Enid Vanderhoff called me one evening not long after I had watched her calmly pump five friable little slugs into her despicable husband. I have no idea how she got my number, but I was aware that she worked for the Company. "I need to see you," she said. I could hear her sigh, more of a snort.
"I'm kind of busy," I told her since I had two underage girls in training at the time, and they were scheduled for delivery in about ten days.
"I do need your help," she insisted and her voice cracked, so I told her I would be right over. I got the drugged girls up on the dildo saddles, strapped them in, patted their bare rumps, turned the machines on 'low' and left them there happily bouncing with six inches of hard rubber in their tight little pussies.
Enid answered my knock and poured me some scotch. We sat in her library. "It's Gloria, of course," she said with a sigh, crossing her legs and stirring my cock to life. "She needs a man's firm hand."
"Where," I asked, "on her cute little bottom?"
"That might help." She sniffed. 'Seriously. She's gone boy crazy. I caught her twice with young man in her bed when I came home from work early. At least I think it was the same boy. He left in a hurry."
"And you want me to talk to her?"
"OK," I said, "call her. I'll do my best." I thought about the lovely youngsters down in my cellar doing their exercises and wondered if they were screaming by then.
"She's not home. At a friend's house, studying."
I raised an eyebrow. The single malt was excellent if you like that sort of thing. I sipped and waited, growing impatient.
"She should have been home twenty minutes ago." And we heard the front door open as if on cue and a young voice cry, "I'm home. Sorry." Good timing. I put down my glass and adjusted my trousers.
"In here," said her mother, and Glory trotted in, looking out of breath, her boobs jiggling. She was a slim girl except in the chest area.
"My bike's chain came off," she said, showing her greasy hands. "Oh, what are you doing here?" She blinked at me and then smiled. I had deflowered her about a month before.
"Hi," I said, "studying hard?"
She nodded and sat down. She wore skinny-legged jeans and a loose sweatshirt that didn't quite reach her waist along with white running shoes. She looked delicious. She also looked freshly fucked, sated.
"Your mother is worried about you," I said. "She wants me to talk to you, about men I think, well, boys."
The girl made a face and her mother left the room and closed the door.
"I ought to wash my hands," Gloria said, showing them to me again.
"Go ahead," I told her. "I'm in no hurry." That was my first lie of the night. The saddles my pair of youngsters were on cycled through a series of motions including short rests, and I was not sure if my 15-year-olds were ready for an all-out gallop with a bulbous-ended, half-foot rod in their tight little quims. But it was coming, ready or not.
I heard the girl and her mother in the hall, getting a little loud, and then she came back in, drying her hands on her hips. She exhaled loudly.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
She nodded and smiled. "Just fine. Honor roll."
"Droves," she said.
"Aren't you nosy?" she said, licking her lips.
"Well, you and I, we did do a kind of dance in your mother's bed if I recall. Stained the sheet some."
"Oh, I do remember that," she said, smiling broadly.
She looked away. "Well, I've been laid, let me think; it's written down upstairs, I think seventeen, no, sixteen times since you took my virginity. None of them as good as you but fun, every one of them."
"Sixteen boys in three weeks," I said. "You have been busy."
"No, five different boys. It's almost a month since she shot him," she said.
"And at your school what do they call a girl who puts out for five boys in a couple or three weeks?"
She swallowed and looked at me crossly, pouting.
"Well?" I asked. "Slang does change."
"Slut," she said sharply.
"Ohhh really. Still slut, eh? Is that your goal?"
She shook her head. "I just, well one thing led to another. I like doing it. Boys talk, brag. You know."
"I think it's a mistake, a serous mistake and that you should stop, quit, retire." I tried to look and sound fatherly, with incest on my mind.
"Oh fine," she said loudly. "Shall I join a convent or what?"
"No just stop screwing every boy that asks. Be selective. Ration yourself. Play hard to get for a change, dole out your favors sparingly."
"Easy for you to say."
"Come on, Glory, I bet there's not another girl at your school with a record like yours."
She raised her chin and sniffed. "Marsha's had dozens and dozens of lovers, young and old. And, and, that Michaels girl, she's always got a new boyfriend."
"Are they sluts?"
"And you want to be like them?"
She shook her head.
"How many did you do tonight?"
"Two, but I've had both of them before." Then she put her hand to her mouth and blushed. "That was mean," she said.
"It's pretty bad when your mother can't trust you."
"She could send you away to school, to a girl's school way out in the country."
"Would you like that?"
She shook her head. "It's your fault anyhow. That first time, when you put your big thing in me, it was like I was electrified or something. I've never come so hard since. Or so many times."
"But you keep trying?"
She nodded and made a tiny smile.
"I want you to promise me that you will try; let's see, how about no more than one a week for the rest of this month and then one every two weeks and in two months, one a month. Think you can do that?"
"If you're one of the ones," she said.
I chuckled. "Do I have your promise?"
She nodded. "Cross my heart." And she did.
I stood up and she crossed the room and came into my arms. I hugged and she got up on tip-toe and kissed me. Out in the hall, I told her mother that she understood and would try to behave better. The woman thanked me.
I went home as fast as I could and got two tired little girls off their thrusting saddles and into a hot bath.
The phone rang. "She's run away," said Enid assuming I would recognize her voice. "Took some money. She's wearing Levis and a dark sweater. I think I remember that her number-one heart throb boards up at the cathedral, St. Albans."
"I'll go look. You stay home. She might just be walking off her mad."
I spotted her striding up the long, steep, Massachusetts Avenue hill near the Greek church, her ponytail swinging from side to side, not even a backpack or pocketbook with her. I pulled into the driveway near the top and waited, leaning against the trunk of the car. When she passed, I stepped out and grabbed her and pulled her back into the hedge, my hand over her mouth.
"Now," I said crossly, "if I was a rapist you might not have long to live."
She struggled and kicked my in the shins. I twisted her arm higher up her back and shoved her up against a big tree. "We are going for a ride," I said. 'Then I'm taking you home or locking you up."
I put her in the car, bundled her in, handed her the seatbelt and slammed the door. I drove through the empty campus and out onto Wisconsin Avenue and then up the road to a neighborhood bar I liked. I took her to a back booth, got myself a draft and her a Coke and a bag of chips. The place smelled like a urinal.
"Tell me," I demanded.
"Ricky's Hispanic, Columbian I think. Venezuelan, I don't know. Very rich, very pretty, very nice, and he's a considerate lover."
"He's a senior, so 17 or 18 I guess."
"And you're fifteen, right? So sex with you is statutory rape in D.C., Maryland and Virginia. You think he knows that?"
"But you know that, don't you?"
She nodded. "I hoped he'd hide me, maybe at the embassy. He has immunity."
"You'll drive your mother crazy."
"I'm horny," the girl said, eyes down. "I think one of those guys I saw tonight gave me some Ecstasy or something."
"Don't you have a vibrator, a dildo?"
She made a face.
"Tomorrow's Saturday. Why don't you come and spend the weekend with me. We'll check up on Ricky, and you can see what happens to sluts on account I've got two right now at my place." I flipped out my phone and punched up her mother. She answered quickly and just as quickly gave her permission. "Ricky what?" I asked the pouting girl.
She shook her head. "I don't want the CIA on his case."
"Come on," I said looking serious.
"Emanuel d'Xavier y something, I forget. Sanchez I think." She stuck out her tongue at me.
I told her mother and said I'd bring her home Sunday afternoon, after the Skins game.
.... There is more of this story ...