably had several orgasms right there, one after the other, one more violent than the other. I was in a daze----I wish it could go on forever. Every nerve ending was tingling as if it had received an electrical charge. I was beyond feeling, beyond caring, beyond anything at all. A total wave of ecstasy swept through my body. I stopped fighting and just let it happen. Don kept thrusting in and out with long, purposeful thrusts, slipping it almost all the way out only to ram it in to the hilt again. It was a sloppy affair----tons of pussy juices were being forced out of me every time Don drew his dick back. My knees were squatting in a pool of cum----the sheets were soaked. I didn't care. I wished that Don would never stop----never! 

And then suddenly his cock swelled to immense proportions. I shrieked as I felt it tear through my raw pussy. And then Don gave a loud roar and buried his huge thing deep inside me. His body tensed and then I felt his hot cum shoot deep into my womb. Plop! Plop! Plop! Loads of the stuff kept shooting out of him. He had an endless supply----it just wouldn't stop. The sensation of his hot cum slamming against the delicate walls of my virgin womb just swept me off my feet. I experienced my last and final orgasm as he unloaded the last of his sperm deep inside me. I had died and gone to heaven. The sensation just wouldn't stop. Even after Don drew out his partially limp penis from my swollen pussy I was still in the throes of a terrific orgasm. It rocked my entire body.

"Thanks, Cindy," Don said quietly as he slipped on his shorts. "If I were you I wouldn't continue to hide that wonderful body under all that frumpish clothes. You're one hell of a good fuck and you should share your body with other men." He bent down and kissed the top of my quivering head. I was just lying there, panting like a wounded animal. I was too far gone, completely devoid of any sensations other than what I was experiencing right now.