Ward Fulton - The Violated Virgin

The waitress returned with their food, and Suzanne breathed a sigh of relief. She liked Yvonne very much, but her incessant preoccupation with sex made Suzanne feel uncomfortable. She knew what Yvonne said was probably true, but that was one area of truth she hadn't yet learned to face without embarrassment. Her mind fled back to the last night she had spent with Sam before he flew to Europe. They had attended a dance at the Detroit Yacht Club, and afterwards Sam drove to a secluded spot on Belle Isle, and they sat watching the lights of the ships on the river and the distant skyline of Windsor, and Suzanne had wanted to cry her eyes out at the thought of being without Sam for three months. He had put his arms around her, and their kisses were deep and prolonged.

She felt her loins stirring with desire, and Sam's fingers caressing her breasts did nothing to ease her mounting passions.

Finally, Sam had taken her hand and gently placed it over his crotch.

Before she jerked it away, she was conscious of the hard, throbbing bulge there. "Please, please," he had begged her, but she had turned away, her face hot with anger, not at him, but with herself and her inability to do what she really wanted to; but deep in her mind, her mother's voice still rang out commandingly. "I'm going to be gone some time," Sam said, "Give me something to remember." She shook her head and looked away. She was conscious of Sam moving, and she heard the rustle of fabric. When she had turned back, she saw in the dim light, the white outline of his cock protruding from his fly. His hand was around it, and he was gently massaging it, up and down.

"Sam!" Her voice was tinged with terror.

"Relax," he had said, "It won't bite you." And he had taken her hand again, and this time her fingers felt the naked flesh of his penis, firm and thick and long.

Almost with one movement, she pulled away, opened the car door and stumbled across the grass, her dress tearing on the branch of a tree.

She came to a stop at the edge of the beach, and stood there, staring out across the river, her mind whirling, her breasts heaving, and within her loins the incredibly sensation of sexual stimulation like she had never known before. She wanted to go back, to feel his shaft, to close her lips around it, to feel it slide into her. She wanted it, oh, how she wanted it; but she stood there, alone, tears streaming down her cheeks.

After a while, she heard a soft footstep, and turned to see Sam standing behind her. "I'm sorry," he said, touching her arm, "but I had to do something about it. I couldn't stand it any longer." Something told her, without her asking him, what he had done. And within her heart, she didn't blame him. She sometimes masturbated herself at home.

"Come, I'll take you home," he had said, and without a word, she let herself be guided back to the car. They kissed goodnight, and the next day Sam left for Europe.

Oh, how she wished she had given in to his desires that night. If only she didn't feel the way she did about sex. If only she could be like her other girlfriends who admitted freely that they slept with boys.

She wanted to; God knows she wanted to. But she had yet to chase the overwhelming specter of guilt and retribution from her mind, the feeling that if she did she would be guilty of the greatest transgression. "It's sinful the way some young people carry on," her mother had said so many times. "I'm glad Suzanne is a good girl." If she was such a good girl, why did it make her feel so bad?

Suzanne followed Yvonne up the steps to the blackened, time-worn apartment house on Hancock Street. Just a few blocks from the campus, the building would be most convenient, not only for school, but for her intended research into the slum area to the west, peopled by white and black families who formed a major portion of Detroit's economically deprived population.

Yvonne pushed open the door, and the smell of stale cooking odors greeted their nostrils. A slovenly looking woman was mopping the tiled lobby. She looked up and grinned.

"Hi, Yvonne," she said, and then her beady eyes fastened on Suzanne.

"This must be your friend, Suzanne?"

Yvonne introduced her as Mrs. Sansome, and Suzanne shook hands, conscious of the dampness of the fingers that enclosed her own. She wanted to reach into her purse for a Kleenex to wipe the stickiness, but she decided to wait.

"You'll be renting 8B," Mrs. Sansome continued. "It's on the third floor, just above Yvonne and Carole. It's a nice place, and it has a nice view from the balcony." She gave a loud cackle, and Yvonne sniffed deprecatingly.

"View?" she snapped. "You call Hancock a view?"

"S'better than looking into the alley," retorted Mrs. Sansome with some spirit. "Come, Suzanne. I'll show you."

They climbed the stairs, their footsteps echoing hollowly through the building. Mrs. Sansome was breathing heavily by the time they reached the third floor. Her stooped shoulders shrieked of years of drudgery and her emaciated frame looked like it could blow away. Suzanne made a mental note to talk to her landlady about her background; obviously she was one of many poorer persons who supplemented their income by taking care of apartments. Yes, that would be another aspect of her studies: the exploitation of the poor by rich real estate tycoons. Detroit was notorious for slum landlords, and while this building wasn't exactly a slum, it had obviously not been well cared for over the years.

"Well, here it is," said Mrs. Sansome. "It ain't elegant but it's clean."

They walked into the living room, sparsely furnished with a well-worn couch and chairs, a small desk and two lamps. Through a hallway Suzanne glimpsed the kitchen and bathroom, and off one end of the living room was a small alcove with a double bed.

"Same as ours," said Yvonne. "Only cleaner, maybe."

"Sure," snapped Mrs. Sansome. "Yours was clean when you moved in."

Yvonne snorted. "That was five years ago," she said. "It hasn't even been painted since then."

"No, and I wonder if it's ever been cleaned," retorted Mrs. Sansome.

Yvonne raised her eyebrows and glared. "Another crack like that and I'll report you to the Board of Health," she said icily. She turned to Suzanne. "Don't mind us, dear. Mrs. Sansome and I have been friendly enemies for years. She's just jealous because I have more boyfriends staying overnight than she does."

Suzanne walked into the kitchen and looked around. The room was small, and the stove very old, but there was an air of warmth about it that appealed to her. She thought for a second of her father's beautiful home in Grosse Pointe, with the lavish display of built-in appliances, formica counter tops, hand-rubbed cabinets and a brand-new dishwasher and trash disposal. But that was his home. This apartment was going to be hers; at least for a while. She turned to Mrs. Sansome with a smile.

"It looks fine," she said. "I'll start moving in right away. I have some things in my car outside."

Yvonne moved to the door. "See you later, darling. I have to get ready.

I have a date. 'Bye now."

Mrs. Sansome grinned, and turned back to Suzanne. "She's a card," she said in a raspy voice, "but I like her. Oh, the rent's payable in advance. Eighty-five a month."

Suzanne fumbled in her purse and took out her checkbook, wrote a check quickly and handed it over.

"There."

Mrs. Sansome handed over two keys, and walked downstairs with Suzanne.

In the lobby she paused and smiled. "You known Yvonne a long time?" she asked curiously.

Suzanne nodded. "About a year," she replied. "We met socially. Why?"

The old woman shrugged. "Nothing. You just seem a nicer type of girl than she is, that's all. Nothing against her, of course, you understand. But I can tell you come from a nice family."