Joan Kelly - Rape me!

I'd found it under the front seat of Dad's pickup, the company truck he used on construction jobs. A magazine. I guess it could have been left there by anyone. It wasn't the usual magazine. It had pictures, lots of them and all in color. Even the cover was far-out. I had to get the nerve to just turn to the first page. All those naked… So I hid it under my mattress and didn't dare touch it again until this morning when I woke up and for some reason slipped it out of its hiding place and under my pillow.

In the next room they were fighting again. Always in the morning like a couple of clocks. Trailer walls were so thin. It was hard to keep from hearing certain things.

"…how long do you think a man can wait?" Al, my father, said!

"You just don't think of how inconvenient it can be for me in the morning…" That from Elaine. My mom.

"Inconvenient…!"

"Al, please don't raise your voice. Lorrie will wake up…"

I turned over on my stomach and touched the magazine. The glossy pages stuck to my fingers. From the next room the voices were muted now, coming to me in blurred spurts of sound. I pulled the magazine out from under the pillow. Oh, Lord Jesus! That girl with her legs spread, her smile, her tits offered up like that! I swallowed, wet my lips, swallowed again. Flip the page. My heart thudded, breath grew ragged like it always did when I studied the veins in the dark-haired man's cock. It was huge! Or at least it looked huge there in color on that glossy page. White along the shaft with a ridged, swollen head… if that was what you called it. Something like a mushroom but dark-blue and shiny. Shiny from the girl's mouth. The girl was looking at the cock lovingly, her tongue lolling out. It looked big enough to choke her if she let the man do what he seemed about to do. I flipped another page. God, God, God! A whole series of pictures, a sequence of a couple actually screwing! I found I was holding my breath and let it out with a whoosh. My nipples tingled. I slipped a palm down to brush one turgid stalk. The tingling got worse… or better. I wished I knew how to accept the things that had happened to my body the past few years. Like my tits especially. They'd gotten so big! At first I'd kind of liked the shape they took, but when they didn't stop growing, when they bulged out of last year's dresses and made all the boys start calling me big tits behind my back… In a way I was glad we'd moved to a new town.

I peered closely at the pictures showing the man's cock tip pushing against the squishy red membranes of the woman's open slit. Her legs were thrown back and she even held one ankle with her hand. The man had a boob in his mouth and in the next picture his bluish knob wasn't visible any more. It was inside the woman's body. My cunt throbbed and I felt a flood of juices seeping between the closed lips, drenching my hot, tingly petals. I wondered how it must feel to the woman to have herself split like that! And how it must feel to the man. Surrounded by all that buttery, hot… pussy.

I slid my own hand down under my belly, curled fingers under the furred curve of my body. I was eighteen now. Was that supposed to be a special time? My finger trembled along the furry divide of my slit. I flipped another page, sucked a short breath. The woman lay on her back with her elbows hooked under her knees. Her cunt petals were peeled wide. Her cunt glistened with wetness and the man who bent his face close to her gash was glossy around his lips and chin. His tongue was just touching the little ridge of flesh above her hole. I found that I was crinkling the pages of the magazine, I was holding it so hard. I moved the finger that lay against my warm pussy mound, moved it again and felt the wetness, the slickness. I pressed up and in until the outer cuntlips surrounded one knuckle completely. My breath was a hot ball in my throat. A silent bird beat against my insides. Each time I stroked the finger through the clinging membranes, I felt I was stepping into some forbidden territory, breaking unspoken taboos, taboos so frightening that none of my friends had ever spoken to me about them. A vague cloud of wickedness seemed to hover above my bed. I felt almost as if I were another person, separate from myself, watching the naughty girl on the bed with her dirty magazine and her finger in her… pussy. That word again. Why did it make me shiver just thinking it? I rubbed my slit faster, fanned a fingertip over the hot nubbin of flesh that seemed half-hidden under a hood. I explored farther down the buttery gash with a thumb, but like always I could find no spot that even hinted of a deeper place. That well into the depths of my body, the hot, slick tunnel that the woman in the magazine had. How deep could the man's cock go before the woman could cry out in pain? How fast did he… fuck her!

I moaned in my throat, more a growl really. The feeling of my hand on my swollen gash was too good not to moan! I rubbed my tits against the sheet. The nipples slipped out of the surrounding softness, poked their tenderness against the roughness of the bed. I widened my thighs and began to move my ass slowly up and down. The movement and the tightening of the large muscles in my butt added to the tension. I pushed the magazine to the side and put both hands against my cunt mound, spread my slit wider, gouged the sloppy pink tissues until I moaned again in rhythm to the touch. But what would it feel like if I took off all my clothes?

I jumped up and peeled the flannel bottoms, almost popped a button getting the top off. I knew it wasn't right, doing it like this, planning it even. But my chest was fluttery and full of some delightful, exciting breathlessness I couldn't identify. The door to my room was locked from the inside. I closed my eyes for a moment, thought of the prayers my mother always said with me on Sunday and then whipped my head to fling them away. As I turned to the bed again, I glimpsed my image in the mirror. That, too, was taboo. I hardly ever spent time being totally naked. The sensation of only air brushing against my skin was somehow uncomfortable. But this morning it felt strangely good. I fell across the mattress on my back, panting harder than ever. Both my palms felt warm on my belly and I pushed them lower again until I found the aching, puffed, lips of my cunt and separated them gently. Like the woman in the magazine, I bent my knees and raised them up, up… then wide apart. My heels bobbed in the air as I petted the petals and listened to the wet, squishy sound the petting made. It was lovely! Could something so lovely be bad? Yes, maybe… I didn't know! Mother said it was… but, no, she had never really said the exact words. It was in her attitude, the comments she made on certain TV programs or her opinion of someone who was gossiped about. But I wasn't… I wasn't with a man… Oh, it felt so wonderful! My crack was a running flood of slick butter now and the stretch of the tendons in my thighs brought on jabs of pleasure. I worked my ass up and down on the bed, arching and humping my back as I fingered my gash. My belly heaved. My tits had flattened back against my chest some but the nipples stood up straight and hard. They were dark, lots darker than my light skin and the circles of softness around them were dark, too. I took one hand away from my cunt and pinched a nipple, wetting it with slick juice. The juice began to cool there on my skin. It felt good, too. Everything did!

I don't remember why I thought of the hairbrush on the table by my bed, why I reached over and took it. But the shape of the handle was smooth and curved sexy-looking somehow.

Especially after looking at the pictures of that man's cock in the magazine. Careful at first, I guided it down between my swollen cuntlips and rubbed it up and down. The plastic was immediately drenched with my pussy juice. It made a sucking sound as my folds clasped around the smoothness, heated it. The brush handle didn't make as much friction as my fingers, and I could push it harder, move it faster than I'd stroked myself before. Now I dropped my legs, clenched my thighs tight together around the probing hardness of the brush. The end of the handle was a gentle point, rounded enough not to be dangerous… I dared to probe along the deepest part of my slit, pressing hardest at my cit.