I pulled my shitty old car up the long driveway of Cindy Peregrine's house and parked it, then paused to allow my hatred for that awful woman to subside enough for me to get out. "Stay here," I said to Kyla, who was sitting in the backseat for some reason rather than up front next to me. Like I'm her chauffeur. Kyla didn't answer me, and I didn't expect her to. She's a girl of few words, and - as much as I love her - just about as much brains.
I exited the vehicle and walked past the dozen or so cars and pickup trucks that littered Cindy's front lawn in the blue evening. There were people my age milling around, laughing, smoking, and a few high school kids too. Somebody had got a small bonfire going and there were several people I knew standing around it. In any normal town a house and an accumulation of wealth like Cindy Peregrine's would be just one of many upper middle class spooge piles, but in our ass-end town she gets to be the queen of everybody, and when she throws one of her repetitive house parties everybody treats it like it's the big red date on their social calendar. Not me. I was there for one reason and one reason only. A girlfriend of mine, Carlie Herrington, had called me earlier in the evening crying, saying her boyfriend (and ride home) had broken up with her and ditched her almost as soon as they'd arrived. Some stupid fight; I didn't catch the details. But I intended to pick up Carlie, cram her into the car with Kyla, and we'd all go to the much more pleasant - and much smaller - party over at Steve Lachman's place.
I was almost all the way to the door when I realized I was still holding the bottle of Cooke and Boggs whisky I had bought to take over to Steve's. I held the thing up to the porch light as if to ask it why it had come with me rather than stay in the freaking car with Kyla. She wouldn't have drunk it; it takes a direct command and sometimes a slap across the face to get her to do anything. Cursing myself, I carried the bottle by the neck into the house, still focused on my mission to find Carlie.
That is, I was focused until I saw Freak Benton. Ritchie "Freak" Benton is lean, stupidly handsome, and perpetually distracted. By some accident of psychology and sexual upbringing he developed an unquenchable desire to eat pussy. So he spent most of his formative years with his head down between the thighs of one girl after another, and by the time he had finally ended up down between mine for the first time he'd become very very good at what he does best, and acquired a reputation as such. He was hanging out with his best friend, that idiot Slots Kepfer, when I laid sight on him. I feel bad about it now but I let myself become derailed from the task at hand. Without thinking much, I made eyes at him from across the room and nodded my head toward the door that led to the first floor bathroom. He caught my glance and excused himself from the conversation with Slots to come follow me.
I got into the bathroom with Freak close behind, closed the door, and locked it. "Hey Freak," I said.
"Hey Dana."
I could have followed up with something like, feel like eating my pussy? Or maybe, my good sir would you care to perform the cunnilingus for which you are so widely renowned upon my regrettably unshorn womanhood? But instead I said absolutely nothing and just pulled down my jeans and panties and sat on the toilet lid with an expectant look on my face. He got the gist.
He started warming me up by kissing my thighs, running his tongue over my skin in a way that sent shivers through my body. His mouth moved from one thigh to the other, inching closer to my pussy. By the time he eventually arrived there I was all but bucking my hips in anxious anticipation. Then he sank his long muscular tongue right into me and pressed his generous upper lip against my clit. It felt like such a release, and I moaned while squeezing my breasts through my shirt and bra. He held that position, drawing his tongue assertively against the underside of my clit a few times before withdrawing it. And then he really started to get to work.
As he licked my clit I could feel myself starting the long delicious rise toward climax. I hugged Freak's head with my legs and played my fingers through his hair while he ratcheted me upward with every stroke of his tongue. Then I heard the metallic sound of his belt buckle coming undone. I looked down and saw that he had pulled his dick from his pants and was stroking it rapidly while he worked. Oh God did that push me even further. I hoped he wouldn't finish before I did and waste a lovely load of his semen into a puddle on the bathroom tiles. I resolved to finish as quick as I could and then suck his load right out of him.
Then the bathroom door opened. Dammit, I thought I had locked it! The sounds of the party outside came roaring in along with two people: Chelsea Leicester and her brother Jack. Those two blond beanpoles were always together, joined at the hip in a way that bordered on weird, and now both of them were staring wide-eyed at me while I sat helplessly about three quarters of the way to a mind-expanding orgasm.
"What the fuck, dude!" Jack said, amusement on his face more than anything. But Chelsea's face betrayed a different reaction as it went limp and her mouth came open involuntarily.
"Hi Freak," she said.
He pulled his mouth away from my pussy just long enough to say, "Hi Chelsea," then dove right back at it.
"Can I have a turn?" she asked.
I waved a hand in her direction and said, "Just let me fucking finish, Chels. I'm so close."
"Okay. I'll wait," she said, plopping herself down on the edge of the bathtub and immediately putting one hand down the front of her long red skirt. Jack let out a stupid-sounding guffaw and left, not bothering to close the door behind him. Soon a crowd of onlookers was gathering just outside the door. Now I had an audience. I didn't care. I grabbed Freak by the back of his head and pulled him tight against me, closing my eyes while his tongue and lips propelled me the rest of the way.
"Oh my God. Oh, fuck!" I gritted my teeth and winced as the climax took hold. Wave after wave of pleasure ripped through me while Freak expertly slowed his tempo but increased his pressure, extending my orgasm as long as it would go. "Holy shit, Freak! Oh my... fuck!" As I finally released my death grip on Freak's head and melted into a limp puddle on the toilet, I opened my eyes and saw Chelsea pulling her skirt up to her waist and her panties down to her ankles. Her pussy, unlike mine, was bald as a baby's asscheeks. Freak gave my thighs a polite kiss, then shifted over to Chelsea and got right to work on her. I looked down and saw that I had left a small puddle of juices on Cindy Peregrine's toilet seat.
As I pulled my pants back on, ignoring the jeers and cheers from the crowd outside the door, I looked at the sink countertop where I had left the bottle of Cooke and Boggs. It was alarmingly absent. A fierce surge of anger swept away the pleasant post-nut haze on which I'd been drifting. Aside from Chelsea and Freak, who were now fully engaged with one another, the only other person who had entered the bathroom was her thieving brother Jack. I buttoned up my jeans, said a quick, "Thanks Freak," and stormed out of there, pushing aside the bodies of onlookers as I went. New mission: find Jack and kick his narrow ass.
I searched the living room, then the kitchen. No luck. And then I went out the rear door onto the back patio. There he was, holding my bottle of whisky by its neck, laughing at something that one of two dudes standing nearby had just said.
"Hey Jack," I said loudly and firmly. "Gimme back my Cooke and Boggs."
"What?" He turned to me as I approached with an expression on his face like someone might give to a flea-bitten stray mutt on its way to sniff your crotch. "This here? This is mine. I found it."
"Found it!? You stole it from me not five minutes ago, you shit-eater."
He raised the open mouth of the bottle to his own and took a brief tug. "Sorry, Dana. I think you're confused. Probably left half your brains in Freak Benton's mouth."
Even though his joke was as stupid as climbing the backside of a ladder, the two other guys laughed at it. This called for a measured and considered violent overreaction. I took three steps toward Jack Leicester and threw a right hook that caught him square in the middle of his smug grin. A jolt of pain went through my fist, but not as bad as he felt. He staggered back with a look of shock that quickly turned to fury. Before I knew it he had his arms around me and I felt a hit of dismay as my center of gravity lurched sideways. He pulled me to the ground with a vicious thud that caused my lungs to spit out all their air, and then we were both on the grass, hitting each other in a rapid mutual hail of blows that mostly did little damage. However a few of the punches found meat, and he got a few good ones into my abdomen. Fear and rage and pain mixed inside me like baking soda and vinegar in a sealed Coke bottle. I cracked him as hard as I could on the side of his left eye with my right elbow. That sent him rolling off of me, clutching his face. My breaths were heaving. I stood up, the world spinning around me, found the bottle of Cooke and Boggs where it lay in the grass, and grabbed it. The lid was nowhere to be found and half the whisky had poured out onto the earth. Then as I wobbled away from the scene of the crime, I saw Carlie Herrington holding Kyla by the arm the way you might hold a child to keep her from running off. Both of them were staring at me with their eyes the size of plums.
"Oh, hey Carlie," I said. "I'm here to rescue you." Then I bent over and vomited onto the patio.
The party seemed to follow us as I led Carlie and Kyla back to the car. People rubbernecked at me from every direction, yelling the same crap they always do, hoping I would put on another show to liven up their night. "Get the hell out my way," I said as I pushed past a couple of girls I knew from back in the day.
When we were finally ensconced in my old beater Carlie sat real low in the shotgun seat with a sullen look on her pretty face. Her cheeks were streaked with trails of mascara from crying. She said, "I can't believe you. What a shit show. I should have called Desiree to pick me up. You're such an embarrassment."
