John Kellerman: Sisters in heat

Robin rolled onto her stomach and cried into the hard sofa cushion. Steve leaned down, put his hand on her back. She shook it off.

"Just leave me… leave me alone."

Steve sat at the end of the sofa. The washer finished its cycle and she saw him going across the basement. He had twisted the towel back around his hips again.

Oh God, what had they done?

Robin choked back another rush of emotion. The dryer started up, she could hear the buttons on Steve's Levi's clicking against the metal drum as it turned. Steve stood with his back to her.

She wiped tears away. Everything had been her fault. The whole thing. She'd let it happen. Her mother had told her that the girl had to be strong.

She'd told her before her first date, almost before she'd started her period.

But now… She began to cry again. She forced herself up, caught at her jean shorts and pulled them up and buttoned them. The hot cream that filled her slit oozed from her pussy as she stood. She felt it dribbling out, she felt it clinging to the thin, light curls of red hair that fringed her cunt. She yanked the tangle of the bikini top from her neck, balled it in a fist and started for the stairs.

Steve turned. "Robin!"

"Don't speak to me right now, Stevie. I think I'll just lose my mind if you say anything at all…"

"Robin…"

She stopped at the foot of the steps, forced herself to look at him. "Stevie, I…"

His eyes were damp too. "I love you," he breathed.

Crying, she fled up the steps as strings of hot cum made slick lines down the insides of her thighs. She was bawling uncontrollably as she locked the bathroom door and ripped the sullied clothing from her body. She stared at herself in the mirror.

Her neck was rubbed raw. Her red hair was strings and tangles. She hated herself, hated being eighteen and a redhead and hated all men. Robin pressed a damp washrag under her tender pubes, stared fearfully at the thick, sharp-smelling curds. Half-forgotten pieces of biology class came back to her. Those tiny, swimming tadpoles. Could they get through a virgin's cherry? Was it remotely possible that she could get pregnant just from having Steve's semen there on the outer surface of her cunt?

Her hands trembled. She felt sick inside. When was her period anyway? Now she was too upset to remember. She sat on the toilet seat and held a mirror down while spreading her knees as wide as they'd go.

With the smooth, blunt end of a hairbrush she delved gingerly between the tiny, inner lips, then pressed ever so lightly against the membrane that she knew was her hymen. She was panting, afraid, trembling suddenly with horror. It was too much for a eighteen-year-old to handle. She shook off the ugly thoughts. She got quickly into the tub and turned on the shower… sexual intercourse between persons so closely related.

"I did not have sexual intercourse," she muttered, letting the hot spray sting her closed eyelids. "I am not pregnant, I'm not, I'm not, I'm not!"

Later when she came out of the bathroom, Steve was gone. She looked and found the food she'd boxed for him was gone too. Robin went to her room and lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She was still staring when the phone began to ring. She let it ring. To hell with it. To hell with everything.

Marcia watched the lavender princess phone by her bed as if she could see the sound which jangled forth. Each time she thought it would be the last ring and each time the phone jabbed its pleading call into her senses.

At last she covered the damned thing with a pillow and grabbed for a cigarette. The first tendril of smoke choked her and she had to wait until the coughing spasms died before touching the filter to her lips again. At last the phone was quiet.

It was Sam. She knew it was Sam. She pushed her long hair back from her forehead and stared at the gold wristwatch on the bedside table. She hated it. The smoke curling upward from her cigarette burned her eyes. She stubbed it out and lay back in bed. The phone began to ring again.

"Damn you!" she cried. She shivered, remembering Sam's touch. The way he'd displayed her to his friends. Uncouth was the word. Crude. He had money but used it in a vulgar, ugly way. Even the beautiful, golden watch had been sullied by his ugliness.

The phone went on ringing.

Marcia swung her long legs out of bed and walked the width of the bedroom. It stopped. Thank God for that. But her relief was shattered by footsteps on the stairs, in the hall outside her door.

"Marcia?" Robin called. "Some guy named Sam wants to talk to you."

"Tell him… tell him I'm not here."

"I already said you were upstairs."

"Tell him I'm asleep, tell him anything!"

Marcia clawed another cigarette from the pack and stabbed it into her mouth. Her hand shook as she held the match up.

Robin's footsteps faded back downstairs.

Maybe she could send the watch back. Maybe that would do it. But Marcia knew that it wouldn't be as simple as that. She sucked angrily at the cigarette. All she could think of was Sam's hands on her flesh last evening. At the party he felt her up… or almost… right in front of all those people. And what kind of people were they?

Gamblers. Men with shiny teeth and eyes and vulgar mouths. They showed off their women as if they were finely-bred pets. Marcia had caught a glimpse of the butt of a gun under one man's coat.

Sam had gotten her drunk. In the kitchen he'd made her take off her panties and put them in his pocket. Then later, when everyone was watching the movie, he'd put a finger deep into her cunt. She hadn't been able to stop him. The movie… that awful movie. Not just a skin flick, not just a blow job or a three-way suck-fuck or anything so innocent.

A woman had been whipped. Really whipped. Marcia was sure it wasn't just acting. She'd seen the blows clearly, seen the welts appear, seen the woman screaming.

She mashed her second cigarette out and covered her face with her hands. She felt sick to her stomach. She'd fought against Sam's rubbing fingers, tried to hold his wrist still, but he had finger-fucked her up to a pitch of breathless helplessness and then teased her over the edge. She'd shivered there on the divan and let him massage her clitoris until a gasping sigh broke from her lips and the man next to her looked over with a crooked, knowing smile on his lips.

Still weak from Sam's avid attention, she'd looked at the screen to see blood on the woman's back as the whip came down again and again.

Marcia went to a drawer and rummaged wildly for a clean pair of panties. She dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of flared blue jeans and a tight, brightly striped jersey.

Then she went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face and brushed her teeth. She studied her face. There were no obvious lines of depravity. Maybe it just didn't happen that fast. She felt terribly vulnerable, terribly young. And she felt so sophisticated when she found out that Sam Philbert was a man in his thirties. Early thirties. She'd wanted to date him so badly that she'd even lied to her mother about his age. It wouldn't have mattered.

Sam could act so nicey-nice when he needed to, even refined. Her mother had been thoroughly charmed. Her father stayed out of such encounters. He'd shaken hands briefly and gone off to his study.

Marcia put on her eye makeup quickly and went back to her bedroom. The gold watch glinted at her from the table. She picked it up and shoved it deep into a pocket of her jeans. She'd get it boxed and mail it… but she didn't know his address. He seemed to circulate through endless hotel rooms. Nice hotels, but hotels just the same. Didn't he have a home?

She thought she remembered some vague reference. She started downstairs but turned at the bathroom and got out her toothbrush again. Her teeth felt clean, but there was that clinging reminder of Sam Philbert's cock sliding in and out of her mouth. She had to be imagining it. There couldn't possibly be any taste of cum left. She scrubbed anyway, the image of that bursting, foaming cockhead flashed through her mind.