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A Wicked Summer for Carnal Girls Ch. 01

By: HuckPilgrim





A Wicked Summer for Carnal Girls Ch. 01



He used his thumb to stroke her cheek.

His eyes were on her breasts, her hips. What he was describing was outrageous. Dangerous and frightening. But the idea of having sex with him for her freedom made her wet. 

Nuzzling his hand, she lowered her head. Fingered the buttons on his uniform.

Could she really fuck him?  

Flirting was one thing, fucking was something else. She had allowed Joe Murphy to play with her in his car, but she hadn't really considered that an infidelity. To Gloria, that night was more like a happy accident. She hadn't even realized Joe was interested in her, until her body was already thrumming with sexual need. But if she were to fuck Officer Flynn tonight, it would be a deliberate betrayal. 

Premeditated sex.

The sort of thing only a tramp would do. 

"Where's your partner?" Gloria asked in a husky whisper. She was thirsty and her voice cracked. She swallowed and licked her lips.

"Foot patrol," Officer Flynn said, his voice firm. "He walks the whole park. It takes a while." 

He was telling her it would be their little secret. She grinned at him, but then felt a sudden pang of guilt and averted her eyes.

"What does a girl have to do?" Gloria asked. 

She knew she was asking what she would have to do, but she took comfort in asking the question in third person. It was a bit of self-delusion. She could pretend the answer he gave would happen to some other girl, even though she knew it would be for her. 

He snorted softly. 

"A girl, " he whispered, "just has to bend over this table." Officer Flynn rapped twice on the wood with his knuckles. 

"I'll do the rest." 

His hands went to her hips, started to explore her body. 

She could feel her pussy creaming as he ran his knuckles over her chest. He lifted the hem of her dress and rubbed her bare bottom. Gloria squirmed and pushed her dress back down. 

"You'll let me go?" she asked. 

She pressed her body against his, reaching up to put her arms around his neck. She could feel his hard cock against her tummy. "You'll let me go?" she repeated. 

He grinned and cupped her ass in his hands. Gloria moaned softly. 

Officer Flynn settled himself on the edge of the picnic table and pulled Gloria toward him. She straddled his leg, pressing her crotch into his thigh. Her dress rode up to an indecent height and she allowed it.

Opening her mouth, Gloria arched her neck towards his face. 

She wanted to sample his warm breath, lick his tongue. His teeth. But he wouldn't tilt his head down to meet her lips. Instead he slipped his finger into her open mouth, and--much to his amusement--she suckled him.

She started working her groin on his thigh, like a puppy in heat. Again she craned for his mouth, and again he dodged her. 

And then she knew. 

He'd watched Donnell come on her face and in her mouth. He was willing to feel her up and take a turn on her pussy. He would probably even stick his cock in her mouth or up her ass. But kissing? Kissing was out. 

Who kisses a whore? 

She stopped rolling her bottom. Her pussy throbbed with an urgent need. He was a nice guy and she was a whore. She would be his pump tonight, nothing more. 

She rested her head on his chest and listened to the heavy thumping of his heart. Or was that her own? She could feel his fingertips lightly tracing the damp crack between her legs. Without moving her head, she sighed. 

She squeezed her eyes shut as tightly a she could. Officer Flynn took her shoulders in his strong hands and stood her up. He stood himself, then stepped away from the edge of the table. 

He looked at her. Tilted his head. 

Waited.

She grasped both edges of the table, blew the air from her lungs. Her thoughts went briefly to Donnell, but she pushed him from her mind. Her pulse raced. The butterflies in her stomach were so strong she thought she might be physically sick. 

And then Gloria bent over, laying her cheek on the table. 

She was a terrible person. She knew it.

She heard his utility belt jangle as he slipped it from his hips. It made a great clattering noise as he lay it in a heap on the table. He stood behind her.

"Wait," she said feebly. 

She felt so ashamed. This time it was an honest to God feeling of remorse, and not the feeling that made her pussy wet.

"This is terrible," she said, her voice rising as she spoke. 

"It's cheap, it's tawdry." Mustering all her remaining willpower, she craned her neck and looked him right in the eye. 

"It's just wrong, " she said.

He smiled his same goofy boy smile.

"Of course it is," he said, unzipping his fly. "We're trading sex for freedom. It's wrong for me to ask. It's wrong for you to comply. But--" Officer Flynn quickly added, placing his hand on her hip. He stroked her thigh and she craned her neck to hear what he would say next.

"If you absolutely have to have it," he said. Here he lowered his voice to a sexy rumble and slipped his hands between her legs. 

His touch was golden fire, and Gloria moaned. She was absolutely soaked. 

"You can grant yourself a little amnesty." 

Her knees felt weak and she turned her head back to the front. She felt the hem of her dress flip onto her back. And for the second time that night, Gloria felt the cool night air on her ass. Tightening her grip on the edges of the table, she braced herself. 

He rubbed the thick head of his cock between her legs. 

And then he slipped inside her, causing her to gasp. With both his hands on her hips, he started to stroke her pussy. He had a long cock and soon Gloria began rolling her hips and moaning. 

He bent to her ear and whispered: "Is Donnell's cock as big as mine?" 

When he spoke Donnell's name, Gloria felt a spike of guilt. The shame combined with the big cock plowing her wet pussy made her whimper. He kept asking her to compare him with Donnell. She had obviously stumbled into some crazy competition between the two of them. Probably something that had been going on since high school. That meant that Officer Flynn was fucking her only because she was Donnell's girl. She felt more shame wash over her, but she refused to hang her head. Refused to let the shame own her. Each stroke of this young cop's cock stoked the most incredible feelings in her pussy.

Gloria heard the crash of another utility belt on the table. His partner was back!

"Officer Flynn!" she cried, her words husky from sex. 

"Officer Flynn!"

Officer Jones stood no more than three feet away from her. He fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. Gloria lay her chest flat on the table and used her hands to lower her dress over her bottom, as if the thin fabric could somehow protect her modesty. 

"Please, " she gasped, craning her head around to the police officer filling her pussy. 

Officer Flynn stopped his strokes but kept his cock buried deep inside her. He leaned over her and she could feel his weight on her back. 

"Officer Jones doesn't care," the young cop said. He rotated his hips and Gloria felt his fat cock moving inside her. Looking to his partner, he asked: "Do you care, Officer Jones?" 

"Officer Jones does not care," the older cop said. "Not one bit." 

He snorted. He wasn't even looking at Gloria. He propped his foot on the bench, rested his elbow on his knee, and took a toke from his cigarette. He blew smoke onto the glowing end of the cigarette.

"Come on," he said. "Hurry up."

Officer Flynn chuckled. "Easy," he cooed. "Easy."

He remained bent over Gloria, his cock deep inside her. 

Gloria worked her hands under her body. As soon as she got herself up, his hands cupped her breasts. "Officer Flynn, please, " she whispered. "Please." 

She didn't exactly want him to stop fucking her. 

She wasn't sure what she wanted. It was certainly humiliating to feel his cock grinding between her legs as his partner stood nearby. This, the same man who had practically called her a slut to her face. Now he'd caught her red-handed, behaving in exactly the manner he'd said she would. And the worst part? She was enjoying it. Her pussy had never felt this wet, this hungry, this eager. She'd never felt so alive. Maybe he was right. Maybe all the old people were right. Her teachers, her counselors. Maybe everyone already knew. Even her pastor. She was a slut. 

Gloria hung her head.

Officer Flynn needled his partner for not walking his entire beat. Officer Jones bragged of his own park conquests. Gloria understood she wasn't the first detainee treated this way, but she got the sense that this might have been the first time Officer Flynn had taken a girl in this manner. If it were his first time, he was certainly good at it. As she squirmed, he kept reeling her in with his big hands, slowly grinding his hips against her, all the while keeping up his end of the conversation with Officer Jones. Gloria felt as alone as she had at the start of the evening, handcuffed on the bench--only this time she felt all alone with Officer Flynn's big cock between her legs, driving her mad.

Gloria recalled the hesitance in his voice when he'd propositioned her. How needy he sounded when he'd asked if she recognized his name. She knew she should be angry with him, but somehow she wasn't. He was just a needy boy. He needed her pussy. He needed someone to prop up his flagging ego. He needed to outdo Donnell. 

Soon Gloria heard only the sound of crickets chirping and her own deep breathing. The men had stopped talking. Officer Flynn began giving her long deep strokes. Lowering her head, Gloria groaned with satisfaction. 

As she gave herself over to the feelings, she sheepishly noted this was the second time in one night Officer Jones had witnessed her getting fucked. She wondered how he'd known her mother, who had married soon after high school. Maybe he had even dated her at Carnal High, before she had even met her father. 

Officer Flynn started to rock his hips with purpose, and Gloria had to grab the edges of the table to steady herself. Officer Jones dropped his cigarette into the dirt and crushed it with his boot.

He watched her for a minute. Smiled at her and she noticed a dimple. 

He took a step toward his belt on the table.

Lowering her eyes to his groin, Gloria wondered if he was hard. Wondered if he enjoyed this display. Now that she was over the shock of having him here, she found she enjoyed him watching her be ravished. She was doing things tonight she'd only imagined in her wildest dreams. More than the sex, she was standing on her own. She'd rescued herself, betraying her jerk of a boyfriend. She'd earned her freedom from a nice guy, who wanted to fuck her for only a single night, because she was a whore. It boggled the mind. Gloria wondered if there were any slutty little thing remaining that she could possibly still do? 

Officer Jones unzipped his fly. 

Gloria gasped. What felt like an electric shock of realization raced down her chest. Both of them?  She twisted her body to look back at Officer Flynn, who slowed his strokes. 

He petted her hair. Caressed her face. She felt his calloused hand on her cheek. He stopped moving his hips. He wore the most soulful expression on his face. "He's my partner," he whispered softly, like a lover. "My partner. "

She looked at Officer Jones. He squeezed his fat cock. 

He was hard! He was also thick, red and wet. 

"Can I put my cock in your mouth, Honey?" he asked. He had a huge bush of tightly wound pubic hair surrounding his cock. She wondered if he was one of those men whose entire body was covered with coarse hair, like some sort of wild ape. 

Officer Flynn resumed his strokes and no one said anything. 

Gloria kept her head down. Officer Jones had humiliated her, insulted her mother. His confidence that she would set all that aside and take him in her mouth infuriated her. Yet there he stood, not more than a foot from her head, patiently holding his cock in his hand. Waiting for her to suck his dick. 

Wet sloppy noises came from her bottom. 

Raising her head, Gloria eyed Officer Jones warily. She knew this much: the more Officer Flynn stoked her pussy, the closer she came to taking Officer Jones in her mouth. She allowed herself a tiny moan, a whimper. On the head of his penis big drops of cum glistened in the moonlight. When Gloria found herself wondering how those big drops might taste, she knew it was only a matter of time. Worse, she knew that the men knew it too. They were watching her. 

Waiting. 

She was the sole focus of their attention. 

Gloria lingered over her decision, drawing her choice out, anticipating the feel of one warm cock in her mouth, another driving away between her legs. She let this part play itself out slowly, whether she was savoring the feeling of being at the mercy of her own needs, or hoping to be rescued, she couldn't really say for sure. 

"Swallow your pride," Officer Jones said softly. "It's okay."

"Lots of girls do it," he whispered.





A Wicked Summer for Carnal Girls Ch. 01



She could do better.

Officer Flynn's swollen cock juts from his pants. 

A deal is a deal. 

Gloria kneels and the cool grass feels good on her legs. 

She doesn't feel trashy. If anything, she feels trusty. Reliable. Reaching for his shaft, she works him first with her hands, then with her mouth. She is making good on her promise. Officer Flynn places his hands on his hips and watches. She toils on his cock, without the benefit of her own needs driving her on. He combs his fingers into her hair, pets her head. Soon sloppy sounds come from her mouth. His body stiffens. Casting her eyes up, she watches his face as the first splash of cum hits the back of her mouth. She accepts his warm cream, swallowing and swallowing and swallowing. 

He drains himself into her tummy.

When he finishes, Gloria lets his cock slip from her mouth with a small pop. Sitting back on her haunches, she wipes her lips with the back of her hand. She feels dirty because she is dirty: sweaty and sticky, her hair knotted with semen, the taste of Officer Flynn still strong in her mouth. Her soiled dress sticks to her ass. She wears nothing under her dress and fully intends to walk home that way, enjoying the feel of the cool night air on her raw sex. 

She's a slut and she knows it. Her mom and dad know it. Her counselors at school know it. Her teachers, her pastor. Even these cops. 

Everyone knows it. 

It's okay. For right now, she is who she is. She can accept it.

She watches Officer Flynn assemble his uniform: he zips his fly, buttons his pants, straps on his utility belt. Quick and efficient. She stands and searches in her purse for a cigarette. 

"Walk you home?" Officer Flynn says. 

His voice is soft.

"Nah," she says. Her lighter flares. Tossing the lighter into her purse, she leans her backside against the table. Crosses her arms.

Officer Flynn steps to her and tips her chin up with his finger. He looks into her eyes, then tilts his head a few degrees to one side. And then his mouth is on hers. His hands are on her face, cupping her cheeks. He nibbles her lips. His tongue explores her mouth. 

He licks her teeth. 

Gloria breaks the kiss. She chuckles, shakes her head. 

Who kisses a whore? 

And then she kisses him again. 

She kisses him hard. 

Suddenly they two are illuminated in a bright, wonderful, dazzling light. For the second time that night, the park turns from night into day.

Without looking to the cruiser, Officer Flynn raises his middle finger. 

Gloria grins.

"Amnesty," Officer Flynn whispers. 

He touches her lips with just the tips of his fingers. 

He backs away from her for a few steps, his eyes locked on hers. And then he turns and trots across the park toward his partner. 

Gloria takes a long drag from her cigarette. She blows the smoke out.

"Amnesty," she whispers to herself. "Amnesty."



A Wicked Summer for Carnal Girls Ch. 02







A Wicked Summer for Carnal Girls Ch. 03



American Girl

Chapter 1

Rafia Saad rang the doorbell and waited for someone to answer. Looking down the quiet residential street, she felt nervous, awkward. If the pink and violet skies offered a portent of the night to come, Rafia ignored it, hoping instead only for a little relief from the sticky summer heat. She smoothed the light cotton fabric of her new party dress: a festive lime print, the hem of which fell just above her knees. Despite its modest cut, Rafia's father—a wiry man, with a shiny brown head—had clucked his tongue disapprovingly as she left the house. Rafia didn't care. This party, she knew, was her big debut with the other girls from Roosevelt. She wanted to look her best. Perfect.

Rafia rang the bell again. 

She could hear faint music coming from inside the house. Looking at her reflection in the glass of the door, she flicked a tangle of long dark hair from her shoulder, licked her dry lips. Under her dress Rafia wore a sheer black panty, the single piece of racy clothing she owned. It was her one prized possession, a secret indulgence she hid from her father. She imagined later tonight lifting the hem of her dress ever so slightly so that her date might get a glimpse of what she wore underneath.

The door suddenly burst open and loud house music spilled out onto the front porch along with Veronica Smith, one of the most popular girls at Roosevelt. Veronica had invited Rafia to the party, even promising to set her up with one of the local boys from the varsity football team. For a new girl in town, Rafia considered herself very fortunate. 

"Rafia!" Veronica said, her arms outstretched, a large plastic cup in one hand. 

She kissed Rafia delicately on the neck. Leaning back and giving Rafia an appraising look, Veronica pursed her lips and smiled. She had an intensity about her that both intimidated and intrigued Rafia. 

"You look fabulous," Veronica said. "The color of that dress looks amazing with your skin," 

She held the storm door open with her foot, motioned with her head for Rafia to follow. "Come in, come in," Veronica said. Rafia grinned and made her way into the house. 

Part of what intimidated Rafia about Veronica was her incredible beauty: green eyes, creamy skin, high cheekbones. Her dark hair was straight and shiny, unlike Rafia's own hair which was wild and tangled and always needed some sort of attention. And part of it was Veronica's abundance of confidence. Her father was wealthy and this probably accounted for much of her self-assurance. She was also Roosevelt's homecoming queen this year and—as Veronica herself liked to point out—had been on the varsity cheerleading squad since she was a freshman. Not only did she always get what she wanted, she always seemed to get the best of everything. Veronica was, Rafia thought, a classic American girl—sexy, popular and assertive. 

"Rafia's here!" Veronica announced to the party. 

As she marched Rafia into the kitchen, girls smiled and nodded towards Rafia. The boys were off clustered in small groups of their own. Rafia knew most of their faces, if not all of their names. 

"Do you want a drink?" Veronica asked. 

Not waiting for an answer, Veronica took an oversize red plastic cup and filled it with punch. "Always make your own drinks," Veronica said in a low, conspiratorial voice. Rafia nodded, reaching for the cup. 

She sipped the drink, a fruity concoction spiked with hard liquor. Realizing at once the punch was much too powerful for her, Rafia hid her displeasure. Better to nurse the drink, than risk offending her host.

"I'm going to find Logan," Veronica said. "You'll like him. He's nice—and so excited to meet you!" 

Logan Reese was the football player Veronica had promised to introduce Rafia to. An attractive boy, he had a barrel chest and a large head, which rested on his thick shoulders like an upturned pail. Rafia had already decided that—if she had the opportunity—she would sleep with him later tonight. That is, if he'd have her. If he'd want to have sex with her, a freshman girl new to Roosevelt. She imagined he would, and her body tingled with willful anticipation. To Rafia, it seemed as if all the American boys were eager to sleep with most any girl. Likewise, all the girls seemed pretty obliging themselves.

Veronica appeared in the crowded kitchen, this time towing Logan behind her along with her own boyfriend, Chet Morris. 

"Rafia," Chet said. Taking Rafia's hand in both his own, Chet grinned a winning smile.

He was the first-string quarterback for Roosevelt's championship football team, the Yellow Devils, and he seemed the perfect match for Veronica: strong-jawed, well-muscled, with an outgoing, exuberant personality. He made small talk about the school's chances on the gridiron this season, refreshed his drink, then stood there sipping. Logan, on the other hand, didn't seem to have much to say. Rafia chatted with the three of them and gingerly sipped her own drink until finally, Logan, at Veronica's urging, took Rafia into the living room to dance. 

Gesturing for Rafia to lead the way, Logan followed her close behind. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders, guiding her to the middle of a room where other couples were dancing. A curious boy, Logan always seemed to duck his head shyly before meeting Rafia's eyes with his own.

Rafia and Logan danced with half a dozen other boys and girls. Logan seemed to have even less to say in the living room. Rafia wondered if he found her attractive. Wondered if they'd find their way into one another's arms later tonight. But he seemed attentive enough and the volume of the music prevented talk, so Rafia resolved to be grateful for whatever came her way tonight. She held onto her drink and nodded to the couples Logan introduced her to.

Logan wore his blonde hair in a clipped crew cut. There was color in his cheeks, perhaps from the heat of all the bodies in the room, and his forehead grew moist from the exertion of dancing. Rafia longed to run her fingers over the short stubble on his head. 

When Logan finally leaned to her ear and suggested they go upstairs, she smiled and took his hand, eagerly nodding her assent. 

Rafia was no shrinking virgin herself. She loved to be petted, especially between her legs. When the time came, she loved to straddle a boy's thigh, grinding her hips and crotch against him until she came. She knew well how to use her mouth and hands to satisfy a date. She'd managed to obtain a diaphragm and had already had intercourse one time, though it had been a big disappointment. Quick and over before she knew it. She longed for a satisfying sexual experience, a partner with fortitude who wouldn't fade.

As she ascended the stairs behind Logan, Rafia enjoyed the other girls' glittering eyes and whispers to one another. Likewise, one or two of the boy's slyly popped their chins at Logan or offered a shaking fist of encouragement. 

Rafia enjoyed the attention. She enjoyed the idea that everyone knew she would soon be making out with this popular boy. For Rafia understood what her father did not: This was all part of being an American girl. You had to go upstairs with the boys. Had to be sexy and obliging. A girl had to be willing to give a little.

In the upstairs room, Logan took Rafia's drink from her hand and set it aside.

Holding her tightly, he pressed his tongue into her mouth, his hard cock against her hip. Rafia sighed as she felt his body against her own. He was big between his legs. She grinned up at him, eager to be with someone so self-assured, feeling her own blood quickly rising. 

The easy grin Logan had worn most of the night disappeared, replaced now by a look of grim determination. "Come on baby," he whispered, his hand sliding down over her hips, then doubling back, slipping up the front of her dress, and deftly cupping her sex. 

Rafia gasped. 

She hadn't expected Logan to touch her there so soon. She could feel the moist fabric of her panty rubbing against her sex. Her crotch was undeniably wet. She felt a little embarrassed that Logan now held proof in his hand of her attraction to him, her intention for the night. 

"Hum," he softly leered. "You ready baby?" 

"Easy, easy," Rafia said. 

She chuckled and pushed his hand from between her legs. He nibbled on her neck and mumbled, "You're going to like this baby."

Rafia wondered if Logan had somehow forgotten her name. She tried to remember if he had called her by name even once tonight. He hadn't said much, so she couldn't be quite certain. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He massaged her breasts, and Rafia closed her eyes and purred. She enjoyed being touched, the electric pleasure of physical attention from a boy. He nibbled her earlobe, running his hand down her back. Suddenly Logan took fistfuls of her bottom in his meaty hands and groaned deep in his throat like an animal.

Rafia felt her dress riding high on her hips and groaned herself. His rugged abandon triggered something inside her, an unmistakable desire to be with someone exactly like him, someone who wasn't afraid of sex and who knew how to perform. But his viselike grip pained her. As she tried to squirm out of his grasp, she succeeded only in thrusting her own groin against his already hard cock. Rafia felt her dress rising over her hips, up her back.

She wanted to tell Logan to slow down. Wanted to say that she liked him, that he could simply have her. That he didn't need to be so rough. But it was no good. She couldn't get the words out fast enough, and he wasn't listening anyhow. Her dress came over her head as she backed away from him, a delicate gasp falling from her lips.

Panting from exertion, Rafia found herself standing in the middle of the room in only her panties and bra. The blood thumped in her ears. 

For a beat, no one said anything. 

Then Logan grinned and ducked his head—that same shy boy grin from earlier in the night—and Rafia felt a surge of relief. She laughed. She shook her head. The last thing she wanted to do, anyway, was to race downstairs wearing only her underwear. 

Recovering quickly, she kicked off one of her shoes, then the other.

Logan let her dress fall to the floor and then fell upon her again, kissing her mouth and neck and touching her breasts. To prevent him from ripping her bra, she quickly unfastened it and let her small breasts free. 

He took one of her nipples between his fingers, twirling it like a pebble. He backed her onto a nearby couch, laid her down, and then knelt between her legs. As he clumsily tugged her underwear from her hips, Rafia heard the fabric give. She sighed with great disappointment. He'd ruined her favorite panties! 

He unfastened his pants and lowered his fly. Rafia saw the head of his thick penis in his hand, and then he was on her. His weight pinned her to the couch, his hand fumbling between their bodies. Rafia smelled whiskey from the punch and a minty aftershave lotion. She could feel the head of his cock press against her sex and then he filled her. He was inside her. She gasped aloud, as much from the shock of being penetrated as from accepting his full weight onto her slim frame. 

He extricated his hand and rose up onto his elbows, and she found she could move just a bit. Hard thrusts followed. Rafia peered between their bodies and saw his wet cock disappearing between her legs. His hands cupped her shoulders, his hot breath warmed her neck. 

"Fuck, baby, fuck," he whispered. 

Rafia wrapped her long legs around his body, accepting him. Riding him. She ran her hands along his torso, the cotton fabric of his T-shirt. He had kept most of his clothes on, while she lay nude underneath him. Their unequal dress made her feel vulnerable. Wanting the comfort of his bare skin, she sent her hands as far down his backside as she could, grasping for his bottom. He rode her this way for the next few minutes. 

Finally he raised himself up, ground his cock inside her, and groaned loudly. The wide expanse of his chest loomed over Rafia.

"Take it baby," he whispered in a throaty voice. "Take it!"

He twisted his mouth with lust, and screwed his eyes shut. And then he collapsed. Sighed deeply. Rafia listened to his heavy breathing, felt the bulk of his sweaty head nuzzled beside her own. 

Then Logan snorted. He chuckled. 

He rose, made a shushing noise with his mouth and gently touched his fingertips to Rafia's lips. Snapping off a nearby lamp, he pitched the room into total darkness. 

Rafia felt grateful for the shadows. 

She wanted to collect herself. She felt aroused, but not sated. As she lay there, she was aware that he was moving about the room. She heard the door open, the sounds of the music and the people downstairs momentarily growing louder, then fading away as the door softly closed. 

She had done it. Not entirely as she had expected, but things never seemed to happen the way you thought they would.

Her skin felt wet. His sweat, her own. As she lay there, she became aware of his cum leaking out of her. She hoped he had gone to retrieve a towel even as she heard the door to the room open again. The sound of the party, then the soft muffled thud of the door into its jamb. His return. Feet padding around in the dark. His feet.

Rafia willed herself not to look at him, though it would have been impossible to see him in the dim light anyhow. She wanted to affect the role of the wounded date. Meant to tell him about how rough he had been with her. Had he really ripped her sexy black panties? She felt annoyed. She meant to make him say her name—Rafia. Wouldn't accept another "Baby" from him for the rest of the night. American boys respected assertiveness. 

But she didn't want to be shrill. Not a bitch. 

She raised her arms over her head and nuzzled her bottom into the couch. Tone was important. She felt the cool air on her damp underarms, enjoyed the stretch of her torso. Draped one of her slender legs over the back of the couch.

He knelt nearby the couch, his hand on her tummy. Rafia kept her gaze averted. Let him do some work to get her attention. 

His hand moved to her breast, massaging her nipple. Cocking her arm over her eyes, Rafia enjoyed the feel of his fingertips on her body. He'd returned to make sure she'd get to come tonight. This thought pleased her. Sure enough, Rafia felt his hand on the inside of her thigh. She licked her lips, tried to remain absolutely still as he explored her. Perhaps he would use his tongue on her. When his light touch moved up her thigh to the hot spot between her legs, Rafia gave a soft moan. His thumb rubbed her clit. Gently rotating her hips, she wanted more of his touch. Could feel her own desire mounting. 

He withdrew his hand and Rafia heard him unfasten his fly, lower his pants. Plenty of boys had an appetite—here was one with a stamina to match! 

Rafia smiled as he raised her knees toward her chest. She opened herself wide, gave herself over to him. He mounted her, remaining upright. Though she had already surrendered the role of wounded date, Rafia kept her arm mostly across her eyes, the better to focus on her own hard breathing, the orgasm steadily mounting in her body.

She listened to the wet sounds coming from between her legs as he pumped his hips. His earlier deposit had left her wet, slippery. His cock popped out of her and he rubbed its fat head on her lips before sliding himself back inside. He pressed his hands on the backs of her thighs and pumped his hips with abandon. Rafia felt her own pressing needs rising. 

Then he leaned forward and put his warm mouth on her nipple. She groaned out loud. Reaching for him, Rafia got the shock of her life—a head full of soft curls, a slim torso. This wasn't Logan! 

She gasped. 

If the boy recognized it as a gasp of surprise, he didn't let on. Rafia's mind raced. Perhaps there were other rooms on this floor and he had been up here with his own date. Perhaps he left to go to the bathroom, got mixed up and ended up in the wrong room. He stopped suckling her breast. His head was only inches from her own, but Rafia couldn't make out who he was in the dim light. Rafia felt her stomach lurch, even as her body strummed with desire. Whoever this was, she had willingly opened her legs for him. Now he was inside of her. His hips jacking in and out. Fucking her. Filling her with his slick cock. 

What would Logan think? 

What to do? What to do? —Tap this boy on the shoulder, say, "Excuse me?" 

Lying still, Rafia listened to her own heavy breathing. The discovery had cost her some sexual momentum, but the further she got from the find—and the longer the boy pumped his cock between her legs—the less it seemed to matter. She was so very close to orgasm, her first during sex. A deliciously dirty idea took shape in her mind—Rafia decided to wait until after her own orgasm to reveal the mistake this boy had made. Of course, she would allow herself to be appropriately appalled in the aftermath, but only after she had come. As she gave herself over to this course of action, she let go, lost her inhibitions and began to roll her little bottom and moan. Whimper. Rafia rode that slippery fat cock between her legs. Suddenly the door burst open and loud house music filled the room with a rich, driving beat. 

The boy raised himself stiff-armed on the couch and shouted with great irritation at the door: "Not done yet!"

Rafia quickly glanced toward the door and—before it was hastily pulled shut—saw a small crowd of heads and shoulders standing outside. The boy on top of her continued to thrust himself between her legs. In the dim light, she could just make out his white teeth. He was grinning down at her. 

"Logan?" Rafia said. She had meant it as a question of the boy, but then she immediately turned her head and called the same name to the door. "Logan!" 

"He's downstairs," the boy said softly. "He can't hear you." 

The boy slowed his thrusts. Now he used a gentle grinding motion of his hips. "Logan doesn't mind," the boy said. He sighed tenderly and settled into a comfortable rhythm with his hips. Rafia considered this new information. 

Her mind raced. 

No one said anything for a bit. 

Then the boy silently began resuming his thrusts. Softly at first, then with growing intensity and purpose. Rafia listened to his breathy grunts, the sound the couch made as it received his efforts. She realized the crowd outside the door was a line. A line of boys. Boys waiting to come inside here. 

To come inside her.  

Then the boy's body stiffened. He groaned loudly. And for the second time that night, a boy ground his cock between her legs, filling her with warm semen. 

Rafia heard the door open and close and someone else was in the room. 

A light came on. Chet Morris stood looking at her, his hand on a small lamp at the far end of the couch. Rafia turned her head, looked away. She felt embarrassed that Chet should see her like this—on her back, without any clothes, having just finished sex with some boy who was not Logan. Her face warmed with shame. 

The boy atop her quickly rose, his wet dick still thick, bobbing. 

Rafia recognized him as Roy Talbot, from the senior class, who was also on the football team. He had large brown eyes and a swimmer's slender body. Earlier this evening, Logan had introduced Roy to her, along with Roy's date—Becky something or other—one of the cheerleaders.

Rafia tentatively glanced at Chet. He smiled warmly—without judgment—his confident movie star smile. Rafia's cheeks burned. She regretted her decision to allow Roy to keep fucking her—she should have told him to stop, to get off. She wanted to explain, but she didn't know where to begin. Everything had happened so quickly! 

Looking squarely at Roy, Chet removed his running jacket. He wore an expression that was difficult to read, and Rafia thought he might be preparing for a fight. His light nylon shirt wasn't tight, but somehow accentuated his muscular torso. Taller and heavier than Roy, Chet tossed his jacket over the back of the couch with a flourish. Rafia thought he looked like a prince, a crusading knight come to rescue her.




A Wicked Summer for Carnal Girls Ch. 03



"That was great," Roy said quietly to Rafia, pulling up his pants. 

He had an impish grin, curly brown hair, and full lips. Rafia hated to admit that she found him attractive. She refused to meet his gaze, turning to Chet instead. He stood with his hands on his hips. As she marveled at his body, he pulled the shirt from his pants and tugged it over his head, revealing a muscled abdomen and strong, hairless chest. 

Rafia's breath caught in her throat. 

Chet kicked off his sneakers, then lowered his sweat pants. He wasn't here to rescue her, he was here to fuck her. 

He was up next! 

Rafia's eyes were drawn to the thick patch of dark hair between his legs and his long, throbbing cock. She felt a heavy pulse of desire between her legs. As she raised her eyes, she found him grinning hungrily at her. 

Rafia scooted to the far end of the couch, pressing her thighs together. 

"Damn," Roy said with a grin. "Give a brother a minute to say goodnight." 

He tousled Rafia's hair, then brushed his fingertips across her cheek. Rafia raised her eyes to Roy in a silent plea, but it was already too late. He strode from the room. As the door swung shut behind him, he high-fived some of the boys in the hall outside.

Chet loomed over her, his meaty cock in his hand.

Rafia raised her knees, using her shins as a shield. She wondered how she'd allowed herself to get in such a position, even as some small part of her understood that Chet was exactly the type of boy she'd hoped to meet tonight. He definitely wasn't afraid of sex. He put his hands on each of her knees and easily pried her legs apart. 

A shuddery breath escaped her lips. 

Rafia draped her arm over her breasts, a last ditch effort to protect her modesty. She hated herself for admiring the little cleft in his chin, his clear blue eyes and rakish grin.

He took her by the waist and tugged her flat on her back. Rafia gave a startled little cry and grabbed for the cushions. His palms went right to her breasts, and her nipples sent urgent pulses of desire to the hot spot at her core. She tried to close her legs but only ended up clamping her thighs against his warm haunches. 

He lowered himself onto her, and Rafia whimpered.

His warm chest against her body comforted and calmed her. She didn't know what to do with her arms so she wrapped them around his bare back, aware of the incongruousness of this act. She nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck. "Please," she whispered breathlessly into his ear. "Oh, please," she begged. 

He slipped his hand between their sweaty bodies. She felt the head of his cock pressing against her sex. 

"Veronica?" Rafia suddenly thought to ask. 

Chet stopped his assault, but kept his hand between their bodies. 

"Veronica!" Rafia repeated. 

She had him. 

She put her palms flat on his chest and pushed. Looking him right in the eye, she said it again: "Veronica." Rafia's breathing was heavy and stilted, but her voice came out firm and strong this time. It wasn't question or pronouncement, but accusation. 

She licked her lips. 

He gazed hungrily at her sweaty chest, then met her eyes. 

He grinned. 

"Veronica's downstairs," he said. "She's waiting for me to finish up." 

And then Chet sank himself deep inside Rafia. Her classmates' semen had left her well lubricated, slippery beyond belief. He was big, filling her completely. 

Rafia groaned.

Chet rested for a moment, and Rafia felt grateful for the opportunity to accommodate to his size. He tilted his head, whispered in her ear: "None of the cheerleaders mind." 

And then he raised his hips and sank himself into her again. Rafia moaned again, this time with forbidden pleasure. It felt good to have a dick between her legs—a big dick. Her mind flashed to the whispers of the girls as she'd ascended the stairs. Their glittering eyes. 

All of them knew. 

And they were downstairs right now—chatting, drinking. 

Waiting—waiting for their boyfriends to finish, to return from the upstairs hallway, from the line outside the guest room door. 

Like any good party, they'd planned it—planned this. Just like they planned to have whiskey in the punch. Or house music on the stereo. Chet raised himself on his forearms, his cock buried deep inside her. Lifting Rafia's legs, he hooked them over his shoulders. "Veronica hates it rough," he said. 

"Rough?" Rafia said, her voice unsteady.

He was big all around, and he moved with real purpose. No sex had never felt so physical before. It didn't hurt as much as astonish her. Each of his plunges reverberated through her body, all the way up to her cheeks. Rafia listened to the wet slapping sounds his body made as he filled her with his cock.

Veronica had needed some little no-account girl, someone new to Roosevelt who didn't matter much. An amusement for her guests to enjoy. And why not? These were nice girls, American girls. And tonight they were using Rafia's pussy just as surely as any of the boys. The more Rafia thought about it, the more it turned her on. She would have more than panties to hide from her father now!

Chet stopped. 

Brushing her legs from his shoulders, he took her face in his hands and kissed her full on the mouth. She accepted his tongue, eagerly exploring his mouth with her own. Rafia was very close to the orgasm for which she so longed. And then she felt that all too familiar wash of semen, the hot rush of cum between her legs. 

It was the closest she would come to an orgasm for the rest of the night. 

Randal Perry was next, a wiry black senior, who silently entered the room and removed every stitch of clothing. With slender arms and knobby knees, he stood before Rafia for a moment, then climbed into position. Rafia opened her knees and suddenly his cock—without a single touch—lurched and twitched, ejaculating warm semen all over her tummy. 

She gasped as the hot cum splashed on her abdomen and inside her thighs. 

Randal's face fell like a popped balloon. He dropped his head, looked forlornly at his cock. He didn't bother to touch or stroke it. For a moment Rafia thought he might cry. Finally he raised himself from the couch and began the long task of putting all his clothes back on again. 

Rafia used her hands to wipe his cum from her body. Someone had left a cup of punch and she downed it, enjoying the warm burn in her chest. 

She waited for Randal to leave. For the next boy to take his place.

They were all upperclassmen. 

They came in from the hall one at a time, toting plastic cups of punch in their hands. Instead of trying to recall their names, Rafia found herself focusing on how they undressed. It was a small thing, but there was so much variety in how they each did it. Some of them didn't bother to take off their sneakers. They simply opened their fly and pulled out their cock, as if they were going for a pee in the woods. Still other boys yanked their shirts over their heads, and then pushed their jeans down to the middle of their thighs. One boy took off every stich of clothing except for his athletic socks. Rafia watched him stand there, stroking his cock, waiting to climb onto the couch, to climb onto her.

For the most part, no one spoke. What was there to say? 

They filled her with their cocks and the dregs from their cups. Rafia gave each boy a turn, and the night proceeded in a blur of sweat, grunts and semen. 

Lots of semen. 

 

Chapter 2

Rafia felt a cool cotton sheet against her breasts. 

She heard the sound of curtain hangers skipping across a rod. Bright sunlight cascaded into the room. Turning to the sound, her head pounded with a merciless pain that ended somewhere behind her eyes. 

She groaned and discovered her mouth was dry. 

Impossibly dry. 

And filled with a terrible taste. 

Gingerly laying her head back down, Rafia cast her eyes down. The sheet fell just above her nipples. Tugging it toward her neck, her feet popped out. Tucking her knees, she felt the crisp cotton sheet on her shins. She felt it on her hips and thighs. Even her tummy. 

Rafia was nude. 

Then she heard the deep, gravelly voice of a man: "You're up." Rafia instinctively drew herself in—she closed her legs, crossed her arms over her chest, and curled her back. She felt a dull soreness on the insides of her thighs, as if she'd been riding horses or waterskiing. For a moment she wondered why her body ached. And then all at once she knew. She didn't so much remember the previous night as feel a sudden pang of guilt so sharp and piercing it made her chest throb and took her breath away. 

"Morning," he said. 

Rafia swallowed, though she had precious little saliva in her mouth. He had a square chin, close cropped hair and rugged good looks. Greying at his temples, he wore a shiny burgundy robe and carried his shoulders squarely, with purpose. He could have been a diplomat, a retired general, or maybe just a cop. Rafia smelled the coffee before she noticed the two heavy ceramic mugs in his hands.

He sat down on the couch and Rafia had to scoot her hips to give him room. She winced at the unrelenting pain in her head, the soreness inside her thighs. The room seemed unfamiliar in the cheery morning light. 

"Here," he said, thrusting one of the mugs at her. It warmed her hands. 

"Head hurt?" he asked.

Not waiting for an answer, he produced a small silver flask from his robe. Pouring a generous helping into his coffee, he took a swig, pursed his lips and then breathed deeply from his nose. He smiled at her. 

Rafia held out her mug, and he shared what was in his flask.

The two drank quietly for a few minutes. 

Rafia found the coffee a balm. It wetted her mouth and warmed her chest, reducing the pain in her head to a manageable thump. She kept her mind blank. What she'd done last night was apparent, but she couldn't afford to think about it right now. Looking around the room, she tried to spot her clothes. Something about lying nude under a thin sheet and drinking with this stranger—a wealthy American—felt exciting and dangerous to her. Her nipples stiffened and she moved to ensure he wouldn't see this development.

"Who are you?" she finally asked. 

"Me?" he laughed. "This is my house. I came home early from a business trip last night and found the downstairs loaded with kids."

He sipped his coffee, adjusted his robe. 

"Threw the lot of them out," he said softly, absentmindedly.

He shook his head and said he'd suspected his niece was using the house for parties while he was out of town. Now he knew. He turned to look at Rafia. "I should have checked up here before I went to bed." 

Rafia lowered her eyes. 

"I put this sheet on you," he murmured. 

Rafia sucked in her breath, unable to mask her shock. He'd found her nude. He wore a little half smile on his face that was hard to read. She could feel her cheeks warming.

His hand went to her thigh. He wore a heavy gold signet ring on his finger. His nails were manicured, neat. He gave her a little reassuring squeeze, then removed his hand. 

Her leg tingled where his hand had been.

He inhaled. 

Tilting his head, he raised one eyebrow. "There is a pale, green dress downstairs. When I came in last night, it was hanging from the chandelier in the room where everyone was dancing." 

Rafia cast her eyes to the door, hiding the shame in her face.

"Is it yours?" 

Rafia said nothing. 

He laughed softly, just a series of soft, breathy exhales. 

"In my day," he said, "we had a name for this sort of thing. We'd have called someone like you a public bicycle." 

Rafia narrowed her brows, hiked her lip. She had no idea what he meant, but it didn't sound good. She turned to look at him, to see what expression was on his face. 

He was grinning into his mug, holding it with both his hands. He put the coffee on the floor and raised his eyes to hers. "Anyone who wants," he said, moving his head close to hers. "Can climb on." 

He put his hand on her hip and gave her a squeeze. 

"Give it a little pump." 

Rafia snorted, her face flushing with shame. She looked away. It was such an old fashioned thing to say. So outdated, so conservative. He was trying to humiliate her. He wanted to make her feel bad. She remembered her decision to let Roy keep fucking her. So much blood coursed into her face it made her cheeks hurt. 

"I . . . ," Rafia began. She stopped. 

Her voice sounded small and meek, even to her. 

His eyes twinkled. He'd left his hand on her hip and it felt heavy. Warm. She needed a pose, a place she could stand, but the only position available to her was for a place she wasn't entirely sure she could go. 

"I . . . liked it," she squeaked. 

The words seemed to come from outside her, from someone else, but she knew they'd come from her own mouth. She blew air from her lungs and let the confession fill the empty space between the two of them.

He raised both his brows, straightening his back and grinning broadly. 

Rafia enjoyed the look of shock on his face. The words had tumbled from her before she'd had time to consider them. But now that it was out there, it felt right, somehow, what she'd just told him. It felt right, and it felt wrong—both at the same time. She remembered how deliciously dirty it felt to allow Roy to keep fucking her. 

She smirked. "It was fun," she said, sipping her coffee. 

Rafia set the mug on the floor. The sheet fell, exposing her nipples, and she didn't bother to adjust it. Between her confession and his touch, Rafia felt something stirring in her belly, some deep thing, longing for release. She scooted herself further into the couch and felt the soreness inside her thighs, like an old friend come to visit. He moved his hand up her body and she allowed this, too. 

He took her nipple between his finger and thumb and massaged it. She closed her eyes, raised her arms over her head, stretching her torso. 

"She liked it," he cooed. "Liked giving all the boys a ride."

He worked first on one breast, and then the other. He wet his fingertips and rolled her nipples until they were stiff. Rafia lay there, basking in the feelings he was awakening in her. He soon stopped massaging her breasts and stood. She waited for whatever would come next. When nothing happened, she opened her eyes and found him on the other side of the room, sitting in an upholstered armchair. 

He beckoned to her. 

Rafia gathered the sheet around her and crossed the room. Her legs felt weak, her pussy moist. "I'm ready," she whispered huskily, when she stood by his side. She wanted an orgasm.

He smiled. Patted his thigh. 

Rafia lowered herself into his lap, the sheet wrapped around her. He took her shoulder in one hand, her thigh in another, and tucked her body against his own. Opening her sheet, he put his warm mouth on her nipple, his hand on her hip. Rafia shuddered with delight. Soon his hand moved between her legs, stroking her pubic patch with the back of his fingers. 

"What's your name?" Rafia asked, her voice a weak quiver. She squirmed her hips, trying to bring her clitoris into contact with his hand.

He snorted, moving his hand to the soft, moist folds between her legs. Rafia sucked in her breath and opened her thighs.

"You can call me Mr. Smith," he said. 

"Mr. Smith." Rafia's voice came in a hoarse whisper. "I'm really ready." 

Rafia wanted to express her needs, her desire. She wanted him to know that it had started last night, and that for some reason, despite—or perhaps because—the number of boys, she hadn't been able to orgasm. She wished he knew how badly she craved a release. She needed some relief. She needed an orgasm. 

Rafia looked at him. Her mouth open, dry. Her shallow breath coming in gasps. To convey all this emotion welling in her body, she said, "Really, Mr. Smith. I'm really ready."

He smiled. 

He took his hand from between her legs and moved it under her thigh. He moved his other hand to the middle of her back. Rafia felt herself suddenly sliding from his lap, and she gave a startled little cry. She ended up in a heap on the floor, tangled in her sheet. More shocked then hurt, she scrambled to her knees. 

He stood and opened his robe, revealing a thick mat of dark hair on his upper chest that narrowed and extended down to his abdomen and beyond. He was nude under the robe.

"Your needs?" he asked, his voice rising. "What about mine?" He had a reasonably flat stomach and a long cock. He stood holding it in his hand. "You drink my whiskey. Spend the night on my couch. Now I have to service you? What about me?" 

He looked imperiously at Rafia, a fist on his hip. His cock thickening in his hand. 

He reminded Rafia of her father, how he could fly into a rage over the smallest thing. She knew the best strategy was to appease. Drawing the sheet over her shoulders, she crawled to Mr. Smith and knelt at his feet. 

Looking up at him meekly, Rafia took his warm cock in her mouth. 

He placed his hands in her thick hair, guiding her head. Rafia hoped he wouldn't come in her mouth. Partly this was because she'd never taken a boy's semen inside her mouth—she wasn't sure she was ready to swallow cum—but mostly it was because she still held out hope that he would use his cock on her. Give her what she needed. 

Mr. Smith rocked his hips, holding her head firmly in place. 

His shaft buried in her mouth, Rafia put her hand between her legs. It was enough to just cup her palm over her vagina, and apply steady pressure to her vulva. She took one of her nipples between her fingers, too. Soon she began twisting and squirming from her own ministrations, as he used her mouth.

"What is this?" Mr. Smith said. "No, no, no. This is no good." 

He jerked his hips back, popping his cock from Rafia's mouth.

He reached between Rafia's legs, taking her wrist in his hand. "This isn't about you," he said. He placed her hand on his testicles. 

"This is about me," he declared. 

He arranged her other hand on his shaft and then stared down at her with his fists on his hips. The sheet had fallen to the floor, and Rafia felt small and defenseless under his gaze. She put her mouth on his cock. 

She kept her eyes cast up, the better to gauge his satisfaction. She hefted his balls and massaged his shaft. Rafia tried hard not to even squeeze her thighs together or squirm her bottom too much. Better to deny herself than risk displeasing him again. 

After a time, he pulled her to her feet. His cock bobbed between them, glistening with her saliva. He motioned with his head to the couch and Rafia's heart soared. She scampered across the room and got into position. It was an all too familiar position for Rafia. She opened her legs to allow him to mount and felt a dull ache inside her thighs. 

"I'm sliding into you," he cooed. "Riding on top of spent semen, spit from the cocks of how many boys?" 

Between her mounting desires, the tenderness between her legs, and the odd way in which he phrased the question, Rafia couldn't understand what he was asking of her. They had to go back and forth a few times with clarifying questions. He persisted. She finally realized he wanted to know the number of boys she'd slept with last night.

"Three," she said. 

He grunted, wordlessly working his hips. 

"No wait," Rafia said. "Five." Her voice sounded small, far away. 

She felt so relieved to finally understand the information he wanted from her that she answered quickly, without giving it much thought. Now she worked backwards through her memory, as much to satisfy her own curiosity as his. "Six," she said. 

A sly smile appeared on Mr. Smith's face and he made a noise deep in his throat. 

Rafia felt her cheeks warm. It suddenly occurred to her that she'd been passed out this morning. It was humiliating to admit, but she had no way of knowing how many boys she'd slept with last night. 




A Wicked Summer for Carnal Girls Ch. 03



She met Mr. Smith's gleaming eyes. "Seven or eight. . . I guess." 

Rafia swallowed hard. 

". . . I really don't know," she said.

Mr. Smith grinned. 

He lowered his head and nuzzled her neck.

"She doesn't know," he whispered in her ear. Rafia could hear him softly snicker. "Seven or eight boys," he said. "How about nine or ten? Maybe a dozen. A dirty dozen?" 

He gave a lusty grunt, his cock throbbing between her legs. "Pretty little thing has no idea how many dicks she's had up in her belly in the last twenty four hours." 

His cock grew thicker as he spoke and Rafia ignored her shame and focused instead on the orgasm rising inside her. It was maddening because although she was very close, each time that hot feeling began to take over, she would feel a small jolt of pain between her legs, just enough to distract her and make her start the long climb all over again. 

Mr. Smith had been watching her carefully and suddenly he stopped. She gave him a pleading look but he pulled his cock out. It was hard and veiny and wet. 

He took her hand and led her to another room with a king size bed and heavy drapes on one wall. Rafia stood with her hands clasped under her chin. He turned down the bed, then piled soft white pillows into a great stack in the middle of the mattress. 

He had her drape her body across the pillows. 

Rafia felt the blood rushing to her head and then he wedged his tongue into her ass. Rafia gasped and arched her back. She felt embarrassed that he should put his mouth back there, and she tried to twist away, but he held her ass cheeks firmly in both his hands. After the initial shock, she found she rather liked this sort of attention. She felt his fingers clutching and spreading her cheeks apart, his tongue darting into her anus. Tucking her knees on either side of the stack of pillows, she arched her back and groaned her assent. It was good. So good.

He soon stopped. As much as she was enjoying herself, Rafia felt grateful for the respite, the chance to catch her breath.

"This might hurt," he murmured. 

Rafia felt something cold and wet on her ass. It didn't hurt. His finger went where his tongue had been. Rafia rocked her hips. By the time it dawned on her that he intended to follow his finger with his cock, he'd greased her ass and she'd assumed the ready position. 

"Mr. Smith," Rafia whispered urgently. "Mr. Smith!"

She wasn't sure she was ready to have a dick in her ass. She tried to unfold her legs, but it was already too late. He clambered up on her, pressed his cock against her asshole, and with a mighty heave of his hips, buried his cock deep inside her slippery ass. 

"Oh, Mr. Smith," Rafia cried. 

There was sharp pain in her ass but it soon dissolved into a dull burning sensation. And then there were his strokes, which filled Rafia completely. She took fistfuls of the sheets in both her hands. He reached his hand down her tummy, fingered her clitoris, and Rafia groaned. She bucked her hips, riding his hand, making his cock slide in and out of her ass. He put his other hand on her nipples and Rafia felt the release start from way down in her toes. Raising her hips, she tried to escape his hand, the explosion of sensation in her pussy and ass. Even her hair felt as if it were exploding into fire, bursting in emotion. 

Rafia moaned and writhed and finally came to a crash with her ass raised on the pillows, the weight of Mr. Smith on her back. Rafia pushed the hair from her face, wiped her sweat from her forehead. Mr. Smith gave her a moment to recover. Then he grunted, sinking his cock deeper into her. It hurt. Without the momentum of impending orgasm, it felt like he had his arm shoved up her ass. Rafia felt him pull back, and then he sank into her again. 

"Mr. Smith," she cried. "It hurts. It hurts!" 

"Why did you come?" he asked without hiding his irritation. 

He moved his hips and Rafia gasped. "Please," she whimpered.

He stopped moving.

"I haven't come yet," he said. 

"Mr. Smith," she begged. "Please." 

He inhaled sharply. He shifted his weight and she could feel his fat cock lodged in her ass. She felt embarrassed for coming. Guilty for being unable to allow him to finish in the manner he had started. He buried his head in her thick hair. He didn't say anything for a bit and Rafia didn't want to risk annoying him. 

"If I take it out," he finally asked, "will you put it in your mouth?" 

"Yes," Rafia said. "Yes, yes." 

She answered immediately, so grateful he had given her an out. 

Without another word, she felt him shift his weight. He was almost off her when he changed his mind, lay his full body weight onto her back. Rafia gave an "oof" and fell flat on the bed. He gave her two quick pumps in rapid succession, making her squeal. He was being cruel, Rafia knew, but then his cock was out of her and she was free. She rolled off the pile of pillows and lay flat on the bed for a moment, feeling great relief. 

He got off the bed and crossed the room. She listened to him in the bathroom. 

He urinated. Flushed. Ran the tap.

As he strode back into the room, Rafia scrambled to her knees. Reaching for his cock, she briefly thought about where it had just been. She hesitated for just a moment before opening her mouth, placing his cock inside. He tasted salty. His dick was warm. Pliable. 

She used both her hands to massage his shaft, fondle his balls. 

Soon she felt his palm on top of her head. His cock was thick. She could tell by the way he planted his feet, the way he held her head, he intended to come in her mouth. Had she agreed to let him come in her mouth? She had said yes, of this she was sure. But her ass had hurt so badly and she just wanted him off. 

Rafia put her palms on his thighs. She could feel her anxiety mounting.

He took her head in both his hands now. He was moving his hips, fucking her mouth. At any moment, he would erupt, splashing warm cream into her mouth. She thought about how warm it would be. How salty it would taste. How he would moan and hold her head tightly. How his penis would quiver as it sprayed its salty jets. The more she thought about it, the less it bothered her, the more it turned her on. Rafia made herself ready. She shifted her weight from one knee to the other. His hand went to his shaft and he worked himself. Rafia raised her eyes to gauge how close he was. Now that she was ready for it, she found herself wishing it would happen, but it seemed to be taking the longest time. She wished he would just get it over with. She wished he would just fill her mouth with his warm gift. 

And then suddenly . . . Rafia got her wish! 

The first shot went to the back of her mouth and down her throat. She had to concentrate on working her throat to accept the rest, to keep from choking. Her mouth exploded with his salty taste. She put her hands on his ass cheeks and felt him clenching his bottom in time with the spurts filling her mouth. He petted her head and groaned. Long after he finished, long after there was nothing left for her to swallow, Rafia nuzzled him. 

He soon pried her head from his cock. 

They ended up on the king size bed together. Rafia's whole body tingled. He held her in his arms and soon she heard his even breathing. She slid out from his arms and sat in an upholstered chair, watching him sleep. 

For a man of his age, he had a reasonably athletic body. 

She would let him sleep for half an hour, forty five minutes more. Then she would wake him. Meanwhile, she would go downstairs, make him a sandwich. When he woke up, she would get some protein into him. Hope he could go again. Once more before she would have to leave. Twice more, if she were really lucky. 

Her pussy trembled with anticipation and she squeezed her thighs together. 

She would have to find her dress, her panties. Her shoes. She would have to come up with a story to explain her overnight absence to her father. Rafia felt she could do it. It was all within her grasp.

 

Chapter 3

Three weeks later, Rafia discovered she was pregnant.

When her father found out, he clucked his tongue disapprovingly. For days he stormed around the house. Soon, though, he relented, and threw himself into the paternity suit. He petitioned the court. In this case, the "court" was the Justice of the Peace, Maynor Smith, Veronica's father, and the older brother of Mr. Smith, who Maynor ultimately named the father of the child. Maynor never liked his younger brother much anyway. After a review of the facts, the younger Smith was the only potential father capable of paying. All the other boys were attending Roosevelt on scholarships. 

Mr. Smith protested his innocence. 

He demanded DNA testing and the court duly sent technicians to both Rafia's home and to his, collecting swabs and blood samples. Maynor ignored the results. He was more concerned with the questions of his daughter's culpability than his brother's pride. 

And as with most things in Carnal, it was all settled in the court of public opinion anyway. Everyone knew Mr. Smith—an arrogant and demanding prig of a man—had enjoyed sweet Rafia. And for that enjoyment he would pay a tidy sum. With the new child support laws, his obligation extended even to the child's college education, which (eventually) would come in the form of an endowment for Roosevelt, his mother's Alma mater. Mr. Smith never spoke to Maynor again, nor did he ever visit the child. 

Rafia became a minor celebrity. 

She moved out of her father's house and into subsidized housing--Hoover Homes—where the upperclassman from Roosevelt would visit her. They came alone. They came late at night, often in a drunken stupor. The first time it happened, Rafia peered through the peep hole of her steel door. It was Roy Talbot. Butterflies tickled her stomach and she fussed with her hair. He kissed her hard on the mouth and his hands went right to her swollen breasts. They necked in the hall for a few minutes. No sooner was he inside, he unzipped and leaned his back against the door.

Rafia knew she shouldn't, but she went right to her knees. 

She would get two or three different boys each week. All upperclassmen. On rare occasion, she might get a second caller in the early dawn light. Soon her tummy grew to enormous proportions and she waddled when she walked. Rafia enjoyed the attention these men brought to her door. In fact, she knew it went beyond mere enjoyment—she needed them. Needed the affection, their adulation. She gratefully satisfied most of them on the threshold of her apartment, kneeling just inside the door, one hand atop her great belly. A few others—Roy, Logan, Chet—she invited onto her couch.

The night she gave birth was a trauma. 

It was a difficult birth, extending for hours and hours, through three different hospital shifts. Always there was a new nurse hustling in and out of her room through the long night. The experienced hospital staff knew well what lay in store for her, but as the night unfolded they offered Rafia only their kind smiles, sympathetic nods of the head. There could be no reprieve. Somehow it reminded Rafia of the night she'd conceived the child. In the morning, when she woke, her bottom felt achy and swollen and a beautiful newborn lay by her side. 

It was a boy. 

Rafia named the child Morris Talbot Reese Saad, but she just called him Moe for short.

She didn't immediately take to parenting. It took some time. Infants, she knew, are forever born without guile, but it was hard, at first, for Rafia to think of this one as anything but a tyrant. He had needs. He demanded much. She tried to anticipate his requests, but she was new to motherhood and always unsure if she was ready for this thing or that, and there was so much more that she didn't even know. His cries felt like indictments. And then one day, Moe was about nine months, he looked at her, standing on chubby pink legs, crushing crackers on the end table with his fists, and he smiled. A toothless grin, from his wispy head.

Her heart melted. 

From that point on, Rafia had a new relationship with Moe. She adored him. She nurtured and fed him. He was still a tyrant, but now he was her little tyrant. And Rafia served him well. He offered her many of the things she craved. 

But he couldn't satisfy all her needs. 

Sometimes in the wee light of dawn, after Moe had nursed and fallen back to sleep, she thought of Mr. Smith. Rafia held no animosity for him. She knew he wasn't the father, but she didn't mind receiving his support. Most of the time when she thought of him, it was with a wistful something buried deep inside her that was hard to admit. She ignored the talk around Carnal about him. 

One afternoon Chet knocked on her door. Moe had just gone down for a nap and Rafia planned to nap herself. She wanted to shoo Chet from her door, but he'd brought her a grocery bag filled with diapers and perishables. On her stoop, Chet confessed that his mother had raised him on her own. Rafia invited him in for a quick cup of tea. 

Soon they were necking on the couch. He had his hands on her breasts, his warm breath on her neck. Rafia took his face in her palms. She could feel her own needs rising, but she took a moment to inspect the bone structure in his cheeks. 

Moe had Chet's nose, she could see that now. She fluffed the curls on his forehead. 

"Lick me," Rafia whispered.

Chet grinned. He slipped to his knees. He took the waistband of her leggings and tugged. Rafia opened her legs, preventing him from removing her pants. Reaching between her thighs, Rafia took his ears in her hands. "Not my pussy," she said. 

Chet gave her a puzzled look. 

Rafia tugged her leggings and panties past her bottom, then lifted her legs and removed her pants. "My ass," Rafia said. "Lick my ass for me." 

She took his head back in her hands, stroked his cheeks. He kept his face even, but his smile was gone. She felt embarrassed to ask for his attention down there. Rafia looked toward Moe's bedroom door. She knew he'd be up in a short while.

"Lick it," she cooed.

Rafia put her feet on Chet's shoulders. Scooted her bottom to the edge of the couch. He was such a nice boy, such a clean-cut American boy. 

He closed his eyes and Rafia felt the first tentative licks from his tongue. She groaned appreciatively and he amplified his efforts. His fingers pried her ass cheeks apart. He sank his tongue deep into her asshole. It didn't shock her the way it did the first time Mr. Smith had done it, but it felt good in a different way now. It was the dirty feeling of asking another to perform a task such as this. It was acknowledging to someone else that you enjoyed something so shocking, enjoyed it enough to bear the shame of asking for it. Chet's eyes were closed, a look of concentration on his face.

She grabbed a hank of his short hair. 

He cast his eyes up to her.

"Does Veronica know you're here?" Rafia asked. His hooded eyes and the long, sidelong glance that followed were all the answer Rafia needed. Veronica had no idea he was here. 

Rafia laughed, a lyrical, happy noise. 

"It's okay," she comforted. Rafia took the back of his head and pulled his face into her ass. She stroked her labia and squirmed her bottom, riding his tongue. 

"It's okay," she said again. 

In her heart, Rafia knew these were just empty words, but she repeated them anyway, over and over, in her throatiest voice. She didn't have a strong opinion one way or the other. She just wanted something to whisper to him as she used his mouth to satisfy her desire. 

"It's okay," she murmured. "Everything's fine."

And it was fine. It was just desire, first his and now her own. 

Rafia was an American girl. 



A Wicked Summer for Carnal Girls Ch. 04



Disclaimer: all sexually active characters are 18 or older. 

*****

Dirty Business

Chapter 1

Joe Murphy leaned back from the table and slipped his phone out of his pocket. It was a quarter past two in the morning. He'd need another two hours to close the deal, earn his commission. It'd be another late night, in a string of late nights. 

Molly would be pissed. 

Donnell rubbed his chin. He methodically worked his way through the paperwork spread across the table. He was careful. Clever. He'd been at it for hours. The real estate textbooks called it risk averse. Joe called it being a punk ass bitch.

Cutter sat at the other end of the table, broad shoulders bulging from an oversize tank top. Neck muscles like steel cables, his dark skin covered with an even darker tangle of prison tattoos. On the table before him sat a plastic bin filled with white powder. He used a playing card to sift through the powder, and load it into small glassine bags. A surgical mask protected his mouth and nose. His bald head glistened with sweat. The man was an animal, able to smell fear. 

Joe took a deep, calming breath and returned his phone to his pocket. 

It was a bad moon night and he didn't like any of it. He didn't like doing business at Donnell's temporary "office," an address in Hoover Homes, one of Carnal's low income housing developments. He didn't like working alongside drugs, something he swore to Molly he'd never do again. He didn't like working with such bad people. But the deal was worth over ten thousand in commissions—and that he did like. 

The clamor of noisy footsteps and laughter broke the quiet. 

Veronica Smith and two young black men—baggy pants, gleaming Nikes—burst out of the stairwell. Donnell looked up from his task. He kept his face even, but when the boys saw him look, they both stopped horsing around. 

The girl continued to laugh. She was a knock-out.

Joe knew her. He'd first met her five years ago at her father's lakeside house. It was her fourteenth birthday. She'd certainly grown up since then. With her high cheek bones and chiseled facial features, she looked like a Cherokee princess. Dark running tights hugged her shapely thighs, a brightly colored sports bra held her tiny boobs in place.

Letting her laughter trail off, she reached both her arms behind her head and gathered her long hair into a pony tail. Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks flush. She'd clearly been partying. 

"We just leaving, Donnell," one of the boys said.

He was handsome. Clean shaven, muscular, with a strong jaw and a broad, open face. He wore a checkered tan fedora. Grabbing the hat by the crown, he pushed it back on his head and grinned, revealing a single, gleaming, gold cap up front.

Donnell lowered his head without acknowledgment. 

"Donnell?" Veronica said. She grinned. "Donnell Blackman?  From Cherry High? The All American track star?" She had already undone her hair and now she let it fall over shoulder, stroking it as she approached the table. 

"I don't have to leave," she said. "I can do whatever I want." 

Donnell did not look up. If his lack of interest shook Veronica's confidence, she didn't let it show. Gliding across the room, she was her daddy's little girl. She possessed that same self-confidence as her father, the same big presence. She leaned toward Donnell's ear. Still toying with her hair, she whispered something so low Joe couldn't make it out. 

Her eyes glittered as she spoke. 

Donnell tilted his head towards her. Listened quietly.

The boy wearing the fedora put his hands on his hips, a look of mild contempt his face. Joe fought to suppress a grin. He wondered how much dope that boy had packed into her pretty little nose tonight. 

She finished whispering to Donnell and then fixed her eyes on him. Donnell continued to look at the paperwork in front of him. She rubbed her hands on her thighs and bit her lip waiting for him to respond. 

"Anything?" Donnell asked, his voice flat. 

Veronica's cheeks flushed. Her face broke into a wide grin. 

She looked up from him and glanced around the room, a sheepish look on her face. She hesitated for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. "Sure," she said. "Okay." She bit her bottom lip. "Whatever you want," she whispered, bulging her eyes.

Donnell snorted, shook his head. He looked into her face, a little half smile playing on his lips. "You're going to have to do better than that," he said. 

Veronica straightened her back and laughed, a nervous titter. 

Her nipples hardened, her face flushed. She glanced toward Joe and a glint of recognition flashed in her eyes. Her cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of red and she quickly looked away. She took a deep breath, letting her chest swell. 

A clock ticked loudly somewhere on the wall.

She blew the air from her lungs. 

"You can fuck me," she said. Her voice was low, but steady. She cut her eyes toward Joe, then looked at her feet. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she allowed a slow smile to spread across her face. "Or I can suck your dick," she said, raising her head. 

"Or both." She shot her brows up on her forehead and looked back to Donnell. 

"Anything you want." 

Donnell rapped twice on the table.

Cutter scooped a generous amount of powder onto his playing card, then laid it out for her at an empty place on the table. Tapping the card on the table, he cleared it. The room grew silent.

Veronica pulled the heavy chair back, its feet scraping the tile. 

She took her seat at the table, smirking at Joe. His cock stirred to life in his pants, even as the rest of his body went on high alert. He leaned into the table, hiding his arousal. That would only complicate things. Put his commission at risk. 

Bowing her head, Veronica helped herself to a generous amount of the powder that lay before her. Cutter's eyes glittered. He glanced at Donnell, then went back to work. Donnell asked Joe a question about the property. After Joe answered, Donnell asked something else. The boys Veronica had come in with began to talk in low tones amongst themselves. Veronica sat in silence. Several times she tried to make eye contact with Joe, but he wouldn't allow it. He wondered if she even understood what she had just signed herself up for.

If she felt any regret, she didn't show it. She just sat quietly. Waited. She refused to look at either of Donnell's lieutenants. Joe wondered if she even knew their names. Some unspoken communication passed between Donnell and his boys. 

Joe pretended not to notice. 

"You ready?" Donnell asked Veronica. He put his fingertips on the table and leaned forward as if he were about to rise.

Veronica practically leapt from her chair. She was ready. She looked eager, anxious. She got up too fast and then just stood by the table grinning. But Donnell had not risen. He let his weight fall back into his seat even as he continued to smile. 

The boy wearing the hat silently crossed the room. 

Slipping behind Veronica, he wrapped his arms around her waist and let his hand come to rest in the V between her legs. Veronica reacted quickly, stomping her heel into his foot and then spinning out of his grasp. "Motherfucker," she hissed. Sailing her open palm around, Veronica put her full body weight into the slap. The boy's head snapped to the side. The hat flew from his head and a bright red welt appeared on his cheek. As she stood there scowling at him, her arms stiff, hands balled into fists, the other boy slid in behind her. 

He had light-skinned complexion, Roman nose, and a strong jaw. He was wiry and attractive, his hair a mass of tight black curls. He put his arms around her, drew her to himself, and she began to twist.

"Donnell!" Veronica said. Flushing with fury, she whipped her head toward the end of the table where Donnell sat. For a beat, no one said anything. The boy held Veronica aloft, her feet an inch or two from the floor, her hair splayed in her eyes. 

And then Donnell laughed. He tilted his head to the side. "Anything," he said.

"Oh, come on," Veronica said. 

Joe heard a tinge of panic in her voice. Setting his jaw, he willed her to surrender. To accept her circumstances. If she continued to fight, there would be trouble. Someone could get hurt. Someone would get hurt.

The boy lowered Veronica to the floor and began massaging her breasts. Veronica stood silently, her back stiff. Striking the other boy had been pure instinct. She was a good girl, from a good family, and good girls didn't allow themselves to be fondled by random boys. But now her circumstances had changed and she had to accept this boy touching her as the rest of the room watched. 

"Help out my friends," Donnell said. 

His tone was friendly, but clearly he was giving her a command. The boy put his nose into her hair and closed his eyes. He had long girlish lashes. Veronica swallowed hard, but said nothing as his hands roamed her hips, her bottom. She looked at her pile of powder on the table, now diminished in size.

He slipped a hand into the front of her tights. 

"I like to watch." Donnell chuckled. He said this with almost an apologetic tone. 

Cutter snorted. Shook his head. 

Veronica looked at Joe and this time he met her gaze. He didn't smile, but he tried not to look too grave either. He saw the terror in her eyes as she assessed her situation. Both lieutenants would fuck her. That much was a given. 

Joe tilted his head toward the boy she had struck. He raised one of his brows. She needed to be nudged into action, spurred in a more productive direction. She was an attractive girl and that would work to her disadvantage tonight. Cutter might want a turn. Donnell had a girlfriend, but that didn't matter with something like this. He'd probably go last and do something humiliating. Maybe fuck her in the ass or piss on her. Come in her mouth. These boys were animals and tonight they were going to use her in whatever ways they pleased.

Joe glanced at the boy she struck, then returned his gaze to her. The important thing was to get the sex started. That was the best way to avoid violence. She'd wake up tomorrow a little sore, filled with semen from a few different boys. But she'd be home, her worst wounds self-inflicted. Nothing they could force her to do tonight would hurt as much as the knowledge she'd agreed to it all when she'd struck this Devil's Deal. 

Veronica looked at the boy she'd struck. He was working his jaw and looking openly hostile. He was the biggest threat in the room. When Veronica looked back, Joe nodded. Really it was just a slight dip of his chin.

Her eyes no longer bulged with fear, but had now settled into a sort of wide eyed acceptance. She closed her mouth. Licked her lips. No longer could she count herself in the ranks of the good girls—tonight she was a whore. 

"Anything," the Puerto Rican boy behind her whispered.

He pressed his hips against her bottom and shoved his hand even deeper between her legs, his fist bulging the shiny material at her crotch. Everyone watched as he fondled her, his dark forearm thrust into her tights. She closed her eyes and turned her head. It took a few minutes, but her nipples betrayed her first, hardening under his insistent touch. Then the color rose up in her face and her breathing grew heavier. She began gently moving her hips, riding the hand that was between her legs. 

The boy she'd struck stopped rubbing his cheek. He recovered his hat, then blew air heavily from his mouth. Putting his hands on his hips, he scowled. 

Veronica reached for the hand massaging her sex, letting her own hand rest atop it. She tilted her head over her shoulder and smiled, pressing her bottom into his groin. 

She turned to face him. 

Pulling his hand from her pants, he took her face in both his hands and kissed her with an open mouth. Somehow this wet, open-mouth kiss seemed even more degrading then the fondling. Joe shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Veronica's hands floated at her sides as the lieutenant assaulted her with his mouth. The muscles in his neck and cheeks moved as he worked his tongue. Soon she rested her hands on his chest and then began returning the kiss, her own tongue repaying his thrusts. And then she slid her hand between his legs. 

He broke the kiss and Veronica let her fingers tickle over the hard bulge in his pants. With her hand on his cock, she looked up at him with her mouth open, her breath coming hard. "You want that?" he whispered. 

She lowered her eyes, but kept her hand where it was. 

He watched her bowed head for a moment, her hand caressing his manhood. "She ready," he said, speaking to the entire room. 

Veronica turned to the other lieutenant, allowing her fingertips to continue touching the cock in her hand for as long as she could. At the last moment, she broke contact and turned her full attention to the young man she'd smacked. 

You couldn't cross a boy like this—someone who dealt drugs on the streets—without expecting some sort of retaliation. And if you couldn't cross him, you certainly shouldn't slap him. His pride had been wounded. A price would have to be paid.

Veronica placed her hands flat on his strong chest, pressed her body against his, and then sank to her knees at his feet, letting her fingertips travel down along his trunk. Pressing her cheek against his groin, she shamelessly nuzzled her face against the front of his pants. "Please," she whispered. "I shouldn't have hit you . . ." 

The boy glared down at her with his hands on his hips. 

"Please," she begged, "I'm just, I'm just—" She looked up at him with an earnest expression. "I'm a just dumb bitch, a stupid, stupid bitch. . ."

Letting her words trail off, Veronica looked unsure what to do next. Clearly she'd expected her harsh self-appraisal to win more from this boy. She glanced quickly around the room, looking concerned. 

She looked to Joe. He pressed his lips together. Improvise. 

Turning back to the young man, Veronica opened her mouth as if she were about to say something else. And then she caught herself. She sighed and squared her shoulders. Raising her hands to his pants, she silently began to unfasten his belt. 

A chuckle went up from the room. The boy's frown broke, replaced by a wide, mirthless grin, his gold cap gleaming in his mouth.

She quickly unfastened his pants. Lowered his fly. 

Veronica took the waist band of his boxer shorts in her hands and just as she was about to tug them down, the boy brushed her hands away. Putting the heel of his hand on her forehead, he tilted her head back and grinned down at her. "I'm'a let you make it up," he said. "I got something else in mind for you."

Veronica smiled up at him, an uneasy look in her eyes. 

Taking her head in his hands, he pressed her face against his groin. He stroked her hair as if she were an expensive pet. Veronica glanced at Joe. She looked relieved but apprehensive. The boy ground his hips against her face, and she willingly nuzzled her cheek against him, but her expression didn't change. 

"She ready," the boy announced to the room. 

Donnell and his crew laughed. Joe realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled. Relaxed. Reminded himself that he didn't have an investment in this girl. Any of this. His commitment was to the deal. His commission. 

Joe forced himself to grin. He sat back in his chair. 

Listening to the other's laughter, Joe found himself growing irritable. Agitated. He couldn't sit still. He had to remind himself to keep the smile on his face. Try not to look too imposing. He fidgeted in his seat.

Who was he kidding?  

This was a local girl, a Carnal girl. 

He knew her father. 

Someone would have to babysit her tonight. Make sure she came out of this thing whole. Probably take until dawn. Maybe even longer. 

Molly would be pissed. 

 

Chapter 2

The first time he'd seen her she wore a black string bikini. She lay on a blanket by the pool in the late morning sun. A small troop of boyfriends took turns smearing tanning oil on her slender, sun-browned body. Her thighs and tummy glistened. Her father had invited half-a-dozen men from the club over for a cookout. It was also her birthday party, but Joe didn't know that yet. He watched her slender hips, silky hair, and creamy smile all afternoon, and then felt guilty when the cake finally appeared holding only fourteen flickering candles. 

Even then she could hold her own with a roomful of men. 

Delivering long neck brown bottles in the hot afternoon sun, she would sidle up close for sips of beer. She had a little game she liked to play where she would deliver a beer, stand close by the man who opened it, then grab the sweaty bottle back by its long neck. If the man surrendered the bottle, she would take a quick, furtive nip and then wipe the foam from her mouth with the back of her hand. If the man resisted—say he held the bottle high, just out of reach—the game got more interesting. She would lean her sun-kissed body in even closer, maybe placing her hand on the man's tummy, or pressing her tiny breast against his bicep. She might wordlessly pout, "Please," or knock her groin against the man's thigh. 

Everyone would laugh good-naturedly, even goad her on, but each man knew it was a fairly risky game for her father watched it like a hawk. Woe to the man who came away from one of these little battles-of-will with a hard on still swelling in his pants. 

That was five years ago. 

This was now. 

The boys took Veronica into an adjoining room.

"You," Donnell said. He motioned with his fingers for her to approach. "Come here." 

She crossed the room. 

"You scared?" he asked, his voice soft. Surprisingly gentle. Rising from his seat, he towered over her. Like a father addressing an unruly child. She kept her eyes flat, emotionless. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she made a noncommittal noise in her throat.

"Take off your top," he said. 

Her eyes flashed briefly and she raised her chin. It looked like she was about to protest but then she tugged her sports bra over her head and her breasts spilled out. Shaking out her hair, she twisted the top in her hands. 

She raised her chin and met his eyes. They looked at one another. 

For a minute no one spoke. 

And then he reached his hand to her breast. She sucked in air. Turning her head, she stared at a spot on the floor. He took her other breast in his hand. He squeezed her little mounds of flesh. She dropped her hands to her sides. The sports bra fell to the floor.

"What size are these?" he asked. 

He moved his fingers to the nipple. Rolled the little nub under his thumb.

"32," she whispered huskily. After a moment she hung her head. "B," she added. It sounded like she was ready to cry and Joe could feel a cold fury welling up in his throat. 

"32-B," Donnell said matter-of-factly, ignoring her discomfort. 

Donnell used his hands to indicate to Veronica that she should turn toward Cutter. Presenting her breasts to the big man, Veronica's face was splotchy and red, her eyes moist. 

Cutter ignored the girl, keeping his eyes on Joe. 

Joe tried to relax. Tried to breathe. He couldn't afford to let this thing go sideways. She was going to be humiliated and used tonight. Nothing could change that now. If Cutter suspected he wished to protect her, it would only make things worse. 

"Bend over," Donnell said. 

She bent at the waist. Her hair hung over her face and she put her hands on her knees.

"Remember what you whispered to me," Donnell said. 

She sucked in her breath and stood, whipping her head around. "Please," she gasped, a panicked look on her face. 

After a brief pause, she said, "Don't," her voice filled with emotion. "Don't say it out loud, please." She had her hands clasped in front of her chest, and she moved them to hold her breasts. Her shoulders seemed so small, so delicate. Her odd gesture to protect her modesty made her seem even more vulnerable, more decent. 




A Wicked Summer for Carnal Girls Ch. 04



Donnell smiled. 

"Bend over," he said. "Pull down your pants." 

She looked at him with a pained expression. She was the homecoming queen. She'd worn the victory tiara, sat atop the fire truck in a splendid gown. She waved to all the cheering small-town faces in the home town crowd. 

"Don't make me keep repeating myself," Donnell said with unmasked irritation. 

She turned, hooked her thumbs into the waist of her tights, and lowered them to her ankles. Her body was perfect. Her ass and thighs were muscular and toned, her skin smooth, white and supple. Remaining bent over, she turned her head to catch Donnell's eye, a pleading look on her face. 

"Spread your ass," he said.

She reached behind herself with both hands and lowered her head. 

Donnell tilted his head, gazing at her bottom.

Joe was hard. He felt ashamed of himself, but his arousal at least tempered his fury, allowing him to hide his hope to protect Veronica. He wondered what she had whispered that made her feel so vulnerable. Donnell acquiesced to her, talking around her secret, explaining his expectations. She seemed genuinely grateful for his discretion. It was surreal to see her nude, holding both her ass cheeks apart with such an earnest expression on her face. Donnell was making sure she would do whatever she was asked, and she was buying into it completely. She was going to have to jump through some hoops tonight. 

"You do what you're told," Donnell said. "You be okay."

She gave him a weak smile. His pep talk seemed to have helped. "It's time," Donnell said, indicating the adjoining room. "Go pay for your drugs." 

He pointed his finger and the young men whooped. 

She immediately sat on the floor and removed the tights from her ankles. She stood and held her bottoms before her for a moment. The light in the room danced off the muscles in her abdomen, the shallow indent of her navel, the nub of her pubis bone. And then she abandoned the tights, letting them fall to the floor. The fur between her legs was shaved into a short landing strip. 

She glanced to Cutter but he ignored her. 

Now that she had surrendered, she wouldn't look at Joe. He accepted this without qualm. A girl had to do certain things to prepare herself to be used by a roomful of men. 

She strode into the other room, wiping her eyes with her forearm and palms. She did a familiar shuffle step that included a little twirl at the end and it took Joe a moment to realize where he had seen that step before. It was one of the cheerleader routines. He's seen the whole squad do that step hundreds of times on the sidelines or at half court, but this was the first time he'd ever seen one of the girls perform it in the nude, pumping herself up to be sodomized by drug-dealing thugs. 

Both boys unzipped their flies. 

Veronica went to her knees. Brushing the hair from her face, she immediately put a cock in her mouth. She wetted it and then the other. She engaged the boys, looking them in the eye, speaking to them as she moved her attention from one to the other. The boy she'd struck had his arms folded and a smirk on his face. He was still her biggest threat. The other boy, though, was falling under her spell. He grinned, eagerly engaging with her. He even elbowed his partner, helping her elicit short monosyllabically responses from him.

She was manipulating the two of them as surely as she'd manipulated the men at her birthday party. Only tonight she wasn't looking for sips from long-neck brown bottles of beer. Tonight she was working for her life.

"You know her?" Donnell continued to look at the forms. 

A long silence followed. Joe didn't know what to say. For the second time tonight they were calling into question his allegiance. He felt indicted, as much by the question as the erection smoldering in his pants. 

Cutter was eyeing him again. Waiting for an answer.

"Everyone knows her," Joe said, his voice tight. "She's a cheerleader." He shifted in his seat, trying to hide the erection throbbing in his lap. Meeting Cutter's eyes, Joe held his gaze. He shrugged, glancing toward the powder she'd left on the table. 

"Now she's a whore," he mumbled. 

He hated himself for betraying her. For betraying her father. 

Veronica was making choking noises. The boy she'd struck had her head in his hands and was fucking her mouth. He let go of her head, and she coughed and sputtered and gasped for air. He asked her if she'd ever had her mouth fucked. When she could speak, she grinned at him. She had a mouthful of white teeth, the most perfect smile. The local paper always seemed to run pictures of her smiling face to celebrate hometown wins. One time Joe had asked her father about the paper's penchant for using Veronica's smile in victory articles. Maynor laughed and said he'd paid over six thousand dollars for orthodontia so that she might possess such a smile. Now she grinned up at this boy, with her perfect white smile which had cost so much. "No," she said. She coughed again but continued to grin at the boy who had just used her mouth for such a rude purpose. "Never," she added.

"Have now," he laughed. He held his wet cock in his hand and snorted. 

She laughed, but with less enthusiasm. Wiping her chin with the back of her hand, she let the other boy lead her to a thin mattress he'd dragged into the middle of the room. 

"Cutter know what she whispered," Donnell said, a grin spreading across his face. 

He said it loud enough for the table to hear, but not loud enough for anyone in the other room to catch. Donnell grinned to his partner. "Cutter know what she want," he said, his voice playful. He was taunting the big man. 

Cutter remained silent. 

He continued working the powder, his eyes flat and hard. 

Donnell grinned. He was holding all the cards. He had all the questions and all the answers. "She wants to fuck a black man," Donnell said.

Cutter snorted, a look of disgust on his face. 

"What?" Donnell laughed, mock indignation spreading across his face. 

Cutter glared at Donnell for a brief moment. 

"She ain't never fuck a black man," Donnell said. "That's what she whispered."

Unhooking his mask, Cutter let it hang from his neck. He shook his head. He stood, went into the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator. Getting out a can of beer, he snapped it open, drank from the can, and then scowled at his partner.

Veronica groaned. The Puerto Rican boy had her on all fours, licking her ass. She kept trying to turn around and smile, get him to talk or interact with her, but he wanted none of it. He held her hips in his hands and kept his chin buried in her bottom. Every so often his tongue would touch some secret chord and she would groan, arch her eyebrows up, and her mouth would form a soundless little round circle. She would squirm like this for a bit and then catch herself, try to compose her face, put on that fabulous smile again. She would twist around and try to get the boy to relent. But it was no use. He held her hips fast, relentlessly perusing his needs. She looked at Joe once, shame etched across her face. And then she bit her lip and groaned, the boy's tongue spurring her to new heights. Soon she gave up trying to resist and just buried her head in her arms, her bottom high in the air, the boy using her tight little hole. 

"She going to fuck some black men tonight," Donnell whispered. 

He laughed to himself and went back to the paperwork. He had fine facial features, long slender fingers. He looked like a girl. The first time they met, Joe found him out in his garage, getting a blowjob from the sitter. She was an attractive girl, a neighborhood kid from Saint Barnaby's. Joe watched Donnell finish, then threw him out. He raced from the garage, ignoring his girl. His cum was in her hair, on her chest. He left her in the garage, left her on her knees. 

He left her with Joe.

Cutter took his seat, setting two unopened cans of beer on the table. Donnell reached for one. Snapped it open. Cutter put the lid on his bin of powder. Taking a long draught from his own can, he watched the girl. 

The Puerto Rican boy rose on his knees and slapped Veronica's rear. 

She rolled onto her back, looking relieved to be finished with the rimming. Eager to be on her back. If her earlier smiles had been pretense, the passion in her face looked genuine now. She lay with her legs open, making tiny rolling motions with her hips. His tongue had started her engine and now she wanted to race.

The boy stood and stripped, revealing a muscular body. He looked magnificent. He was hairless. He had even shaved between his legs which made his already large cock look massive. 

He knelt between her thighs and rubbed himself on her. Veronica opened her legs and he mounted her, settling into an athletic rhythm. Raising her head, Veronica wrapped her arms around his neck. She looked between their bodies and watched as he speared her again and again. 

Cutter looked at Joe evenly and sipped his beer. 

"She fucking black men now," he said. 

Joe smiled. It was easier to remain professional when the girl was enjoying herself. He looked at the unopened can of beer, knew it was meant for him, but he didn't reach for it. 

It was easy to imagine how Veronica's desire to sleep with a black man could produce such anxiety for her. Her father was an intolerant man. He once asked Joe to help him drain his swimming pool because a young black girl had accidently fallen into it during one of the cheerleader parties. Joe couldn't imagine it. Had she bled? Thrown up? It didn't make sense. "Why drain it?" Joe asked. Maynor just stood silently, watching the crystal blue pool water wash into the gutter. Finally Joe asked about the cost. The fire department would have to come all the way out to the house to refill it. "Damn expensive," Maynor sighed. 

It crossed Joe's mind that this might all be an elaborate ploy. Perhaps Veronica orchestrated the whole thing to allow herself the opportunity to sleep with a black man. She was the girl who had everything, but maybe she didn't have the courage to ask one of her classmates for sex. Or maybe she didn't think of herself as the kind of girl who could date black guys. With her dad the way he was, maybe she felt guilty. Maybe unconsciously she needed a way to compensate for his narrow-mindedness. Growing up in his house had instilled this fantasy in her. To feel whole, she needed to fuck a black guy. But because she was Maynor's little girl, she couldn't just fuck a black guy. Someone had to force her. She wanted that black cock, but to enjoy it, she needed someone to shove it down her pretty little throat. 

Cutter was looking at him again. Waiting for a response. 

"Girl wants to fuck black men," Joe said. He paused, not sure where he was going with it. Cutter watched him. Waited. 

"You're black," Joe said. 

Cutter narrowed his eyes. The silence in the room was deafening. 

Donnell looked up, half astonished. Half amused. 

"Maybe you should give her what she wants," Joe said. 

Cutter snorted. He shook his head. He wore a look that was hard to read. Half smile, half frown. He wanted whatever he wanted, but he didn't want permission. Certainly not Joe's.

Veronica made a high pitched sound that clearly meant lust. The boy slapped her haunches, the way you might show affection to a big dog. He moved her legs over his shoulders. Veronica mewled, tried to move out of the position, but the boy held her legs in place and grinned.

"She likes it," Donnell said.

"She does," Joe said. No point denying that. The boy resumed his strokes, and Veronica whimpered, her legs draped over his shoulders. Her small breasts and the fleshy parts of her thighs wobbled with each of his strokes. He rode her hard. 

Joe took a deep breath. "Let's hope she continues to like it," he said. 

There was warning in his voice. He hadn't known he was going to say it that way until it came out of his mouth. Now it was too late to call back. Looking at Donnell, he grinned to deflect the menace in his words a bit. 

Donnell snorted, a thin smile creasing his face. He sat back in his chair, an irritable look on his face. "Do we have a problem?" he asked. 

Cutter reached for a backpack at his feet. Pulling it into his lap, he opened the main compartment, and reached inside. 

Joe felt all the blood rush to his head where it throbbed uncomfortably in his ears. 

"No problem," he said. He kept an eye on Cutter, the hand in the backpack. Nodding to the pile of drugs Veronica left on the table, Joe said, "Just business." 

Veronica groaned huskily from the other room. The boy held her legs tight to his chest, relentlessly pumping his hips. She spread her arms wide, as if she were being crucified. Her head pitched from side to side and she cooed.

"Dirty business," Joe smiled. 

Donnell glanced at Cutter, then returned his attention to the paperwork. Cutter put the backpack on the floor. He opened the last can of beer, making a loud snap. Settling into his chair, he watched the girl. 

The boy put his hands behind her knees and pushed her legs to her chest, rolling her into the shape of an egg. Veronica looked mystified, but allowed him to have his way. Keeping his cock buried inside her, he made small jerky movements with his hips. 

First he glanced at his friend on the couch. Then he looked into the other room. Soon he stopped moving his hips. He grinned, still squatting over her. 

He exhaled. 

His eyelids fluttered down, and the muscles in his haunches flexed.

For a beat, he held himself perfectly still. 

And then he pulled himself from her, but kept her knees pressed against her chest. He said something to the boy on the couch in Spanish. 

They both laughed. 

The boy wearing the hat told Veronica that his partner had four children to three different women. The Puerto Rican boy smirked. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two, twenty-four. He told Veronica he wanted a fifth child, a boy. 

Veronica's face suddenly crumbled with the realization that he'd come inside her. And he was holding her legs up to make certain he impregnated her. With a startled cry, she twisted her legs free from his hands. 

Joe's cock throbbed and he no longer felt compelled to hide it. The little girl he once knew was gone. She'd transformed herself from a playful teenager experimenting with sex in her daddy's backyard, to a young woman, with real appetites, getting fucked on a mattress in Hoover Homes. She dated Chet Morris, the same boy she'd been dating for years. He was an All American quarterback, and she was the homecoming queen. Those two were a storybook couple in Carnal. How shocking then to see her like this—used by a pair of . . . thugs.

Joe settled back into his chair. Rubbing his chin with his hand, he felt the weight of his cock between his legs. Who was he to judge? She was just a stupid kid, in over her head. His own lack of good judgment in his teens and his twenties had driven him, the same way this girl's needs were driving her now. 

The Puerto Rican boy grabbed his penis. It was soft, but still rather large. 

"Potente," he said, in his thick accent. 

Veronica lay on her side and shook her head in dismay. The boy laughed. He reached between her legs and then brought his finger to her mouth. She rolled her eyes. She was sweaty. Wet. She grudgingly laughed and then lowered her eyes. 

Taking his finger in her mouth, she licked it clean. 

With a loud scrape, Cutter pushed his chair back. Pulling the surgical mask from around his neck, he stood, then tilted the back of his chair against the table. "I'm gonna take a break," Cutter said, his eyes on Veronica. 

"Nobody sit here." Cutter said. He pointedly looked at Joe, then moved off toward the adjoining room. Donnell grinned and glanced at Joe, but Joe wasn't much interested in Donnell. Cutter was the problem. He'd been goaded by Donnell and seemed capable of almost anything. For some reason, Veronica's interest in black men made Cutter furious. In a situation like this, if anything bad could happen, it probably would. 

Joe sat up in his seat. 

The backpack sat on the floor, on the other side of the table. 

"Child, child, child" Cutter said, making his way toward the girl.

He stood at the edge of the mattress and spoke softly, honey in his voice. His body squat and hard, his skin so black it shone in the dim light. Veronica gazed up at him, plainly intimidated. "You," he whispered, lowering the timber of his voice seductively, "are the most amazing girl." Veronica scrambled to her knees to face the big man. She hugged her arms across her chest, searching his face. 

"Such gorgeous eyes, such pretty hair. . ." Cutter cooed. 

He had so many tattoos. A scar or welt of some sort ran down the triceps on his left arm. Hardscrabble and rough, he was the complete opposite of Veronica, young and sweet, her skin unblemished, her body a pale picture of perfection.

He kept his voice soft so that Veronica had to remain focused to hear him. She knelt before him, her hands resting in her lap, her head titled up. She wore a look of mild astonishment on her face. For a brief moment, Joe pictured her as one of the Catholic school girls from Saint Barnaby's, lined up on their knees at the front of church, waiting for the priest to lay the little wafer on their tongues. It did seem like a spiritual moment. It had the appearance of something higher. Maybe she was just frightened, her look of reverence a way of begging for safe passage through the wastelands she knew she had to travel tonight. She was negotiating with him to lead her, to guide her. She was placing all her hope and trust in him. 

The Puerto Rican boy chuckled, breaking the spell. 

Cutter's face suddenly turned hard. Violent. Turning to face the boy, Cutter barked: "What funny?" The lieutenant hung his head, quickly pulling on his pants.

Cutter collected himself. Looking back at Veronica, he softened his face. 

"You the whitest white girl I ever seen." Cutter laughed. 

Bowing her head, Veronica's cheeks flushed. She was brimming with privilege, affluence, and opportunity. All the good things her father could give her. All the good things this world had to offer. "Can I touch your hair?" Cutter asked. He rubbed the fingertips of one hand together, waiting for her permission. 

Veronica nodded and scrambled forward on her knees to give him better access to her head. Moving too fast, she fell and had to use his thighs to steady herself. She gazed up into his face, running her fingers along his shorts. Cutter gathered her hair in one hand, then allowed the backs of his fingers to brush her cheek. 

An animal growl came from somewhere low in his throat. 

Veronica's eyes widened in fear, followed almost immediately by a look of embarrassment and shame. When Cutter saw her reaction, his face went solemn. "Help me," he whispered, his voice urgent. "I need your help."

Veronica swallowed hard. 

Letting go of her hair, Cutter reached inside his shorts. A large round knob appeared, tenting his basketball pants. He kept his hand inside his waistband and that knob traveled along the inside of his leg, across the front of his shorts, like a shark fin closing fast. Tugging his waistband out, he swung his cock out. 

His dick was huge. 

It was so black it was almost purple, a thick vein running down its length. He held it in his fist. A shock of nappy hair rose from his groin like a tornado. Cutter raised his t-shirt with one hand, exposing the low bulge of his tummy and his dark navel.  

He stroked his fat, dark cock. "Help me, baby," he cooed.

Veronica glanced at Joe, an intense look on her face that was hard to decipher. Fear. Guilt. Probably. But it seemed like more was in play than just Veronica giving herself to a black man. The boys were her age, Cutter was a man. He seemed to understand what she needed from him. He kept his eyes on her, patiently waiting for her to get her emotions under control. 




A Wicked Summer for Carnal Girls Ch. 04



She took him in both her hands, the stark difference in their skin color riveting. Her hands seemed tiny, doll-like, the chipped red paint on her nails a highlight against his dark meat. She rubbed him against her cheek, smiling up at him. 

She kissed the big dusky head. 

Cutter grinned, offering her a soft growl. Veronica shook her long hair, a look of resolve on her face. Lowering her head, she put the tip of his cock in her mouth. She couldn't get it all in. She didn't even try. She settled onto her haunches. Both her hands jacked his long black length, with only the head in her mouth. She cast her eyes up at him, watching him as she stroked his meat. 

It was quite a sight. The fear was gone from her eyes, replaced now by a look of intense determination. And then it was clear. It didn't come in words as much as a flood of understanding. Cutter was every little black girl her father had ever humiliated. Cutter was every man of color her father refused to look in the eye. She was making amends for every slight she had ever witnessed. It was her obligation. Her duty. And she meant to pay for it all, right now, with her mouth. Cutter would get his due. 

Joe squirmed in his chair, his erection throbbing in his pants. He couldn't do much about her eagerness to give herself up, but his own complicity made him feel uncomfortable. Maynor had helped Joe into rehab. When he got out, Maynor had given him a loan to start a legitimate business. Maynor used his influence time and time again to keep him afloat, make the business thrive. And now all he could do was sit here watching as Maynor's precious little girl sucked a black man's dick. 

With a noisy pop, Veronica pulled Cutter's penis from her mouth. Her eyes were wide and bright. His big black rod jutted from his groin, like the branch of a mighty oak. Using the flat of her tongue, she licked his shaft. She wet him front to back, closing her eyes and taking as much of his slick length into her mouth as she could. 

She bobbed her head. 

Ignoring his paperwork, Donnell stared into the other room. Joe didn't know where to put his eyes. He flipped through the forms. Soon he heard the soft slobbering noises and Cutter coo his praise. Joe had to adjust his pants to accommodate the painful erection throbbing between his legs. It was foolish to sit here, like a prude, while the rest of the room watched. It might very well be dangerous. To protect the girl, he had to act like he didn't care. He had to watch them disgrace her. It was his obligation. 

Joe slowly turned his head.

Veronica held Cutter's nuts with one hand. She used the other hand to slowly jack the length of him toward her mouth. It was as if she were feeding herself, methodically nourishing herself through his cock. Cutter watched her work, a satisfied look on his face, and then he glanced up and his expression went cold. 

One of the boys held a phone in his hand and was pointing it right at Cutter. 

"The fuck," Cutter said. He placed his hand on the girl's forehead, popping his cock out of her mouth. The boy sat grinning on the couch, holding his phone out in front of him. 

Veronica knelt back on her haunches, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her gesture reminded Joe of that day on the lake, her fourteenth birthday party. In some ways she was still just a baby, fighting to hold her own in the circles of men.

"Video?" Cutter growled. "Who said you could do video?" 

He snatched the phone from the boy with lightening quick move. 

Joe imagined video surfacing with him in the background, unable to tear his eyes off Veronica. Reviewing his behavior from the last few minutes, he recalled needing to adjust his pants. Had he touched his cock? Jesus. 

Veronica must have been thinking along the same lines. She curled in on herself, trying to hide her nakedness as best she could. Her face looked stricken, as if she might suddenly burst into tears. She searched the room with her eyes, finally settling on Joe.

He kept his face even. The night was still early and there was only so much that could be done. She might have to learn to live in a world that contained x rated footage of herself, sucking Cutter's cock. 

"I didn't get your face," the boy said to Cutter. "It's cool."

Cutter frowned. "No, it's not cool," he said, working with the phone. 

"My wife can recognize my penis," Cutter mumbled. "Bitch's crazy." 

Looking up, he laughed at his own stark appraisal of his wife. 

"Get up off that couch," Cutter snapped. 

Tossing the phone over his shoulder, he glared at the boy. The phone clattered to the floor on the other side of the room. The boy winced and scampered to retrieve it. 

Veronica rose on her knees, fussing with her hair. She looked relieved. Grateful. She threw out her chest, raising her breasts. Her nipples were hard brown nubs. She gazed at Cutter with obvious need. Something can happen to your mind when you're in a dire position and someone helps you out. A sense of gratitude can rise up inside of you unlike anything else you might have ever known before. It takes over, instilling a kind of fanatical loyalty, a willingness to do just about anything for the person who kept you from harm. Joe knew the feeling well. A long time ago he tried to cheat Maynor in a land deal. Before consummating the deal, Maynor saw through the fraud. But instead of going to the police, he helped Joe get into treatment. 

Veronica primped herself. 

Joe felt a perverse mixture of excitement and dread. 

Cutter settled onto the couch. He slipped off his shorts, opening his legs wide. His cock lewdly swayed in his lap. He looked at Veronica and patted his hand on his thigh, an unspoken command. And then he smiled. If his scowls were threatening, it was amazing how inviting his face looked when he smiled. 

He could make you feel like you belonged. Like you mattered. 

Veronica grinned. 

He patted himself again, calling her like a dog. His smile was gone. 

Veronica darted over to him on her hands and knees. Saved from certain ruin, she was his grateful little bitch tonight. Taking his fat cock in her hand, she lowered her head, licking the underside of his shaft. Her silky hair spilled across his thighs. 

Cutter watched her work. He glanced toward Donnell. 

"Lower," Cutter said in a husky voice. 

She looked at him, looked at his cock. She tentatively touched her tongue to his balls. Holding his shaft in his hand, she filled her mouth with his sack.

He made a satisfied hum. "Lower," he said. 

She raised her head. Her lips a tight line, her face pinched. 

She swallowed. 

He splayed his legs wider, moving his bottom to the very edge of the couch. She held his glistening dick in one hand.

"Come on," he said. "You know what I want."

Veronica looked over her shoulder at Joe. She looked a little sheepish. A little excited. 

"Don't look at him," Cutter said.

Veronica cut her eyes away, grinning with embarrassment. Cutter was her hero, she was his pet. He needed a hero's reward. Tilting her head to the side, she scooted her body down low, so low her long hair touched the floor. She hesitated for a brief second, and then thrust face between the big man's legs. His balls rested on her cheek, the highlights in her hair shone and danced as she nuzzled her head between his legs. 

Cutter smiled. He looked right at Joe. 

The girl pushed her head into his bottom. Cutter made a satisfied noise, a look of contentment on his face. He made a slow rolling motion with his hips, riding that young pink tongue buried deep in his ass. 

Joe grinned. He shook his head. 

Cutter was turning this into a show of dominance, and it was, of course, a show he needed to win. It was unfortunate that Veronica had looked at Joe to boost her courage. It was unfortunate that Cutter had noticed her look. But the situation wasn't untenable. Not yet. Cutter just needed to show he was her daddy, that she was his little trick. 

The real problem was the girl. She was a goddamn freak tonight.

"I lied," Donnell said. 

He shoved the paperwork towards Joe. 

Joe narrowed his eyes. He scrutinized the paperwork. Donnell's large loopy signature appeared in a dozen different places. It all looked in perfect order. Joe raised his brow.

"That's not what she whispered to me," Donnell said. 

Rising in his chair, Joe grinned. He started signing his name. Fifteen minutes and he could be out of here. It didn't matter what the girl had whispered to Donnell. She had given herself to Cutter. He would protect her for the rest of the night.

"I only said it," Donnell said, "to inspire Cutter." 

Joe fished the keys to the property from his pocket. Tossed them on the table.

Veronica raised her head. Her cheeks were flush with the heat from between Cutter's legs. Her ears and face went bright red. She said something to Cutter but it was too low to catch. 

Touching her lips with her finger, she drew it across her mouth. 

Cutter rose from the couch, his cock dipping crazily in front of him. Veronica sat back on her heels. She tilted her head up, shook the hair from her face, and then waited.

Joe could feel a dull ache in his balls. He needed to ejaculate. Molly was in bed, fast asleep by now. He could go into the bathroom and masturbate. Or he could save it. Go home and wake up Molly. Maynor's kid had cocked the gun. Molly could pull the trigger.

"Close your mouth, child," Cutter said, his voice husky. He slowly stroked his cock. Veronica licked her lips. Closed her eyes and smiled. 

Cutter pulled his fist to the base of his cock. He froze for a minute, with his dick sticking straight out before him, his ass and abdomen clenched. And then he groaned, his cock spitting milky white cum onto Veronica's chin. Another glop followed, landing on her forehead, a long white tail streaming back into her silky hair. More landed on her cheek, some pooled in her eyes. 

"Don't open your eyes," Cutter chuckled. 

He groaned and continued to pump his cock, his big palm cupping Veronica's head. She mewled, squirming on her knees. 

Joe turned to Donnell. 

"She doesn't seem to mind too much," Joe said. 

Donnell raised his finger. He nodded to the other room. 

Joe put the paperwork into his case. 

Veronica's face was a sticky mess. Cutter wrapped his cock in her long silky hair. When she realized he was using her hair to dry his cock, she grinned and pummeled his thick thighs in mock protest. 

"Hold on," Cutter said. "We got to clean you up now." 

She knelt at his feet with her eyes closed, his cum cooling on her face. He made no move for towel or sheet. He simply stood by the girl, his cock in his hand. A slow smile spread across his face. A cold stone of dread fell into Joe's chest. 

Joe looked at Donnell. 

Donnell nodded to the other room. 

Cutter pissed on her. He directed the stream across her tits. Veronica rose on her knees, pulling her shoulders back. A look of shock and horror on her face, her mouth dropping open. Cutter raised the stream to her face. Coughing and choking, she closed her mouth and raised her arms. "Hold up, hold up" Cutter said, irritated. 

He stopped pissing and held his cock in his hand. 

Veronica spat, but nothing came out. Her open hands floated on either side of her face. She gasped and made a low keening noise, her eyes still covered with semen. Mewling pitifully, her shoulders heaved. She spat again. Again nothing came out. She tried to clear her eyes, but Cutter wouldn't allow it, batting her hands away.

"I'm clean you up, girl," Cutter said, his voice hard. 

He grinned to the boys. 

Veronica lowered her hands. It wasn't clear how she would handle this torment. She went to all fours until she could control her coughing. And then she silently returned to a kneeling position, head down. Rising on her knees, she leaned forward, presenting her messy face. 

Cutter praised her warmly. 

He stood, waiting for the stream to resume. She knelt silently. Her shoulders trembled once. A clock ticked somewhere. Cutter joked about the amount of semen on her face. He joked that he might have to drink more beer. 

When he finally started to piss again, it was a relief. 

Joe's cock was hard, but this time not for the girl. It was the adrenaline rush that comes with danger. If anything bad could happen, it would.

Cutter hosed her pretty face. 

"You know what she told me?" Donnell said, his voice only loud enough for Joe to hear. "She said she gave her boyfriend a black girl," Donnell said. 

He kept his eyes on Cutter, his voice flat. 

Joe swallowed. It had been in all the papers. A girl that was new in town went to a house party where most of the football team gangbanged her. It happened a few years ago. 

Veronica's name was in all the papers. 

It was her party.

She invited the new girl, a cute little colored girl.

"Veronica did not tell you that," Joe said. He laughed, trying to hide his discomfort. He sat back in the chair. 

Donnell looked at him coldly. 

"She was never indicted," Joe said. 

Donnell shook his head. He laughed. 

Joe looked away. 

Cutter stopped pissing and Veronica sat back on her heels. Her bangs were wet. She used the heel of her hand to mop her eyes. She knelt in a puddle on the floor. Pursing her lips, she looked up at Cutter, this black priest she had picked to guide her through this no man's land. Her eyes were red ringed. Wet. 

"We got to clean up that tongue," Cutter said. 

He stepped to her face, his cock in his hand. 

Without a word, she opened her mouth, extending her tongue. 

Cutter planted his feet on either side of her knees. 

A moment passed. 

He unleashed a torrent of piss. It stopped almost as soon as it began but Veronica didn't move her head. She didn't withdraw her tongue. 

"She told me she gave her boyfriend a black girl," Donnell said. "She say she need to get herself some black sugar tonight."

Shifting his weight on his feet, Cutter sighed softly. 

He began pissing again. The stream grew in intensity, aimed right at the girl's extended tongue. It splashed out of her open mouth, running in rivulets off her chin. 

Looking at Joe, Cutter grinned. He laughed softly, his chest rising and falling, the stream splashing on the girl's upturned face. 

"And she will," Donnell said, "Tonight she get some."

He picked up his house keys and squeezed his fist. Sliding back in his seat, Donnell grabbed between his legs. "She get some black sugar feast tonight," he said.

 

Chapter 3

Her aunt had him cornered in the basement at Saint Barnaby's. She wanted his help finding a job for her niece, a new arrival to Carnal. The girl stood by the coffee urns, toying with her hair and fidgeting. She wore tight jeans with ragged holes in the knees and no makeup. Her hips were narrow, her chest flat. If it weren't for her long brown hair, she'd look like a boy. Her name was Gloria Dean. She couldn't meet Joe's eyes. Afterwards, Molly said she looked needy. Joe smiled. He let her babysit. He did it to please her aunt. He did it to be a good neighbor. He came home early that night and found her out in the garage, blowing Donnell. 

This is what happens to needy girls. 

Joe didn't want the boy in the house. He didn't want Molly to know how he'd found Gloria. He put real menace in his voice, but kept it low. Hissing. 

Donnell left in a hurry. 

Joe helped Gloria clean herself up. He drove her home, watching her out the corner of his eye. Her vulnerability made her seem more attractive. When he stopped at the bank, he couldn't help himself. He gave her money and put his hand on her thigh. A blush rose in her cheeks. He praised her body, then teased her for dating a black guy. Looking out the window, she opened her legs. He slipped his hand into her panties and found her wet. Hungry. She rode his hand, making soft little grunts until the windows fogged up. She worked her hips until she made herself come. 

He waited for her to stop squeezing her thighs then pulled his sticky hand from her pants. Sitting back in his seat, he opened his fly and took out his cock. Her eyes got wide. She said something about her boyfriend. He smiled at her, his fat cock in his fist. He told her it wouldn't take long. She looked like she might cry. 

To boost her confidence, he praised her. He cooed encouragements. She looked into his lap, then glanced out the foggy windows. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she put her knee on the seat. She said she thought this was fucked up, but she didn't say if she meant fucked up for the act she was about to perform, or fucked up for him to have asked. It really didn't matter. He grinned and she lowered her head into his lap. Her warm mouth covered his cock and he came. He didn't bother to warn her. He already knew she swallowed. He'd just watched her swallow her boyfriend's cum. 

He petted her head until he finished ejaculating. He didn't feel guilty. 

This is what happens to needy girls. 

At her at her aunt's house, she opened her door and the overhead light glowed. He fished money from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She paused, staring at his hand. She started to say something, to decline his gesture, but he leaned over and tucked the bills into the waist of her pants. She lowered her head and smiled. 

She thanked him, her eyes meeting his, and then she slammed the door and bounded across her aunt's front lawn. At the front door, she turned. 

She waved. 

And then she was gone, the honeyed fragrance of her pussy still hanging in the air. 

That was earlier this summer. 

This was now. 

Veronica came out of the bathroom, her face freshly scrubbed. 

She was alone in the room with the mattress and the boy she had smacked. She stood nude, hugging her arms across her chest, searching the rooms with her eyes. She found Cutter whispering with Donnell and gazed at him with undisguised longing. 

It was hard to watch her look at Cutter that way.

She should have been furious with him. Or maybe terrified of him. Instead she just stood there, looking lost and holding herself, waiting for him to notice her. She seemed willing to forgive him all he had done for just a few more minutes of his attention. 

The lieutenant grinned at her from the couch, his gold cap gleaming. 

He came for her. He put his arm around her shoulders and walked her toward the mattress. Veronica craned her neck, trying to catch Cutter's eye. He wouldn't look at her. Maybe he knew the power he had over her and was withholding his attention to abuse her further. Or maybe he didn't know. Maybe he just didn't give a fuck. Maybe he'd already moved on. He'd used her and now he was done with her. It was someone else's turn. Cutter sidled up to Donnell the way good friends often do. When Cutter turned his back to whisper something to his friend, Veronica sighed—a soft, disappointed moan. Her mouth fell open, and she touched her face, looking distraught. Joe fought a sudden wave of nausea. 

He felt small, insignificant. Weak.

She needed him more now than ever before, but he wanted to leave. This wasn't his concern. He wanted his money. He wanted to go. 

Cutter was an animal, she was a whore. His whore. 

She stood by the mattress with the boy. He was explaining something to her.

He grinned, his gold cap gleaming in his mouth as he spoke. She looked at him dully, as if she couldn't understand any of the words coming from his mouth. And then he showed her a tube of something he was holding in his hand and her expression suddenly changed. She looked away, slumping her shoulders in defeat. 

The boy wanted her ass.

Veronica looked toward Cutter and Donnell, her eyes wide with alarm. Cutter ignored her. If Donnell noticed her distress, he didn't show it. He laughed at something Cutter told him. Veronica hung her head.