Chapter One

 

I've always been beautiful, and life has always been easy.

School was dull - and pointless. The people there were duller, for the most part, and had no point to their lives. Suburbia. Everything is clean and - plastic, and phony. Everyone is pleasant and polite on the surface, and underneath they're hypocrites and liars and selfish back stabbers. The men drive big SUVs to hide the fact they have lousy jobs with no hope for better. The women drink too much and try to outdo themselves with their plastic smiles and plastic tits and plastic children and clean windows.

My house cost my dad about half a million dollars. It's the same as a hundred other houses in our development. I mean exactly the same. I think the developer had about half a dozen models and just scattered them around, all in dull shades of red and brown brick.

The streets are wide and empty. The yards are green, with tiny trees and perfectly manicured bushes.

Unless you live in a place like this you have - no - fucking - idea how boring life can be. As long as I can remember, all I ever really did was wander up and down the sidewalks with people and complain about how there was nothing to do.

I say this to explain how I wound up in a ratty motel on Route Nine on Friday night at one in the morning with John Williams and his friends.

Don't get me wrong - It's not like I was an innocent virgin. I'd had sex lots of times - within the rules.

There are rules everywhere. Rules control everything. Fucking rules for how you dress, how you talk, how you do your hair, every fucking thing. And none of them are written down.

You want to fuck a guy? Get a boyfriend. Otherwise you're a pathetic slut and everyone feels free to sneer at you and make jokes and torment you.

So I got a boyfriend, and after the proper interval, we fucked. It was nothing to write home about, though he seemed to like it enough. We fucked several times, and it got a little better. He got a little more restrained, and I got a little less tense and embarrassed and awkward. It was still nothing to really write home about, though.

I dumped him, eventually, and eventually, I got another boyfriend. We fucked too. It was even less to write home about. Boyfriend number three was much better, until he went away to fucking university. I was starting to really get into this sex shit. He was a real man, even if he was only nineteen, a real man, with broad shoulders, who kind of - overwhelmed when he was on top of me. I felt like a woman, like I was being taken like a woman should be taken.

School ended. I graduated, sort of, though without any marks you'd want to brag about. So now what? So now I was supposed to go away to university, which thought bored the fucking hell out of me. I was drearily depressed about it. My parents insisted, and it's not like there were a lot of decent jobs to be head otherwise.

I was living through a miserably hot summer. My parents had given me an ultimatum: either get a job of some kind, or go to university. I sure as hell didn't want to go to university. I didn't want any of the crappy jobs you could get around suburbia with a high school diploma either, and didn't have a car to go into the city and search for work. Nor did I want to take the train and pound the pavement.

I guess I didn't really know what I wanted. I knew I didn't want more school. I knew I didn't want some crappy job with bosses hassling me all day, and pressure to meet deadlines and shit. I didn't have any particular thoughts on what I wanted to do, no great desire to be a doctor or lawyer or whatever. I didn't want to spend my life in a cubicle, but I didn't want to work for MacDonald's either.

I felt both bored and tense. I mean, I was trying not to think about the job thing, trying not to think about having to go to university. It was always in the back of my mind, though, no matter what I did, this ongoing tension that would never quite go away.

So I went to the restaurant where my friend Karen worked. It was a warm day, and I was dressed in a pair of cotton short-shorts and a tank top. The place was busy on account of it having air-conditioning. There were way too many families with their kids out for ice cream and shit, and not that many hot guys at all.

None, in fact, except for this big Black guy that walks in and sits next to me at the counter, and gives me that quick once-over look guys do, you know, that lets you know they think you're hot, but aren't going to push it if you don't want to. John was obviously older than me, like mid-twenties or something, and had some kind of body. Now we're not in Arkansas or someplace like that, but good white girls didn't mess around with Black men.

He ordered some burgers and fries to go. I kind of turned sideways on my stool an said "That's a lot for one guy to eat."

He gave me a little smile and asked if I was an expert on men and eating. I said I was, kinda, that I'd "eaten" with more than a few guys.

He was a big, handsome guy, with a broad chest and big shoulders and hands. He reminded me of my boyfriend, a little. I mean, my boyfriend wasn't bald - or black, and didn't have a barbed wire tattoo around his bicep. But I was only playing anyway, just passing the time waiting for Karen to finish what she was doing.

Only I got to thinking, well, why not? I mean, why not? And when he said there was a little party up the road that he was headed for, and that I was invited, I decided to go.

Why did I agree to go up the highway with him to a party? I knew it was dangerous.

Because it was dangerous.

Because I was bored, because I was tense, because I wanted to forget my fucking parents and their fucking ultimatums and the pressure to get a job or go to college. Because I'd had a few beers earlier, and a shot of tequila.

I knew he wanted to fuck me, of course. All guys did. I don't think I'm being arrogant in saying that. Guys are sluts. Everyone knows that. But they're allowed to be.

I'd been everyone's sexual fantasy since I turned fourteen. I had long, silky chestnut hair that flowed down my back, a sweetly sculpted oval face with a small mouth and full lips. I'm short and slender, with slim hips and a tight ass. My breasts are nice and round and firm - really firm, but not big. No one would ever call me flat chested, though.

Everyone wanted to fuck me. I knew John did. What I didn't know for sure was whether I was going to let him. I was half inclined that way. Serve my fucking parents right if I screwed a Black guy.

The party was not what I'd expected. It was in a dumpy little motel suite with two bedrooms. There was loud music, but it was very black, very jungleish, you know, very dark and depressing. The room was dark and depressing too, dimly lit, with cheap, peeling wallpaper. There were maybe twenty people there, all black, which made my skin kind of tingle with the tension and anxiety. I was the centre of attention, you see, at least at first.

And nobody was dancing. They were sitting around smoking weed and hash - and crack, and doing other drugs. These were not the kind of people I was supposed to be associating with, no the kind of people I saw much of. I wondered where the hell they'd come from.

I did my best to hide my nervousness behind a façade of casual sophistication, though, and took a seat on a ratty looking sofa as John brought me a drink. I didn't even know what it was. I just swallowed, and coughed violently as he sat down next to me snickering. It was some really strong gin, probably a double.

There were maybe three other girls there, all of them making out with someone. A lot of the Black guys there were sort of looking at me, their eyes slitted, sipping their drinks and smoking their joints, and I wondered what they were thinking.

It suddenly occurred to me that if I wasn't careful I might be having sex with more than just John. And that thought frightened me but also did something in my lower belly, making it spasm and twist. I felt a dark tension within my soul, and a sense of breathless anticipation.

I took another drink, coughing and shaking my head to clear it.

Was I tempting fate? Yeah. I was the only white girl in a room full of shady Black men, and as I drank I was getting more and more tense at the thought of what might happen. I was growing more anxious about my safety, and wanted to spring up and run out. I couldn't do that, though. I couldn't think of an excuse to leave, and besides, John needed to drive me if I was going to go.

But as this fear built I was also getting this strange sense of dark obsession. And I don't mean that as a joke. What would it like to fuck a bunch of Black guys? I imagined myself pinned down, gang raped, all those leering faces sneering down at me, those big Black cocks ramming into me. My pussy was starting to throb in a way it rarely did, starting to pulse and moisten so that I squeezed my thighs together unconsciously.

I did not want to be gang banged! I did not! I would have taken off if I could have, if there was any excuse I could think of that didn't sound lame, and if I wasn't afraid that John would refuse to take me anywhere. He'd probably call me a racist, and then all those Black people would look at me with sullen eyes.

I had nowhere to go, and then John started drawing me in closer to him, kissing the side of my throat.

I took another deep drink and asked him for a refill. He grinned broadly and poured another double. Then he was back against me, his arm around me, his big hand caressing my bare stomach, his lips nuzzling under my ear as my heart raced and I tried to think of how to get out of there.

More people arrived, including a couple more Black girls. There was some dancing now, and I seized on it, jumping up, telling John I wanted to dance. He got lazily to his feet and pulled me against him. We danced - slow, and I realized it was no improvement. His hands were caressing my ass while he ground himself into me. Everyone else was dancing in the same way, and as we danced towards the little kitchen we had a little cover - a big post between us and most of the others.

John pressed me against it and he leaned over me, his hand sliding up under my tank-top to fondle my breasts. I gasped into his mouth as his lips covered mine. His other hand dug into my ass. It was so big it held my whole bottom easily. I felt - overwhelmed, even more than I had with my boyfriend Tom.

Because I'd always been perfectly safe around Tom, who was big but harmless and good hearted. John was something else again, a grown man, easily twenty five, and maybe older. My pulse was racing, my heart pounding as he fondled and groped me there against the post, with the music beating a dull, slow pounding beat.

He eased back, then peeled off his t-shirt to show a hugely muscled black chest. I stared, in awe, distracted from my own anxiety and fear by the sheer power and strength of this man.

He pulled me against him, and his hands went down to my ass, lifting me as though I were weightless, turning with me in his arms, sitting me down on the edge of the kitchen's counter as his lips crushed mine. It was hot, and being crushed against him made me hotter - in more ways than one. The sickly sweet smell of drugs filled the air and the music pounded at me.

His hands caressed my back, then peeled my tank-top up and off. I gasped, shocked. I hadn't expected it. My arms went across my chest but he pulled them away easily, kissing me, kissing my throat, kissing my lips, kissing my bare shoulders. His hands were on my back again, and this time I felt the bra give way as the snaps undid.

"No!" I gasped.

I was trying to keep quiet. We were in the little kitchen, hidden from most of them by the overhanging cupboard and counter which separated us from the main room, and the only light. The room was dark, and we were darker still. He yanked the bra away, and I saw his teeth gleaming in the darkness.

Then he was devouring my breast, his big hands encircling my body as his mouth sucked and licked and chewed at the centre of my breast. I was gasping, breathless, dazed, wide-eyed, and more than a little drunk. I had no idea what to do, or if I could do anything.

I was half fucking naked in a grimy little kitchen with several dozen black people doing drugs a few feet away.

"N-Not here!" I tried to gasp.

He ignored me.

I felt his fingers sliding through my hair. Then they closed, and my hair was yanked back. I cried out softly, back arching, as he bent in and chewed lightly on my throat. His other hand cupped my sex, squeezing and rubbing me through my shorts. Then they slid inside and right into my little thong.

I stiffened, my legs jerking, but there was precious little I could do. What was more I was wet, sopping wet, and his fingers discovered that very quickly as he chuckled low in his throat.

I felt his fingers pressing against the mouth of my sex, penetrating me, sliding into my pussy. I jerked and moaned, but could do nothing to resist. He was still pulling on my hair and that forced my head back and forced me to sort of slump back so my pussy was exposed.

I felt a finger like a big sausage up inside me, sliding in and out, twisting around inside my throbbing pussy.

The music pounded, and my head was swimming. I think there was so much shit in the air I could have gotten stoned just breathing.

He drew back his hand and took my shorts with him, sliding them down my legs, lifting my legs up, popping them off before I could even think of what to say, much less do. Then he just spread me open, lifting my ankles high so that I slid on the counter until my ass was on the edge and my head was propped forward by the wall.

I stared at him, bewildered. How had this happened?!

He ran his big hands up my body and squeezed my breasts so they hurt. Then he shoved his own shorts down and I stared at his big cock as he rubbed it along my shaved slit. I wanted to refuse, to say no, to squirm away, to run to - to do something! I was waiting for someone else to come into the kitchen, to be seen, to have them laugh and shout, to have everyone else run in to see me naked.

I was terrified, to be honest. But I was drunk enough - and stoned enough, to be relaxed at the same time.

My pussy was relaxed, too, which was a good thing, because John was big, and thick, and he thrust himself into me so that, even as moist as I was, it hurt. I shuddered and moaned, and my back arched in pain as he stuffed that fat log of a cock deep into my belly. If I wasn't desperately trying to be quiet I'd have cried out much more loudly.

John leaned into me, his cock sliding deep, so deep it ached. I writhed weakly, gasping, moaning as he drove himself into me to the hilt and began to kiss me.

He started to grind himself against me, and I felt a terrible ache within my lower belly. My fingers drew into claws and I groaned as I felt his big prick twisting around in my belly. Then he started to pump slowly in and out.