Perry Scope - When the loving gets rough

Pat's voice rose as her body climbed to the peak of excitement. Her hands moved feverishly, one squeezing harder and harder on her breast, as the other savagely poked the full length of its middle finger in and out of her slit.

"Come, Karen! COME! I want to feel you come on my finger, baby. There, there! Feel me coming on yours? So delicious… so hot… so gooooood! AHHHHHH!"

Pat slowly removed her finger from the depths of her sopping wet slit and smiled at herself in the mirror. The little game was just what she needed, she thought, to put herself in the right mood for a man. Not that she didn't enjoy a man. Pat just hated men. But there were times times even with a man… Perhaps, she told herself with renewed enthusiasm, this man would be one of those times!

The man at the threshold looked nervous and unsure of himself. "Are you Pat?" he asked awkwardly, his beefy face darkening perceptively.

The girl smiled. "Sure. Come on in." She turned and moved back into the room. She heard him follow but didn't turn around. She knew the man was surprised. They all were. Pat lived differently from the way men expected a seventy-five-dollar-a-throw prostitute to live. Her cheap apartment was unusual, and so was her failure to appear at the door in the standard uniform of the trade – a sexy negligee. All she had on was a stiffly ironed man's white skirt.

"Mike tell you how much?" Pat asked. She knew girl in her price range was supposed to be more subtle – only a ten-dollar number on Washington Avenue was this direct. But Pat didn't care. She made up for the niceties she neglected now, late; in hot merchandise.

"Seventy-five, right? That's a lot of money." The man's pig eyes paused at the bulging tops of the girls breasts, then hurried down to where the shirttails clung together between her thighs. "But you just might be worth it."

"Oh, honey, am I!" Pat took the money and crossed the room with it. She counted carefully as she put the crisp bills in the beat-up dresser. She unbuttoned rapidly as she moved to the bed. The man got out of his sport coat and laid it on the couch on the other side of the room. He watched her undo the last button. His own hands began to move as quickly over his shirt and trousers.

Pat turned her back to the man as she wriggled her shoulders, encouraging the shirt to fall away from her brown, evenly tanned body. She could feel his greedy eyes stabbing into her back, heard the quick intake of his breathing when the shirt slid over her firm, globular rump. He let his shoes fall to the carpet with a dull thud.

She turned slowly, allowing him a long chance to see and appreciate her unusual beauty. She knew how the curvy slimness of her figure drove men wild, and how the lush growth of onyx excited them even more than did her fine high breasts. She watched the man, naked, save for his concealing boxer shorts, react to her body in the expected way. She loved the wild feeling of jungle animalism her own beauty inspired in herself and others; she loved to play games with her body, show it off proudly. Most girls were impressed with their fine figures, Pat was enraptured with hers.

She walked to the man, grinning broadly at the way his gaze clung to her. She looked up into his eyes, forcing his attention away from her body and down into her eyes. "You look big enough to undress by yourself," she teased, suddenly kittenish and eager. "Or do you need some help?"

The man jerked erect and, grinning foolishly, yanked off the one remaining garment.

Pat inspected the man critically, unimpressed by the layers of fat that thickened his waist, though, nodding with approval at the rest of him. She had seen firmer, handsomer men, but he would do… nicely. She kept her eyes intimately on him as she spoke. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Bill. Why? Does it matter?" His voice was thick.

"Not really. But I want to know what to call you when I tell you what to do…" It seemed to Pat that the man paled as she spoke. She was going to like this… It still wasn't Karen, and it was Karen she really wanted tonight, but she was going to like this, anyway.

Bill reached out with both hands. He weighed and squeezed one lovely breast. "You name it, baby. Just… name it!"

Pat's ice-blue eyes glittered wetly. She could suddenly taste again the bitterness of the cheap liquor her stepfather used. Since the death of her mother, when Pat was eight, her stepfather was the only family she had known… her life had been so lonely. There had been the school bus which had split the dusty road each day to take her away for a few hours from the tiny farm her father worked single-handed in the desolate corner of her native Oklahoma. But most of the time it had only been the two of them, fighting the reluctant earth, sharing a life together without love or understanding. Then one night, shortly after she reached her teens, he had returned to the ramshackle house late after an evening of drinking in town… She had tasted the liquor on his bruising lips, felt his hands ripping her cotton shift from her body, and screamed out in terror, knowing even then that there was no help for her.

Her immature body had suffered under her stepfather's heavy body frequently after that. Pat had hated the assaults. She had tried to fight them off once she knew that the sound of his unsteady footprints approaching her bed meant another violent attack. Her body tried to escape, first by pretending illness, then, when the rapes went on in spite of it, by very real sicknesses which, nameless, produced terrible fevers and terrifying hallucinations.

Pat could never really recall what it was that happened to her shortly after these attacks began. She knew that there was an abrupt change in her body, a painful change. There was a visit by the doctor who screamed at her father, threatening to report him to the authorities, telling him he had ruined her life, that she would never have children after what he had done. Then came a blissful reprieve in the small local hospital, a blindingly white operating room. Followed by more threats when Pat was returned to her father, but the assaults resumed once she was well again, and the doctor, a drinking crony of her father's, never did more than threaten.

She had hated her stepfather for his cruelty. Yet, as the years passed, something happened. She came to almost look forward to the familiar booze odor and the sickening, sluggish body crushing her developing flesh.

This man handling her body, this man who called himself Bill, was built like her stepfather. He even smelled vaguely like him. Pat threw her arms around Bill's thick neck, thrusting her hard nipples against him. She tossed her head back as far as it would go, began a swaying movement that caused her tight young body to rub back and forth against the man, and closed her eyes with a fluttering of her dark lashes. Everything else was forgotten – the money, the future, even Karen. "Don't… don't be so gentle!" she panted.

Bill grabbed the girl and threw her on the bed. A new air of excitement had gripped him as well. "Just remember, you asked for this…" His strong hands were on her, bruising and hurting the tender flesh wherever they touched. He reached down roughly and gripped her squirming legs, pulling them apart savagely. The man stared down at the straining thighs, and, more closely then, scrutinized the exposed valley of naked, darkly fringed flesh between them. He caught her ankles suddenly and jackknifed her legs against her tense belly and full breasts. The tempting fullness of her round buttocks and the jungle path of her moist core invited his attack.

"You beautiful slut… You whore…" he whispered fiercely, driving his fingers into the pulsating wetness waiting for his brutal touch.

Pat groaned, taking the furious assault on her body gladly, even joyously. Her limbs were uncomfortably twisted for his pleasure, but there was no pain. There was only a blinding, building pressure in her loins, a simmering bubble of expectant ecstasy. She was delirious with excitement – she didn't care what happened to her. Let him bruise her, ravish her – beat her, if necessary – she was beyond caring. She was wet and open, frantic to be used as a victim of this strange man's lust… and her own. Pat's fingers reached out for, and found, the throbbing stiffness of him.