"That's it, sweetheart, I'm reading you," he murmured.
She could do it! It had always been only a secret wish, something you giggled about with other girls, pretending that it was a big joke, all the while you were dying to be able to do it to a man. Before, it seemed to her to be something that only whores could or should do, but now she gloried in the grasping hungry convulsions of her body.
"Now it deserves to be called a snatch," Harl said, straining into her.
The cloven lips of her pussy squeezed around the base of his long cock as the muscles of her thighs rolled against his naked legs. It became automatic now, and she no longer had to think about doing it. Her vagina fluttered faster and faster around the big dick that was crammed into it, sucking it off like an expert mouth.
Harl was moaning, his eyes closed in ecstasy and his hips beginning to pump up and down as she drained him of the cum that spurted from his imprisoned cock. He grimaced, shuddering. She heard the sound of his teeth, and then he was still and heavy on top of her.
He sighed raggedly, close to her ear. "Jesus… my nuts ache like a sore tooth."
After a moment he flattened his palms on the floor and rose slowly to his knees.
"You got it all that time. Bone dry, if you'll pardon the expression."
He stood up and zipped his pants, pressed a hand into the small of his back and rubbed, shaking his head.
"I'll drop by again," he grinned. "When do you start work – Monday?"
She nodded, moving once again with automatic courtesy to the door. Always see your guests out… She felt detached, as though she were two women; one a little girl back home listening to her mother, and the other a near-naked wanton who had done a whore's job on the floor. She deliberately turned and walked back to the living room as he let himself out and closed the door behind him. The instinct to walk to the door was as strong as her animal instinct to screw him had been at the moment he first walked in.
She walked to the mirror and looked at herself in silent wonder. Tousled hair, flushed face, thighs glistening with his cum and her own. Whore… whore in a garter belt. If only she were naked! But no, she was worse than naked with this black twisted snake slung around her hips. There was something vile about a black garter belt, no matter how much pretty lace was sewn on it, no matter how many satin rosebuds dotted its diaphanous material. Girls in peep shows, girls in dirty magazines – all wore garter belts, black stockings and high heels. The trademarks of a whore.
She cried out in panic as she saw the girl in the poster in the mirror's reflection. It was as if the silent smiling temptress were standing over her shoulder. She whirled and stared directly at it, blinking dizzily.
Had the lips quirked in that mocking smile? Had the eyes narrowed a little since the last time she looked at it? When had that been? When she was on the mattress with Harl, the first time. She had looked over his shoulder and thought she saw the eyes in the poster following her.
"Ginny," she whispered, gazing at the windswept swirls of green hair. Suddenly she knew that the girl in the poster was Ginny. Somehow, somewhere; Ginny had posed for the lithograph. It was her face, her cruel, mocking eyes, her innocent yet depraved rosebud mouth. It was Ginny, and she was laughing at her!
"No, it can't be!" she whispered. Her voice was a papery rasp in the room. "I'm being silly."
Humiliation flooded her and demanded purification. A bath… she would take a bath and wash the sperm off her legs, the smell of male sweat from her skin. Suddenly it smelled hideous to her, clinging to her like grave clothes.
She ran into the bathroom, fumbling for the unfamiliar locations of light switch and faucets as she ran a hot tub. She tore off the garter belt, ripping the stockings as she yanked them down her legs, not bothering to unhook them. She threw the obscene harness into a corner and stood completely naked, shielding herself with her arms and moving one thigh across her golden-haired crotch.
Hunched and starting to cry, she asked herself why. Why had she done such a thing? It wasn't like her! Oh, sure, she got horny sometimes – what girl didn't? She had done something about it, too, as most girls did nowadays. But there had been certain old-fashioned rules just the same, like knowing a man for a little while at least, before you balled with him. She had even higher standards; she had to be "going with" someone. As for Jim, they were engaged. He never took her to bed without telling her how much he respected her! Sometimes she hated him for that – it was no time to talk about respecting a woman! But now, she felt devoid of self-respect when she thought about Harl. Engaged to another man and she had romped on the floor with a casual neighbor – all because he had a big prick that poked up through his pants and made her hot for him.
She got into the steaming tub, recoiling at the hot water but forcing herself in a kind of punishment to sit down in it. The vapor rose around her head and her breath grew short until she felt that she would faint. Sweat poured down her face and her heart pounded in protest. She would die here… die in the tub. Faint from the seering heat and then sink down… down… down.
She put her head back on the edge of the tub and rubbed her neck tiredly to and fro on the cool, curved porcelain. The bathroom was bare, stripped of any sign of occupancy. Nothing of her own was in it yet except three new but cheap white towels she had picked up at the dime store, until her family sent her trunk to the new address. No perfume bottles, no scattering of rollers and pins, no dusting powder spilled on the floor. Nothing to show that Brenda Taylor lived here, that this was her bathroom.
Nothing but white tile…
Suddenly she thought of a morgue, of the room where they do all the awful but necessary things, the room with a drain in the middle of the cement floor.
Her mind throbbed with a hideous chant: Brenda doesn't live here… Brenda doesn't live here… Brenda doesn't live here!
She sank lower in the tub until the water touched her face, unable to stop herself from the necessary immersion of her shame. Jim. What would Jim say if he knew? Good old Jim – every mother's dream of a "good man" to marry off her daughter to. Brenda had grown sick of listening to her mother's paeans of praise to his good job, steady habits good prospects for future success. Sandy-haired and square-jawed, he belonged on a recruiting poster. So decent and straight-laced that he always apologized whenever he got hot. I'm sorry, Bren, but I'm only human.
Good, good, good! It had gotten so that the word seemed like part of his name. No one ever seemed to speak of him without adding "good" somewhere along the line. But there were some things he was not very good at, she recalled.
He got hot, that she would say for him. God, how he got hot! When she sat in his lap it was never long before he started to squirm and grow red. Soon she enjoyed tormenting and teasing him, wriggling around until her rump came in contact with his stiffly rising prick. She pretended not to know what was wrong, and he believed her! "Honey, things happen to a guy when a girl sits in his lap. I-I can feel the whole shape of you… down there. It feels damn good, too. I'm only human, honey."
She simulated wide-eyed innocence. "I'll sit harder on it and mash it down. Then it'll go away," she suggested.
"Sweetheart, it-it doesn't work that way," he laughed weakly.
One night he couldn't stand it any longer and pulled her on top of him, jiggling his hips and thrusting his imprisoned cock against her crotch. Her legs opened over his lap until her skirt split a little in the seam as she bore harder against the thick ramming rod in his pants. She could feel it swell and stretch as he got hotter for her. She groaned and yanked at her skirt until it was around her waist, leaving nothing but the transparent layer of her pantyhose between her swelling pussy and his cock. It felt as though she were straddling an iron banister. The delicious feel of such rocklike power against her tender cunt lips made her forget everything, all the games and ploys, all the secretly amusing, teasing jokes she played on him.