Andrew Laird - Young girl sex club

"I'm gonna suck your cunt," he declared, his face twitching with excitement. "I'll bet you'll like that." He turned around so that his head was even with her hips, then reached back to adjust his cock so that it rested above her breasts.

"I guess you ain't used to sucking cocks," he told her, "but you can hold it and play with it for me while I'm going down on you. Hey, you cats, get your feet off of her arm." He knocked the dirty feet away and Ellen, for the first time, was able to relax from the awkward position she had been in. She made no protest when he took her hands and cupped them around his prick. Because he told her to, and because she had no will of her own, she continued to hold his member tightly as he lowered his mouth to her crotch. The lapping of his tongue was so mild a feeling compared to being punched and torn by Max's big cock that at first she was hardly aware of it when he began titillating her clitoris. His hips moved and his prick, already dripping and smeary, slid easily back and forth in her tight grip.

He took his time, and she didn't mind. Now that the feet no longer pummeled and imprisoned her, she was fairly comfortable and his licking and sucking at her vulva was soothing. Furthermore, something new was happening to her mind. She was beginning to be affected by the drug she had taken. It was like drunkenness and yet not like it. There was a dizziness and a lightness, almost as though she were floating, and a gradual increase of sharpness and clarity in her perception of everything about her. It was, she thought with dull curiosity, as though she had donned glasses that magnified everything. Her face was only a few inches from the young man's thighs, and she suddenly saw each hair and pore in vivid, microscopic detail. Her other senses were also greatly increased. The rich, mingled smells of semen and sweat assailed her nostrils, and his prick was like wet, slick satin to the touch of her hands.

As he continued to lick her clitoris, she felt the first, faint tingle of returning sensation to her lower body. She was sore from the brutal way in which Max had assaulted her, but the richness of feeling inspired by the eager tongue of her new lover was driving away remembrance of pain. Her mind still refused to tolerate the shame and humiliation of her position. It blocked it out as a thing too awful to bear and, as she began to derive pleasure from this new thing that was happening to her, she concentrated on that to keep from thinking about the fact that she was being raped in public. To save her sanity, she surrendered her body, the powerful dose of LSD she had taken helping her make this adjustment.

The slobbering attack on her sex organ was accomplished with ravenous hunger and much enthusiasm, but not without expertise. Benny Morely had practiced the art extensively on both men and women. At twenty-one he had achieved his ambition to become a complete degenerate, living only for sex… any kind of sex, and for dope… any kind of dope. Oddly enough, he was a sensitive and generous person who would eagerly share himself or anything he had with someone he liked. He liked Ellen, so he gave to her in the only way he knew how to give. He employed all of his cunning to the pleasurable task of sucking her clitoris and was childishly delighted when he felt her straining body begin to respond to his efforts. He would really have preferred sucking a man, but licking Ellen's semen-filled cunt was almost as good as sucking Max's cock and, of course, there was the fun of doing it with someone new.

The tingling sensation grew to a flooding warmth of passion that spread out from the one focal point to Ellen's entire body. She felt it in her thighs and in her groin, knew it in the hardness of her nipples and in the straining muscles of her back as she arched herself to his mouth. It wrapped her in a pink mist that shut out everything else, and she gave herself to it gratefully. She even enjoyed the sensuous feel of his cock sliding back and forth through her hands.

When her passion had reached a height she would not have thought possible, it suddenly soared beyond that and then her hips were jerking convulsively, her pretty, white legs thrashing madly and her body pulsing with a paroxysm of lust as she came to her orgasm.

At the same time, Benny's prick swelled, strained, and then began to spurt, the hot, sticky stuff squirting onto Ellen's lower face and neck. Their cries of pleasure, too intense to bear in silence, went unheard above the din of the Hip Room.

"Hey, get your nose out of it, you queer bastard!" another voice was saying and Benny was pulled roughly away from her as another man took his place.

Ellen, still in a daze of post-coital lassitude, made no resistance when her legs were spread and another cock was thrust into her body. It hardly hurt at all, and she accepted the burly, sweat-smelling weight on her chest and belly, wrapping her arms and legs around him and lifting her hips to meet his lunge, her whole being concentrated on trying to recapture the exquisite sensation she had just experienced with Benny.

They kept her there under the table all afternoon, taking turns with her until all of the men in the group had been with her at least twice. They let her rest only long enough to take frequent drags from marijuana cigarettes. By evening she had passed out, but they didn't mind, continuing to sate themselves with use of her inert body. She was not aware when the girl with the hard eyes slid under the table to make love to her just as Benny Morely had done.

Ellen awoke in the small hours of the morning. She was lying on the filthy mattress in a strange room beside Max Kern, who snored like the distant whine of a power saw into his beard. They were both naked. She sat up and saw a candle in the dim light of the room. She found matches and lit it, staring at the yellow spearhead of flames as she let memory invade her mind, bit by bit until all of the astonishing facts were present and accounted for.

The one thing she saw with absolute clarity was that her adventure had changed her life utterly and irrevocably. She knew there was nothing to prevent her from getting up, dressing and going home to her apartment. There she could bathe, have breakfast, put on clean clothes and report to work as usual. No one would ever know. Oh, but they would! She would know! Ellen Canfield would no longer – could no longer – be the Ellen Canfield who had smugly thought of herself as a nice, virtuous, nineteen-year-old girl from a respectable, small-town family. The only thing that amazed her was that she could find within herself not even the tiniest spark of regret for the demise of that other Ellen Canfield.

She looked at Max's thin, knobby-kneed body sprawled beside her in the steady light of the candle. She remembered again what he and all of his friends had done to her under the table in the Hip Room. Her hips moved and she felt the nipples of her breasts harden with returning excitement. She took his limp cock in her hand and began stroking it. When it was hard, she tugged on it to awaken him.

"Hey, Max," she said, jerking at him, "wake up and fuck me again."

Lynn Charles picked up the newspaper from the coffee table where her brother-in-law, Sam Dryerson, had dropped it the evening before. It was an act of desperation. She normally avoided reading newspapers. She turned to the comics, then the women's section. She was about to toss the paper back down when her attention was caught by a picture of a young girl. She was an amazingly pretty girl, Lynn thought, even though she had done her best to disguise the fact with long, straight hair, flowered, bell-bottomed pants, a sweater so tight it made her look like a tart, and a medallion that dangled in such a way as to call even further attention to her large bust. It was a human-interest story about what the reporter had called a "hippie love-nest tragedy." It seemed that one Maxwell Kern had died from an overdose of drugs, and a sexy picture of his teen-aged mistress could be calculated to sell a few newspapers. The girl, Ellen, had refused to cooperate by looking either tragic or regretful. She merely looked bored.