Vincent Church - Degraded teenager

"Yes. Oh yes, Gus!" How she loved it. How her clit and ass danced, begging for more. It was as if she'd never been fucked, and now, the stiffness pumping goo up her vulva, her purpose in life was being revealed for the very first time. She wasn't a whore – wasn't! She didn't belong there; she wasn't one of the girls in Miss Alberta's stable of play-for-pay mares. But she did indeed belong beneath a big, dipping cock. It was what she'd been born for: what the genes and chromosomes had intended when conspiring to create the hot, velvety pocket between her quivering thighs.

It lasted forever and ever, the cream spitting, pissing from the tip of his dick and gushing down into her. It gathered thick at his cockhair, in the curls of her pussy – wetting his nuts, her ass, the mattress and bedding. It fired orgasm after delicious orgasm through her eager young loins.

And still it wasn't enough for Wendy. There would never be enough jism, she realized. If she lived to be 2000 years old, and held every prick in the world up her sweet, nipping cunthole, there still simply wasn't enough cum to satisfy the burning need in her belly.

Gus fell heavily upon her. His dick began to shrink, softening until it was a mere flexible sausage once more. "That was good fucking," he breathed into her ear. "You're some kid, you know? You could make a million bucks peddling that hot little pussy."

"Do you… I mean, was it – am I really that good?" whispered Wendy.

"Better than that!"

"Then don't stop. Please, I… I'm still hot." She set her plump ass to gyrating the way men liked it, slow and easy. Like when she walked down the street in tight shorts, and everyone – young men and old, the women, even small, naughty boys – stared speculatively at her mincing behind.

Gus groaned. Rolling onto his side, taking her with him, he made her throw one leg over his muscular thigh. "You'll fuck me deaf, dumb, 'n' blind, baby. Your cunt's like a clam. Christ! All this time we've been fucking around, and screwing, and still…!"

With heavy-lidded eyes, sleepy eyes flashing green jade desire, she looked into his dark, sweaty face. She knew what he meant. The girls at the home had said she had the tightest cunthole, the best one they'd ever seen. It never loosened. It got wet and sloppy, but the more good fucking it got, no matter what was shoved up there, the tighter it got, too.

For a moment she wondered about that, mentally comparing her slit with Mummy's loose, meaty gash. Then she wondered why the welts on her ass didn't hurt anymore – why the tiny brown anus between her fleshy cheeks no longer cried out against the earlier degradation. For two days she'd been fucked and made to suck cocks every which way. And now she lay in the arms of a stranger, his cream beginning to crust along her smooth inner thighs, and there was no pain, no shame. There was only the heat in her pussy, the swollen pink cunt lips, and the hair standing on end. And the need in her belly. And the cock – Gus' stiffening tool, the glans once again throbbing like a big toothache inside her.

Impulsively she reached for the wide cheeks of his ass, and found the hot, hairy crack.

"What the – hey!"

She giggled. She supposed that she should be embarrassed or something, but it was fun to make someone as big and strong as Gus, someone twice her weight and size, gulp and buck. "I read in a book, Daddy's sex manual," she explained, "that a man's thing gets harder than anything when someone does this." She forced her small middle finger high in his hot asshole.

"Arrrghhhh!" Gus pumped his hips forward, pushing her halfway across the bed. The dick in her twat sprang up tall.

"Ummm!" Wendy wiggled her finger, searching for the thing the book called a "prostate gland". She wondered if that was the counterpart of her own little clit, the magic trigger that set men off. She buried her face in the crook at his neck, kissing him there, on the shoulder and chest, shiver after warm shiver climbing the steps of her spine and bringing goose bumps out on her flesh.

The question about the prostate was answered when Gus yipped, and another gob of cum shot off up her tense belly.

"Ow. Oh, wow!"

"Mother!" gasped Gus, gripping her bottom, slamming himself roughly into her crotch.

Again she wiggled the finger embedded in his rear. It was the very first time she'd been the boss, in total control of the sex act. Her whole body sang with sensation. Her cunt drank the new load, and began to milk him for more. Now she could understand the compulsion behind the belt Daddy wielded; the thing that made Mummy beat her, and what made Larry and the boys at the point bruise her body even after she gave in.

It was the giddy sensation that came with command, she realized, amazed. Fucking was like everything else: someone had to be boss, and someone the slave.

She stopped thinking, wiggled the finger, and fucked herself onto Gus' stiff, spitting cock.

Sam stared pensively down at the same worn spot in the bedroom carpet that he'd eyed the night Wendy, his little Wendy, had run away from home. A week now, he thought, cursing himself, blaming his own stupidity. Where could she be? he wondered, going over in his mind the neighborhood hangouts, the homes of friends and classmates he'd visited in the hope of a clue. There were just so many places a fourteen-year-old girl could hide. Yet he'd been to everyone he could think of, and still there was no hint of her anywhere.

Worse! Wendy had ignored her parole, had failed to report, and although he'd been stalling, telling the gruff parole officer she was ill – too sick to even come to the phone – she was on her way back to the State Home for Girls, unless he or Cynthia could come up with something to satisfy the Sherlock Holmes character.

Cynthia, wearing the new shorty pajamas she'd bought especially for him, appeared at the open bed room door. "Sam?"

"Hum?" He turned and studied her, thinking how much Wendy had changed their lives in the five weeks since her release from the institution. Cindy was once again the woman he'd married – the chick who knew all the ropes in the back seat of a car, the way to make him propose. His gaze swept over her body. She looked great; she'd gone on a diet, and lost all the excess fat in the week since they'd begun to screw regularly. Her cunt was still loose and sloppy, stretched out of kilter from too many years of taking his dick up her belly. But she'd already made the appointment with the doctor who was going to sew it up some; and, until then, there were other ports he visited nightly, an asshole and a mouth that made up for the deficit, and then some.

"You're not gonna find her in here, Sam," said Cindy, her tone soft, understanding. "I feel as bad about it as you do, but moping around won't bring her back any sooner. She has to get over her mad."

He supposed she was right, but that didn't make it any better, any easier to accept. He watched her step into the room, and cock her head at him. She was almost girlish; she looked almost as good as Wendy had the last time he saw her standing before the dresser, with the same lamp outlining her body through the flimsy nightgown.

He cleared his throat, not wanting to think about sex in Wendy's bedroom. "You better put something on. I can't concentrate with you running around here like that. Not on Wendy, anyway."

Cindy grinned. "You're just saying that to make me feel good."

Sam glanced toward the closet, where the black, frilly thing Wendy wore to bed – wore whenever he gave her a chance to put something on – hung forlornly. Damn it! he thought; knowing what she was doing out there. She'd be doing the only thing a girl her age with no training could do to survive and remain hidden in a world of grownups.