Ron Taylor: Raped cousin

She was talking to her finger. It was pathetic and she felt like a fool afterwards, but who else could she ask to love her? Debbie worked the tip of her middle finger into the, mouth of her snatch- gradually, for she was very tight-and she started to push instinctively up the resistant but dripping channel.’

Sometimes she liked to make a production number out of the act. Pretending that she was being loved and caressed by someone, that warm arms enfolded her, a heated body pressed against her own-it helped in its own way, made the act more than masturbation. God, such a harsh, ugly word! How much of her guilt stemmed from the technical term for what she was doing to herself? Why couldn’t it be called something else, something more pleasant, lighter on the tongue?

But no matter what she called it, playing with herself made her feel better, and that seemed justification enough.

Anyway-she didn’t have anyone special to fantasize about.’ She’d done it so many times with Paul Newman that he’d long since lost his power for her and though she’d tried Sylvester Stallone on occasion, he really wasn’t the type who appealed to her. Besides, Holly and Lisa might get worried if she were gone too long, and she had to hurry, but before she could go, she had to come.

So, “Love me,” she whispered to her finger and the finger was nothing but the extension of her hand, and somehow that seemed enough for now.

Her cuntal muscles tensed a moment longer, then yielded, and she pressed a little deeper with her fingertip, but she couldn’t go too much deeper because of the obstacle that sealed off the depths of her pussy. Her finger bumped against her cherry, and she felt a momentary twinge of the most delicious kind of pain she could imagine, but the second time it happened the pain turned to a kind of agony and she had to pull back. Well, Debbie knew what to do, and how to do it, and she did.

In and out the mouth of her cunt, in short, frantic strokes, she worked her finger, and the muscles snapped and clutched around her, and honeydew ooze was seeping from the aperture, making her finger sticky, clotting on the lips of her cunt and the red hairs clustered nearest the gash, and she twisted a little on her heels as she squatted, making her twat grow a bit tighter.

“Just… a… couple… more… ” she panted, and there was no need to hold her snatch open any longer, for her finger was boldly imbedded in the hole, so Debbie brought her free hand up to the front of her shirt. She grabbed indiscriminately, found herself with a handful of tit, and she squeezed it fiercely, moaning as her fingers did their work. Her fits were large and soft, and the double layer of oversized shirt and tight brassiere couldn’t prevent the flashes of delight as she fondled her breast. She felt her nipples hardening-both of them-even the one capping the fit she hadn’t touched yet, wouldn’t get a chance to touch because she was almost there and. it wasn’t necessary-and she squeezed harder, fingers sliding around until they found the prominence of her nipple, squeezed it through the shirt and bra, squeezed till tears welled up big and watery in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as unstoppable as the rise and fall of the sun, and her finger was still in her pussy, fucking in and out with a driving, impatient fury and she came down hard, onto her ass on the ground, for she couldn’t sit up any longer, not when all her being, all her concentration was focused on the gash between her legs, the gash that no one wanted to love except Debbie Marshall, but who could love it better than Debbie Marshall? Who knew better how to love it? Who could make her feel so good? Who could make her forget that a few hundred yards away there waited two girls who’d been saddled with her companionship against their wills, who probably wouldn’t lift a finger to help if she fell over one of the cliffs up her in the mountains, who wouldn’t come to her rescue if she were being eaten by a grizzly bear? Who, damn it, who? “Me” she said in a hoarse, husky groan, “me, mi, me!!!” And she crossed her legs where she sat bare-assed on mossy ground, and it was like a special kind of agony, the tight mouth of her twat pinching at the finger inserted therein.

Debbie pushed her ass down hard, loving the strange, but natural, (eel of grass beneath her buttocks, and even though there were a few pebbles in the grass, pebbles that bruised her bottom, she didn’t care. One more push of her finger, one more squeeze on her fit, and she was coming, coming all over her hand and her pubic hair, and she closed her eyes, panting, moaning, feeling that she was dying but dying beautifully, her soul taking off into the clouds above, clouds set high above the trees in the midst of the bluest sky she’d ever seen, and those clouds were soft as pillows and her essential spirit was settling down to rest upon one of them, to rest for a long, long time…

Her head was still light and swimmy when she opened her eyes and she wished that sweet, dreamy feeling would never go away.

But it would. She knew it would. As soon as she went back to Holly and Lisa.

For a moment she’d been beautiful and soaring, the wildest, freest spirit alive, she’d been real, but it couldn’t last.

“Oh, face it,” she said aloud. “You’re the ugly duckling but you’ll never grow up to be a swan. They’re the swans. They’ve always been swans, they’ll always be swans. Even when we were kids; Holly was beautiful. And I wasn’t. I’m still not. I’ll never be. I’ll never be anything except what I am now. A fat, frizzy-haired clod. A smart Dumbo. Oh, God, what’s so smart about being ugly and unlovable? I wish I was back home. I wish we’d never come out here.”

Wishing. What was that old saying? “Wish in one hand and shit in the other, and see which one fills up first. ”God! Her mind was rolling in the gutter today!

Chalk that up to being around Lisa and Holly, she decided.

As she pulled up her pants and buttoned them, she wondered if Lisa and Holly masturbated, too. It was an almost universal act. Even chimpanzees did it. But somehow she couldn’t picture Lisa or Holly with her pants down and fingers toying in the slice of pussy. God! Debbie stopped in. mid-step. She’d bet anything that the two girls back at camp had both actually… actually…

“Been fucked,” she said in a giggly whisper. It was the first time in her life she could recall using that wicked word aloud. Her eyebrows lifted and her eyes glazed over and she tried to imagine Lisa or Holly doing it with somebody. Oh, wew! They always said that you could tell a girl who’d been had by looking into her eyes, that there was a certain something which was a dead giveaway. But Debbie had no idea what that something might be. Still, when she got the chance, she’d try to sneak a peek into Holly’s eyes, and Lisa’s, and see if she could detect any telltale signs there.

“And I’ll be as nice to them as I can,” she added. “I mean, they didn’t want me but had to take me with them, so the least I can do is be agreeable and helpful. Maybe they’ll even start liking me. Or at least stop not liking me.”

Full of hope, she set about finding her way back to the camp.

“You don’t smoke and you don’t drink,” Lisa said from across the fire. “Is there anything you do?”

“Except fuck up other people’s lives?” Holly put in. She was sitting beside Lisa and they were passing a half gallon of wine back and forth, smacking their lips as they drank. They’d already smoked a few joints of what Debbie was now positive was marijuana, and their voices had taken on a lazy dreamy quality, as if they were talking in their sleep and doing it only by great effort.

She’d tried to be nice and helpful; she’d even fixed supper and built the fire, but none of it was working. Every time Holly and Lisa looked at her, she could see resentment smoldering in their eyes and she knew that~ they wished she were somewhere else, very far away from this mountainside campsite.