Holly Hope - Slut girl

I heartily agreed, and said so.

"And if your fool mother ever finds out, she'll be the first to blow the whistle. Now, let's face it, lover," Paul went on, "I'm gonna have to sleep with her, and maybe even once in a while make love to her, just to keep shacked up in this house. But it'll be worth it, to both of us, because if I ever have to move out, there's just no possible way for the two of us to be together and make love. You can see and understand that, can't you, baby doll?" he asked.

I agreed and understood, and told him that I wouldn't ever let one syllable slip about what we had done. In my innocence, I didn't realize that Paul had set himself up in the best of all possible worlds for a male. I didn't come to know that until later, much later.

We spent the rest of Saturday and most of Sunday making love. When we weren't actually fucking, we took turns eating each other up, and in between sessions we lay languorously on the bed petting and playing and napping. I cooked a couple of meals for us and did the dishes while he slept, and then Sunday afternoon before Mom was due home, I took some homework that I had to complete and went over to a friend's house. That way, when Paul greeted Mom on her homecoming, he could tell her that I'd been gone most of the time. I found out later that Mom insisted on making love and "catching up for missing two days", and Paul told me that the only way he had been capable of satisfying her was to close his eyes and think of me as he fucked my mother.

The roof caved in on Mom, sort of, a few days later. The welfare, worker checked up on gossip she'd heard, and found it to be true, about a man living in the house, so they cut off her welfare check. Two days later, Paul came home with his hand in a splint and said he broke three small bones and would be off work for at least two months – couldn't drive a truck with a busted hand. So Mom got a job clerking down at the drugstore, from noon till nine at night.

That left Paul and me alone from four o'clock when I got home from school until nine. That first session was extra wonderful, because I hadn't had any loving for almost a week, coming right after a marathon introduction to the glories of sex, and I was getting nervous and fidgety. Paul had purposely been avoiding me in the house during that time, too, to be sure that we didn't give Mom the slightest hint of our current relationship.

The moment we were alone together, Paul stripped off the bandages and splints, admitted that he had made up the entire story of the accident, and we got caught up real quick. Oh, I was so happy to know that he loved me enough to want to be with me all the time! Our daily sessions would continue from four o'clock until about eight-thirty, when Paul would take a bath, rebandage his hand, dress, and walk to the drugstore to accompany Mom home. He was the picture of a devoted lover to her, but I knew that his heart and mind belonged to just me, even as I had become his love slave. I flew through the next couple of months on the wings of delight.

My breasts filled out rapidly, and I felt more and more of a woman with each passing day. I kept to myself, away from the other girls, except for an occasional Coke or chat with one once in a while, as their gossip about boys, dates, kissing, and so forth was so idiotically juvenile that it bored me to tears and a couple times almost to laughter and a confession that would have really stunned them. I held my tongue, however, and gave them no inkling of the knowledge that I carried within my brain and crotch. My entire world was wrapped up in the love that Paul and I so happily shared.

Then the bomb dropped. I came home from school as usual at four o'clock one day and before I could open the front door and enter the house, I could hear voices raised in angry argument.

"Goddam you, you goldbrickin' son of a bitch!" my mother was shrieking at Paul. "I bust my ass all day and night at that damned drugstore to buy you groceries and keep you in cigarettes and liquor and all you do is sit on your ass here and live the life of Reilly with that fake broken hand! I oughta kill you, you rotten bastard!"

"Aw, calm down, for Chrissake! What the hell does it hurt you to work once in a while. God knows you spent my paychecks as fast as I brought them in here to you. I just wanted a little vacation. And you've mooched off the taxpayers all your Goddam life, gettin' them welfare checks to feed you and the brat, so quit bitchin' and tryin' to be so Goddamn pure, you stupid cunt!" Paul's voice was loud enough to interrupt Mom's tirade.

I was shocked. Paul – my Paul – who had always been so soft-spoken, so courteous, so gentle; now so loud, profane, uncouth. And brat! Was that what he really thought of me? I hovered just inside the front door and listened to the screaming dialogue that continued to mount in the kitchen between the pair of adults.

"You stupid bitch, you're nothin' but a born loser – always was and always will be. If you think you're such a hot cunt at your age, ya better take another good, long look in the mirror, because you're over the hill, baby. Way over the hill."

"Loser, am I?" Mom's voice lowered threateningly, as it always did when she got the maddest. "Yeah, I've been a loser ever since I took you in. But I can cure that, and Goddamn fast, you son of a bitch. You're the loser, Paul, and you always will be. You have exactly one minute, six seconds, to get your crap and get the hell outa here and outa my life. If I ever see you again, you lazy cocksucker, I'll shoot you! And don't you ever forget it, you no-good low-down moochin' bastard! You're the loser! Best setup you'll ever see again in your life, and you blew it! Get goin'!" she said to him, and I heard him go up the stairs to his bedroom. I saw her cross the kitchen to get her whiskey bottle, and I scooted silently up the stairs.

Paul was angrily flinging shorts and shirts into bin battered cardboard suitcase when I entered the room. "Paul," I said softly, and he turned, his rage apparent upon his face. "Take me with you, Paul, honey. Please!" I begged.

"You crazy? Hey, look, stupid, I've got enough trouble with that dumb cunt of a mother of yours, without dragging a piece of jailbait along to draw the heat, too. Get the fuck away from me, you adolescent whore!" He slammed the suitcase lid shut. "And you'd better keep your mouth shut about what all we did, or you'll get your ass slammed into reform school so quick you won't believe it. And I'll be five states away by this time tomorrow, you can bet on that. No one's ever find me, so don't anyone try." I nearly fainted from the verbal blows he rained on my loving, unsuspecting head, and then came the final blow. "And my right name's not even Paul, so just forget me forever, dummy. You're a loser just like your old lady. All you'll ever be good, for is a quick lay for whoever sticks a cock into ya. Get the fuck outa my way, bitch!"

He dashed by me, down the stairs, slammed the front door, and I heard the car peel rubber as he left the curb. I went to my room, threw myself face down on the bed, and then, numb with the shock and disbelief of the entire situation, I sobbed and cried as I relived each and every word he had speared into my brain. That was the first time I ever cried over a man to whom I'd given myself in a vain search for love. It was not to be the last. Not by a damned site.

Life was pretty hectic for a few days after Paul's departure. Mom was overly irritable, and aside from a question or two about "did the son of a bitch ever touch you, or ask you to do anything naughty with him?" which I answered with wide-eyed innocent lies, she mostly just sulked and drank. After about a week of that, she met a fellow at Jimmy's Bar and brought him home with her for the weekend. I could tell by his raised eyebrows and whistled exclamation of approval when he entered the house that he had never been inside one as nice, although God knows it was just another frame three bedroom, lower middle-class average.