Chapter 4

The hour’s drive back to my apartment speeds by as my mind whirls. Should I do this? Can I avoid doing this? Can I do this without getting caught. At home I spend a bit of time in bed, experimenting with my imagination. I run through those perfect girls from the older end of my cadette scout class, mentally undressing them. I imagine sweet, blonde Yvonne, with the breasts almost as big as mine, tall and beautiful. I’ve seen the way she looks at the other girls and the way her nipples stick up under her uniform when she does. She would come to my bed willingly, I could teach her how to please a woman and please her in turn. I imagine her cries as she rides my face, my tongue lapping at her fresh young pussy, rubbing my thumb on the little nub at the top of her slit, a finger slipping round to tease the little brown pucker between the large, tanned globes of her buttocks. Fun, certainly, and it makes for a nice orgasm after the weird afternoon I had, but it doesn’t scratch the itch.

So, someone less willing. I immediately write-off the boys - Paul, Yvonne’s brother and Jorge, twin to Magdalena. Straight sex for adolescent boys is going to be more a trophy than an assault. Maybe I could break one with pain, but that wouldn’t be enough for me. I want them to feel dirty, embarrassed and ashamed. I try to imagine Magdalena herself, the petite frame, flat chest and still boyish figure. As far as I know she’s still shy of her first period, and while I can imagine tonguing her, fingering her, forcing her to lick me, her lack of development limits the scope of the shame I can make her feel compared with a girl coming into her sexuality, one I can force to orgasm against her will, one who knows and understands just what I’m forcing her to do.

I move on, running down my mental list, imagining each in turn, shackling them, paddling them, fingering them, licking them. Four young girls left. Chantelle, short and black, with plump lips that I just want to nibble on, and curves to rival Daytona. I could have a great time with her, I love the idea of a bit of race play, messing with the idea of slavery, checking her teeth, taunting her about breeding her, putting a collar on her and whipping her butt. I imagine forcing her down between my legs, fingers gripping her corn rows as those plump lips tease my swollen clit. I force myself over the edge, moisture dripping from me and leaving a damp patch on the sheets. I could certainly enjoy breaking Chantelle but ... I know it sounds racist ... I want to break a white girl. Something about red marks on pale skin, something about destroying that sense of untouchability that comes with being white and middle class. I mentally exclude Julietta, the remaining Latina on my list, much as I could have real fin messing with a demure, shy Catholic girl. That really leaves me with two, dark haired, conventionally beautiful Sophie, all eye-brow shaping, make-up and hair straighteners. A grade-A student, and knowingly gorgeous with it. Almost certainly shaves. Or cute, freckled red-head Beatrice, sporty and bright, quietly confident and stunning without even trying. I entertain myself with the thought of both of them at once, one going cow-girl on my strap-on while the other rides my face, each with hands cuffed in front of them while I make them kiss each other. I frig myself desperately to this mental image, a grunt escaping me as my legs snap together and squeeze my fingers against my lips, my thumb squashed into my clit and sparking a grenade going off in my crotch, leaving me spent and panting on my soaking sheets.

I have to break one of these girls, but which? And how?