Peter Jensen - The blackmailed mother book II

Stan Lubin came from one of the better sections of Rapier City. Some distance from either Jennifer Carmel's home or the cabin in which last night the fullback football star had taken her virginity, his father, Reginald Lubin, had leased a mansion in the shelter of a vast pine forest, a mile off the main highway leading south. Reginald and his wife, Elmira, had left the house in care of their son, Stan, while they went off skiing to a chalet in Switzerland. Mr. Lubin was a wealthy man, dabbling in a collection of businesses, all loosely controlled by his one, main holding company with its address in Switzerland, chosen for its tax laws, and the Swiss skiing trip was actually being paid for by the company, as was his house and new Aston-Martin. Mr. Lubin put everything he could in his company's name; his income tax showed that he made about two hundred dollars a month personal income, and naturally he enjoyed the benefits of the tax law's loopholes.

The house itself was spacious, built in a Spanish style of white stucco and wrought iron. Wide, well-landscaped grounds bordered it, the two tennis courts, the emerald-green swimming pool and twin cabanas, and a magnificent waterfall which cascaded from a small mountain of rocks and ferns, bubbling away into a stream which meandered among the many thick bushes and exotic plants growing in profusion. It gave the appearance of a deserted island paradise if it hadn't been for the collection of hot rod cars and flashy customed autos which lined the driveway, a full volume blast of a raucous electric guitar band from the sunken living room's stereo, and the wild yells and shrieks from the eight young teenagers inside.

Eight adolescents: seven boys and one girl. The seven were the "swinging" members of the high school football team. The one girl was the lovely, radiant young Jennifer Carmel.

The sweet, near-virginal teen-ager had been happy and excited when Stan Lubin had picked her up in the Aston-Martin his father had left be hind. As she had climbed in and sat against the tan leather upholstery, her pulse had quickened, for Stan had grinned at her, his face glittering with excitement. She had still not been overwhelmingly sorry about what had happened to her the night before, and actually wanted to have Stan's penis back inside her tiny, already expectantly quivering pussy again, spewing its cum into her belly. She had remembered the conversation of babbling, lust encited words she and Stan had had between them while she was being so wonderfully fucked by his hard, slamming cock, but those words were said in the heat of passion, weren't they? Certainly nobody would really mean for her to do all those things that Stan had said to her… letting the football team fuck her, forcing her to suck his cock… no, of course not. She was his girl… he had so much as said so last night!

And Stan had been so nice. He'd talked about all sorts of things to the pretty daughter of Roger Carmel as they drove to his parent's house. And he'd given her a marijuana cigarette to smoke, and even another after she'd finished it. By the time she'd arrived, the car swinging around the crushed oyster shell semicircular drive and stopping in front of the front door, she was carefree and lightheaded and laughing at everything. She was having a wonderful time! She was part of the "in" crowd now, and she had found it so much fun to be part of the group, that she'd have done anything to keep in it. Anything – she didn't reckon on how prophetic her thoughts would later become.

It was only when she saw the grinning, expectant faces of the other six boys, including that of Lance Retliff, the huge Negro tackle, that she began to feel the pangs of doubt, and terror began to creep between the fuzzy layers of wool which the marijuana drug had swaddled her brain in. "Stan…" she whimpered, clutching his sleeve.

"Relax, sweetheart," Stan grinned lewdly at the petrified young girl. "This is sort of your initiation into the group, you might say. Do well, and…" he shrugged, "we'll let you continue paling around with us."

"But…" the words of protest clung to her throat as she looked around the cluster of eager, virile young teen-age males. "I can't…"

"Just like I always thought," snarled Vic, Tamera Oliss' boyfriend. "She's chicken. She's just a baby."

Tears of agony and tormenting confusion welled in the girl's eyes as she saw that unless she submitted to whatever depraved games Stan wished to have her play, she would be ostracized, and although she had the desire to go home to cast aside the threats, she stayed, whimpering, hoping that she could plead for mercy. Stan lit an other cigarette and ordered her to smoke it, deeply and quickly. She obeyed almost without thinking, seizing on the brown-colored cigarette as a salvation, as a filming haze to cover her mind from making the decision whether to save her body from their lascivious abuses or whether to submit…

Jennifer's black-haired head began to swim and she found herself weaving slowly. Some of the mortal fear and misery left her mind, being replaced by more floating, suspended calmness, and though she was still afraid of what this all male group might deign to mete out to her fresh young body, her courage was tripled. Then Stan said, "It's up to you, baby. Make up that sweet little mind of yours, and decide whether you're going to be a chicken like Vic thinks or a big girl like I think. I wouldn't have brought you along if I'd thought you'd balk like this. No girl of mine does that to me."

"What – what do you want me to do?" the fifteen year-old girl said, gulping bravely. "Tell me, and I'll try to… do it." She steeled her mind, thinking only of belonging, of the one chance she had been given to be a part of the school scene, of being Stan's new girl… and having Stan all to herself later. Afterwards.

"Strip," he commanded harshly.

"In front… of ev-everybody?" she answered in a frightened whisper.

"I don't mean out in the street, you stupid slut! Now peel those pants off and let us see that beautiful little body of yours." Stan's stone-like command broke through her resistance, and like a marionette, the drugged and subjugated young girl unclipped her blouse and unzipped her pants, letting both garments fall to the living room carpet.

"All of them," Vic Cain added nastily, "including your bra and panties."

Stifling a sob of utter shame, she reached behind her and then her white, firm, quivering breasts were naked, in full view of the seven boys. The team members sucked in their collective breaths, for her breasts were perfect twin orbs of purity, capped with tiny, trembling nubs of burgundy-colored nipples. Then she slipped her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and slid them down over her full rounded hips. Her black triangle of sparse young pubic hair was projected to their lustful, leering eyes, bringing another round of excited gasps.

"Hot damn," groaned Greg Mothra. "I can see her cunt lips and everything. Jesus, she's a fine piece of fucking tail, Stan."

"You're going to see a lot more of her than just this," the fullback son of the rich Reginald Lubin sneered. "All right, baby, now lie down on the floor. Lie down, I said. That's it. Spread your legs. We want to see all of your pretty pussy. Ahhhh…"

Jennifer Carmel did as she was ordered, sinking to the wool carpet and lying trembling flat on her back, her firm, unblemished skin glossy in the indirect lighting, her full breasts pooling provocatively on her palpitating chest, her flat, hardly touched stomach rippling with queer sensations of fear and excitement. There was some thing so terrible, so wretched about exposing her young, vainly resisting naked body before all these boys that it was almost exciting…

"Open those thighs wider," Stan continued. "Now put your finger in your little cunt and play with yourself. I bet you do that all the time at home, anyway," he snickered, and the truth of his dirty jibe made Jennifer blush profusely, right to the roots of her hair. "Make your tender cunt all nice and hot while we watch you."