The Hickey by Mick Mykola Dementiuk--from East River Stories

 

The Hickey

 by Mykola Dementiuk

from East River Stories

All she wanted was a hickey, a sucked-up brown spot on the neck or throat to show everyone she had a lover, someone who lusted after her. That, or show up her boyfriend she had another on the side.

It was nothing but a cheap attempt at getting someone jealous.

He don't pay me no attention, she pouted, yet insisted I keep my hands off her. Only through the clothes, mistah. I'm not that kinda girl, y'know.

I shrugged but agreed we do it standing up against the river railing, I could at least get my hands on her, which was more than good enough for me.

Hell, it's not every day I got my body pressed against a fleshy teenager, but this one was willing to do it for a dry hump and a throat sucking at that. 

And she was definitely a fleshy kid, large and overweight, her face and breasts and belly bloated in a pubescent baby-fat tease that in a few years, if it didn't settle into a boned tone of mature smoothness and softness, would only keep her in a haunting and baiting allure of slutty promises and come-ons, of love expressed in handjobs, blowjobs, quickie fuckings, too-many, too-often hurried abortions and pregnancies.

This was nothing more than the start (or continuation, if she hadn't already started) of prostitution. The getting from a stranger what a friend or lover could've or should've given as well. Showing up one male (a boyfriend?), that he was expendable and replaceable with another. Willing to barter her young girlhood for the stupidity of acting and appearing a fake-adult, with a real-adult stupidly over-eager to use her cheap girlishness for his own woman-hating vindictive pleasure, lust and abuse...

I pressed myself to her, raising my knee and thigh into her loose jeans, one hand around her back the other probing her bulky tits, as my mouth sucked and slathered her sweet neck.

But the problem with hickeys, though they may a week or so to lighten and meld back into the natural fleshy tint around them, take only an instant to develop and burst out. Everyone knows what happened to you, as you look at them red-faced and embarrassed.

But I barely had a moment of seizing and tasting her perfume, her sweat, her hairspray, her aroma, her neck and throat before she pushed me off, flicked open a compact mirror, and said, Wow!

My wide eyes said it too...

(Yet what kind of branding is a hickey meant to represent if not a skewed teenage marking of possession and ownership? And what does a show-off flaunting of that hickey prove if not a boasting of being possessed and owned by another? Why such eager willingness and desire to flaunt it?)

We gaped at the hickey --actually three real hickeys, two small scratch/biting marks where my teeth bit into her flesh, and one elongated sucking where my tongue and lips gorged on meaty throat--and she seemed very pleased with my mouth's sucking work.

I was too (did this mean I now possessed her?... I only wish...) and wanted more. 

I tried dipping my wet open mouth back to her throat, but she pulled away, shoving me off and darted from the railing, my pants-hardon a frustrating lurch still stiffening wildly after her.

But she was gone, her chubby loose-jeaned ass weaving away on the promenade, not even looking back to see me contorted and doubled over at the railing, my hardon shrinking into a disappointing letdown of blue-ball limpness and uselessness.

Two days later I saw her again, this time with a boy her age, a boy tough and angry looking, smoking a cigarette with his hands in his pockets. He was one step ahead of her as she trailed behind, her arms at her side, her head lowered, her bookbag/knapsack hanging forlornly down her back. 

She raised her head and our eyes met. I sighed, and though a black turtleneck --impressively flaunting her knapsack-pulled-back baby-fat tits-- covered her neck and hid my hickeys, a large purplish splotch coved her left eye and cheek. Her fat fleshy face was now fatter and more bloated, the blackeye a more powerful marking of jealous possession and ownership than any meager hickey of mine could have competed or vied against.

We looked at each other, then lowered our heads. When I next looked up, she was trailing contritely after her boyfriend, as if led by an invisible leash of possession, love and belonging. 

I unzipped and masturbated at a lamp pole, the fantasy of a hard fist striking a fat girl face an even greater erotic stimulus than the actual memory of my body against her...

I zippered up and left the East River Park.

****

 

Reflexes by Mick Mykola Dementiuk--from East River Stories

 

Reflexes 

from East River Stories

by Mick Mykola Dementiuk

But I can't help it, she pouted, because it's like a reflexive action, y'know. That any time my tits are squeezed my legs automatically fly open. And the longer and harder they're squeezed the more the legs open and spread. She shrugged. Nothing I can do about it, y'know.

She crossed her legs, reaching in my shirt pocket for my pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. I lit her cigarette, eyeing her. 

Of course, I didn't believe a single she was spouting, even her analogy of a hammer striking a knee, but I sure wished I had a third arm to grope her between her legs because every time I let go of a tit and reached down below to her legs, they snapped shut and she'd push me off. 

Reflexes, y'know, she breathed out the smoke in my face. If you let go of my tits, I close up again; I can't help it, y'know. 

Reflexes, my ass! I cursed to myself. 

Because the sly, smug sneering was evident in her glistening bright eyes. Her over-thick smeared lipstick-lips were definitely twisted in a stifled restraint before she blew up in contemptuous laughter.

Cock-teasing cunt! I bitterly mumbled to myself.

For three days in a row, I'd been pawing her breasts...and pawing...and pawing...squeezing, groping, tweaking, hugging and caressing... 

And for those three days she squirmed beside me, spreading her short-skirted legs wider and wider, the panty cloth nothing but a swatch, a smear of protection over her prized possession. Even raising the legs up in the air, bounding and leaping off the bench as if getting fucked by high heaven. 

A fat-dicked high heaven, since her spread-out legs could possibly take in two guys, three guys at once.

That would be well and good for the guys, but what about me, was I simply preparing her so that someone else could laid?

Fuck that shit!

But I'm sure that's exactly what I was doing. Her hints of a boyfriend, her innuendoes of a lover, the dreaminess over what happened last night and what was still to come tonight. 

Only that enraged me into an angrier, bitter and vicious pawing, squeezing harder, more brutal, my paws like claws, trying to hurt her, to punish her, to blacken her tits with my mauling and clutching.

To which she only responded with more sighing and yelping and stretching out her legs still much higher and wider.

What pleasure was there in this for her? What cock-teasing satisfaction could she be getting out of it? Perhaps the incredible turn-on that she was turning-on a guy but not letting him get turned-on all the way?

Giving up her body yet withholding the one vital body part that males have striven to grab and enter and repossess since the creation and separation of the genders? 

It had to satisfy her somehow, as it did me at first. But squeezing tits day after day, no matter how round and soft and young and lush, without feeling anything else was becoming dull after a while. It's like a routine job, not as arousing or enticing as it was at the start.

A bulging tit is a prelude to a wide hollow cunt and it's always a female's tits that elicit that first draw in a man to pursue that hollow emptiness he desperately strains to enter and fill...in her and himself.

That's exactly what lured me to her: young tits curved nicely (with the potential possibility of a nearby cunt), not big tits but tits nicely packaged and bobbed and proportioned on her chest in a tight red blouse that clearly showed off the frills and speckles and linings of a tight bra underneath.

Small-titted girls usually try to disguise their smallness in loose blouses as if there was something more to them than could not be seen. But she showed herself off in a perfection that suddenly lured me to confidently stare, to imagine and dream, to approach, and to finally reach out and touch...

That first day I met her she was sitting on an East River Park bench overlooking the river. Her arms were spread out on the backrest behind her, her tits nicely rounded and bulbed.

I squinted in disbelief but when her shoulder suddenly jerked and her breasts shook, her hand shot out for the tit and desperately scratched and squeezed. Her fingers cupped the breast at its side, from underneath, to the middle of her chest, then jerked her fingers to scratch the other equally shaking and itching tit.

I approached in a trance, still gaping in disbelief but she nervously looked at me and smiled yet continued scratching her tit as her legs strained to open and spread open under her tight black mini skirt.

It's a new bra, y'know, she pouted, as I fell on the bench beside her. It's still hard and stiff, she explained, turning red but flitting her eyelashes. I should-a washed it before putting it on, I guess.

Her voice had that lisped girlishness of fake over-exaggerated adult femininity, high-pitched, mocking, characterless, really undeveloped. She was probably getting her adult-female role-model images from TV soaps rather than own maturity developing on its own. 

I bit my lips, knowing she was only a kid, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, hopefully she was eighteen years old, or whatever. I braced myself and shook my head.

Lemme do it, I said, reaching for the itching tit, my other hand going around her shoulder and down her chest, pulsing the two tits and stroking...squeezing...stroking...squeezing...

If women melt in the arms of men than this woman/child oozed into a pliant weightless/softness that instantly settled and released my own hardness and anxiety. 

My body shook and erupted into an ejaculation of disbelief and eruption, her tits in my hands, her skirt at her stomach, her legs outspread, and my torso rocking and leaping about in a tremor of giddy release.

If ever the Universe was finally ceding my soul, it still was beating and pummeling me for it. If ever a mortal can achieve Nirvana, Freedom, Awareness, Peace, then that delicious moment of sudden ejaculation was it. 

A womanchild in my arms, that was the answer I quested after: a beautiful young woman, a round-titted flirty school-girl, a not-so-innocent love-child. That was all I ever wanted, needed, longed and hoped for...

Now that was three days ago... 

By the end of our first day, I had mauled and molded her crisp new bra until she herself felt eased by its natural curved pliant softness, having constantly fought of my hands at her thighs. 

The next day she let me lift her blouse and showed off a pink silky bra --with pink silky panties to match-- that covered her breasts in an almost natural sheen of skin, her nipples stiff and tight, but at her age she still had no real need of a supporting bra, her breasts suspended in a natural hovering buoyancy of youth and beauty.

It was then she explained her theory of reflexes and spreading legs, fighting off my hands reaching for her cunt.

And today, her most frenzied open-legged day of all, she showed me a trimmed red and black nipple-cut-out bra with a red and black crotchless panties to match.

Ejaculate in my pants? I thought I'd erupt out of every pore in my body!

I've a date tonight, y'know, she giggled, as I angrily pinched her stiff nipples, glaring at her smirking hairy moist cunt, definitely out of touch below. 

So here it was again, eh? Preparing a woman for another guy...

Story of my life, actually, wining and dining, wooing and cooing, choosing and losing. 

What woman have I loved who has not retreated from my arms to those of another's, her body still quivering with satisfaction from the already anticipation I seared in her?

Was my courtship too slow, my wooing too cliched, my intensity too serious and disarming, my arousals not enough?

Would I let this one get away so easily and quickly? Why should her heated lusts, triggered and lit by me, be burned and smoldered and turned to ash by the desires of another?

No fucking way!

The aim of all cockteasers, whether in appearance or actual contact, is the power to frustrate, to control, to disappoint, to embitter.

And I was enraged!

I let go of a tit, stiffened my fingers and lashed them into her wet cunt. Two of my fingers entered easily and instantly as she thrust up her torso in surprise or shock. 

Oh God no! she sputtered. No, no!

My other finger slipped in after them, a little tighter, a little harder, but she was wet and wide enough to take in anything, probably the fingers of my other hand as well.

Three fingers fucking her, and her entire body shrieked out in spasm of pleasure or pain, I didn't know which, but I didn't care.

I ignored her choking yelps of Stop! Don't! Please! No! 

Her spread-out legs nothing but proof of the bullshit she'd been stringing me along with for the last three days. I was glad I finally had enough.

I succeeded in shoving a fourth finger in, my thumb brutally pressing her fat bloated clit like an elevator button I kept pressing, to raise her to an even greater frenzy of weakening denial and faint phony protest.

I sneered down at my fingers inserted in her cunt that my eyes suddenly widened, afraid, my palm smeared and sticky and soaked in the black penetrated protection of her young-girl hymen.

I sneered, then smirked not even wondering at her age, her legs as spread open as ever, her round tits shaking, her face a mixture of pain abandon and contempt, proving she was more than old enough for anything.

I rotated my fingers and pushed my hand in still deeper, blood oozing thicker, darker. I pulled my fingers out, and as if by reflex she raised her open legs and tried spreading them wider.

I quickly was between them, tilting her down to the bench, my cock entering easily and replacing my bloodied hand.

What else can I say, but as if by reflex she wrapped her arms and legs around me and proved to be an expert fuck...

And we fucked!

****

 

Overeater by Mick Mykola Dementiuk--from East River Stories

 

Overeater

from East River Stories

Memories from the 1960s

by Mick Mykola Dementiuk

It probably was the can of beans that did it, she thought. 

But with each spoonful he put in her mouth she doubted she could take another. Still, somehow his forced feeding with the promise of a twenty-dollar bill afterwards, kept her chewing, swallowing and opening her mouth for more.

As she had been instructed to do, she had eaten as much as she could during the day --pancakes, scrambled eggs and ketchup-sodden home-fries for breakfast; burgers, onion rings and cokes for lunch; cupcakes, potato chips, cheese puffs and candy bars for snacks-- that by the time she met him in the East River Park and opened her mouth to his dinner treat of take-out Cuban pork with black bean sauce and a tepid cup of split-pea soup, she was already a walking shit-load in desperate need of a toilet-bowl for relief. 

Still, in all the eating, she hoped she wasn't gaining any weight. Yet since they only met in the park once a week, and she fasted the day afterwards, she was certain she had gotten rid of whatever weight she had put on.

But fasted? She couldn't stand the sight of food for days on end after their eating-meeting, surviving merely on water and juices as her body detoxed itself from the shocking overdose of vitamins, calories and nutrients, iron, potassium and whatever crud she ingested in her system. 

And she always swore, This is it! No more! Never again! He's sick!

But as the week wore on and she spent the twenty he had given her she only thought of the money he still had; a crisp twenty dollar bill each time they met. 

That by Friday morning she was once more stuffing her face, famished after a week's abstinence, eating all day until she again wobbled down the overpass into the park, a rolling bloated rancid fart-box of explosive fart-stink and stench. 

Yet she was intrigued by his strange proposition from the start, giggling with each little fartlet she pooped, disbelieving his proposal entailed only that --farting in his face while he sniffed behind her-- with no further demand for a hand-job, blowjob, or what should be the natural outcome of ass-sniffing, a squirmy ass-fucking.

But he hardly even touched her, merely stroking her ass and saying, Lovely, so lovely! when she'd raise her skirt and show-off her panties, never getting any rougher then grabbing her hips and pulling them tighter to his face when she expelled a particularly smelly drawn-out slurp of a cackling fart.

She wondered what possible sexual gratification he was getting, if any, since he also barely touched himself when she bent under him, and doubted he was even erect, his crotch as calmly gathered in his pants when he first arrived at their bench as when he left in the evening. 

So, was it sexual?

The idea of having a guy right behind your ass, his nose and mouth inches from your cunt, certainly had sexual aspects to it. But when she tried on their second meeting to seductively lower her panties so he could get his mouth and tongue on her he stopped her before her panties fluttered over her cheeks, politely saying, You can keep them on...

Fine, she kept them on, and no longer worried about it. Because whatever he was getting out of it, she was getting her twenty dollars and all she had to do was show up each Friday, fattened and gassed, ready to give it to him, right through her panties and right in his face.

Still, she wondered if maybe she didn't overdo it. Though she was positive there was no long-term weight-gain, her clothes seemed to be getting too tight. Her stuffed belly protruding at her skirt waist. Her tits bulging at her blouse. Her face puffed and jowled into a droopy laxness of exhausted bloat.

She was certain she was eating too much, way too much! His last scooped out helping of beans and pork, and the licking out of the container of pea soup, was already an overdose atop what she had eaten during the day.

Yet he teasingly pulled out a package of Little Debbie coconut-sprinkled cream cakes, and broke one open before her nose. 

She gagged, the over-sweet smell of sugar and vanilla cream watering his mouth which only stirred the pressure in her belly, squeezing and aching for release. She leaped off the bench, slightly doubled over. 

I gotta shit! she spat out, looking up and down the promenade. I gotta go read bad!

But he grabbed her by the waist.

Whaddaya mean you gotta shit?! he erupted, looking up and down her to the Little Debbie, almost uncomprehending her refusal of a dessert treat. Where do you think you're going? he angrily asked. I don't want you to shit; you have to fart only.

But I gotta shit! she repeated, bending over and swaying up and down.

He clutched and squeezed her wrist, glancing at the cream cake he held, and got off the bench, bringing the small cake to her face.

C'mon, he said, just one bite. It's dessert, it'll make you fart better.

She glared at him, her teeth exposed and shoved the Little Debbie out of her face. She bitterly shook her other hand, trying to free her wrist but he clutched her tightly. 

Oh God! she screeched, standing on one leg, her body arched and pushing her panty down one leg. One hand hovered over her groin, the other behind her as if poised to catch and stop any eruption that might splurge out. 

Well, there's no bathrooms around here! he snapped, and angrily flung the Little Debbie into the bushes behind the bench. 

It was the first time she had witnessed any kind of emotion in him. Even his sniffing of her farts was something dispassionate, a rudimentary Ahh! Beginning and ceasing in an almost bored rhythmic breathing of air rather than a desperate grasping sucking-in of life itself she assumed the act supposed.

Just fart bitch! he ordered, reaching under her skirt, grabbing an ass-cheek and spinning her about. You can shit later!

But it was too late, the slight grip and clutch of his fingers on her ass-cheeks jerked open the taut strained rim of her asshole and freed the first burping nudge of shit. 

She yelped a pained disbelieving cry, bent over at the waist, her legs spread apart, then quickly wobbled into the sparse bushes behind the bench for some cover. Another thick fat nudge of shit was speedily followed by a steamy easy ooze of wet excrement, a swift stream of watery shit that splashed to the ground, sprinkling her panties, shoes and ankles in dirt and slime.

She squirmed in disgust, trying to raise herself above the shit-spotted ground, with her splayed legs and feet, which were held in a bind by her dirty panties below the knees. Plus, the added tight pull of her skirt around her waist, only caused her to shift even lower into the rising slime and sludge beneath her. 

Help me! she squealed, holding out a hand. 

But he circled around her also squatted to the ground, trying to peer under her ass and breathe in the fumes of her oozing shit. 

This was even better than her farts! he marveled to himself, and if he had known the stench of fresh shit, liquidly and dripping from her ass, could be so lush he would have dispensed with all those little farting sessions long ago.

What a waste of good money! he thought to himself. Twenty dollars a week for a few giggled farts when I could have tub loads of shit on demand! Fucken shit!

He bitterly felt cheated, as if he had been ripped off. Calculating how much he had overpaid her --close to a hundred and twenty dollars! Then suddenly he smirked. Hell, she was worth it, stuffing herself with the foods he told her to eat, gaining weight (even if she thought she didn't look it), coming to the park fully gassed, bloated and farting for an hour at a time. She'd be a wonderful memory. Nothing to regret.

He blinked; droplets of her shit splashed his face, but he did not pull away or try wiping them off, savoring not only the heat and stench of her shit but also the sight of it trickling out of her ass. 

He didn't know what it was about the fart-smells of young girls that lured him into such a patient time-consuming quest to breath them in. Very often she lurked waiting twenty, thirty minutes before some uselessly gossiping girls left the park bench that they had roosted on. Finally pressing his nose, lips and eyes to the warmth and safety of the park bench, sucking in the aromas of skirts and panties and fleshy thighs.

He even once bought a pair of lacy panties (the sales lady looking curiously at him), worn them two or three days, imagining he would mimic the fresh smell of a female, but it wasn't the same. His own sweat, shit, semen and urine stains nothing like that of a fresh young girl...a fresh fart-smelly young girl.

What perfume or store-bought could mimic that?

Parfum de kaka? Eau de pee-pee? 

What was it in female farts turned him on so? Some secret girlie formula? Something chromosomal and genetic?

He peered closer. Shreds of undissolved onion rings laced through her shit with week-old corn-on-the-cob (she had eaten that last Friday!), mixed in with candy bar peanuts, and those pinkish clumps weren't they the pork he had just fed her?

He took a contented deep breath and unzipped his pants, his penis large and stiff. 

The girl kept straining to push more loose shit out which now flowed somewhat slower but had given up struggling to hoist herself up. She balanced herself in a precarious bent-over stoop and squat, her panties stretched to the limit, her outspread thighs smeared in dirt, her shitty ass twitching and straining as she hovered half-foot off the ground.

A few times she mumbled Bastard! and Oh God! but most of her sobs and curses were muffled by her lowered head as she spluttered into her arms. 

He snorted. How humiliating and degrading, he smirked, to be shitting in public!

He leered and glanced around. The river and the promenade were in clear view to anyone passing by, but no one came. The sparse bushes behind the benches did little to shield the shit-entranced couple should anyone happened by; there was little chance of that. 

Wow, to be shitting for all the world to see! 

He chuckled, pulling his pants to his thighs, then inching himself under the girl and carrying her. The girl shuddered at his close touch, her head snapping back, her eyes wide her sweated hairs plastered to the sides of her face and forehead.

Had she forgotten him? Were the mumbled cries of Bastard! Fucken creep! but a memory of someone who had abused and abandoned her?

He gripped her biceps and pulled her closer on his lap that they were smeared together. Greatly surprised at the pliancy and ease of his body curving itself to ooze into and enter hers.  

But hell, shit is a better smearing-unctuant than any store-bought Vaseline or jelly and her shitty ass was already strained and stretched so wide she probably didn't realize anything was re-entering her until his fourth or fifth rhythmic jab. 

No! she yelped, as if coming to. But the realization of what had happened was also too late. 

He also yelped, a crescendoing staccato of You whore, piss, cunt, shit fart, dyke, skank! Each spat-out word a shudder of disgust and hate, a spasm of bitter release and contempt, an orgasm of loathing and rage.

He squeezed her biceps tighter and held her on him her weight relaxed and settled on his dick and lap. His own thighs strained from the awkward ass-fucking posture, but he kept her squirming yet balanced and splayed atop him. He slightly eased his grip about her arms; she wouldn't be going anywhere soon.

A few times he heard her whimper, but her breathing was heavy, exhausted, spent. The shit must have taken a great too, and he pitied the poor dear...

Then he heard the trickle. A faint spurting forced whiz-whiz at first, followed by a steady free hissing stream, and he shuddered in disgust and revulsion.

The fucking bitch was peeing and peeing on me! Roosting on my lap with my dick her ass and all she does is pee! What a disgusting piece of walking human excrement!

He grabbed the back of her neck and yanked her off, his dick dribbling out of her ass as easily as it had entered.

You pig! he cursed and struck her back shoulder with his fist. 

She grunted and toppled sideways, her bare ass plopping into her own shit and urine. She gurgled, flailing her arms and legs, trying to get up, but succeeded only in smearing herself in even more shit. 

What a disgusting pig, he mumbled, shaking his head. His dick was still somewhat hard, and he tugged the skin back and forth, three of four times as his urine shot out at her. He peed, the urine clearing her eyes somewhat, and running in a stream down her face into her mouth. 

Boy do you stink, you fat pig! he scowled, spurting his pee all over her.

She almost screamed, I'm not fat! but almost choked at the taste of urine flooding her throat, once again falling down to her shit.

He was right between her legs, having picked up the shit-smeared Little Debbie he had tossed over the bench, but now was shoving it down her throat.

Eat it, you fat whore! he ordered.

She gagged, but swallowed...

When she next looked up evening was coming on. She must have passed out. The promenade was deserted; a few cars travelled on the nearby highway. The old guy was gone, as was the twenty-dollar bill. 

I'm not fat, she mumbled, the shit all about her. She silently wept.

****

 

The Facialist: The Lambda Award Winning Novelist for Best Gay Erotica

 

THE FACIALIST: The Lambda Award Winner for Best Gay Erotica by Mykola Dementiuk

THE FACIALIST: The Lambda Award Winner for Best Gay Erotica by Mykola Dementiuk – Sizzler Editions

“Dementiuk does not hold back; he writes about everything and his eroticism is quite bold. I believe that it is his boldness that makes Dementiuk such a wonderful read. We read it and it is over and we move on except for one small fact: it is not easy to move on because everything is so real—and he never fails to give us a good story. ...Mykola Dementiuk goes where others seem afraid to go.” —Amos Lassen

Condoms by Mick Mykola Dementiuk--from East River Stories

 

Condoms

from East River Stories

by Mykola Dementiuk

She kept fingering and rubbing the two little aluminum packets in her pocket since she walked out of school and headed for the East River Park. 

Two packets, two condoms; one she got from yesterday's School Nurses office, and one from todays. Two condoms, but she needed five, one for every day of the school week to prove she'd been to school each day, and five for the week to show she loved him and wasn't cheating behind his back.

What a lamebrain idiot! she snorted and stepped up the highway overpass. Certainly, a lamebrain if he thought that's how life was in the big city...

A few speeding cars honked their horns as the drivers peered desperately out their windshields for a glimpse up her short skirt as she flitted across the overpass, smirking and swaying her loose skirt and stuck her tongue at the honking disappearing cars. 

She like being admired by guys, the wide-eyed looks they gave, their gaping mouths, their stiffening groins; she was good-looking, and she knew it!

But that's exactly what got her in trouble the week, as usual: being attractive and attracting, and wanting to please whoever was attracted to her. It was as if the giving of her body, her fingers, her hands, her lips, her mouth, her tits and cunt was a reasonable recompense for someone's merely glancing at her and taking an interest.

Of course, they took an interest. Who wouldn't with the way she looked: flirty, teenaged, available. Being attractive she was deluded into thinking she was immediately liked, as if attractiveness and beauty are the icebreakers for trust and budding love.

As if in imagining she was liked she had to repay their liking of her with a handjob, blowjob, quickie-fuckjob.

And she never really questioned why she was so popular with the boys...or men, outside of school... She knew she was very well-liked, that much was obvious, and left it at that.

She came down the overpass and turned on a path to the river, breathing a sigh of relief at the deafening churning eating chewing honking farting traffic-rush softened and muted behind her. 

The park quiet and peace was welcome, soothing, and she strolled slowly and contentedly, enjoying the morning sun and solitary park stillness, giggling and waving at the obscene-gesturing and crotch-grabbing crew of a passing tug as she gestured back by squeezing her breasts and raising the front of her skirt --the tug blared its horn in salute and chugged down the river.

A frantic flock of seagulls spun over the tug's wake, swooping, charging, dropping into the river for morsels of fish or garbage or whatever it was the tug churned up from the murky river water. 

Looks like a gangbang, she smirked, then frowned, once more fingering the two condoms in her pocket. Two, she sighed, all I need is five.  

She walked along the promenade, the tug and gulls eventually disappearing around a curve of the shoreline below the Williamsburg Bridge, and finally sat down on a bench behind the vast fenced-baseball fields that took up the park for a stretch of five or six blocks below 6th street.

She felt safer with the fence behind: she could watch her sides, and no one could approach from behind. That came in handy when she was alone, able to take her pick of the gawkers, able to study them as they studied her. Able to shift her skirt for one, shielding herself from another. Smiling and flirting with some, glaring and scowling with the rest. And worrying if a final lowlife loser could be creeping up from behind.

Being a pretty girl, she was well-aware of her prettiness and how that prettiness can enhance and be enhanced by male handsomeness. All the guys she went out with and most of the guys she allowed near her were guys she did mind being seen with. 

They were good-looking, just like her, but if the self-gloating beauty of two partners is the only basis for libidinal and physical attraction than that egoistic beauty is but a silent chasm that may unite the two in great lovemaking, at the bottom of the chasm, but not much else in the walls that rise and keep them apart at the top.

Two good-looking bodies are two jealous and two selfish egos that only come together in self-centered interests wanting and demanding something from the other yet never able to give truly of themselves.

A relationship based only on physical attraction is doomed to collapse because its grounding is unsettled and uncertain, and as carelessly fleeting, as a stiffening penis or bloating vagina. 

What good is physical attraction after the orgasms have been spent? What good is male stamina when there is no longer desire? And good is sex when life demands otherwise?.... And she spotted him before he spotted her...

He came slowly up the promenade, smoking a cigarette, looking out at the river, and tapping his fingers on the metal river railing as if in rhythm to some inner melody.

He was as old guy, but she couldn't actually gauge the age of anyone outside her generation. There were two age groups: those her age (in their teens), and old people (not in their teen). And the guy coming up the promenade was an old guy, which meant he could be either in his 30's or 40's, or maybe even in 50's or 60's, but her certainly wasn't in high school anymore.

She squinted, confirmed his pudginess, frowned, and looked up and down the promenade. It was deserted, not a stroller or bicyclist in sight, but as long as she wasn't seen with him, he would have to do.

She let go of the condoms in her pocket and crossed her legs, pulling her skirt even higher at her thighs than it naturally rose on its own. She rocked one leg and watched his approach, certain his eyes suddenly widened and jolted awake at the sight of her. 

She always enjoyed these first hesitant dances: the sighting, the circling, the approach, the wariness, the tease, the come-on, the baiting, the bobbing, the biting, the capture and the reeling in. 

Only a few times had she acted the whore, spitting out a price as if yawning a Take-it-or-leave-it threat, but there was no fun in whorish-aloofness, and she liked to pretend she was being won over, slowly, carefully, patiently, as if she was a naive schoolgirl pretending surprise and fear at the sight of a bloated cockhead rather than an over-experienced over-eager blowjob queen desperate for her lips to get on one.

Her favorite line, just before a cock slid past her teeth, was I'm-not-that-kind-of-girl (gurgle gurgle), when her fingers, throat, mouth, face and body screamed, Yes, I fucking am!

She rocked her les, her low-heeled pump falling off her heel and dangling freely from her toes. She stared at the approaching chubby guy.

He walked slower now, still clinging to the railing, but getting an eyeful of her bare leg she knew was exposed from her loose shoe up to her hips. 

At her age she knew he' d be wary, but she freely smiled, glad she had pulled off her pantyhose before cutting school, certain that if someone saw she wasn't wearing any nylons they'd conclude she didn't have any panties on as well.

Male logic, she smirked, or was it female?

The old guy smirked back.

Mistah, she called as he neared, got a cigarette? And gesturing to her mouth, the bobbing vee-ed forefinger and middle finger before her open lips, with the gesture so unmistakable. The old guy bustled into his pocket and bolted away from the river railing.

The girl's lips remained tinged in a pulsing smirk, but her eyes kept his in hers as she slightly pulled back her shoulders, pushed out her bosom, and continued swaying and rocking her legs and hips.

The old guy read her eyes perfectly, knowing if he looked anywhere but into her eyes that's the last he'd see of her. She smiled wider, very pleased he understood the tease and game. He may have been old, but he certainly wasn't senile.

No school today? the old guy asked, lightening her cigarette and his leg up on the bench.

The girl eyed him up and down, pausing at the bulge in his groin, then took a deep sighing draw on her cigarette and blew the smoke up at him. He glanced away from her chest.

I cut, she giggled, shaking her bosom, and the old guy dared to glance at her thighs beneath her short skirt hem.

Yeah, he nodded, scratching his chin. School can be such a drag...

A drag? the girl blinked up at him. Must be some kind of expression from his generation; well, at least he didn't call it a bummer. She snorted. What would say if she suggested, Let's fuck! Answer with, Groovy!

Not afraid of getting an Absent card in the mailbox? he asked.

Neah, she shook her head, scratching the underside of her left breast. I checked in at Homeroom; everyone shows up for Homeroom, then take off, doing what they gotta do.

But her face reddened, blushing, her lips contorting into a sneaky smirk, conspiratorial and secretive, her eyes darting about him, from his face to his groin, as she uncrossed her legs then crossed them anew, and quietly said, Ah school, that's where they give out the condoms...

He swallowed, and she saw his erection nudge in his pants, a large bump he made no attempt to cover or disguise, his upraised leg only stretching the pant leg tighter over his trapped nudging cock.

Everyday? he asked.

The girl looked up from his crotch and again blushed. She bit her lower and nodded.

Uh huh, she sighed, fluttering her eyelashes, a sly smile on her lips. 

She knew by now she was driving him crazy, and she was enjoying it. He had a clear view down her blouse, a lush look at her legs, her lifted skirts nothing but a swatch of cloth across her groin, her bare thighs rocking and rubbing against each other and beginning to slightly drive her crazy too.    

She wasn't exactly a cockteaser, but she liked leading guys on, with her innuendoes, her come-ons, and with their ever-present uncertainty and fear that always lingered in their eyes. 

Sure, she kept glancing at his crotch but what if she leaped up and ran for the cops when he pulled down his zipper to show her a little more? Sure, she was puffing out her tits but what if she screamed Rape! when he put out a hand for one? And sure, her skirt was short and he could practically see her twat but what if she kicked him between his legs when he tried for a closer look or feel?

Uh huh, she breathed out, we get them at school.

She retrieved the condom packets from her pocket and held then out in her palm. 

One condom a day is what they gave out in my public school. While my boyfriend at his uptown Catholic prep school receives none. She snorted. All to stop kids from getting venereal disease or worse. Gimme a break! 

She finished her cigarette and flicked the stub away. She glanced at the condoms is her hand. 

One a day, she thought, and she to save them for him, to prove she was true and loved only him, and mostly to prove she wasn't fucking anyone else. Condoms as proof of love?

The thought always made her laugh. 

Didn't he realize that guys in public schools get condoms too?

Yet each Saturday she had to show him the required five, unknowing she had already used her school dispensation in her walks around the city. A guy here, a guy there. What a girl supposed to do otherwise?

She uncrossed her legs, the fresh air a welcome relief against her clammy thighs and stretched a leg showing off a wedge of her pink crotch. The old guy practically snapped to attention, flicking away his own cigarette, dropping his leg off the bench and moving before her. A sprinkle of black pubic hairs sprayed the edges of the pink cloth on her. The girl did nothing to close her legs as he stepped in between them.

And you got one today? he quietly asked. 

The girl nodded, continuing to flick the packets in her palm, her fingertips barely an inch from his stiff lump at his crotch. 

And one yesterday, she added, smirking at his quizzical calculating look in his eyes.

Didn't you go to school on other days?

Oh, I'd never cut homeroom, she giggled. 

They looked at each other.

Oh, I used the other ones, she finally said, shrugging. To guys I met, that's what they give them out for, to be used...

He cunningly smiled, reached into his own jacket pocket and pulled out two of his one aluminum packets.

I got some too, he leered.

Her eyes flew open. 

Two and two makes four, that was grade-school arithmetic, she knew that much, but if she could get his two added with hers, she'd only one more to go. 

She reached for his condoms. 

Can I have them?  she asked, taking them from his hand. 

He shrugged. 

Only if you intend to use them...

Oh, I do! she nodded. Safe sex, y'know. 

He smirked, licking his open mouth.

Is that what they teach you in school? he asked. Safe sex?

He put his hand on her shoulder, moving it to the side of her neck and into her blouse, fingering a slit of white bra-strap that peeped from under the blouse. 

Oh, sure! she giggled again, slightly shrugging and freeing the bra-strap to ease them over his fingers.  Like me teacher says: Always wear a condom! Don't leave home without it!

They both laughed, and he nudged her legs even wider apart.

What else do they teach you? he whispered.  

His other hand now lay on other shoulder, circling the back of her neck, her face a mere inch from his crotch, her mouth agape, her eyes wide, avid, staring up at him in feigned little girl uncertainty and hesitation, pretending she didn't know what else to do. 

The moment was perfect: she leaned her face into his groin. Just as she thought, the moment was too much for the old geezer. 

He yelped, grunting, buckling, but she was out of there. Skirting her legs out before him, leaping off the bench and flitting down the promenade.

She only heard his desperate groan and plea to come back, but she didn't turn around to see him doubled over on the bench and ejaculating in his pants.

She sped down the promenade, under the Williamsburg Bridge fingering the four condoms in her pocket.

Four, she smiled, and I only need one more. Only one...

**** 

 

 

Drama of the Gifted Child by Mick Mykola Dementiuk

 

This story was inspired by Alice Miller, Polish/Swiss psychologist, from her book, Drama of the Gifted Child (I stole the title from her), which opened my eyes and explained it all. It finally made perfect sense to me. 

Drama of the Gifted Child

by Mykola Dementiuk

She had warned her daughter to stay in the kitchen and do her homework and not come into the living room until she was called, but as usual the little girl came in just as her mother hiked up her skirt, straddled her new boyfriend, and began to grope at his zipper.

"What?!" she screamed, breaking from her boyfriend's mouth, whispering Sorry! in his ear.

"There's no ketchup," the little girl mumbled, standing in the doorway, one hand twirling an unkempt pigtail, the other stroking a flushed cheek, desperate to suck a thumb which she knew would be slapped out of her mouth. Her mother had left her a lukewarm hamburger on the kitchen table -- heated in a pan, bun and all -- and though the little girl searched the refrigerator she couldn't fine the familiar tall bottle.

"Jesus Christ!" her mother groaned, sagging to her boyfriend's chest, whispering Sorry! again and clutching his shoulders. The boyfriend groaned and kept his hands on her mother's nylon clad thighs, gently stroking beneath the tight garter straps. The little girl stared blankly at them; it was as if she was watching a rerun of something she's seen lots of times before.

Her mother turned around. She stared at her daughter and sighed. "It's in a small jar," she explained slowly. "On the middle shelf of the refrigerator door."

She watcher the girl silently mouthing key words to herself, processing what she was hearing: small jar, middle shelf.

"It's also red," she continued, "but it's spelled C-A-T this time, CATsup; they were out of the K-E-T brand, and it's in a small red jar, ok? On the refrigerator door."

The little girl looked at her mother, pondered the rest of her explanation, mouthed a few more words, then her eyes brightened as if recalling something. 

"Oh!" she said to herself, and turned back to the kitchen. 

"And stay in the kitchen until I call you!" her mother shouted, turning awkwardly back to the boyfriend. 

"What's wrong with her?" he asked.

"Nothing's wrong with her!" she snapped, then frowned and snuggled into his chest and once more groped for his zipper as he inched his fingers higher up her garters.

In the kitchen the little girl went through each jar and bottle on the refrigerator door, then inventoried the sparse collection through the rest on the refrigerator, but there was nothing even faintly familiar to the word ketchup or catsup or however else it may have been spelled. Why couldn't bottles be like cans, with pictures on the labels rather than just words? And the clear glass didn't always help: the label-less jar that was red was jelly with a mold growing in it; the white jar that did say mayonnaise was not mayonnaise -- as she had horribly discovered long ago -- but some kind of congealed lard one of her mother's old boyfriends used to fry potatoes and forgot when he took off; what looked a mustard jar was actually rotten egg salad that still another old boyfriend prepared and left uneaten.

The new boyfriend hadn't been with them long enough to start cooking yet. But she didn't lie him any more than the others. When he came by, or the few times he slept over, he was always grinning and looking at himself in the mirror and combing his hair and examining his nose and teeth and eyes. With only one full full-length mirror in the house -- a small mirror in the bedroom, and a small one in the bedroom -- she had listened to her mother and the boyfriend bickering countless times about hogging the big mirror, about being so conceited, about being God's gift to the other sex. When the boyfriend finally did give up his place before the mirror, satisfied with his image as being acceptable to show to the world (as if the mere fact of having looked in a mirror somehow improved and bettered the image staring at itself), the little girl's mother immediately assumed her place before the glass and stared and examined herself even longer and in more detail than the boyfriend had studied himself.

No, the little girl didn't like him, but at least in being preoccupied with himself he didn't pay any attention to her, unlike her mother's other boyfriends...like the one with the beard who made her put on her mother's bras, tightened and pinned them in the back, then stuffed T-shirts and panties into the bra cups and made her walk around the house with her fake big bosom until he said he was ready and she had to press her big chest to his crotch as he screamed and rubbed against her. Or the one who said he hurt his hand whenever her mother was out and she had to escort him to the bathroom, un-zipper his pants, reach in and retrieve his penis, and pulse it with her fingers until he also screamed and peed something white all over the toilet seat and tank...She hoped this new boyfriend kept looking at himself forever.

The little girl shut the refrigerator and returned to the table. By then the hamburger was cold, but she was hungry and took a bite. It was tasteless, dry, unappetizing; ketchup, or catsup, would have made it go down easier. It was a leftover from last night's dinner. The new boyfriend had taken them out to dinner, and though the mother and boyfriend drank their dinners in the back lounge, laughing, necking, and paying no attention to her out front, the little girl had two burgers, two plates of fries, two Cokes. She drank the sodas, ate the fries, but was only able to finish one of the burgers. Trying to wrap the uneaten one in a napkin, the waitress smiled and said, "I'll do it for you, dearie..." and brought it packaged in a little neatly folded doggie bag.

The little girl went back to the refrigerator.

"C-A-T," her mother had said. "Not K-E-T like the other times." C-A-T, C-A-T she kept spelling to herself. 

"Like Cat," she suddenly said aloud, surprised she hadn't realized it earlier. C-A-T like Cat, she frowned, and stared at the shut refrigerator door. Was it a game her mother was playing? A trick to show the new boyfriend how stupid she was looking for a cat in the refrigerator? She sat back down. Were they making fun of her? Miss McCoy in school didn't do that. In the new class they put her in, none of the other kids made fun of her. In the old one they did....

A month before, the school had called her mother and advised that her daughter was assessed as a slow learner and would be put in a special education class so she could learn at her own pace and not feel as she had to compete or fall behind.

"It's not an indication of her intelligence," the teacher told her mother. "Some children simply take a bit longer to get started than..."

"Then what?!" her mother erupted. "Don't tell me my kid's a slow learner! If she slow maybe you should look at the kinda teachers you got instead of blaming it on the kid!"

She kept her daughter out of school an entire week before a social worker -- Ha! The creeps were called truant officers in her day -- called and said she was concerned of the little girl's absence from school, then hinted that the single-mother's welfare entitlements might be in jeopardy if the child weren't returned to class. The mother dragged the kid back to school the next morning -- the brat was a royal pain in the house all day anyway -- and dropped her with the warning: "Don't let those assholes put you in any slow learner's class, d'you hear?"

Of course the little girl was immediately placed in such a class. She immediately grew attuned to the small number of children, the comfortable, patient pace of the reading and homework assignments, the warmth, care, and concern of the teacher Miss McCoy.

It's not C-A-T! the little girl said to herself. It's K-E-T, K-E-T, and suddenly her eyes widened, her mouth opened and she grinned. 

K-E-T! Just like on the bottle in the diner last night, and just like on the little packets she saw the waitress toss into the doggie bg.

The little girl darted to the garbage bin under the sink. A drawing of a little dog with his tongue stuck out peeked up at her from the crumpled paper bag. She opened the bag: two red packets of K-E-T-C-H-U-P! Two little packets M-U-S-T-A-R-D! And two green packets of R-E-L-I-S-H!

The little girl gleefully nodded her head and returned to the table.

"Ketchup," she said. "It's ketchup, not C-A-T-sup."

She opened the red packet and smeared the ketchup on the cold meat. It was delicious! She ate contently, ignoring the squeals and yelps and groans of her mother and the new boyfriend from the other room. The other packets she pocketed in her jeans for another time. 

"Liar!" she smacked her lips. Liar, liar, pants on fire! She chewed, and mumbled, "It's Ketchup, not Catsup." She was going to tell Miss McCoy. She couldn't wait.

****

Pubes by Mick Mykola Dementiuk

 

One of my early pieces put out by Sally Miller in an anthology of erotic writing.

 Pubes

by Mykola Dementiuk

The idea of a hairy cunt was the most disgusting thing Joey could imagine. It was sickening to walk the streets or ride the subway or stand next to the sluts at work and think that under each skirt and dress, inside each pair of jeans and shorts, a matted clump of moist and twisted pudic hairs lay mated to the flesh and cupped in panty cloth in an almost deranged and frantic, spiderweb-like embrace.

Damp...twisted...mangled...sticky...ugh! The thought of hairy cunts made Joey wretch. The thought of any kind of pubic hair brought on waves of nausea and disgust.

So that'd why he kept Maggie clean. No pubes in the house. Not for him. Daily he inspected himself, checking around his crotch and underarms, holding a mirror to his balls and his and his ass. Nightly he inspected Maggie. A weekly shave was all it took to keep the insidious pubes from sprouting too readily into their distinctive curly stiffness. The two of them were as hairless and clean as newborn or as their own pre-adolescent brat, Peggy.

But for Joey to go through a day without coming across a pubic hair was like going through a day without pissing or shaving. In real life it is practically impossible not to come across a pube no matter how careful you are. They come with the mail, tucked into grocery bags, skimming on the sides of cool milk cartons, or trapped between printer's plates and preserved forever on a newspage, twisting there obscenely around the face of a president, the words of a dictator, or the short-skirted legs of an advertising model.

Joed spent a lot of time coming across pubes, and spent just as much times being sick and disgusted. Just as he couldn't stand the idea of imagining the hairy sluts on the streets around him, so too he began to look at his daughter Peggy with greater interest, suspiciousness, anxiety and dread that she was growing up faster and quicker than she seemed to be just a week ago.

"Y'know, she's getting big," Joey said one morning after Peggy had left for school.

Maggie nodded and continued with her coffee, concentrating on the new hair style of the female anchor on the morning TV news.

"I mean...big enough for...y'know what..." Joey quietly added.

Maggie looked away from the TV. "What?" her eyes narrowing.

Joey cleared his throat. "I suppose you explained to her how much I can't stand...y'know what."

"You leave her out or your sickness!" Maggie snapped.

Joey sucked up his coffee and swirled the warm liquid in his mouth. Something tingled against his teeth and cheeks and settled on his tongue.

He gagged and retched the coffee out on the table. What was he retching for? A pube? Oh God, no! He gagged again and leaped to the kitchen sink, desperately washing out his mouth and face in cold water. He spat again. Nothing. 

"I'm warning you!" Joey growled, coughing and trying to clear his throat.

Maggie snorted. "For your information, NO!" she said. "She's still too young for...pubic hairs..."

Joey dry-heaved and ran out of the room.

"Pubic hairs! Pubic hairs!" Maggie shouted after him.

In the bathroom Joey gargled with mouthwash, spat out the imaginings of pubic hairs, then lowered his pants and sat down on the toilet. He ran his fingers down his hairless belly to his hairless crotch and shook his hairless dick and dangling hairless scrotum into the bowl.

What the fuck is the point of body hair, anyway? What are we, a bunch of monkeys or something? Hairy to protect us from the elements? If it's so cold that even underwear doesn't help, put on fucking long-johns!

He peed and farted and strained out a poplet of shit, then wiped himself and pulled up his pants. He flushed the toilet, watching the water eddy, gurgle, and be swallowed by the bowl, then raised the toilet seat -- that always drives the bitches nuts!

Suddenly Joey jerked back in disgust. A pube! A fucking pube! A tiny fucking pube pasted right there on the bottom of the toilet seat!

He forced himself to his knees and carefully scrutinized the repulsive intruder. Will I never be rid of them? The fucking things are everywhere!

At work the men's room was cluttered with the fucking things -- he could just imagine what the ladies' room looked like! The worst ones were from black Henry, almost like a fine black powder of hair. Black Henry and his fucking obsolete black Afro! Like a headful of pubic hairs!

If Henry used the men's room after Joey wouldn't go in there after him; he'd shit and piss on the roof if he had to! What the fuck was the fucker doing in there anyway? Pulling out his Afro pubes one by one over the sink?

Joey stormed out of the bathroom and grabbed Maggie by the wrist.

"Get in here!" he screamed, dragging her to the bathroom. He flung her towards the toilet.

"Look!" he shouted. "Look!"

Maggie stared at the toilet, then back at Joey; she saw nothing.

"It's your daughter!" Joey shouted. "Your daughter!"

Maggie looked back at the toilet bowl. She finally spotted the pube on the underside of the raised seat: brown, stuck to some clammy moisture, pasted with ground-in piss and shit. She smirked and bit her lower lip. No, Peggy doesn't have pubic hair, but Billy has all of his.

She turned to Joey. "Wasn't your brother here the other night?"

Joey hesitated, then shouted, "My brother's not a pig!"

"Yeah! I suppose your whole family is as nuts as you and shave their asses every week!" Maggie shouted, pushing past Joey.

"Get back in here!" Joey screamed, grabbing Maggie and shoving her back into the bathroom. He went out and slammed the door behind him.

"Clean it up!" he screamed from the hallway, but his voice became as almost desperate stammer, pleading, beseeching. He pressed himself against the door and begged, "Please clean it up..."

Alone in the bathroom Maggie picked up the tiny pube and freed it from the toilet seat. She examined the damp brown hair, then lifted the front of her dress and inserted her hand into her panties, pressing the pube against her fleshy bare pussy lips. Billy! she thought, and sighed -- Billy's hairy cock and balls, tapping, pounding, beating, fucking her baby-bare virginal cunt, his pubes itching, scratching, scraping, tearing her smooth-shaved flesh into orgasm and orgasm -- Billy!

Billy was the best fuck Maggie ever had and being shaved by Joey made Billy's hairiness all the more erotic and exotic. She would bury her eyes and nose mouth into his scummed and pussy-juiced cock, licking...slathering...biting his pubes, nibbling his balls, sucking...fucking his cock orgasm after orgasm.

"Uhh!" Maggie yelped and shoved her fingers and Billy's pube deeper into her cunt. She shuddered and clutched the sink till the orgasm passed. Billy, Billy, Billy! Billy's pubes were like pornographic photos viewed by a horny young boy who just wants to leap atop the unattainable images and meld into the filthiness of the illicit posings. But unlike the young boy's dreamy jerk-off madness, Billy's pubes were readily to her, atop her, behind her, before her, inside her. I'd better watch it: Joey might begin to wonder why his brother is dropping by so often, leaving pubes all over the place.

Maggie lowered her dress, grinning at the idea of making Billy look for his pube --hot...hot...cold...cold...hot...ooh! getting hotter!...hotter!...boiling!!!  She grabbed some toilet tissue and wiped the underside of the toilet seat. She sighed. Peggy will certainly start sprouting soon, if she isn't already, and shedding as well.

But Joey better not dare! And if he did she's get him locked up. He would certainly be certifiable if he tried shaving his own daughter. That would definitely get him out of her hair, and get her more often and thicker into Billy's.

She pushed open the bathroom door.

"Christ!" she screamed.

Joey was at the end of the hall, bent over the laundry hamper, scraping at a pair of Peggy's panties.

"Look!" he flared, holding out the small white panties, "Just look!"

"You freak!" Maggie surged at him, her eyes suddenly widening at the etchings of brown pubes in her blonde daughter's panties. 

Billy! she thought, Oh God, Billy, no!

His pube burned like a pornographic claw inside her.

*****