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Marie (m/f, f/f, cons/nc, ins), Part 7
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
MARIE
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kids from Rossford Junior High -- who were twelve- and thirteen-
and fourteen-years-old -- had a lot of friends at St. Cornelius,
because eighth graders in St. Cornelius were twelve and thirteen
years old. Which meant the older girls from junior high sometimes hung
out with girls a year or two younger from St. Cornelius, so when
juniors from Rossford High wanted to hit on girls from the junior
high, they ending up meeting eighth graders from St. Cornelius, too.
All of which goes to explain how I met George, who was sixteen
and a junior, when I was only twelve.
George was a "Hunky" -- that's the nickname for Hungarians, of
which there were a lot in Rossford -- and got good grades. He was big
and blonde and kind of handsome, in a rough-hewn sort of way. He
didn't set out to pick me up, but he ended up with me one early
September Saturday when about two dozen kids piled into six or seven
cars and headed for a concert at Veteran's Stadium. George wanted to
be an engineer (like my phantom step-brother), liked to read science-
fiction (like my phantom step-brother), played the guitar (like my
phantom step-brother) and said "please" and "thank you" (like my
phantom step-brother).
He was a lot like my phantom step-brother, if you know what I
mean.
George was a lineman on the varsity football team and had this
really wicked, quiet sense of humor (which was like my phantom step-
brother). He drove one of the cars to the concert, but had about four
beers and didn't think he should drive back. I was impressed. I was
even more impressed when I ended up sitting on his lap in the crowded
backseat. I'd had a couple of beers, too, and wanted to make out and
he kept acting like a gentleman and telling me I was only a kid...
right up to the time I pulled down my top and stuck a tit in his face
while squirming on the unconcealable hard-on making a hard tent in the
crotch of his jeans. Even then he acted like I was a kid, making me
cover myself and behave.
I made George a target. Within two weeks, I was spending most of a
Friday night under the stands at the Rossford High field riding him,
with his fat cock rammed up my hungry, wet little snatch and his hands
under my blouse, playing with my nipples. I never met another teenager
who could hold off cumming as long as George could. Despite the
ribbing
he took for robbing the cradle, George and I remained "an item" for
most
of the first semester and past the end of the football season. That
was
when the photography club became a factor.
George was interested in photography, enough so that he'd even
set up a little darkroom in his basement. He talked about the club
from time to time. To be honest, it didn't interest me and I didn't
pay much attention. Until that Friday night in late March.
George had an older brother in the Coast Guard and his family --
which was large -- had gone to Cleveland for the weekend to visit his
brother and some relatives. We had the house to ourselves. I'd
arranged for Dana Connally to cover for me that I was at her house.
It was about eleven at night. George had already drunk about five
beers and I'd had a couple, myself. We were touring the house -- with
a difference. For one thing, we were naked. For another, I had my legs
around his waist and his nice fat prick buried in me. George was so
big -- he was about six-foot-two and two hundred pounds and lifted
weights -- he was just carrying me around the house.
"This is the kitchen!" And he'd rest my bare butt on the
countertop and fuck in and out of me till I'd cum once or twice and
then: "And this is the dining room!" And he'd repeat the procedure on
the dining-room table.
Of course, I contributed: "But isn't the dining room where you're
supposed to eat?"
At which point he'd pull out of me, munch on my cunt -- I had
just a hint of hair there -- and then plough my furrow again and we'd
continue the tour.
"This is the living room!" On the stereo and television cabinets.
"This is bathroom!" On the vanity.
Et cetera.
He finally came in me in the basement, in the darkroom. For a guy
who could last so long, he didn't shoot very much stuff. Not that I
minded. What was important was the look on his face after we caught
our
breath: He was frowning.
"Why are you frowning?"
He shrugged. "I still don't know what I'm going to do for the
show," he said. Ed Sautter had scheduled a school-year's-end show of
the photography club's work.
I stretched my arms over my head -- I was laying on the
countertop where George usually cropped his photographs -- and said,
"Well, how about a nude study?"
He laughed with me, but then he stopped and stared at me.
"Y'know, maybe -- "
I held my hands up, palms toward him. "Forget it."
He shook his head. "No face; just nude torso in black and white.
I'll let you proof the negatives."
I sat up on the counter. "Are you serious?"
George nodded. "Ed -- " Ed Sautter was a member of that new and
informal generation of teachers. He'd been hired to teach English Lit;
for his kids in the Lense Club, his first name was available. " -- Ed
says if someone comes up with a really good nude study, he'll fight
to get it in the show."
Well, to make a long story short, I agreed. What the hell, huh?
None of the negatives had my face in them, so who would know? We shot
them with a flash that night and by daylight the next morning. The
best ones were with me on the coffee table in the living room. They
were tight focus from just the hint of my pubis to my shoulders, with
the angle of the morning light highlighting the flat plane of my
stomach, the clear definition of my ribcage and below, just the hint
of swelling for my hips. My breasts were firm and rounded and my
nipples were hard -- George said professionals use ice cubes, but we
used something else to get them hard and keep them that way.
It was a stunning series of relief shots. Some of them were lovely;
I still have them. The best were so good that they weren't even
erotic;
they were just beautiful -- a healthy, firm-bodied young woman
blossoming into womanhood (in black and white) against the rich grain
of
the oak coffee table's surface. I still look at them and don't see
myself or sex. They were really quite good.
Sautter was true to his word; he exhibited the best ones and
almost got himself fired.
The problem came when someone noted that the edge of a National
Geographic -- not the date, but part of the logo -- was visible, on
the
coffee table, measured it against the nude torso, did some fast math
to
get the measurements of said (my) torso, noted the lack of abundant
pubic hair...
...and figured out who the model was.
The word got around in certain circles very quickly. There was a
lot of Talk. Then Sautter had his confrontation with the Powers That
Be
and finally compromised, agreeing to exhibit the nudes in the faculty
lounge, to protect the young people of Rossford and the Model.
Funny, but I didn't think I needed protecting. Hell, I'd done the
pictures, hadn't I?
Well, the whole thing began to outgrow itself and pretty soon,
George was getting a lot of pressure to reveal the name of the woman
in the pictures. George refused. George dug in his heels and got
stubborn, something at which he excelled. For a while, it looked like
the whole thing was just going to blow over, because everyone got
wrapped up in the fight about the bond issue for the levees out in
Point Place --
[Please, don't ask.]
-- and everything seemed fine until George called me one
afternoon when I had the house pretty much to myself and informed me
that the negatives had disappeared. All of them -- including the
outtakes, which were not solo shots of a lovely torso; those were pure
smut, taken off a tripod and timer and giving an excellent view of me,
from the rear, riding George's fat prick. One in particular, taken
while I was cumming, had real good definition of the way my pussy was
stretched round his dick, with all but an inch or so of his wide dong
buried inside me. Some of the others in that set included my face --
in one shot, with my mouth full, if you know what I mean.
George figured it had happened that afternoon, while he was
jogging. The night before, he'd developed some shots he'd taken out at
the old Municipal Airport. When he'd gotten home, the padlock on his
darkroom door had been cut -- probably a bolt-cutter, he figured --
and the negatives and prints from our session, and only from our
session, were missing.
I went over to see him and we put our heads together and tried to
reason it out. Whoever had done it hadn't been on the football squad,
which aced Marty and the other Three Stooges; they'd been jogging,
too.
George pointed out that examining negatives wasn't easy if you didn't
know what you were doing, so that narrowed it down to people with
darkroom experience who knew George's schedule and what to look for
..
No matter how we sliced it, we kept coming back to the Lense
Club. Well, we were right -- sort of.
By then, Easter vacation was coming up and I went to see my
cousin, Charlene for a couple of days. That's what I told George. In
fact, I was eager to see Roger, but I didn't share that with George.
I hadn't seen Charlene since around Christmas, when she and Tod
the Asshole and Uncle Van and Aunt Irene came by for Christmas Dinner.
Charlene had been losing weight -- or, should I say, redistributing
it. When I saw her during that Easter break, I told her the truth: She
looked real good. She'd gotten a new hair-do and her waist was smaller
and her tummy was getting flat and her legs and butt were getting
tighter and her tits were growing real nice. She was almost fourteen
and you could see what was happening: She was going to be a bombshell.
The first chance I got, I went over to see Roger. He knew I was
coming over, because I'd called him from Rossford and told him. He was
waiting for me and about, oh, ninety seconds after the front door was
locked, a trail of clothing led from the living room door, up the
stairs
and right to the bedroom. Roger was devouring my pussy like a starving
man with a bowl of rice. And he was making me crazy, because he'd lick
and suck me till I was almost ready to cum and then he'd back off and
leave me hanging. He did this for about fifteen minutes.
Finally, I grabbed two hands' full of his hair, pulled his head
away and said, "Roger, if you don't stick that cock in me right this
minute, I'm going to scream bloody murder!"
He knelt on the bed between my knees and pointed down. "You mean
this cock?"
His dick was as hard as any teenager's and was all reddish and
throbbing and enormous. My cunt was twitching and juices just drenched
my pussy and the bed beneath me.
"Roger!" I yelled.
He grinned, got on all fours and began kissing his way up my body,
pausing to give special attention to my breasts, especially my
nipples.
"They're getting big, Marie," he said.
As if I didn't know. According to the Sears big book, my
measurements dictated a B-cup -- if someone manufactured a 27-B. My
nipples were small, but hard and swollen and each time his tongue
passed
over them, I shivered. With a nineteen-inch waist and twenty-five inch
hips, I was definitely top-heavy by any standard.
Finally he crawled over me, pausing to put a pillow under my
little butt. My legs opened more and I swear I could hear my own pussy
lips, so swollen and wet and tight, part for him. I reached down with
both hands, one to part my labia and one to guide his huge dick.
[Well, eight inches may not seem huge to you, but remember how
young and small and tight I was. An eight-inch cock in a girl with 25-
inch hips is like an eleven-inch cock in a normal, average-size
woman.]
As he slid it into me, I started moaning and rolling my hips
under him, rocking them back and forth to take more and more of that
big dick into my body. He said I seemed even tighter than usual and I
could believe it -- after all, he'd just spent a quarter of an hour
dangling me on the brink of cumming.
Then he was about halfway in and his glans pressed something inside
me and it felt golden and I came. Wow, did I cum! It was like being
possessed. I came for almost a minute and when I sank back, limp, he
was
all the way in me -- the first time he'd gotten the whole thing inside
me -- and he began pumping my pussy. After a few minutes of that, I
felt
him jerk and throb inside me and then he was cumming in me. He held me
very close as he came in me, crushing me against him and somehow
probing
his prick farther into me without moving his hips much. On the last
spurt, he also kissed the top of my head -- remember how short I was
--
as we both had or orgasms.
He rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him and keeping his
shriveling cock inside me. I bore down on the muscles in my cunt and
he groaned with the additional tightness.
We lay there, sweaty and stuck together and panting.
"You've been practicing," he said. "Got yourself a sweetheart.
Want to tell me about it?"
I nuzzled his chest hairs, stalling.
"You don't have to," he reassured me. So of course I did.
When I finished, he asked: "Okay, baby -- what's bothering you?"
"Nothing, really."
His hand raised my face so he could look me in the eye. "Marie,
you're laying here with my dick inside you -- "
"I noticed." I giggled.
He gave my butt a playful swat, more of a caress. "-- and your mind
is a million miles away. Don't lie to me. You're bothered by
something.
Spill."
So as I lay there with this man who was fifteen years older than
me, with his dick inside me -- along with all of our juices -- I told
him about the pictures and the negatives.
"That was you?" He laughed a little, more like a chortle. "I should
have known. One of the guys at Robby's -- " That was a barber shop in
Genoa. "-- was talking about that exhibit. He was impressed." He
chortled again. "Wish I'd seen those pictures."
"Roger, I'm afraid everyone is going to see those pictures -- and
the outtakes."
"Baby, I'd do anything if I could, but I wouldn't know where to
start. You got any ideas?"
I admitted that I didn't -- at least where he could help with
that. However, I did have other ideas and I flexed those muscles
again. He started to get hard inside me, which was an amazing
sensation, because his cock started out about average and swelled into
a monster. Within a few minutes, he was stiff as a concrete-
reinforcement rod and I was sitting up straight and bouncing up and
down on him. Coming down was especially fun, since it ground my clit
into the hair-cushioned ring of bone around the base of his thick
prick. I came a lot, over and over, and finally fell forward onto him.
He rubbed a fingertip around my butt-hole and then slid it in. Much to
my astonishment, it felt good. And I let him know it.
That was the key that set him off. He fucked me wildly for a few
minutes. I really got off on the feeling of his fat cockhead swelling
far, far inside my tight cunt, and we again came together. He seemed
to cum a lot with the double compression on his cock. Later, when I
climbed off him and scampered to the bathroom before my leaks stained
the carpet; there was an awful lot of stuff in me.
We did it again the next day, but the next night he had to go
pick up a load of strawberries for delivery in New York, where he was
supposed to pick up a trailer full of books and bring them to Toledo.
I went home after almost a day of fending off Tod the Asshole
and found nothing new had happened with regard to the missing
negatives. I knew, nonetheless, that it was just a matter of time
before
the other shoe was dropped. George took the College Boards in May and
I prepared for final exams.
Then, in the last week of May, the high schools in the area
started having open-house days for eighth-graders. I had no intention
of attending Rossford High -- I'd already been enrolled in the
Catholic
high school, without being consulted -- but it meant a day away from
St. Cornelius, so I went. The regular students at the high school had
the day off -- it turned Memorial Day weekend into a four-day weekend
for them -- so the place was occupied only by eighth graders.
I was on the second floor, looking at the biology lab, when a
man approached me. He was a nice-looking guy with slightly long hair
and an open face. He was about twenty-five or twenty-six and he was
wearing bell-bottomed pants and a white shirt and tie. His most
striking feature was the bluest eyes I've ever seen.
"Marie?"
I nodded.
"I'm Ed Sautter." He shook my hand. "I'm trying to get a creative
writing club started for the summer and I'd like you to come to one of
our meetings."
"To tell the truth, I'm already signed up for another school."
He shook his head and smiled. "Doesn't matter. I'm just trying to
gather some of the more promising young writers."
"I'm not really a writer -- "
"You've done some fine compositions and essays at St. Cornelius,
from what I hear. I'd like to see them. Will you give us a chance?"
"Well -- "
"Besides -- " He leaned close, confidential and just-between-us
close, those gorgeous blue eyes boring in on me. "Besides: Susan -- my
girlfriend -- is going to come over and set up a chicken barbecue for
everyone and she makes this sauce...mmmmm." He rolled those gorgeous
blue eyes.
Who could resist? "Well...okay. Where and when?"
"This afternoon at three." He produced a piece of paper and
scribbled an address on it.
"Eagle Point Road? That's a pretty ritzy neighborhood," I said.
"I didn't think teachers got paid very much."
"We don't," he said. "I'm renting the place along with two
buddies. If you want a lift, I'm taking four or five others with me
when I leave here at two-thirty. They'll be meeting me in the
teachers' parking lot by the VW Microbus with the peace signs on it.
Be seein' ya!"
And then he was gone, just like that. I stood there in the nearly
deserted hallway, fingering the paper and decided it might be fun.
It was that. And more.
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