MARIE (7 of 13)
FRIAR DAVE
MARIE
(copyright, the author)
CHAPTER SEVEN
(MARIE07.STY)
Kids from Rossford Junior High -- who were 12- and 13- and 14-years-
old -- had a lot of friends at St. Cornelius, because eighth graders
in St. Cornelius were 12 and 13 years old. Which meant the older girls
from junior high sometimes hung out with girls a year or two younger
from St. Cornelius, so when juniors from Rossford High wanted to hit
on girls from the junior high, they ending up meeting eighth graders
from St. Cornelius, too.
All of which goes to explain how I met George, who was 16 and a
junior, when I was only 12.
George was a "Hunky" -- that's the nickname for Hungarians, of which
there were a lot in Rossford -- and got good grades. He was big and
blonde and kind of handsome, in a rough-hewn sort of way. He didn't
set out to pick me up, but he ended up with me one early-September
Saturday when about two dozen kids piled into six or seven cars and
headed for a concert at Veteran's Stadium. George wanted to be an
engineer (like my phantom stepbrother), liked to read science-fiction
(like my phantom stepbrother), played the guitar (like my phantom
stepbrother) and said "Please" and "Thank you" (like my phantom
stepbrother).
He was a lot like my phantom stepbrother, if you know what I mean.
George was a lineman on the varsity football team and had this really
wicked, quiet sense of humor (which was like my phantom stepbrother).
He drove one of the cars to the concert, but had about four beers and
didn't think he should drive back. I was impressed. I was even more
impressed when I ended up sitting on his lap in the crowded backseat.
I'd had a couple of beers, too, and wanted to make out, and he kept
acting like a gentleman and telling me I was only a kid...right up to
the time I pulled down my top and stuck a tit in his face while
squirming on the unconcealable hard-on making a hard tent in the
crotch of his jeans. Even then he acted like I was a kid, making me
cover myself and behave.
I made George a target. Within two weeks, I was spending most of a
Friday night under the stands at the Rossford High field riding him,
with his fat cock rammed up my hungry, wet little snatch and his hands
under my blouse, playing with my nipples. I never met another teenager
who could hold off cumming as long as George could. Despite the
ribbing he took for robbing the cradle, George and I remained "an
item" for most of the first semester and past the end of the football
season. That was when the photography club became a factor.
George was interested in photography, enough so that he'd even set up
a little darkroom in his basement. He talked about the club from time
to time. To be honest, it didn't interest me, and I didn't pay much
attention. Until that Friday night in late March.
George had an older brother in the Coast Guard, and his family --
which was large -- had gone to Cleveland for the weekend to visit his
brother and some relatives. We had the house to ourselves. I'd
arranged for Dana Connally to cover for me that I was at her house.
It was about 11 at night. George had already drunk about five beers,
and I'd had a couple, myself. We were touring the house -- with a
difference. For one thing, we were naked. For another, I had my legs
around his waist and his nice fat prick buried in me. George was so
big -- he was about six-foot-two and 200 pounds and lifted weights --
he was just carrying me around the house.
"This is the kitchen!" And he'd rest my bare butt on the countertop
and fuck in and out of me till I'd cum once or twice, and then: "And
this is the dining room!" And he'd repeat the procedure on the dining-
room table.
Of course, I contributed: "But isn't the dining room where you're
supposed to eat?"
At which point he'd pull out of me, munch on my cunt -- I had just a
hint of hair there -- and then plough my furrow again, and we'd
continue the tour.
"This is the living room!" On the stereo and television cabinets.
"This is bathroom!" On the vanity.
Et cetera.
He finally came in me in the basement, in the darkroom. For a guy who
could last so long, he didn't shoot very much stuff. Not that I
minded. What was important was the look on his face after we caught
our breath: He was frowning.
"Why are you frowning?"
He shrugged. "I still don't know what I'm going to do for the show,"
he said. Ed Sautter had scheduled a school-year's-end show of the
photography club's work.
I stretched my arms over my head -- I was laying on the countertop
where George usually cropped his photographs -- and said, "Well, how
about a nude study?"
He laughed with me, but then he stopped and stared at me. "Y'know,
maybe -- "
I held my hands up, palms toward him. "Forget it."
He shook his head. "No face; just nude torso in black and white. I'll
let you proof the negatives."
I sat up on the counter. "Are you serious?"
George nodded. "Ed -- " Ed Sautter was a member of that new and
informal generation of teachers. He'd been hired to teach English Lit;
for his kids in the Lense Club, his first name was available. " -- Ed
says if someone comes up with a really good nude study, he'll fight to
get it in the show."
Well, to make a long story short, I agreed. What the hell, huh? None
of the negatives had my face in them, so who would know? We shot them
with a flash that night and by daylight the next morning. The best
ones were with me on the coffee table in the living room. They were
tight focus from just the hint of my pubis to my shoulders, with the
angle of the morning light highlighting the flat plane of my stomach,
the clear definition of my ribcage and below, just the hint of
swelling for my hips. My breasts were firm and rounded and my nipples
were hard -- George said professionals use ice cubes, but we used
something else to get them hard and keep them that way.
It was a stunning series of relief shots. Some of them were lovely; I
still have them. The best were so good that they weren't even erotic;
they were just beautiful -- a healthy, firm-bodied young woman
blossoming into womanhood (in black and white) against the rich grain
of the oak coffee table's surface. I still look at them and don't see
myself or sex. They were really quite good.
Sautter was true to his word; he exhibited the best ones and almost
got himself fired.
The problem came when someone noted that the edge of a National
Geographic -- not the date, but part of the logo -- was visible, on
the coffee table, measured it against the nude torso, did some fast
math to get the measurements of said (my) torso, noted the lack of
abundant pubic hair...
...and figured out who the model was.
The word got around in certain circles very quickly. There was a lot
of Talk. Then Sautter had his confrontation with the Powers That Be
and finally compromised, agreeing to exhibit the nudes in the faculty
lounge, to protect the young people of Rossford and the Model.
Funny, but I didn't think I needed protecting. Hell, I'd done the
pictures, hadn't I?
Well, the whole thing began to outgrow itself and pretty soon, George
was getting a lot of pressure to reveal the name of the woman in the
pictures. George refused. George dug in his heels and got stubborn,
something at which he excelled. For a while, it looked like the whole
thing was just going to blow over, because everyone got wrapped up in
the fight about the bond issue for the levees out in Point Place --
[Please, don't ask.]
-- and everything seemed fine until George called me one afternoon
when I had the house pretty much to myself and informed me that the
negatives had disappeared. All of them -- including the outtakes,
which were not solo shots of a lovely torso; those were pure smut,
taken off a tripod and timer and giving an excellent view of me, from
the rear, riding George's fat prick. One in particular, taken while I
was cumming, had real good definition of the way my pussy was
stretched 'round his dick, with all but an inch or so of his wide dong
buried inside me. Some of the others in that set included my face --
in one shot, with my mouth full, if you know what I mean.
George figured it had happened that afternoon, while he was jogging.
The night before, he'd developed some shots he'd taken out at the old
Municipal Airport. When he'd gotten home, the padlock on his darkroom
door had been cut -- probably a bolt-cutter, he figured -- and the
negatives and prints from our session, and only from our session, were
missing.
I went over to see him, and we put our heads together and tried to
reason it out. Whoever had done it hadn't been on the football squad,
which aced Marty and the other Three Stooges; they'd been jogging,
too. George pointed out that examining negatives wasn't easy if you
didn't know what you were doing, so that narrowed it down to people
with darkroom experience who knew George's schedule and what to look
for...
No matter how we sliced it, we kept coming back to the Lense Club.
Well, we were right -- sort of.
By then, Easter vacation was coming up, and I went to see my cousin,
Darlene for a couple of days. That's what I told George. In fact, I
was eager to see Roger, but I didn't share that with George.
I hadn't seen Darlene since around Christmas, when she and Tod the
Asshole and Uncle Van and Aunt Irene came by for Christmas Dinner.
Darlene had been losing weight -- or, should I say, redistributing
it. When I saw her during that Easter break, I told her the truth: She
looked real good. She'd gotten a new hair-do. and her waist was
smaller. and her tummy was getting flat, and her legs and butt were
getting tighter and her tits were growing real nice. She was almost 14
and you could see what was happening: She was going to be a bombshell.
The first chance I got, I went over to see Roger. He knew I was coming
over, because I'd called him from Rossford and told him. He was
waiting for me and about, oh, 90 seconds after the front door was
locked, a trail of clothing led from the living-room door, up the
stairs and right to the bedroom. Roger was devouring my pussy like a
starving man with a bowl of rice. And he was making me crazy, because
he'd lick and suck me till I was almost ready to cum, and then he'd
back off and leave me hanging. He did this for about 15 minutes.
Finally, I grabbed two hands' full of his hair, pulled his head away
and said, "Roger, if you don't stick that cock in me right this
minute, I'm going to scream bloody murder!"
He knelt on the bed between my knees and pointed down. "You mean this
cock?"
His dick was as hard as any teenager's and was all reddish and
throbbing and enormous. My cunt was twitching and juices just drenched
my pussy and the bed beneath me.
"Roger!" I yelled.
He grinned, got on all fours and began kissing his way up my body,
pausing to give special attention to my breasts, especially my
nipples.
"They're getting big, Marie," he said.
As if I didn't know. According to the Sears big book, my measurements
dictated a B-cup -- if someone manufactured a 27-B. My nipples were
small but hard and swollen, and each time his tongue passed over them,
I shivered. With a 19-inch waist and 25-inch hips, I was definitely
top-heavy by any standard.
Finally he crawled over me, pausing to put a pillow under my little
butt. My legs opened more, and I swear I could hear my own pussy lips,
so swollen and wet and tight, part for him. I reached down with both
hands, one to part my labia and one to guide his huge dick.
[Well, eight inches may not seem huge to you, but remember how young
and small and tight I was. An eight-inch cock in a girl with 25-inch
hips is like an 11-inch cock in a normal, average-size woman.]
As he slid it into me, I started moaning and rolling my hips under
him, rocking them back and forth to take more and more of that big
dick into my body. He said I seemed even tighter than usual, and I
could believe it -- after all, he'd just spent a quarter of an hour
dangling me on the brink of cumming.
Then he was about halfway in and his glans pressed something inside
me, and it felt golden and I came. Wow, did I cum! It was like being
possessed. I came for almost a minute, and when I sank back, limp, he
was all the way in me -- the first time he'd gotten the whole thing
inside me -- and he began pumping my pussy. After a few minutes of
that, I felt him jerk and throb inside me, and then he was cumming in
me. He held me very close as he came in me, crushing me against him
and somehow probing his prick farther into me without moving his hips
much. On the last spurt, he also kissed the top of my head -- remember
how short I was -- as we both had or orgasms.
He rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him and keeping his
shriveling cock inside me. I bore down on the muscles in my cunt, and
he groaned with the additional tightness.
We lay there, sweaty and stuck together and panting.
"You've been practicing," he said. "Got yourself a sweetheart. Want to
tell me about it?"
I nuzzled his chest hairs, stalling.
"You don't have to," he reassured me. So of course I did.
When I finished, he asked: "Okay, baby -- what's bothering you?"
"Nothing, really."
His hand raised my face so he could look me in the eye. "Marie, you're
laying here with my dick inside you -- "
"I noticed." I giggled.
He gave my butt a playful swat, more of a caress. "-- and your mind is
a million miles away. Don't lie to me. You're bothered by something.
Spill."
So as I lay there with this man who was 15 years older than me, with
his dick inside me -- along with all of our juices -- I told him about
the pictures and the negatives.
"That was you?" He laughed a little, more like a chortle. "I should
have known. One of the guys at Robby's -- " That was a barber shop in
Genoa. "-- was talking about that exhibit. He was impressed." He
chortled again. "Wish I'd seen those pictures."
"Roger, I'm afraid everyone is going to see those pictures -- and the
outtakes."
"Baby, I'd do anything if I could, but I wouldn't know where to start.
You got any ideas?"
I admitted that I didn't -- at least where he could help with that.
However, I did have other ideas, and I flexed those muscles again. He
started to get hard inside me, which was an amazing sensation, because
his cock started out about average and swelled into a monster. Within
a few minutes, he was stiff as a concrete-reinforcement rod and I was
sitting up straight and bouncing up and down on him. Coming down was
especially fun, since it ground my clit into the hair-cushioned ring
of bone around the base of his thick prick. I came a lot, over and
over, and finally fell forward onto him. He rubbed a fingertip around
my butt-hole and then slid it in. Much to my astonishment, it felt
good. And I let him know it.
That was the key that set him off. He fucked me wildly for a few
minutes. I really got off on the feeling of his fat cockhead swelling
far, far inside my tight cunt, and we again came together. He seemed
to cum a lot with the double compression on his cock. Later, when I
climbed off him, I scampered to the bathroom before my leaks stained
the carpet; there was an awful lot of stuff in me.
We did it again the next day, but the next night he had to go pick up
a load of strawberries for delivery in New York, where he was supposed
to pick up a trailer full of books and bring them to Toledo.
I went home after almost a day of fending off Tod the Asshole and
found nothing new had happened with regard to the missing negatives. I
knew, nonetheless, that it was just a matter of time before the other
shoe was dropped. George took the College Boards in May, and I
prepared for final exams.
Then, in the last week of May, the high schools in the area started
having open-house days for eighth graders. I had no intention of
attending Rossford High -- I'd already been enrolled in the Catholic
high school, without being consulted -- but it meant a day away from
St. Cornelius, so I went. The regular students at the high school had
the day off -- it turned Memorial Day weekend into a four-day weekend
for them -- so the place was occupied only by eighth graders.
I was on the second floor, looking at the biology lab, when a man
approached me. He was a nice-looking guy with slightly long hair and
an open face. He was about 25 or 26, and he was wearing bell-bottomed
pants and a white shirt and tie. His most striking feature was the
bluest eyes I've ever seen.
"Marie?"
I nodded.
"I'm Ed Sautter." He shook my hand. "I'm trying to get a creative
writing club started for the summer, and I'd like you to come to one
of our meetings."
"To tell the truth, I'm already signed up for another school."
He shook his head and smiled. "Doesn't matter. I'm just trying to
gather some of the more promising young writers."
"I'm not really a writer -- "
"You've done some fine compositions and essays at St. Cornelius, from
what I hear. I'd like to see them. Will you give us a chance?"
"Well -- "
"Besides -- " He leaned close, confidential and just-between-us close,
those gorgeous blue eyes boring in on me. "Besides: Susan -- my
girlfriend -- is going to come over and set up a chicken barbecue for
everyone, and she makes this sauce...mmmmm." He rolled those gorgeous
blue eyes.
Who could resist? "Well...okay. Where and when?"
"This afternoon at three." He produced a piece of paper and scribbled
an address on it.
"Eagle Point Road? That's a pretty ritzy neighborhood," I said. "I
didn't think teachers got paid very much."
"We don't," he said. "I'm renting the place along with two buddies. If
you want a lift, I'm taking four or five others with me when I leave
here at two-thirty. They'll be meeting me in the teachers' parking lot
by the VW Microbus with the peace signs on it. Be seein' ya!"
And then he was gone, just like that. I stood there in the nearly
deserted hallway, fingering the paper and decided it might be fun.
It was that. And more.
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