Against her singing ear he groaned gratefully in his throat, and from her own still-childish lips came quick little cries of gasping gratification.
At last, hot and damp and panting, he'd finished with her, and Maryon was left breathlessly beneath him to experience the tender tantalizing tortures of mutual tabescence.
They lay there, breathing deeply and slowly, as if asleep.
And then dry sobs for an ache of something irretrievably lost, began to consume her and, wine well washed out of her wits, she shudderingly drew herself out from under his uncaring, uncomplaining bulk and ran, naked, hands clapped to her ravished reddened cleft, to the bathroom where, locking herself in, she jumped into the shower, tearing the remnants of her clothes from her and mingling her frightened tears with the running water as she scrubbed demonically at herself.
When, eons later, she plucked up innocent courage to return to the living room, she found bottle, paper, boxes… all traces of Jim gone. The couch had been wiped clean of whatever might have stained it, and the glasses, rinsed, returned to the kitchen.
She picked up the dress and one shoe, got the other and the stockings from the bathroom and restored them to Lois' room, pulled on a sweater and jeans and went out to hide the harem-thing at the bottom of the garbage can.
In her room again, she stamped and hammered on the Sound Of Music with her shoe, then took the remains of that, too, out into the trash can.
FOURTEEN YEARS OLD
Maryon approached initiation time next year with mixed feelings. She knew, vaguely, that she would be humiliated and degraded upon her entrance to the 'underground' 'Bare-Stud-Cat' society but she was at the mental and physical stage where she just didn't care.
Jim Harris had never shown up again, giving the quarrel with her mother as the excuse, though Lois, despairingly, put herself down and pleaded with him to come back and give her another chance. Since then Lois had taken to going out at least four nights a week to the neighborhood bars, deeming Maryon old enough not to need a babysitter. Karen seemed more and more to be engaged in mysterious, lonely projects of her own so, when Sylvia Matherly, condescending to her fourteen years from her sixteen, took her aside one day at break and asked her if she wanted to join the clandestine club, she shrugged and said yes.
The 'Bare-Stud-Cats', it was rumored in wondering whispers, were about twenty of the most rebellious of the Wingering Experimental School for Boys, with perhaps a dozen of the more daring of the otherwise straightlaced St. Joan's older girls as a kind of unladies' auxiliary. Disclosure of what went on at their highly unauthorized random-selected and timed 'come-togethers' was peculiarly and painfully punished, it was said. Whatever the reason, none but the members knew how and where they spent their time, and it was considered a dubious honor to be asked to join.
Maryon had received her instructions on a read-and-eat section of (unused!) toilet-paper. She was to come alone, at seven of a Friday evening, to the small gym of the Wingering school, telling no one of her impending visit. She was to wear – the instructions precisely spelled it out – gym costume under a raincoat, no bra, no panties, rubber-soled boots.
With a quick, sure look behind and around her to see she'd not been followed and that there were none to observe her illicit entry in the place, Maryon carefully closed the gate behind her and walked swiftly and noiselessly in her boots to the gym door. The tiny foyer was dark, someone had removed the bulb. But as she stood there in the blackness she heard someone move, someone who knew where she was standing, oriented to her by her silhouette as she'd come through the door. With no word of explanation or introduction, a pair of hands touched her body, then ran up to her face. Something was placed over it and she almost panicked until she realized that some kind of mask, with no eye-holes, but curved and fitted to leave her nose and lips free, was being adjusted with straps that went over her head and beneath her ears. As soon as it was in place, she heard a light click on, a last tug was given to the straps, then hands ran lightly over her body, unbelting and unbuttoning the white trench coat she wore and sliding it from her unprotesting shoulders before patting her to check, presumably, that she'd perfectly obeyed the orders she'd been given.
She knew what they… he… she…? could see, her blonde hair cut short so that golden curls hugged her cheeks, framing her clear, clean, creamy complexion, slightly turned-up nose, and lips that insisted on remaining over-full and childish despite her experimentation with lipsticks… a firm, rounded chin and a rather long, slim neck that was now circled by the polo-neck of her white, cotton-and-wool, long-sleeved rib-wristed, tight-fitting gym sweater. Hugging her every contour, stretched like a second skin over her firm, high-held, berry-tipped grapefruit of breasts, the single garment swept down along her flanks, showing the subtle indentations and rises of her ribs, before being cut off from view just above the hollow of her navel and the lean thrusts of her hips by the elastic-topped brief blue synthetic-silk of her shorts that, with brown piping at sides down to the three-inch slits there, nestled high-legged into her crotch and smoothed themselves over her out-curved cheeks as unwrinkled and conforming to their swelling pressure as the fabric sheathing the globe of a hot-air balloon.
But, effectively blinded herself, she could see nothing, not even the hint of light beyond the mask, and so let herself be led forward, not without some inner apprehension which she did her best to conceal from whatever audience was around her. From memory of a couple of previous visits she knew she was being led, by a hot hand at her elbow, into the gym proper, and as she carefully negotiated the short flight of steps which went down to the planked wooden floor, she recalled the set-up.
Directly across from her as she entered the low door, some thirty feet or so, was a wall banked by wall-bars. Against the walls at left and right would be, respectively, a variable height wooden box-horse and a four-legged, leather-cylindered horse with a pair of vaulting handles, and a set of parallel bars and a pile of rubber mats. Four pairs of ropes would be hanging down from the beamed ceiling, and across the width of the gym, halfway down its length to her left, would be the bar, perhaps lowered, perhaps hauled up out of the way. Against the walls immediately to left and right of the entrance door were stacks of low benches, not much used for exercise, but forming a convenient set of bleachers for whoever was not performing on the apparatus. As she came into the small, lofty hall she felt the presence of people in those bleachers… a short, nervous laugh here, a couple of words in a subdued tone there… an air of inhabitance everywhere. A boy's voice at her ear told her to obey exactly whatever order she received, told her to turn about to face her peers, told her she stood in the exact center of the gym, told her to answer truthfully.
Maryon, her pulse beating rapidly, nodded her head to show she understood, and stood patiently replying to the catechism put to her… her age… her statistics (five-one, ninety-five, thirty-four, twenty-two, thirty-one)… the state of her virginity (no questions asked as to its loss) her general knowledge of the Bare-Stud-Cats purpose…
Then began the ordeal of initiation. First she was asked to show them the soles of her boots, which she did. The ridged rubber soles belonged to the only boots she possessed, shiny black fur-lined leather that fitted snugly to just below her knees without benefit of zipper, the tops turned back down a couple of inches to disclose a thick band of fluffy white. Her choice appeared satisfactory and the lone mysterious voice, also a boy's, told her to climb the ropes that would be put into her hand. Running the two lengths over and around one foot and clamping down with the other, Maryon pulled herself up until she was told to stop, judging she was a couple of body-heights from the floor. Here she was told to reverse herself and, feeling odd in her blindness and somewhat disoriented, she released her feet from the ropes and, taking a firm grip with her hands, swung her body up and over until she hung head downward, her booted feet once again wrapped around separately by the ropes. A command ordered her to slowly descend and, the blood rushing to her head, she slid down until told to stop again. Without warning she felt hands on her body and someone inserted his fingers into her shorts, gripped the edge of her sweater, and pulled it down so that her breasts swung free, nakedly hanging out from her as she hung there. The sweater was deftly rolled until it formed a tight band under her arms and then the hands moved caressingly up her belly to her shorts and under them, so that she quivered to the touch of fingers on her cunt under the tight silk.