Burn 2 (7 page)

His fingers teased her once again. One of them rubbed her clit, and she moaned softly into his mouth. His breath was warm against the cool air-conditioning of the room.
That very same finger flickered over the curve of her clit, delicately kissed the seam of her labia, and dipped into her virgin pussy hole.

“Ohhhhhh!” She screamed. He had never done that before. Before this, they were confined to kissing and heavy petting, but always above board – never dipping into intimate orifices.

“I want you so bad, Abby.”

His erection pressed
against her thigh, and then he moved the tip of his cock up to nudge against her pussy, which was already very wet. She could feel her juices pooling at the mouth of her hole. He draped his body over hers.

“Ready?” he asked her.

“Wait.” She could feel her heart knocking heavily against her ribs. She wasn’t so sure she was ready, and yet she wanted to get this rite of passage over and done with so that she could get to the good parts. “You need to use a condom.”

Shit. S
he had forgotten to bring one. She hoped he remembered.

He smiled broadly. “Of course.”

He reached down for his jeans and retrieved a silver foil packet from one of its back pockets. He slipped it onto his cock. She stared at it, fascinated. His cock resembled a thick sausage.

“Just lie back and relax,” he said.

She tried to, but she couldn’t help being tense all over. Her pussy was contracting and relaxing alternately.

“Don’t think about it,” he coaxed her. “Just open your legs a little wider. That’s right.”

He settled between her comfortably. His cock strained at her opening. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the pain.
It’s so huge,
she thought. How ever would it enter?

Before she could tell him to give her a little more time, he penetrated her.
The pain was a rush, all concentrated on her hymen all at once.

She screamed.

“Ssssh, ssssh, Abby. Relax, OK? Relax.”

But it was painful. She opened her eyes and blinked back the sudden tears that flooded her orbs.
Her vagina felt like it was being splintered apart – its walls pushed back so firmly that it seemed something in there would tear.

“Please, it’s too painful,” she whimpered. “Take it out.”

“Abby . . . it’s OK. It’s normal.”

“No, take it out. Give me time to adjust.”

He ignored her request. Instead, he pushed his cock in deeper so that more of her virgin tunnel was cleaved apart.

The agony was exquisite, unbearable. She gritted her teeth
and almost bit her tongue.

This is how it’s supposed to be, she told herself.
You can’t be a baby about it.

But oh, oh, oh, oh. No one told her that it would be this painful.

“OK?” he asked her. His face was a rictus of desire.

She warmed to the fact
that he seemed so crazy about her.

“Yes,” she said.

It will be OK, she avowed. She just would have to get used to it. She hoped it wouldn’t hurt so much each time.

“Good. It always hurts the first time.”

She wondered about his remark. How often had he done ‘a first time’ then, and with how many girls? His cock brushed against her swollen clit, and for the first time since the penetration, she experienced a frisson of pleasure. She felt her pussy stretching to accommodate his fit.

Perhaps this was going to get better after all.

He started to move inside her, and the satisfaction of fullness augmented the sensory pleasure in her clit. She opened her thighs wider, and he slid in some more.

“Don’t fight it,” he order
ed. “Just let me do all the work.”

S
he lay back and let him pump and grind and slam into her hips. Over and over, until she was rubbed raw with the friction. The pain abated, and her pussy juices went into overdrive, lubricating him. She still hadn’t felt pleasure yet. It was certainly not the delirious pleasure they wrote about in romance novels with bodice-ripping covers.

Perhaps that
would come later, when her pussy finally healed with a permanent scar.

Perhaps she was
truly frigid and she would never feel sexual pleasure for the rest of her life.

Perhaps she was doomed never to experience pleasure with a man.

He threw back his head. His eyes were closed. He was buried so deep in her that his balls practically kissed her ass cheeks each time he drove home. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out over his skin. He kept his hands squeezed upon her thighs. He was very close to coming.

“Oh, Abby!” he groaned loudly as he released himself.

She felt . . . nothing. The condom prevented his jizz from flooding her pussy. His body tensed and rumbled. And then he collapsed suddenly on top of her, panting like a freight train, and his weight pressed her down. His wet face nestled against the crook of her neck. He breathed in her scent, her sweat, her dampness, her pheromones.

“Oh, Abby, I love you,” he murmured.

She wanted to tell him ‘I love you too’, but she was too overcome by the emotion and disappointment of her first time to utter words she wasn’t sure she truly meant. So she settled for turning her head and kissing him on the side of his head. A loving gesture, for sure.

They lay there together for a while, until her breathing became labored under his oppressive weight.
She took a surreptitious look down at her inner thighs. There was very scant blood. So she was not a bleeder. She was certain her hymen tore, though. There was too much pain and his cock was all the way in.

“Ari,” she said. “Move over. I can’t feel my legs.”

He laughed softly, and then got up to give her space.

“So what do we do now?” he said.

She pulled in a deep breath. The air flooded her lungs, expanding what could previously not be expanded.

“I
’ll invite you to dinner at my father’s house.”

The family homestead
was like something out of ‘Gone with the Wind’ – all white Greek columns and flattened roofs and graceful arches in its exterior. The land around it was flatter than a pancake. The sun would not set until eight or later, and the evening was tinged with a bright golden hue, setting the Doric columns aflame.

“Wow,” Ari said as he drove them both up to the entrance
again. “I don’t think I will ever get tired of looking at this. Is your home called Tara?”

“Haha, very funny.”

“Did you used to have slaves or something?”

“I’m third generation American, OK? We weren’t here in the last two centuries. My grandfather bought this house from a Southern merchant.”

Maybe his ancestors had slaves, she thought.

Privately, she wondered if it was such a good idea bringing her boyfriend home for the first time. It wasn’t as if she announced his visit or anything to her father.

Dad shouldn’t mind, she thought firmly. It was cruel to send Ari home all the way back to New Orleans without feeding him first.

“And you live her
e with your parents?”

“Just my Dad.”

“Where’s your Mom?”

“Dead.”

“Oh.” He was silent for a minute. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. She died when I was very little.”

“What did she die of?”

“Swamp fever.”

“What’s that?”

“A disease, or maybe a cluster of fever-type diseases you get from living in a swamp. She probably got it from the mosquitoes.”

“Oh.” His eyes went round. It is as if those mosquito bites took on a whole new different meaning for him now. But the swamp was dangerous . . . and merciless when it came to claiming your life when you were weakened and debilitated.

She reached for his hand on the steering wheel and squeezed it. She was excited and nervous at the same time.

“How would your father feel about me visiting you?” he said.

“I’m sure he’ll be OK . . . if you make no mention about fucking me.”

“Are you kidding?” He chuckled. “I don’t want him to throw me into the alligator pit.”

He parked right in front of the house. Her father’s white Cadillac was in, she noted
, nicely parked in the open garage beside the main house. As were his Hummer and pick-up truck, used for moving equipment. Of course, her father rarely moved equipment these days, but it was a vestige from his youth. A keepsake.

“We don’t have alligator pits,” she said. “Alligator swamps, maybe.”

“Bad enough.”

They alighted from the car. Her pussy still felt sore from the pounding. But she was proud of losing her virginity. Proud of her passage into womanhood.

Still, she felt a little nervous as they both entered the gracious old house.

The
main doors opened up to a foyer, where they could hang up their coats – not that they were wearing any in this awful heat. The short little passage led to a hall with a high ceiling, which was filled with chandeliers and marble and rich busts of Grecian gods. Vases of all sorts decorated display cabinets against the walls.

Abby felt a little embarrassed by the largesse.

“Wow,” Ari said.

“My grandparents collected all these,” she explained.

It had nothing to do with her. She wouldn’t collect these Neoclassical things. But she did learn a thing or two about them from her grandmother.

“Where are your grandparents now?”

“Dead.”

He eyed her sympathetically.

Hattie, the half-Cajun, half-black housekeeper who ran the homestead for over thirty years, came out into the hall.

“Ms.
Abby? You didn’t tell me we were having a guest for dinner,” she said pointedly.

“Sorry, Hattie. This is Ari. Ari, this is Hattie. She looked after me while I was growing up.”

“You are still not grown up yet, Ms. Abby.”

Ari st
ruck out a hand, which Hattie took. Abby was pleased to see that he treated the hired help just as he would anyone else. Score another point in his favor.

“Ari?” Hattie said, raising a huge, bushy eyebrow. “You’d be a nice Jewish boy, now, wouldn’t you?”

There weren’t many Jewish people in Cat’s Creek, so Abby reckoned Hattie was chumped to meet someone slightly different from the usual run-of-the-mill denizens she met at the grocer’s.

“I’m Jewish,” Ari said, his eyes twinkling, “but I don’t think I can qualify as being nice.”

He shoots a daring look at Abby, and she colored. Hattie noted this, but did not say anything.

“We’ll be having dinner shortly,” she said. “Why don’t you wash up and join your father in the dining room?”

As soon as she disappeared, Abby punched Ari’s arm.

“She knows,” she whispered. “Why did you have to go make a scene?”

“Oh, come on, Abby, it’s written all over your face.”

“What?” She was horrified. Was losing her virginity
causing spots to break out on her complexion or something?

He
guffawed. “You should see your face! I mean your guilt . . . it’s written all over your face. If you don’t want your father to know, you should try to mask it better.”

Yes, of course. She had to do better.

“Think of Mr. Thurston,” he added, referring to their Math teacher. “That’s better than ten cold showers.”

Mr. Thurston had a face only a mother would love.

Still, her cheeks were still flaming. So she rushed off to the bathroom a little way from the hall to fix her hair and any traces of guilt which might be showing on her face.

When they were both
finally composed and presentable, they walked together – not holding hands – into the dining room. Her father was already seated at the head of the large mahogany table, which was polished by Hattie’s girls to a gleam. The table could seat twelve people.

Her father looked up.

“Abby?” He seemed surprised to see Ari. He took in the boy’s appearance – dark, curly hair, flashing dark eyes.

“Hi, Dad. Sorry for not letting you know I was having a guest earlier.” Her words tumbled out in a rush. “But Ari decided to drop by from New Orleans.”

Her father appeared stunned. He didn’t get up and he didn’t offer Ari his hand. She thought that was unusually rude of him.

“Sorry, Dad,” she added. She hoped her ‘guilt’ wasn’t showing. Oh God, maybe it was. Of course her Dad would be cheesed off.

Ari’s hand was stretched out. When her father didn’t take it, he retracted it, looking slightly abashed.

“Um,” he said, not sure if he was welcome.

“What’s your name, boy?” her father demanded.

“Ari. Ari Gold.”

A strange look passed over her father’s face, as if something was confirmed. Foreboding slid down Abby’s spine. She wondered – just wondered – if somewhere in the distant past, her father knew Ari’s father and there was some mysterious enmity between the two of them. Of course, that was a long shot.