Mary Jenkins - Innocent in Chicago Volume One

But she really didn't care. For the hot, rising tide of pleasure, culminating in the sharp peak of the first orgasm with a man, had been well worth the lacerations on her body. And she knew that, for her, this would always be true. Being able to make love would be worth almost anything.

She turned out the light, walked over to the bed and slid between the sheets. Their coolness was fresh and soothing on her burning body and she fell asleep almost immediately.

She had driven to Chicago with a visiting cousin of one of their neighbors, a young fellow named Dave, whose gentle bespectacled face, when she had first seen him the evening before, made her think he was too shy and reserved to be possibly interesting. Since she had obtained her parent's permission to forgo college and, instead, look for a job in Chicago – permission more easily given after her aunt had written from Chicago inviting her to stay in her apartment as long as she wanted – she had been eagerly envisioning what adventures she might fall into, adventures for which her long pent-up desires were more than ready. But when she noticed his large strong hands and the ease with which he moved his powerful, compact body, a tingle of anticipation passed through her. Now that she was leaving home and would be finally independent, she no longer felt hesitant about indulging in a full sexual experience. It was as though a second umbilical cord had been cut, a strong cord of obligation and responsibility tying her to her parents and prohibiting her from doing anything which they might disapprove. For the first time she could look at a man and want him, without also feeling guilty about it.

They had stopped for lunch at a roadside diner and when they climbed back in the car, Cynthia moved over near him, her legs folded back under her, the hem of her cotton skirt above her knees.

"What kind of job were you thinking of getting?" Dave said.

"I'm not sure. I haven't had any experience. Do you think one will be hard to find?"

"Shouldn't be with your looks, baby," he said.

"I was thinking I might take a secretarial course first, but I'd really like to get a job right away instead, and be on my own."

"What's the rush? Anxious to make your first million?"

"No," she said, glancing at him out of the corners of her eyes, "but I'm sick of living with parents and relatives. I want to live by myself so I can do what I want."

"And what do you want to do?"

She didn't reply, but continued looking straight ahead out the window, a faint smile on her face. She felt him looking at her and then the light pressure of his warm hand on her knee.

"It's hot out. I feel all sticky," she said. He withdrew his hand as she unfolded her legs and stretched them out before her, her knees spread apart. She moved them back and forth and, holding the hem of her skirt, shook it slightly. "Perfect day to go swimming. I'd like to dive in right up to my neck."

"Yeah, I'd like to dive in, too, but not in water, and not up to my neck." He took one hand off the wheel and ran it down over her hair. "Baby, as I said before, you're a real killer."

He pulled her head toward him until it lay on his shoulder. She tilted it up and he kissed the end of her nose while his hand strayed down over her shoulder, under her armpit and over the proud rise of her breast which his fingers cupped and then tentatively pressed, the flesh soft but resilient under his spread fingers.

Moving her leg against his and laying her hand on his thigh, her fingers lightly kneaded it and then crawled slowly upward toward the crotch of his trousers. Her lips whispered with soft flutters against his neck and up to his ear, the lobe which she gently chewed, her hot breath filling his ear. With her hand she found the bulge between his legs and began massaging it until it became large and swollen and pressed tightly against the material. Digging his fingers in her breast, he rubbed and twisted the knob of her nipple, making it swell out under the thin white jersey like a dark-red grape.

The loud blast of a horn jerked them up, startled. The car swerved to the right as he quickly spun the wheel and narrowly missed a car which roared past them, its horn a continuous screech.

"My God!" Dave exclaimed. After a moment he laughed hollowly and said, "Honey, our romance almost came to a sudden and permanent conclusion."

Cynthia looked at him and said, "Can't we open a new chapter?"

He glanced at her quickly, at her flushed face and the thick hair tangled by the wind, at her blue eyes, their lids half-closed, gleaming with a frank invitation and then he slowed the car, soon turning off the highway onto a graveled road which he followed until he turned again, this time onto a bumpy lane leading into a small wood.

Switching off the key, he turned toward her, one hand still on the wheel. Wordless they looked at each other for a moment, feeling the tension between them, stretched tautly like an elastic band. But it snapped suddenly as they fell together, their bodies hungry and frantic. For they met like two wild cats, each furiously trying to subdue the other with their lips and hands, chewing, scratching, bruising, their mouths pressed together like two crushed flowers, biting each other's lips and tongues, their hands sliding heavily over the curves and hollows of their bodies as though they were trying to hurt each other.

She cried aloud as he grasped her hard with one hand and wrenched her around so that her back smashed against the steering wheel and the hard rim dug into her flesh and locked one arm around her. His lips bit into the smooth golden hollow below her neck while his fingers, tangled in her hair and pulling the roots, held her head like a vice. His other hand pressed and squeezed her breast as though it were an orange, as though he were trying to twist it off; so sharp was the pain that she screamed and struggled furiously to make him stop, kicking her legs until her skirt fell back over her belly, exposing the sheer pink of her panties under which the blond curls of her mound lay like a yellow crocus. Her full, tanned thighs trembled like golden jelly as she bucked and writhed, trying to escape, trying to free her twisted right arm from where it was crushed against his chest, the pen in his pocket jabbing into her flesh. He stopped her moans with his mouth and at the same time brought the palm of his hand down with a loud smack against one of her inner thighs, leaving a bright pink imprint, the sting and shock of the blow momentarily halting her contortions. He worked his hand up under the elastic of her panties, touching her wet throbbing vagina and tantalized the warm moist lips between her legs. As she felt his hand loosen on the back of her neck and his lips kiss her more tenderly, she began to relax and slowly freed her hands. But when his nails suddenly scratched the tender flesh under the fleece of her loins, she clawed his back and bit his lip until the blood flowed.

"You bitch!" he snarled. He clasped her wrists grimly in one of his hands. In one quick movement he pushed her off him and, still holding her wrists, opened the door and said quickly, "Get out."

He got out and pulled her after him. Her legs slid over the seat, the friction burning the naked underside of her thighs; she felt as though her arms would come out of their sockets. She was filled with a wild anger and wanted to fight back, but at the same time she was enjoying his violence, the open display of his lust for her and her body responded with an equal lust for him. The conflict between her anger and desire made her almost hysterical for a moment; she didn't know whether to tear at him with her nails or to fall upon him with all the love and passion her long pent-up desires demanded as a release.

But she had no time to decide for he threw her roughly to the ground and fell on top of her, the impact of his body crushing the breath out of her. The sharp rip of tearing cloth mingled with her moans as he first tore off her white blouse and then, with one wrench, tore off her brassiere and pressed his mouth against the soft pulp of her breast. When she felt his hard mouth sucking and biting the tender, aching nipple, flashes of pain lanced through her body and she began to churn violently beneath him so that her naked back ground into the pebbles, sharp as broken crockery, and the dirt covered roots which stuck out from the sod like knots of rope. She rolled her head from side to side, her taffy-colored hair now streaked with dirt and threaded with bits of leaves and twigs, her eyes closed, her mouth, once red and demure, now bruised and swollen. Scraping her nails down his back, she heard his shirt rip into long ribbons and felt the warm slipperiness of blood against her fingers.