Ron Taylor - Naughty aunt Susan

"Pam," I corrected, finding my voice as he fucked me savagely and deeply. "Oh, Christ, I'm too sore! Why don't you quit it?"

"You – don't feel – sore – to me…" he grunted.

"Ouch!" I screamed shrilly, trying to prove that sore was what it was all about. Alan cuffed me hard alongside the cheek and I blinked back a hot burning tear. I didn't want to yell again. I could sense that he'd given me but a warning tap.

"Jesus, you're tight," he complimented between stabs. "You a virgin or something?"

Hell of a time to be asking that! "No, I'm not!" I gasped, feeling a particularly deep stab. Sometimes it's like heaven when a dick plays around the mouth of your womb. If the owner of the dick knows what he's doing. Alan didn't know much about screwing, in my opinion. He just lay on me, fucking his rocks off. And he smashed the end of my cunt the same way he tried to shove his cock down my throat – without the slightest consideration for me or my feelings. His cock was just a big pole moving around inside me, no brains, no plan, and the only thing I could hope for was that he'd be finished soon.

The ramming of Alan's pecker pulled and jerked my cunt, of course, but I could scarcely feel it. Mostly I just hurt. He hadn't done much to warm me up. He'd almost strangled me with his cock in my mouth, and he'd used his finger on my pussy, but that was it. The rest was the old routine – crawl on top and stick it in. I don't like that a bit. If I have sex with someone, I like to know that I'm a respected, desired part of the encounter. I like to be made love to, not just thrown and dicked. If only Lilly were here. She and I had taken six months of karate lessons last year and she remembered everything. She could give this bastard a chop that would separate his cock and his nuts for all time, and she'd laugh in his fucking face afterward. I wished I were Lilly. I wished I were balling Lilly right now, instead of being screwed by this basketball-playing goon.

"Hurry up," I snapped. "Your hot breath is making my eyeshadow run."

He mustn't have been used to getting lip from his girls – except for the kind of lip that melted around his peter. He called me a rotten name I won't spoil the paper with, and he began to fuck me faster. Of course it hurt – I wanted to spit him right out of my cunt and drip blood on him – but it was a sign that he should be finished soon, and thank God for that.

"Unh-unh-unh," he grunted, and his pecker slammed my box in hard, fast strokes. On the last one his body stiffened where it lay atop mine, and I felt him begin to unload his nuts. The hot cum squirted and sprayed inside me – I could feel each drop as it splattered from the tip of his prick – and it began to seep from the lips of my snatch as he pulled back to shoot me with even more. But his cock was losing its hardness, too – it was going slack even while it shot seed, and I sighed in relief.

Allan collapsed atop me then, sighing with fucked-out contentment. His body was long and powerful still, but he was weak from his release and I pushed him off me with no problem at all. He fell onto the ground with a snarl and he gave me a dirty look. I gave him the finger in reply and I pulled up my pants. My cunt was sopping with spilled blood and scum, and I couldn't bear to look at it.

"Get out of here!" I told him. "I don't want to see you when I opened up my eyes again."

He crawled towards me. "You fucking cunt!" he growled. "I should have stuck it up your asshole instead."

"You and who else, you overgrown pimple?"

He showed me who else then, when he belted me in the face. My cheek stung with the blow and I could taste blood on my lips where I'd bitten myself in surprise. His hand drew back to hit me again, and all I could do in defense was to close my eyes and scream the heavens down upon his head. It was a good scream, better than Fay Wray's in King Kong. The underbrush crackled, not far away, and a voice called out words I couldn't quite understand. Man made a gulping sound and he stood up fast, pulling up his pants as he did. He started running while he was still buckling his belt, and in the process he nearly had a head-on collision with a lady in a straw hat and artist's smock. She seemed somehow familiar, and then I remembered tat we'd seen her painting by the old riverbed.

She elbowed Alan aside and made straight for me. I sat up and pulled my undone halter shut just as she knelt beside me.

To begin, she wasn't a lady. No nasty meant there. But she was young, in her middle twenties, I supposed. Her hair was long, the color of spun gold, and her heart-shaped face was full of concern. For me? Who else? I asked myself.

"Are you all right?" she asked me, touching my shoulder. "Is there anything I can do?"

I shook my head. "I'm okay."

"Did he rape you?" she asked indignantly.

"Huh?"

She pointed to the front of my shorts. The mess from my pussy had leaked through, and there was a big purple-red stain on the pale yellow fabric. "Oh, shit!" I groaned.

She wasn't my rescuer – she hadn't come in time to save me from anything – but she was upset and I could sense that she somehow cared about me. Of course, it looked worse than it really was. "The blood's menstrual," I said resignedly, staring at the big red smear. "My aunt is gonna shit when she sees that."

Her hand patted my shoulder in a consoling gesture and I felt our hearts meeting somewhere in the space between our bodies. I had no control over that, none at all. It was as natural and automatic as the daily routine of sun and earth.

I've already told you about her big straw hat and her golden hair and her perfectly shaped face. Well, the rest of her was definitely up to par.

She wore an artist's smock, bright pink with little stains of paint here and there and brushes and pencils sticking from one pocket. The smock was unbuttoned and I could see that she also wore a snug blue body shirt, a shade and a half darker than her lustrous, liquid eyes, and below that a denim skirt, very short. Those faggot fashion designers have been trying to kill the mini for years, but my new friend's legs were the absolutely unanswerable argument for short skirts. They were long and tanned and beautiful.

Her face was a valentine heart, big blue eyes and a little red mouth and a tiny dimple in her chin. She was a walking advertisement for perfect beauty.

I suppose she was in her middle twenties. Her name was Belinda. I didn't have to ask, because it was rhinestoned in big bold letters across the front of her sweater. B-E-L-I-N-D-A, curving with the thrusting swell of her tits. I didn't know whether her boobs or her monogram was the more eye-catching, but whichever, I found my eyes almost glued to her chest.

She had rings on every finger, the biggest one of those mood rings that change color depending on how you feel. It was deep black right now, a bad sign. A large gold wedding band was almost as noticeable.

"Come on," Belinda suggested. "I'll take you home and help you get freshened up. You really need it."

We picked up her easel and painting – it was watercolor, a landscape, and I thought it was pretty good – and she took me to her car, a small red sports model parked in the stadium lot. From there it wasn't far to her house, and I talked all the way in a burst of nervous energy.

I must have told her my life story, or at least the relevant portions, dwelling mostly upon the way I'd been misused a short time ago. She clucked in sympathy and assured me that we could dump my clothes into her washer and get them spic and span in a twinkling.

She lived on the south side of town. Belinda and her husband were newcomers here in Athens, having been here only a month or six weeks. Her man was a lawyer, she said, and he'd just taken on a partnership in a law firm here in town. They were from Illinois but she didn't have a Midwestern twang in her voice. I didn't care about her accent or her husband. I couldn't take my eyes away from her.