American Girl

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HuckPilgrim
HuckPilgrim
437 Followers

Looking squarely at Roy, Chet removed his running jacket. He wore an expression that was difficult to read, and Rafia thought he might be preparing for a fight. His light nylon shirt wasn't tight, but somehow accentuated his muscular torso. Taller and heavier than Roy, Chet tossed his jacket over the back of the couch with a flourish. Rafia thought he looked like a prince, a crusading knight come to rescue her.

"That was great," Roy said quietly to Rafia, pulling up his pants.

He had an impish grin, curly brown hair, and full lips. Rafia hated to admit that she found him attractive. She refused to meet his gaze, turning to Chet instead. He stood with his hands on his hips. As she marveled at his body, he pulled the shirt from his pants and tugged it over his head, revealing a muscled abdomen and strong, hairless chest.

Rafia's breath caught in her throat.

Chet kicked off his sneakers, then lowered his sweat pants. He wasn't here to rescue her, he was here to fuck her.

He was up next!

Rafia's eyes were drawn to the thick patch of dark hair between his legs and his long, throbbing cock. She felt a heavy pulse of desire between her legs. As she raised her eyes, she found him grinning hungrily at her.

Rafia scooted to the far end of the couch, pressing her thighs together.

"Damn," Roy said with a grin. "Give a brother a minute to say goodnight."

He tousled Rafia's hair, then brushed his fingertips across her cheek. Rafia raised her eyes to Roy in a silent plea, but it was already too late. He strode from the room. As the door swung shut behind him, he high-fived some of the boys in the hall outside.

Chet loomed over her, his meaty cock in his hand.

Rafia raised her knees, using her shins as a shield. She wondered how she'd allowed herself to get in such a position, even as some small part of her understood that Chet was exactly the type of boy she'd hoped to meet tonight. He definitely wasn't afraid of sex. He put his hands on each of her knees and easily pried her legs apart.

A shuddery breath escaped her lips.

Rafia draped her arm over her breasts, a last ditch effort to protect her modesty. She hated herself for admiring the little cleft in his chin, his clear blue eyes and rakish grin.

He took her by the waist and tugged her flat on her back. Rafia gave a startled little cry and grabbed for the cushions. His palms went right to her breasts, and her nipples sent urgent pulses of desire to the hot spot at her core. She tried to close her legs but only ended up clamping her thighs against his warm haunches.

He lowered himself onto her, and Rafia whimpered.

His warm chest against her body comforted and calmed her. She didn't know what to do with her arms so she wrapped them around his bare back, aware of the incongruousness of this act. She nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck. "Please," she whispered breathlessly into his ear. "Oh, please," she begged.

He slipped his hand between their sweaty bodies. She felt the head of his cock pressing against her sex.

"Veronica?" Rafia suddenly thought to ask.

Chet stopped his assault, but kept his hand between their bodies.

"Veronica!" Rafia repeated.

She had him.

She put her palms flat on his chest and pushed. Looking him right in the eye, she said it again: "Veronica." Rafia's breathing was heavy and stilted, but her voice came out firm and strong this time. It wasn't question or pronouncement, but accusation.

She licked her lips.

He gazed hungrily at her sweaty chest, then met her eyes.

He grinned.

"Veronica's downstairs," he said. "She's waiting for me to finish up."

And then Chet sank himself deep inside Rafia. Her classmates' semen had left her well lubricated, slippery beyond belief. He was big, filling her completely.

Rafia groaned.

Chet rested for a moment, and Rafia felt grateful for the opportunity to accommodate to his size. He tilted his head, whispered in her ear: "None of the cheerleaders mind."

And then he raised his hips and sank himself into her again. Rafia moaned again, this time with forbidden pleasure. It felt good to have a dick between her legs - a big dick. Her mind flashed to the whispers of the girls as she'd ascended the stairs. Their glittering eyes.

All of them knew.

And they were downstairs right now - chatting, drinking.

Waiting - waiting for their boyfriends to finish, to return from the upstairs hallway, from the line outside the guest room door.

Like any good party, they'd planned it - planned this. Just like they planned to have whiskey in the punch. Or house music on the stereo. Chet raised himself on his forearms, his cock buried deep inside her. Lifting Rafia's legs, he hooked them over his shoulders. "Veronica hates it rough," he said.

"Rough?" Rafia said, her voice unsteady.

He was big all around, and he moved with real purpose. No sex had never felt so physical before. It didn't hurt as much as astonish her. Each of his plunges reverberated through her body, all the way up to her cheeks. Rafia listened to the wet slapping sounds his body made as he filled her with his cock.

Veronica had needed some little no-account girl, someone new to Roosevelt who didn't matter much. An amusement for her guests to enjoy. And why not? These were nice girls, American girls. And tonight they were using Rafia's pussy just as surely as any of the boys. The more Rafia thought about it, the more it turned her on. She would have more than panties to hide from her father now!

Chet stopped.

Brushing her legs from his shoulders, he took her face in his hands and kissed her full on the mouth. She accepted his tongue, eagerly exploring his mouth with her own. Rafia was very close to the orgasm for which she so longed. And then she felt that all too familiar wash of semen, the hot rush of cum between her legs.

It was the closest she would come to an orgasm for the rest of the night.

Randal Perry was next, a wiry black senior, who silently entered the room and removed every stitch of clothing. With slender arms and knobby knees, he stood before Rafia for a moment, then climbed into position. Rafia opened her knees and suddenly his cock - without a single touch - lurched and twitched, ejaculating warm semen all over her tummy.

She gasped as the hot cum splashed on her abdomen and inside her thighs.

Randal's face fell like a popped balloon. He dropped his head, looked forlornly at his cock. He didn't bother to touch or stroke it. For a moment Rafia thought he might cry. Finally he raised himself from the couch and began the long task of putting all his clothes back on again.

Rafia used her hands to wipe his cum from her body. Someone had left a cup of punch and she downed it, enjoying the warm burn in her chest.

She waited for Randal to leave. For the next boy to take his place.

They were all upperclassmen.

They came in from the hall one at a time, toting plastic cups of punch in their hands. Instead of trying to recall their names, Rafia found herself focusing on how they undressed. It was a small thing, but there was so much variety in how they each did it. Some of them didn't bother to take off their sneakers. They simply opened their fly and pulled out their cock, as if they were going for a pee in the woods. Still other boys yanked their shirts over their heads, and then pushed their jeans down to the middle of their thighs. One boy took off every stich of clothing except for his athletic socks. Rafia watched him stand there, stroking his cock, waiting to climb onto the couch, to climb onto her.

For the most part, no one spoke. What was there to say?

They filled her with their cocks and the dregs from their cups. Rafia gave each boy a turn, and the night proceeded in a blur of sweat, grunts and semen.

Lots of semen.

Chapter 2

Rafia felt a cool cotton sheet against her breasts.

She heard the sound of curtain hangers skipping across a rod. Bright sunlight cascaded into the room. Turning to the sound, her head pounded with a merciless pain that ended somewhere behind her eyes.

She groaned and discovered her mouth was dry.

Impossibly dry.

And filled with a terrible taste.

Gingerly laying her head back down, Rafia cast her eyes down. The sheet fell just above her nipples. Tugging it toward her neck, her feet popped out. Tucking her knees, she felt the crisp cotton sheet on her shins. She felt it on her hips and thighs. Even her tummy.

Rafia was nude.

Then she heard the deep, gravelly voice of a man: "You're up." Rafia instinctively drew herself in - she closed her legs, crossed her arms over her chest, and curled her back. She felt a dull soreness on the insides of her thighs, as if she'd been riding horses or waterskiing. For a moment she wondered why her body ached. And then all at once she knew. She didn't so much remember the previous night as feel a sudden pang of guilt so sharp and piercing it made her chest throb and took her breath away.

"Morning," he said.

Rafia swallowed, though she had precious little saliva in her mouth. He had a square chin, close cropped hair and rugged good looks. Greying at his temples, he wore a shiny burgundy robe and carried his shoulders squarely, with purpose. He could have been a diplomat, a retired general, or maybe just a cop. Rafia smelled the coffee before she noticed the two heavy ceramic mugs in his hands.

He sat down on the couch and Rafia had to scoot her hips to give him room. She winced at the unrelenting pain in her head, the soreness inside her thighs. The room seemed unfamiliar in the cheery morning light.

"Here," he said, thrusting one of the mugs at her. It warmed her hands.

"Head hurt?" he asked.

Not waiting for an answer, he produced a small silver flask from his robe. Pouring a generous helping into his coffee, he took a swig, pursed his lips and then breathed deeply from his nose. He smiled at her.

Rafia held out her mug, and he shared what was in his flask.

The two drank quietly for a few minutes.

Rafia found the coffee a balm. It wetted her mouth and warmed her chest, reducing the pain in her head to a manageable thump. She kept her mind blank. What she'd done last night was apparent, but she couldn't afford to think about it right now. Looking around the room, she tried to spot her clothes. Something about lying nude under a thin sheet and drinking with this stranger - a wealthy American - felt exciting and dangerous to her. Her nipples stiffened and she moved to ensure he wouldn't see this development.

"Who are you?" she finally asked.

"Me?" he laughed. "This is my house. I came home early from a business trip last night and found the downstairs loaded with kids."

He sipped his coffee, adjusted his robe.

"Threw the lot of them out," he said softly, absentmindedly.

He shook his head and said he'd suspected his niece was using the house for parties while he was out of town. Now he knew. He turned to look at Rafia. "I should have checked up here before I went to bed."

Rafia lowered her eyes.

"I put this sheet on you," he murmured.

Rafia sucked in her breath, unable to mask her shock. He'd found her nude. He wore a little half smile on his face that was hard to read. She could feel her cheeks warming.

His hand went to her thigh. He wore a heavy gold signet ring on his finger. His nails were manicured, neat. He gave her a little reassuring squeeze, then removed his hand.

Her leg tingled where his hand had been.

He inhaled.

Tilting his head, he raised one eyebrow. "There is a pale, green dress downstairs. When I came in last night, it was hanging from the chandelier in the room where everyone was dancing."

Rafia cast her eyes to the door, hiding the shame in her face.

"Is it yours?"

Rafia said nothing.

He laughed softly, just a series of soft, breathy exhales.

"In my day," he said, "we had a name for this sort of thing. We'd have called someone like you a public bicycle."

Rafia narrowed her brows, hiked her lip. She had no idea what he meant, but it didn't sound good. She turned to look at him, to see what expression was on his face.

He was grinning into his mug, holding it with both his hands. He put the coffee on the floor and raised his eyes to hers. "Anyone who wants," he said, moving his head close to hers. "Can climb on."

He put his hand on her hip and gave her a squeeze.

"Give it a little pump."

Rafia snorted, her face flushing with shame. She looked away. It was such an old fashioned thing to say. So outdated, so conservative. He was trying to humiliate her. He wanted to make her feel bad. She remembered her decision to let Roy keep fucking her. So much blood coursed into her face it made her cheeks hurt.

"I . . . ," Rafia began. She stopped.

Her voice sounded small and meek, even to her.

His eyes twinkled. He'd left his hand on her hip and it felt heavy. Warm. She needed a pose, a place she could stand, but the only position available to her was for a place she wasn't entirely sure she could go.

"I . . . liked it," she squeaked.

The words seemed to come from outside her, from someone else, but she knew they'd come from her own mouth. She blew air from her lungs and let the confession fill the empty space between the two of them.

He raised both his brows, straightening his back and grinning broadly.

Rafia enjoyed the look of shock on his face. The words had tumbled from her before she'd had time to consider them. But now that it was out there, it felt right, somehow, what she'd just told him. It felt right, and it felt wrong - both at the same time. She remembered how deliciously dirty it felt to allow Roy to keep fucking her.

She smirked. "It was fun," she said, sipping her coffee.

Rafia set the mug on the floor. The sheet fell, exposing her nipples, and she didn't bother to adjust it. Between her confession and his touch, Rafia felt something stirring in her belly, some deep thing, longing for release. She scooted herself further into the couch and felt the soreness inside her thighs, like an old friend come to visit. He moved his hand up her body and she allowed this, too.

He took her nipple between his finger and thumb and massaged it. She closed her eyes, raised her arms over her head, stretching her torso.

"She liked it," he cooed. "Liked giving all the boys a ride."

He worked first on one breast, and then the other. He wet his fingertips and rolled her nipples until they were stiff. Rafia lay there, basking in the feelings he was awakening in her. He soon stopped massaging her breasts and stood. She waited for whatever would come next. When nothing happened, she opened her eyes and found him on the other side of the room, sitting in an upholstered armchair.

He beckoned to her.

Rafia gathered the sheet around her and crossed the room. Her legs felt weak, her pussy moist. "I'm ready," she whispered huskily, when she stood by his side. She wanted an orgasm.

He smiled. Patted his thigh.

Rafia lowered herself into his lap, the sheet wrapped around her. He took her shoulder in one hand, her thigh in another, and tucked her body against his own. Opening her sheet, he put his warm mouth on her nipple, his hand on her hip. Rafia shuddered with delight. Soon his hand moved between her legs, stroking her pubic patch with the back of his fingers.

"What's your name?" Rafia asked, her voice a weak quiver. She squirmed her hips, trying to bring her clitoris into contact with his hand.

He snorted, moving his hand to the soft, moist folds between her legs. Rafia sucked in her breath and opened her thighs.

"You can call me Mr. Smith," he said.

"Mr. Smith." Rafia's voice came in a hoarse whisper. "I'm really ready."

Rafia wanted to express her needs, her desire. She wanted him to know that it had started last night, and that for some reason, despite - or perhaps because - the number of boys, she hadn't been able to orgasm. She wished he knew how badly she craved a release. She needed some relief. She needed an orgasm.

Rafia looked at him. Her mouth open, dry. Her shallow breath coming in gasps. To convey all this emotion welling in her body, she said, "Really, Mr. Smith. I'm really ready."

He smiled.

He took his hand from between her legs and moved it under her thigh. He moved his other hand to the middle of her back. Rafia felt herself suddenly sliding from his lap, and she gave a startled little cry. She ended up in a heap on the floor, tangled in her sheet. More shocked then hurt, she scrambled to her knees.

He stood and opened his robe, revealing a thick mat of dark hair on his upper chest that narrowed and extended down to his abdomen and beyond. He was nude under the robe.

"Your needs?" he asked, his voice rising. "What about mine?" He had a reasonably flat stomach and a long cock. He stood holding it in his hand. "You drink my whiskey. Spend the night on my couch. Now I have to service you? What about me?"

He looked imperiously at Rafia, a fist on his hip. His cock thickening in his hand.

He reminded Rafia of her father, how he could fly into a rage over the smallest thing. She knew the best strategy was to appease. Drawing the sheet over her shoulders, she crawled to Mr. Smith and knelt at his feet.

Looking up at him meekly, Rafia took his warm cock in her mouth.

He placed his hands in her thick hair, guiding her head. Rafia hoped he wouldn't come in her mouth. Partly this was because she'd never taken a boy's semen inside her mouth - she wasn't sure she was ready to swallow cum - but mostly it was because she still held out hope that he would use his cock on her. Give her what she needed.

Mr. Smith rocked his hips, holding her head firmly in place.

His shaft buried in her mouth, Rafia put her hand between her legs. It was enough to just cup her palm over her vagina, and apply steady pressure to her vulva. She took one of her nipples between her fingers, too. Soon she began twisting and squirming from her own ministrations, as he used her mouth.

"What is this?" Mr. Smith said. "No, no, no. This is no good."

He jerked his hips back, popping his cock from Rafia's mouth.

He reached between Rafia's legs, taking her wrist in his hand. "This isn't about you," he said. He placed her hand on his testicles.

"This is about me," he declared.

He arranged her other hand on his shaft and then stared down at her with his fists on his hips. The sheet had fallen to the floor, and Rafia felt small and defenseless under his gaze. She put her mouth on his cock.

She kept her eyes cast up, the better to gauge his satisfaction. She hefted his balls and massaged his shaft. Rafia tried hard not to even squeeze her thighs together or squirm her bottom too much. Better to deny herself than risk displeasing him again.

After a time, he pulled her to her feet. His cock bobbed between them, glistening with her saliva. He motioned with his head to the couch and Rafia's heart soared. She scampered across the room and got into position. It was an all too familiar position for Rafia. She opened her legs to allow him to mount and felt a dull ache inside her thighs.

"I'm sliding into you," he cooed. "Riding on top of spent semen, spit from the cocks of how many boys?"

Between her mounting desires, the tenderness between her legs, and the odd way in which he phrased the question, Rafia couldn't understand what he was asking of her. They had to go back and forth a few times with clarifying questions. He persisted. She finally realized he wanted to know the number of boys she'd slept with last night.

"Three," she said.

He grunted, wordlessly working his hips.

"No wait," Rafia said. "Five." Her voice sounded small, far away.

HuckPilgrim
HuckPilgrim
437 Followers