"Get up!" Denny commanded. "Stop making a fool of yourself with this creep!"
"I–I like him," Joyce defended, releasing his swollen shaft, trying to disguise what she'd been doing. "I'm making friends with the boy who called our father, Denny. Yesh, this here's the anonymish telephone caller. Isn't that right, Bill?"
"Correct," Bill replied, snuggling closer, ignoring Denny. "Why should your own brother have you? I want you all to myself, and that'sh why I called your dad." He feasted on her left tit.
"You both sound drunk!" Denny spat. "Get up, Joyce. Now!"
Joyce had never seen her brother this angry, and even through the alcoholic haze she knew she'd better get up fast. She tried to get up, but it was too late. Denny lunged, grabbed Bill by his shirtfront and jerked him to his feet. "Rotten bastard!" he shrieked. "You're the fink who called my old man!"
Stupidly, Bill would not be quiet. He muttered thickly, "Want your sister all to yourself, doncha? Y-You're nothin' but a goddam pervert, Denny. Nobody can fuck her but you, huh? Well, we'll see about that! Wait till I call the drunken Dr. Reardon and tell him his son wansa fuck his daughter. Yeah, I think I'll call him right now. Let go my shirt, ass hole!"
Denny took deliberate and frightening aim, then landed a right first directly to Bill's jaw. Bill staggered backwards, and fell face first into a flower bed. Screaming, Joyce jumped up and grabbed her brother's shoulder. She barely recognized him. He trembled all over and his eyes were blazing.
"He didn't mean it, Denny!" she yelled. "Please don't do this, Denny! Don't!"
Denny whirled and silenced her with a vicious backhand to the cheek. Joyce dropped to the ground, then stared up, not believing her brother had struck her. She began sobbing drunkenly and hysterically as she rubbed her face in disbelief. "How-How could you, Denny?" she cried, her chest heaving. "After our promise? After what we said to each other. W-We took a vow, Denny Reardon…"
Bill managed to struggle to his feet and now came at Denny menacingly. Sobbing, not wanting to see the outcome, Joyce fled through the big house and out the front door. Stumbling, partly from shock and partly from the vodka, she made her way along the dirt shoulder of the two-lane road in the general direction of the Reardon house. It was a long way and she was not certain of the direction, but she did not care. Denny had slapped her, humiliated her in front of everybody, and anguish and self-pity consumed her as she staggered for the safety of home.
Then, headlights approached from behind, the car turned after passing her on what appeared to be a dirt road ahead. Did it stop in a cluster of pine trees? She could not be sure. She pushed on-sobbing, tripping, wondering if maybe Bill had left the party to take her home. She hoped so. She felt quite drunk now and she knew she should not be all alone out here so far away from everyone.
CHAPTER 8
Joyce had just passed the dirt road onto which the car had turned when she sighted the hunched figure of a man, not more than ten yards away, come running directly at her. Her hands clamped over her mouth in horror and she stopped dead in her tracks frozen with fear. She wondered if this could be a nightmare or maybe a hallucination from drinking too much vodka. There was no one to help her, not a car in view, and she was alone with this approaching monster.
She nearly wet her pants as the big man grabbed her gruffly, picked her up in his powerful arms and ran back toward the cover of the trees. Kicking, screaming to no avail, terror surged through her. She had never felt so alone and helpless. She screamed louder, louder, but the man's huge hand clamped tightly over her mouth, muffling her screams for help.
"You don't want me to knock you out, do you?" the deep voice asked. Then shut up or I'll have to put you in dreamland." He emitted a hideous laugh. "Besides, I wouldn't wancha to miss any of this, little darlin' virgin cunt. Shut up!"
They exited from the cluster of pine trees then and her assailant slowed to a trot, still breathing hard but slowing as he made his way toward a battered old car that was parked up on the shoulder of this narrow, deserted side road.
They reached the car and the man let Joyce slide to her feet. He held her wrist in a viselike grip, though, as he opened the door with his free hand and hurled her onto the front seat. He climbed in after her, slamming the door.
Panting, his eyes blazing crazily, he said, "Don't fight me and don't dare make a sound. I won't hurt you if you don't resist"
Joyce's heart hammered against her rib cage. Huddling against the door, she wondered what he meant by: Don't fight me. Did he plan to rape her? She had been insane to run from the party that way. Please god, she thought. Please don't let him hurt me. She longed for the protection of her brother. Oh, where was Denny now?
She began sobbing uncontrollably, trembling all over. "Please don't hurt me?" she pleaded. "I'm only fourteen, and-and I–I'm a virgin. I'm so scared. Y-You wouldn't rape me, would you?"
In the moonlight, Joyce could see that his eyes were afire with lust. He still held her wrist, half grinning at her, as if contemplating all the things he planned to do to her body. He pulled her toward him then, crushing his body to hers and roughly squeezed her breasts.
"Relax, pretty girl," he said. "I promise I won't rape you as long as you're quiet and do exactly what I tell you." Suddenly headlights showed from the main street, fifty yards distant, and there was the sound of an approaching car. The man glanced nervously over his shoulder, clutching Joyce even harder until the car had passed. Then he began stroking her hair, his lips parted in a hideous leer. "I love your shiny hair in the moonlight, girl," he said. "Soft and pretty and shiny-perfect for shootin' off in."
Joyce sensed that her captor was some kind of hair freak. He seemed hypnotized and insanely fascinated as he stroked her locks gently, lovingly, talking about the way it hung over her shoulders and its silky texture. She wondered if maybe that was all he wanted of her-just to play with her hair. But he had said he wanted to "shoot off in it."
He went on that way, feeling her hair, and she decided a crazed man wouldn't snatch her from the road merely to stroke her hair. Maybe he as planning to kidnap her, or kill her and leave her raped and mangled body here in the trees!
Tears streamed down her cheeks as he went on fondling, purring his admiration for her hair. He even referred to the downy texture of her pussy hair, saying it must be even smoother. He ceased touching her breasts then and began concentrating solely on her hair. Working with both hands, he worshipfully manipulated the black, shining tresses, chanting like a degenerate in a horror film. But this was no film. Somehow, his sudden tenderness frightened her even more than his previous roughness. Was he preparing her for something awful and violent-calming her so he could stick his big cock in her and split her wide apart?
"I smell booze on your breath, little girl," he said. "A pretty girl like you shouldn't drink, you know that? Alcohol dries things up. It'll take all the nice shine out of your pretty hair. Don't try to stop me, sugar. I–I'm gonna brush your pretty hair and make it nice and shiny." He grunted, shuddering, held her wrist hard and reached over and opened the glove compartment. Not taking his eyes from her hair, fumbling, he withdrew a brush! Then he instructed her to face the other way. Surely, he wouldn't simply brush her hair, she thought. Please help me, God? Don't let him bludgeon me to death with the brush. Don't let him stick the handle up me!
But to her amazement, he began brushing tenderly, with long even strokes. He groaned with admiration as he worked, and she wondered what unspeakable act was about to follow. And then, barely noticeable at first, Joyce became aware that the car was rocking in a steady rhythmic motion. She guessed she knew what he was doing. Peeking over her shoulder, she saw him brushing with one hand and jerking on his big stiff flesh-hunk with the other hand. "Tresses," he kept saying. "Tresses… tresses… "