Pretty Baby Ch. 01byslyc_willie©
The journey begins.
Part One: From Innocence Born
The summer between high school graduation and my first semester of college, I took a job in the mall at a casual-dining restaurant. I had never waited tables before, but caught on pretty quickly. I had always been friendly and a little outgoing, and even though I had rarely spent too much time around guys (I attended an all-girl Catholic high school), I wasn't too awkward at flirting and got better as time went on.
Being young, blonde, pretty and slender, and blessed with my father's good work ethic, I did well at my new job. I made some friends, earned some regular guests (we don't call them 'customers' in the restaurant biz) and made more money than I thought I would. Like a lot of kids, I was clueless about how much money a waiter or waitress could make, and was pretty impressed the first time I took home a hundred bucks after a five-hour shift.
The money helped a lot, since my parents didn't have much money to throw around. They paid my tuition, but it was up to me to pay for everything else. Not wanting to stay at home (it was too far from school), I got a little efficiency apartment of my own, and my bills and all other incidental costs ate up most of what I made.
By the time classes started and I bought all my books and school supplies, I realized I wasn't making as much money as I thought I was. I wanted to buy a car, since I hated getting up two hours early just to take the bus to school, but dreaded the prospect of a car payment and insurance and gas and . . . .
It was just a couple of weeks into the fall semester. I had fallen into a routine of going to class during the day, then heading to the mall and hanging out for a couple of hours, having lunch, window-shopping and reading books at the Barnes & Noble, before reporting to work at four o'clock. I worked five days a week, Wednesday through Sunday, mostly night shifts. While I enjoyed the occasional hundred-dollar night, most days I usually made about half that. Still, waiting tables was better than standing behind a counter and asking 'you want regular or curly-fries?'
On this particular day – a Wednesday, I remember – I sat at a table in the mall's food court around two in the afternoon, reading my notes from class and munching on chicken fried rice. The dress code at the restaurant called for blue jeans and a yellow polo shirt with the company logo on it. The jeans I was wearing; the shirt and my balled-up apron were stuffed in my backpack, as always, and I wore a simple green tank. I was just another girl in the crowd, I figured.
At one point, I looked up, cracking my neck and popping my back as I twisted in my chair. Going over the basics of economics had become repetitive, to the point where I wasn't even ingesting the words I had jotted down or those printed in the text book. I needed a break, a diversion . . . .
I saw them standing by the little hallway in the food court that lead to the bathrooms. A tall, skinny blonde guy and a shorter, if equally skinny Hispanic. I didn't think either of them were more than a few years older than I. They wore nice clothes, sported expensive watches and had good hair cuts. Regular studs, I thought. I had seen a lot of guys like that since I started waiting tables. They always flirted with me.
But these guys weren't flirting. They were staring. And grinning. And not exactly in a 'hey, you're pretty cute' kind of way. It was more like a 'I wanna do dirty, disgusting things with you' kind of way.
I looked away from them, dropping my head and staring down at my plate. I didn't like the way they were leering at me (that was a word my father always used when describing 'disreputable' boys). I felt suddenly self-conscious in my tight jeans and tank. I only wore clothes like that because that's what all the other girls wore, and I wanted to blend in. Suddenly, I wished I had on a big, loose sweater and an ankle-length skirt.
The guys I worked with – all of them older than me – flirted with me a lot, and I always flirted back, but it was all harmless. Having had practically no experience with boys – beyond a little kissing and some touchy-feely at inter-school dances – I was nervous about dating. My strong Christian background compelled me to think of sex as nothing more than a means of procreation, not something to be indulged in casually. I always figured that I would lose my virginity on my wedding night and be a good wife and mother, just like my mom.
So, while inexperienced, I wasn't naïve, and I could pretty much tell what those two boys were thinking. That made me feel both mad, and . . . and something else. Something that made my face warm and brought a little tingle to my crotch, right on that little button that I sometimes rubbed at night, alone in my room, thinking about Leonardo DiCaprio. God, was he sexy . . . .
After an eternity and a half, I looked back up and saw that the boys had left. Thank God. I really had to go to the bathroom – I was dancing in the plastic chair – but I had been afraid to get up while the boys were standing by the hallway to the restrooms. Seizing my chance, I grabbed my bag and quick-stepped down the corridor, pushing open the door to the ladies' room and finding an unoccupied stall.
I sighed as I relieved myself, wiped, flushed, washed my hands in the sink and applied some powder. I prided myself on my appearance. I had practically flawless skin and knew that most guys considered me a 'hottie.' My blonde hair was long, straight, and very fine, reaching almost to my waist. I always thought my hips were too narrow, and I didn't like my pear-shaped breasts with their big, puffy areolas. I felt suddenly self-conscious in my tight shirt. Even with my bra, my nipples showed.
I checked the time on my cell phone – I had about an hour before I had to get to work – and figured I would head down to the Kincaid Gallery and look at some of the pieces by the Master of Light that I could not yet afford.
I stepped out into the hallway . . . and there they were. The same two guys, flanking the hall just before it angled back toward the food court. They looked like they had been waiting for me, considering their lecherous grins and they way they nodded to each other.
I swallowed nervously, my heart hammering. Shouldering my backpack, I started to walk between them—
I froze, automatically looking to the Hispanic guy. I knew instantly that I should not have done that. I should have kept going. Salvation was a turn of the heel and thirty feet away. I could hear the buzz of a dozen conversations in the food court, mingled with the tinny music wafting out from hidden speakers. I could find safety and anonymity in the crowd. But here, in this hallway, it was just me and these two boys.
I met the Hispanic guy's eyes. He wasn't much taller than me, maybe five-seven, and he had that overly self-confident look that always kind of bothered me. 'Smooth,' was the term. I hated smooth.
"What's your name, baby?" he asked.
I knew I should have just kept going. What could they really do, anyway? But there was something about him – or maybe something about me – that kept me rooted to the floor. "Alyssa," I said, and nervousness spiked again, especially when I caught the tall blonde guy from the corner of my eye, stepping closer. "U-um, I gotta get going. M-my boyfriend's waiting for me."
The Hispanic guy chuckled. "Your boyfriend, huh?"
I swallowed again, my mouth dry. I wished I hadn't left my Diet Coke on the table. "Uh-huh."
"So what'cha gonna go do with your boyfriend, huh?" he asked, sliding closer.
"N-nothing," I said, dumbly. My heart was pounding, my mind filled with awful images of pain and blood and screaming. Still, I was conscious of a sense of arousal, of a growing dampness between my legs. I never felt that except late at night, in my bed, looking at 'Leo's' gorgeous pictures in YM or People. Why the hell was I feeling it now?
Oh Mary, Mother of Grace . . . .
"'Nothing?'" quipped the Hispanic guy. My eyes danced for a moment to the tall blonde, who looked me over the way a scientist inspects his latest lab specimen. He smiled thinly, licking his lips.
"I bet Mr. Jackson could give you something to do."
I turned back to the Hispanic guy, frowning. "Who?"
They both laughed, their voices echoing a moment in the empty hall. "Mr. Jackson," repeated the Hispanic guy, pulling his hand from his pocket. He held a twenty-dollar bill in his hand. "Don't you know our tenth president?"
I frowned. I had always been a good student, and knew my history. "He was the seventh," I corrected him.
He chuckled, glancing to his friend. "Hey, she's a smart one," he said.
The blonde sneered. "Smart and hot," he returned.
Now I was feeling really nervous. I didn't have to have graduated summa cum laude to know what these guys wanted. But I felt like I couldn't get away. The blonde guy was behind me, the Hispanic blocking my escape to the food court. Unless I screamed for help, or someone else came down the hall – and at three o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon, traffic in the mall was light, I knew – I was on my own.
"Hear that?" asked the Hispanic guy. "My friend Rick thinks you're hot. So do I."
Dread filled me. "Please, I gotta get to work," I pleaded.
The Hispanic guy reached out and nudged my chin with his fingers. I flinched at his touch. "What time you gotta be at work?"
"R-right now," I said. "I'm gonna be late!"
He chuckled. "Mr. Jackson says it's okay to be late," he said, looking me over like a toy he couldn't wait to play with. He pulled another twenty from his pocket. "In fact, he says it twice."
I was scared, mortified, and trapped. Rationally, I know I could have called for help, or broke into a run and escaped them. But at the moment, I felt cornered and unable to do anything other than go along with what they wanted.
"Wh-what do you want?" I asked, not looking at his face, my eyes dropping to his Tommy Hilfiger shirt.
He grinned, cast his eyes around briefly, then leaned close. "I want you to suck my dick," he said in a rude whisper.
I trembled, and winced. But as those words filtered through my mind . . . 'suck my dick' . . . I felt the dampness between my thighs growing, becoming a trickle that soaked into my panties. I suddenly imagined wrapping my mouth around a stiff, warm penis. I hated to admit it, but I was getting turned on.
I fought the feeling down and forced myself to meet his lecherous gaze. "N-no," I said, but I sounded much less adamant than I had wanted to.
He looked amused. 'Rick' chuckled behind me, and reached out to touch my hair. I recoiled, stepped away, and Mr. Suck My Dick grabbed my arm. "Hey, baby, don't be like that," he said in a suave tone, pulling me against him. I whimpered, struggled with less effort than I should have. "No need to get nasty, right?"
I caught the undertone in his voice right away. I realized I had two options: give in, do what they wanted, or resist, and be raped. I whimpered again.
"Hey, Miguel, I think she gets it now," said Rick.
Miguel chuckled, and jerked me close, breathing in my ear before his tongue flicked out to lick it. I whimpered. The heat and moisture in my panties was growing. "Yeah, you get it, baby, don't you? Hey, it's no big deal. Not like you never gone down before, right? And we're gonna pay you, anyway . . . ."
He trailed off as he dragged me to the men's room. I stumbled beside him, meekly giving in, even as I felt myself getting more and more turned on. I had never done anything sexual in my life aside from kissing and touching a boy's leg. Once, and only once, I had touched a penis through thick layers of denim.
I had always been nervous and skittish when it came to any kind of physical intimacy. Secretly, I had always wanted to experience the many varied and pleasurable ways of having sex, and when my older brother still lived at home, I had sneaked peeks at his collection of dirty magazines. Some had been very explicit, showing young girls with their mouths wrapped around penises and dripping with thick white fluid. My fantasies of Leonardo DiCaprio always ended with feeling that same stuff dripping down my chin. I always wondered what it tasted like.
And, now, suddenly, in a way I had never expected, I was about to find out.
I was pulled through the door of the men's room, across grimy tile, to the last of three stalls. Miguel pushed me down – not too rough, but firmly – onto the closed toilet lid and unzipped his fly. I stared at his crotch, breathing hard in both fear and anticipation. I was about to see a real penis for the first time, I realized.
And there it was. Sticking out through his fly. Stiff, brown, curved upward and a little to the right, with a dark, spade-shaped head and a little oozing slit that glistened with clear fluid. Miguel dug into his jeans and pulled out his hairy testicles as well, making them bunch up around the base of his penis.
"For forty bucks, chica," he said, taking my hand and slapping the money into my palm. He reached for my head with both hands and pulling me toward his musky groin. "You better go all the way."
Go all the way? I wondered, even as his cock slipped into my mouth. What does that mean?
"Oh, baby, yeahhhh," he moaned, moving his hips, sliding his penis in and out of my mouth. I had never tasted a penis before, and had no frame of reference for the salty, sweet, musky flavor that soaked into my senses, nor the way that stiff tube of flesh rubbed against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I tasted something sweet and oily on my tongue. Inexperienced as I was, I clamped down and sucked hard.
"Ouch!" Miguel grunted, jerking back. His cock popped out of my mouth, shiny and wet. My lips dripped with saliva. I realized with wonder that my mouth was watering.
"Damn, girl!" he exclaimed, staring down at me in consternation. "This ain't your momma's tit! Suck it soft, okay? And don't use your teeth! Shit! Ain't you never give a blow job before?"
'Blow job.' The term seemed alien, even though I had heard it before, of course. I blushed, feeling embarrassed, as if I was somehow less than a woman for being so inexperienced. "Sorry," I said, and licked my lips. "I'll do better."
It amazes me now, how eager I was to satisfy this man. Had things gone sour, I could have been bent over the toilet and screaming in pain as I bled all over his cock. But that thought did not enter my mind at the time. I only wanted to be good at what I was doing . . . and what I was doing was sucking the first penis my tongue had ever tasted.
"You better, baby," he groaned, and thrust back into my mouth. I tasted him again, felt his length between my lips, his fleshy weight on my tongue. I opened my jaw, locked my lips around the warm, pulsing shaft, and rubbed my tongue back and forth against the underside. I felt more of that oily fluid leak out. I discovered that I liked the flavor.
"Oh, baby . . . ." Miguel moaned, running his fingers through my hair. He stood still, and I took that as encouragement. My body tingled as he massaged my scalp – it reminded me, strangely, of when my mom used to wash my hair – and I heard myself moan. Mimicking what I had seen in my brother's porn magazines, I glided my lips back and forth, sucking gently but firmly, swirling my tongue round and round and round . . . .
The sensation, and the knowledge, that I had a penis in my mouth – I'm sucking dick! Giving a blow job! – thrilled me in ways I had never anticipated. The moistness in my panties became a river of my own sweet nectar as I worked on his shaft. There came that slow tingling rise of what I had always thought of as 'buzzing,' since I always felt a long, static sensation whenever I came. And I wasn't even touching myself!
I felt every little pulse and jerk and throb of Miguel's erection, loved the taste of that sweet fluid that dripped out onto my eager tongue. Wanting more, I slipped back until just the spongy head was in my mouth, and brought up my hand. Miguel shuddered in pleasure, gripping my head tighter in his hands as I squeezed and stroked his shaft. I moaned at receiving yet more of that candy-like cream.
This doesn't taste bad at all, I thought, sucking harder and harder, pulling on Miguel's tense cock, squeezing the base with my hand as I pumped my mouth back and forth. Why have I always heard that cum tastes nasty? This stuff is sweet! I could lick it up all day—
And then Miguel was shaking and moaning, pushing his cock deeper into my mouth, all the way to my throat. "Oh, fuck yeah!" he gasped, humping my face. "Take it, baby! Uhnnnn . . . ."
My eyes flashed open. 'Take it?' I gagged and jerked my head back, almost retching, as the first thick surge of warm fluid flowed across my tongue. My senses were lit up by the flavor. It wasn't anything at all like the sticky clear essence I had been enjoying. This stuff was runny, dry, bitter, and a little caustic. Still, there was something about it, something primal and naughty and attractive about the taste that made me excited.
And I thought: He's cumming! He's . . . he's ejaculating right in my mouth!
Before I knew what was happening, I felt my pussy spasm, the rush spreading out from my groin and traveling rapidly through my body. I was shocked and startled that, even as I realized I had brought a man to orgasm with my mouth – and in my mouth! -- I was cumming as well.
I shook and moaned and whimpered around Miguel's twitching dick, feeling some of his warm fluid seep out over my lower lip, down my chin, to drip audibly to the floor below. Miguel was lost to ecstasy, plunging into my mouth, making his cock slick and streaked with semen. But the majority of his sperm remained in my mouth.
My own orgasm faded away, leaving my panties sticky and wet as they clung to my labia, and I relished the afterglow as I sucked tenderly on the softening cock in my mouth. I smacked my lips and murmured in pleasure, stroking Miguel's penis to make every last drop of cum ooze into my hungry mouth. Miguel sighed in satisfaction, running his fingers through my hair, and let me suckle him until he pulled back. His wet dick popped from my mouth, the head shiny and smeared with pearly fluid. Impulsively, I licked all around it until he pushed my head back.
Gently, Miguel tilted my head up until I was looking at him, and he grinned rakishly upon seeing my face. "Fuck, you're hot, baby," he said dreamily. "You look so nasty with cum on your face."
His words were unexpectedly exciting. I could feel his fluid trickling over my chin and down my neck. His cum swirled in my mouth, like watery pudding, soaking into my tongue and cheeks, flowing to the back of my throat. Reflexively, I swallowed some of it, frowning slightly at the flavor. It struck me that cum tasted one way when I held it in my mouth, but entirely different when it slithered down my throat. It wasn't terrible, just . . . different.
"Go on, baby," Miguel encouraged me, petting my hair affectionately. He wasn't the forceful brute anymore. Now he was the grateful recipient of a world-class blow job. "Go ahead, you can do it."
I breathed in, inhaling the aroma of sperm. I knew what he meant, and suddenly, I wanted to do it. I wanted to be the naughty girl, one of those girls guys always whispered about with awe when they said those magic words: "she swallows." There was something about that simple act that elevated a girl to some sort of pinnacle, making her special. I wanted to be special.
I took another breath, readying myself, then ducked my head and gulped it all down. Miguel's sperm rushed down my throat like a waterfall, filling my tummy. It was warm and bitter and dry going down, leaving me with an aftertaste not altogether unpleasant. I breathed out, licking my sticky lips. They felt glazed, like a Krispy Kreme donut.