Roberta Vickers: Raped teenager

"So you're getting off on this, huh? Wanton slut!" He mistook her self-protective moves for enjoyment.

She didn't care. As long as he finished with her soon, she would do anything. Sobbing out an incoherent plea for him to stop seemed to drive the man into a frenzy.

"You're enjoying this, is that it? You're actually getting off on this in a big way, huh?"

He continued fucking her. He thought she was having an orgasm. It couldn't have been farther from the truth, but the teenager was in no position to explain. All she wanted in the entire world was for him to stop this degrading act.

Incest. Screwing his own daughter.

She cried openly now. As the sobs racked her body, her cunt muscles contracted a little. She felt his limp dick slip out of her twat. He wouldn't be able to fuck her any more for a while. That was her salvation.

"Damn cunt!" he snarled. He picked up the discarded liquor bottle and began jamming it into her crotch.

She felt the neck of the bottle, cold and hard, against her sex lips. When it actually entered her cunt, she passed out. The blackness washed over her like the waters of the sea engulfing a deserted share.

She didn't know how long she had lain there in the desert, unconscious. It might have been hours. The moon was low on the horizon. She didn't know if it was setting or if she'd just blacked out for a few seconds. Whatever the answer, her father was gone and she was alone.

Alone with a bottle jammed into her cunt.

Knowing how dangerous this might be, she carefully worked the bottle loose from her flesh. It hurt terribly. Never in her short life could she remember such agony.

With a wet smucking noise, the bottle came free.

She looked at the neck of the glass for a moment, then shivered. There was enough blood on it to give a full transfusion. She just hoped she wasn't bleeding so badly she might die.

She explored her cunt. Gently, she thrust her middle finger up her manhole until she found the source of the blood. It was a tiny scratch, not too bad she thought. It stung whenever she touched it. She found the reason: a tiny grain of sand.

Karen managed to clean out her quim. It was slow work because she didn't want to push the gains of sand deeper into her belly. At long last, she succeeded in getting all the debris out of her twat. Her box yeas banged up worse than it had ever been.

A tiny river of blood had started again. She picked up her discarded panties and saw they were totally ruined. Brushing off the sand first, she crammed the rag up her cunt to staunch the flow of redness. Her agonies seemed to fade away as soon as she did this crude bandaging job.

"Where did that son of a bitch go?" she asked out loud. Her father was nowhere to be seen. He had drunkenly wandered off. In the distance, she could see the lights burning brightly – almost cheerfully – in the small trailer. It was the last place in the world she wanted to go.

She realized her father wouldn't remember what had happened. When he got really boozed up, memories began to fade rapidly in direct proportion to the amount of liquor he consumed.

He'd finished off enough to totally erase his entire brain.

Karen sat on the ground, weak in reaction to what had happened to her. She tried to cry and found the tears refused to come now. There was a hardness inside her that refused to allow such an outpouring of grief. When he had raped and humiliated her, something inside had died.

She hated him worse than she'd ever hated anyone before in her life.

"Damn you, Goddamn your fucking ways!" she moaned out, wincing at the pain as she took a deep breath.

Gently probing, she found only bruised ribs. Nothing serious. Nothing as serious as her savaged cunt.

Standing produced a wave of vertigo. As the dizziness passed, she firmly resolved to never again return to that horrid trailer and her parents. What did they care about her? She was just a tax deduction, nothing more. They didn't show her any love, any compassion. And if her lot was to be raped by her alcohol-drenched father, she was certain she could do a lot better on her own.

How and doing what, she didn't know. But she'd find a way. There had to be something she could do. Waitress, maybe. They made good money. She might even be able to find a job as a secretary. She could type – sort of – and it wouldn't be all that hard filing papers.

She'd get by. She had to.

Walking in the direction opposite the trailer carried her into the desert. The sandy road under her feet crunched and tore at her flesh. She cursed her stupidity in not wearing shoes. There just hadn't been any way of telling that she'd be running away now. She wasn't psychic. Far from it. All the signs of her father raping her had been there. Overlooking them had been easier than preparing for the inevitable.

An hour later, she was shivering from the cold. Wishing she'd taken that drink her father had offered her before screwing her, she pulled the tatters of her clothing closer around her lithe body. Gooseflesh rippled up and down her bate arms and legs and her teeth began to chatter. She couldn't believe the desert got so cold so fast after the sun went down.

Overhead the diamond-hard points of the stars seemed to mock her. They were laughing at her, telling her what an asshole she was. She looked around for a place to hole up for the night. Not finding anywhere that looked like a promising sanctuary, Karen kept moving.

Better to be cold and moving than stationary and frozen to death.

As she gritted her teeth to keep them from clacking loudly together, she heard boisterous laughter. It seemed nearby, but the desert air was so still, the sounds could have been coming from miles away.

The only thing she could do was head in the general direction of the voices. In less than ten minutes, she saw a small stand of mesquite on the bank of an arroyo, a cheerful fire and a dozen men sitting around it, joking and swapping lies.

Hesitant, she didn't know if she should go down there. She finally saw the motorcycles parked in the arroyo – this was a biker gang. There was no telling what they might do to her if they found her. She'd seen too many movies to believe they'd treat her any better than her father had.

The issue was settled for her.

She felt powerful hands circle her waist, lifting her high into the air. A coarse voice, bellowed, "Goddamn, lookit this! Lookit what I found out here! Kin I keep her?"

The others spun, knives glinting in the light of the fire. Karen found herself hypnotized by the dancing light reflected off those weapons. Nasty blades, long enough to rip her guts out, all in obviously capable hands. One man in the group separated himself and began trudging up the slope.

"What you got there, Knuckles?"

"This little chickie was spying on us. Think she's one of them CIA spies?"

The man dressed in a dingy denim jacket with patches hidden in the shadows towered over her. He reached out and put his callused finger under her chin, lifting her face to stare straight into his.

"Hmmmm, not bad-looking. You sure do find some pretty spies, Knuckles. Right pretty, even if I do say so myself."

"Can I keep her, Big Ed? Huh?"

"We'll see, we'll see. Let's get this poor waif down to the fire. And get something… hot into her."

He laughed, joined by Knuckles. Karen didn't understand what he meant, but it didn't sound pleasant.

"Please, I wasn't spying on you or anything like that. I… I was just passing by. I'll leave you alone. You won't see anything more of me, honest!"

"Oh, little one, we're gonna see a hell of a lot more of you!" Big Ed laughed and motioned Knuckles toward the small campfire. He pushed Karen down the slopes. She lost her balance and went rolling down the sandy hill to land in a heap at the bottom. When she looked up, she was surrounded by a circle of dirty, scab-ridden bodies, all of them leering at her.