Ann LeBere - Stepmother's bed

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… "

As the rocking of the car increased, she considered making a dash for freedom-opening the door and running-but she could not move. Expecting the worst, she sat frozen, paralyzed with fear as he went on chanting and beating his meat.

The old car was rocking so fast now she could hear the springs squeaking. He dropped the brush to the floor then began petting the black tresses more urgently. He turned her so that she faced him and ripped her blouse open so he could stare at her breasts as he groped her hair. The tempo of his masturbation increased to a frenzy and he grunted with each thump of his fist. His prick was very large, but it was crooked like no male organ she had ever seen. It curved off to one side, like a knockwurst.

He bent down, licked her erect nipples for a moment, then said, "I'm gonna come in your hair, little girl. I'm gonna shoot my goo all over your black hair. I told you I wouldn't hurt you if you let me have my way. I meant it, too. Just you let me do my weird thing. Don't get scared," he cackled. "In fact, you kin watch me shoot my wad if you want. Wouldn't you like to see a man's goo blast out and clump up in your hair? Huh?"

The desperate expression on his face and the fast pace of his jerking off his bent prick told Joyce that probably all he wanted was to come in her hair. Yes, he actually meant what he had said-at least she hoped so. Yes, he was some kind of sex kook who just wanted to shoot his sperm in her hair! Relief and gratitude singed through her as she realized he wasn't going to rape her and he wasn't going to kill her. Still, she would have to be tactful. Instinct told her that the main crisis would come after he had spent his sperm. Then she would have to persuade him she would never, never tell. If necessary, she would have to pretend she liked the act and even make a follow-up date to repeat the weird ritual. Suddenly he told her to bend down.

Apparently she did not move fast enough to please him, for he jerked very hard at her hair until her face was just inches from the dribbling end of his bent hard-on. To her surprise, he did not attempt to stick his prick in her mouth. Instead, he arranged her hair so that it draped over his furry testicles and tenacled all around his rock-hard shaft. He began pounding harder and faster then, grunting like some crazed, demented animal as he stared in abject worship at the dark strands that tickled his balls and pulsing erection.

Eyes bulging, he then began emitting hysterical breath-bursts: "Ah, Ouh, Egh, Ergh, Oh!" he babbled deliriously as his free hand moved the shiny hair about his cock and balls and rectum. And then his prick began to geyser, to gush and fling his scalding, white sperm spurting onto her hair, drenching the long black strands with his sticky fluid. Enraptured, he stared at the white goo against the soft black hair. He continued squeezing at his organ, mopping up every drop with Joyce's shiny hair and he sort of yodeled as he reached his bucking climax. Then he sat upright, lying with his head against the back of the car seat. Joyce huddled against the opposite door, wishing she had a tissue to remove his come from her hair, but she was afraid of triggering some violent reaction from this degenerate. She now had met her first honest-to-god degenerate.

"We kin talk for a while 'fore I let you go, little girl," he gasped. "Unless you'd rather lick the rest of my juice off the end of my dong. Would you like that? Don't play games with me, girl. You don't have to, see? Shit, I know plenty females who love swallowing a man's come. You want to?"

Trying to smile, Joyce shook her head. "Uh-no thank you," she said.

"Betchoo think I'm pretty strange, eh? Well, when you spend as much time behind bars as I have, a guy develops some pretty kinky tastes, see?"

Abruptly, he held his face with both of his hands, obviously depressed, repentant. Joyce said nothing.

"I could go back to prison for what I just did to you, girl," he said. "This was the same as-as rape, I guess. They's say, 'Let's send the weirdo back to the joint-lock him up again.' Would you like that, girl?"

Joyce decided to risk speaking. "Y-You kept your promise, mister," she managed. "You didn't do me any harm. You keep your promise to me and I'll keep a promise not to tell. Not ever. All right? Let me go and I won't tell."

She did her best to sound nonchalant, casual, despite the terror that surged through her body. He seemed to be merely resting and thinking now. She wondered what his next move would be.

"Listen, I may be pretty weird, but I sure ain't cruel," he said. "Go on home. I won't hurt you. If you tell your folks, I guess that'll be the end for me, but-well, go ahead and leave."

His hand then stretched in front of her-panic seized her-but he was only reaching for the door handle. Quickly, she slid out, then stood there, staring at him. For some strange reason she felt intense pity for this lonely, weird man. But not that much pity! She turned then trotted toward the main road, crying and running desperately for the safety of home.

She did not know how much time it took her to reach the Reardon house. As she staggered up the driveway, she saw her father's car parked near the garage. Inside, she found her father, a bottle of whisky on the table beside his chair. His face wore a stupid grin and he welcomed his daughter. He was obviously drunk and drinking openly since Norma was not there to control him.

"Where's Denny?" he asked, blinking. "You look horrible, sugar. Your hair-sh a mess. Christ, what've you been doing?" He drooled a little.

Joyce wanted to run and hurl herself in her father's arms, scream out the horror of her experience with the degenerate man, but she knew she should straighten herself up.

"Denny's still at the party," she said. "We had an argument, so I left and came home early, daddy."