Ann Griffin - Skin summer

Abruptly, he spouted into her mouth, long, drenching explosions of his stuff, and she wallowed it around in her mouth, swallowed it without protest, drew for more.

When she let go of him, his pecker was limp and useless. He rolled to the edge of the bed, looked up at Peto. Her brother had used the last moments of her father's explosions to get out of his clothes. His own pecker was thin and hard, but very long. A snake between his hairless young legs. "Move over, old man," he said.

Peto had not gotten along with their father for years. It was expected that he would leave soon, as quickly as he could get onto some racket in the uptown part of the city where they lived. He was not one bit frightened of the old man, and proved it often. Now, he had something on him that the old man could not afford to let get out. Peto was saying he wouldn't talk if he could screw Jenny too.

Her father stood, let Peto on the bed. "Try some of this cock, sis," he said. "Tastes better than old meat."

She took it in her mouth, wallowed it, held his bag in her hands.

"God!" Peto said. "You've trained her real good in whore mouthing, old man."

Her father stood, watching. His organ was hardening between his legs.

Peto pounded his meat into her face, harder than her father ever had, not caring whether he hurt her, not gentle in any way. When she gagged, he stuffed all the harder.

When she could feel his balls quivering in her hand, he pulled his snake from her lips and pushed her down, spread her legs and fingered her cunt. "Is there room?" he asked her father.

"Don't do it to her," her father said. "I haven't."

"A cherry?" her brother said.

"She's not even eleven yet."

Her brother laughed. "Look who's talking!" He got off the bed, went out into the hall, to the bathroom, came back – long prick swaying before him – with a jar of petroleum jelly. "We'll make it easy on her."

Her father was solidly hard again.

"What are you doing?" Jenny asked as lubricated his staff.

"I'm going to fuck you, sis. You never been really fucked."

He laid down on her, guided the ramrod to her slit. Then, with a heave of his hips, he slammed into her love box. He met membrane, bounced off it. She squealed with pain, and he clamped a hand over her mouth. He rammed his stick into her four times before the hymen burst and he slid home. "Christ what a cunt!" he hissed.

"Please," she said, crying now.

But he wasn't interested in her, only in getting off his rocks, losing his own tension.

Life from that point on until she left home four years later, was a nightmare. While Peto slammed into her bleeding love nook, her father, excited now – acting like the animal he was – came around and fed his prick into her mouth, let her suck him – made her suck him – until Peto groaned and blew his wad into her jelly-jar. She was unbelievably sore. The ache spread up through her guts. But as soon as Peto was out, her father took his staff from her lips, climbed on and thrust deep into the territory Peto had opened. He pumped while Peto took his place, making her work her mouth on his snake, wet with her cunny and blood and his sperm, until he shot again.

They left her on the bed, crying, shivering, and warned her to clean up and say nothing to anyone if she did not want to be hurt, spanked and struck by both of them.

After that, they fucked her any time they got the chance, usually once or twice a week each. Every time – though now and then she came near a climax – they were rough and inconsiderate, beating out their cream, then leaving her. They continually hurt her.

Once, when she tried to tell her mother, she was slapped and called a liar and turned over to her father for handling. And he handled her, making her eat him while he slapped her with the hairbrush across the shoulders and back, leaving bruises that lasted a month.

The penis became an object of fear. She dreamed of it, and in the dreams, it was a knife that sliced her.

A gun that blasted her, ruining her insides.

A prodding steel pole.

A harpoon.

And finally an animal, a wicked, demonish beast separate from the men on whom he grew. It was a thing out to destroy her, and she hated it with every ounce of her being. She was certain it would kill her, and she could do nothing but wait to be reamed too deeply, to start pouring blood out her cunny, to die…

When she left home, there were no more men.

But there were women.

And then, Sam.

When she had wakened in her room, she had expected him to kill her with his penis. She had been resigned to death. She had begged him not to kill her with it, but there seemed little hope. Then he had put it between her legs, slid it deep, and had fucked her gently, gently. She had never felt anything as remotely exciting. She had exploded twice with his rod buried in her, and he had left her satiated and without pain.

After she had accepted the fact that she was not dying, she tried to rebuild the hate she had for men. She couldn't do it. She realized she had judged all men on the performance of her father and brother. She had narrowed her mind, had closed out the world, and had tried to be happy as only half a woman. She laid awake all night, fighting with the knowledge that she had wasted much of her youth. She had not been willing to admit that until she had seen Sam here again, in this room. When he had kissed and touched her, she knew the old life must be destroyed.

When she finished her story, she bent to Sam Walker's lap and took his wilted penis in her mouth. She felt it swell against her cheeks…

They drank some, and talked as they sat on the floor of Sam's cabin, and eventually he told his own story. He could see, now, that he had been sick, just as Susan had said. Sick because he did not understand that sex is a display of love. When you love someone, there is no more wonderfully complete method of letting them know, of reassuring them than by giving them your body for pleasure. Sex should never be a tool to extract something from another person. That is subverting what Nature has provided and what your body was originally intended for. He could see where his hang-up had originated, back in his broken home, back with the first girls he had been with. Now, perhaps, he could shake it. For the first time, with Susan Calderwood-Logan, there had been love involved. He had fallen for her that first day and had not understood the emotions raging within him. He had stumbled on, working his con the same way as always. But not only had he met someone he loved, but someone who was too self-controlled to fall for his standard routine.

He had gotten drunk and gone to Jenny. The only way he could explain that was that he felt sorry for her, for her inability to lead a normal life, for her hostility that would not allow her to get all the joy out of her world that she could if she faced it more cheerfully. He must have had some idea of curing her, of showing her she could enjoy herself with a man. It was an absurd idea. Nine times out of ten, it would have failed. In Jenny's case, it worked. And he had enjoyed himself as much as he had with Susan – because, again, love was involved and not just the profit motive.

He understood all this now.

But he still had a bad problem.

Which was Susan Calderwood-Logan…

He knew now that he loved her very much, that he respected her. She was the kind of girl-woman he had unconsciously been searching for all these years. She was a match for him, both physically and mentally. To lose her would be the worst event of his life. But he had surely lost her. She had told him he was mentally ill, had told him she did not ever wish to see him again.

"But it can't end here," he said, finishing his confidences with Linda and Jenny.