Unsuccessful at finding her wet cuntal opening with his prick, he separated the lips of her cunt with the fingers of one hand, then he directed the swollen tip of his throbbing hardon to the tender folds of flesh which glistened wetly between her smooth thighs. As Connie felt the rubbery cockhead prying at the entrance of her virginal womanhood, she realized that all was lost. Gone was the pleasure of a few moments before. Her head was cold and clear, the alcoholic haze driven, off by her terror and revulsion.
Her mother had been right. It wasn't man's fault that he was no better than a rutting beast, snorting and growling in a nonstop attempt to bury his stiff cock in the trembling softness of a woman's cunt. Woman was to blame. Now it was Connie's fault. She had drunk too much and permitted the blond boy to take liberty with her body too freely. Now matters had gotten completely out of hand and she had no one to blame but herself.
With a rending tearing searing stab of pain, she felt his stiff prick entering her, tearing the taut membrane which guarded the entrance to her virgin vagina. She resolved to resist him in the only way left to her – by denying him the satisfaction of conquest. Biting her lips to keep from screaming, she forced her body to go limp, fighting to control her natural desire to kick and thrash. She lay like a wet dishrag, neither moving nor reacting, as Lionel used her, driving his stiff cock to the hilt in her tightly clasping pussy.
So lost was he in the ecstasy of his insertion that he wasn't even aware that he had deflowered a virgin, smashing her cherry in a blinding flash of agony. He pumped his hips forward rhythmically, feeling her pussy stretching tightly around his prick like a rubber collar, pulling at the flesh of his hotly palpitating cock, stimulating it, arousing it. He knew that he would soon be pumping a hot load of juice into her reluctant snatch. He humped his hips harder, anxious to get his rocks off quickly.
He usually worked harder at pleasing the girls whom he fucked, but this prick-teasing little bitch deserved exactly what she was getting – to be used like an old wash bucket – a receptacle for the hot torrent of semen which was already finding its way upwards through the coils of tubing which led from his swinging swaying testicles to the throbbing purple head of his prick.
And then his ejaculation was upon him, like a long curling wave crashing on the rocks of the shore. Spurt after spurt of hot whirling jism shot from his cocktip, spraying the back of her cunt like a bubbling geyser. The tip of his prick nudged insistently at the knob of her cervix deep within the nether depths of her pussy, the tightly constricting walls of her inner cunt becoming slimy with the fluids of his exploding climax and fitting tightly over his hardon like a lubricated condom.
Then, at last, the waves of pleasure began to subside and he slowed the motions of his hips. When Connie felt the hot flood of fluid inundating her cunt, she wanted to vomit. This vile dope pusher was filling her with the juices of life, after robbing her of her hymen in the most brutal of ways. She couldn't even find the strength to hate him, realizing that she was to blame and that if she hated anybody it should be herself. She tried to think about something else, but found her consciousness dominated by a lewd vision of his bludgeoning cock, long and hard, penetrating her pussy and filling it with his vile secretions.
At last his cock softened and slipped from her cunt with an obscene plopping sound. He rolled off her, sighing deeply as he settled comfortably down on the mattress. She turned away from him, hot tears of shame and humiliation filling her eyes and overflowing them, running down her cheeks.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you," Lionel said at last. "But you had it coming. You can't tease a man the way you did and then think you can turn him off like a faucet."
Connie was silent as she reached for her brassiere and put it on quickly, anxious to hide her nakedness as swiftly as possible. She tugged her skirt down over her hotly dripping cunt, unable to staunch the flow of hot tears running from her eyes. "I don't ever want you to touch me again," she said. "I'm not blaming you for what happened. I blame myself for that. But I don't ever want to see you again."
"All right," Lionel said. "If that's the way you want it." Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "But I thought you wanted to score some dope."
Connie suddenly remembered who she was and why she had come to Lionel's apartment. She had allowed her personal feelings to get in the way of her assignment, not once thinking about her mission since entering Lionel's apartment. And now she was defiled and shamed, forever soiled because of the weakness of a moment. She had to get that heroin. It was the only way that she could redeem herself in her own eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Connie shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other… although the temperature had been in the nineties for the past few days, she shivered as she looked around the dusty abandoned warehouse. She had been waiting for almost half an hour and was beginning to wonder whether anyone was going to show up.
She had been ready to run from Lionel's apartment in shame and humiliation the Tuesday before, until the mention of the dope reminded her of her assignment. Resolving not to let her personal hangups get in the way of her job, she had forced herself to stay, sitting at the far end of the black-sheeted mattress as they discussed the heroin.
But when she told Lionel that she needed half an ounce, he had pursed his lips in a soundless whistle of surprise. "I don't know," he said. "I can score a bag of grass or a snort of coke every now and then. And I can even help you get a fix if you need one. But half an ounce of junk is out of my league. If it's weight you're after, I'll have to put you in touch with a friend of mine."
He called her a few days later, giving her the address of this abandoned warehouse on Queens Boulevard in Sunnyside, just a couple of miles west of her apartment. He told her to meet his friend there on Saturday night at eight. Although at the time she had jumped at the chance, now she wasn't so sure that she had done the right thing.
The empty crates and piles of packing material that littered the floor of the huge one-room building cast long eerie shadows on the floor around her in the dim light which filtered through the dirt-encrusted windows. She held her watch up to her eyes and squinted at it, trying to make out the time, when the door opened and a man stepped in.
For a moment she could see him outlined clearly in the light which came from the open door. He was short and stocky and shaped like a bullet even to the top of his bluntly pointed head. When he closed the door behind him, the warehouse was again plunged into darkness. But he struck a wooden match on the concrete floor and touched it to the wick of a stubby candle that he held in his hand. Then he walked toward Connie.
"Foxy?" she asked quietly, using the name which Lionel had given her on the phone. But the stocky man didn't, answer. When he had gotten to within a couple of feet from her, he stopped and held out the candle, letting his eyes roam up and down her body. He stared silently at her, enjoying the way that her tight black denim jeans hugged the fullness of her hips and ass. He licked his lips suggestively as he examined the round swell of her tits filling the tight white sweater that she was wearing.
"Understand you're interested in some weight," he said, his voice gruff and raspy.