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Dave never did take her down to the cellar to do it, like Daddy used to, but somehow, with Dave, it was even more exciting. Especially the feel of his bare hand on her buttocks while she pretended to squeal and beg him for mercy.
Without quite realizing what she was doing, Francie had one hand between her thighs, touching herself.
Brant hung the phone up abruptly and began to chuckle.
"Goddam, but you're a horny little animal, aren't you?" he said. Francie couldn't make a sound in reply, but it didn't matter.
"You're going to have lots of excitement this evening," he told her, his hand in her hair hurting her just enough to make her whimper and wriggle. "Now, take your fingers out of your cunt—I want you to be good and hungry for it when the time comes."
She clutched at him again with both hands, enjoying the sensation of servicing him, obeying him, belonging to him. God, but he was big! So big her throat ached and her jaw muscles hurt from holding her mouth open to take all of him.
Now that he was off the phone, he came quickly, his hot juices spurting down her throat. She hadn't swallowed a man's come since the very first time, the time when she was fourteen and it was her first month in California—her first month in school, as a matter of fact.
Dave had moved the family from the small Midwestern town she'd been born in to the West Coast because he'd been told the job opportunities were better— and then he started leaving them on their own most of the time, with just the dumb old housekeeper to watch them.
Thinking about it—about herself then—Francie could not help grimacing. She'd been so damned green in those da> that no one would have believed it, and then those four boys who thought she was just a prick-tease had taken her one day into the old house that everyone said was haunted, and had raped her—first one by one, and then two at a time. She'd sure grown up in a hurry then!
Francie told Brant about it later, while they were taking a shower together. She was feeling very, very good—she loved him more than ever, and she wanted him to know everything about her. Brant, in spite of his offhand manner and his sudden cruelties, was being nice to her now—he'd even sent his manservant out to buy her a dress to wear to the party, after letting her pick the style from one of the magazines he'd had lying about.
Head back, letting the water stream down on her closed eyelids, her hair, her nose, Francie told Brant, in her little-girl voice, exactly what the guys had done, what they had said, and how she had reacted.
"At first, you know, I was scared shitless! I mean, no one had bothered to explain anything to me, for God's sake, and they said I was too young to date—you dig the irony of the thing? I used to wear these tight, tight dresses when Dave was away in town, and I knew even then that my body was pretty good, but I sure as hell didn't know what it was for. Until they showed me."
Francie laughed shortly and moved, letting the water have her back this time. Brant smacked her bottom sharply and saw that his fingers had left red marks over the weals she already sported.
"Ouch!" she yelled.
"Go on, your story's got me fascinated," he said.
Shrugging, she continued, doing a kind of sensuous dance step now, raising her arms over her head and swaying her body while she almost crooned the words.
Brant wondered idly if t
he hash she'd persuaded him to let her use earlier was acting belatedly.
"After the first guy, the first time, it didn't really hurt too bad, but oh, man, was I scared! So scared I peed in my panties and they joked about that when they pulled them off me. I was so damned terrified I kept struggling and trying to scream until they clobbered me a few times to shut me up, and then they took turns. While one was doing it, the others would hold me and feel me up—they hurt my boobs something terrible, I had bruises all over afterward. And I got screwed. I mean, well and truly! And you know what? After a while, I stopped fighting them because what was the point? There were four of them, like I said, and they told me they wouldn't hit me again if I let them do what they wanted. One of them, Lonnie, he was on the football team, a senior, big deal, and I'd always kinda followed him around, you know? I didn't think he'd even noticed me, and here I was, getting fucked by him. He was the one with imagination, and he thought up everything they were going to do with me next.
"That was some scene, I'll tell you! I used to dream about it afterward and wake up all wet. They even gave it to me in the ass, and man, before then I hadn't even dreamed that guys would want to use you that way— I mean, that really hurt! But Lonnie, he wanted it, and he did it to me after he'd smacked my butt a few times."
Frances paused, her body still gyrating slowly under the steamy-hot water—the bathroom was murky and cloudy with steam by now, and Brant felt, with a kind of surprise, his penis become rock-hard again.
Francie giggled, and he jabbed it up against her, between the plump, firm cheeks of her ass.
"You stupid little cunt. How did you survive a gang-rape? It's a wonder they didn't screw you to death."
She realized that she had almost succeeded in shocking him, and giggled again, bending slightly to give him better access to her.
"They weren't as big as you are, not any of them. You make it feel like the first time when you do that to me—ow!" Her delighted wriggles belied the complaining tone of her voice.
"Do you want me to go on? You do, I can tell."
She moaned softly because he was big and he filled her, making her feel as if she would tear any minute. But he was fucking her, hard, his hands slippery on her hips, and she loved it, even the pain. She came up to meet him halfway, pushing herself against him.
He didn't speak, but his breath rasped against her neck as he bent over her. She closed her eyes and let him do whatever he wanted. He was enjoying this— enjoying her. He wasn't bored any longer, and she was going to make sure he never became bored with her again. She loved Brant Newcomb, and she loved the thought of all his lovely money and the things it could buy. He could take her places, make her really free, if she played her cards right. No more brother David keeping her locked up, telling her it was her responsibility to look after the kids.
She remembered Dave's shocked, angry face when she'd come back home after the rape, and wanted to giggle again. Poor Davel He'd had to carry her up to bed, and he'd had to call a doctor because she was bleeding all over the place. All she'd done was sob hysterically and tell them both that it had been dark and the men were real tall and had worn stocking masks over their faces. She knew David wouldn't call the cops—reliable David! No scandal, he kept saying—for her sake, of course, and the sake of her future. And the doctor finally, reluctantly agreeing to say nothing, either—for her sake. Balls, she'd thought, even then. Dave just wanted to keep it out of the newspapers because of his job.
She hadn't talked. And afterward, when she was back in school with a letter from the doctor to say she'd had the flu, she'd walked right up to Lonnie after the first day of classes, as bold as brass, asking him to drive her home in his new car.
