Chapter 8: Seventeen Years Old

Jenner unexpectedly resigned at the end of the spring semester, giving her no straight reason but facing her for their last time with a cold, calm expression of regret that she saw to be a lie.

Even when she attempted to go down on him, he pushed her hungry head away from his cock and, dismissing her, walked out of the office and her life. She shrugged, and surmised that either she'd worn out his virility or he'd somehow managed to convert his Jesus-freak of a wife to his widened, whimsical versions of sexual expression. If so, Maryon thought, then she'd be a better female for it.

"A cultivated cunt is a contented cunt, and a factual fuck in the here-and-now is worth two moot Blessings in the Beyond!" was the way she formulated it.

Things at home were no better. Lois was growing morose and man-hating as her various affairs tailed off. A visit to Karen in the summer didn't revive the old Lesbian fires for them, and everyone at school seemed dull and moronic as she trudged into the fall classes. Though Jenner's magic word seemed to have stood her in good stead, upping her marks; and though this trend persisted as the summer classes came to an end, Maryon found it easier to get along if she acted the part of a semi-simpleton, not putting herself forward as the one who knew all the answers.

It might have been because of this that she was approached by Wesley McAlister to play the role of Daisy Mae in the High School production of Li'l Abner. Perhaps because of the dumb blonde implications of the part, none of the older girls seemed eager to audition but, for the sake of something to do, and because of Wes himself, she immediately said she'd try out for it.

Wes was a well-built, handsome black of eighteen who, at six- two, refused to go out for basketball and preferred to get involved in the Drama Society and head up a rock-blues group called "The Rip-Off Ripon Society Band." He was almost the last of a special group from Metropolis' ghetto district that Glenville High'd brought voluntarily in a couple of years ago as part of an experiment funded by the University. He seemed to have lost the ghetto hustling ways and antagonism toward the whites that marked his first year, and now was quite at ease among his peers, with only an occasional snarling jar in his drawl to betray his former deprived background. He quite naturally lorded it over the mixed members of his band and was accepted as a gifted Director-Producer in the Drama Society. Though he had a small coterie of fans, he didn't appear to give his time to any of the girls who were wont to hang about the auditorium when he was in rehearsal. He seemed eager to have Maryon in the play and fussed about her when she was ready to try a reading and audition for him, as though wanting her to make a good impression on the others involved who would be hearing her. Properly briefed, she went down to the auditorium one evening and let herself be shown out onto the stage. To add a touch of authenticity to her try, she'd brought, and now wore, a black micro-mini skirt and an old, flowered, wide-open-necked blouse and was bare-legged and -footed. At first her voice was weak, but after a shout came from over the blinding footlights for her to speak out, she got together her courage and declaimed, putting some little action into it, determined not just to stand there with her hands at her side.

When she'd finished there was silence for some moments, and she nervously wondered whether she should go off or continue to stand there. There must have been some consultation beyond the lights, for presently she heard Wes' voice telling her that she'd probably do but that he'd have to coach her, and telling her to go back to the star dressing room where he'd come see her when he was through.

She found herself to be annoyingly anxious as she sat before the large, bulb-surrounded mirror and waited for him. Was it because of the acting job? Hardly... she just wasn't that much interested in theatricals. Because of Wes himself, then? Well, he was quite a man, and different in so many ways. She was so deep in thought that she didn't hear the door open, and was only aware of him when she got a startling reverse view of him in the mirror, his white teeth flashing out of the shadows that surrounded him. "Glad you could wait, baby," he said, coming forward, "Uh, Maryon, one thing. I know this is no Broadway production we got going here but, just for the posters, d'you mind if we cut off that Swelt bit, and bill you as Maryon Alysun?"

"Sure, Wes, why not? Wes, was I all right out there?"

"Yeah, baby, you'll do, with a few changes. Your voice needs bringing up, but you move pretty easy. There's a coupla things I'll have to lean on you about. Uh... let's get you into costume, right off. Then I'll start you in. You being the last part to be cast means all the other cats are already way out ahead, far as rehearsal's concerned. Yeah, guess you'll find your stuff over there, in that box. Ain't much... not too many changes for you in this thing. But that's what the costume rental people sent. Let's see what you look like, huh?"

He negligently leaned a lanky leg against the dressing table and examined his fingernails. There was no screen in the room. A bit hesitantly Maryon went over to the box on the floor, marked 'Daisy Mae', and rested it on the stool. Inside were the few items of costume and she quickly picked out the large polka- dotted, short-sleeved, off-the-shoulder red blouse and the short- short, ragged-edged rusty-black skirt that went with it. Wes made no move to turn away; on the other hand he wasn't making a big thing out of watching her so, turning her back, she dropped her own micro-mini skirt and quickly stepped into the other, glad that at least she'd worn her clean white nylon bikini briefs. The Daisy skirt was tight... so tight indeed that by the time she got it over her butt and hips, the ridges of her briefs showed clearly through. Stretching, she plucked her blouse over her head and reached for the other. Behind her she heard Wes stir, then he said: "Uh, Maryon, that's one of the things I wanted to lay on you. No bra in this part. Daisy has to bounce her boobies around some, and you don't make it in that bra. Take it off. Here, I'll help."

While her mind was still taking in what he'd said, she felt his hands at her back and then he'd unsnapped her white bra and deftly flicked its straps over her shoulders and down her arms and off, to be tossed on the dressing table. Suddenly, shockingly nude from the waist up, she felt his casual eye examining her. "Guess you'll do," he said. "Just turn around a minute, baby."

In a dream Maryon turned slowly about, ending up facing him, inwardly proud that her breasts needed no support, standing out full and white and round and firm from her. "Yeah, like I thought. Y'got a good pair of tits on you there, baby." As he spoke he tapped the underside of one and nodded approvingly as it quivered. Maryon flushed deeply from her forehead to her tingling nipples' tips. There was something... unsexual in his examination, as though she were a prize cow in the market. Wes noticed her blush.

"Hey, baby!" he said, with a grin that lit his eyes. "Don't get uptight on me, huh? Look... this is, like the man says, show-biz, and y'have to get used to people doing their thing without bothering much about, uh, conventional mo-ral-i-ty. Say now, Maryon, you surely ain't no virgin baby, hah!?"

"No," she said, shortly, continuing to stand there, annoyed by his amusement, highly conscious of her near nudity.

"Didn't think so," he said, turning away to light a cigarette. "Not the way you used to screw around after school with old Genital Jenner. Was he a good fuck?"

"What d'you mean?" she demanded, angry.

"Aw, c'mon, baby, don't kid old Uncle Wes, now. Maybe th'other kids didn't get the word about you two, but I always make a point of finding out what the good bright chicks are doing. You two was making it like it was going outa style, less I miss my guess. Now, wasn't that about the size of it, sweetie? And get into that thing, huh? You don't have to keep on standing there with your knockers hanging out. I've seen worse and better."

Maryon's head was in a whirl as she dumbly struggled to pull the contume blouse on. He was so casual about the whole thing! And she bridled at the reference to her breasts. Seen better, indeed! She bet she could show him a thing or two if she put her mind to it! She decided to play it cool and sophisticated. The blouse was tight, too tight, and it was with difficulty that she was able to thrust her breasts down under the thin material so that her nipples were covered. It felt uncomfortable because the tightness pressed her breasts together at the front, despite the shaping of the blouse that should have made it cup her. At last she tucked the hem under the already strained-to-bursting belt- line of the skirt and, hands on hips, presented herself for his inspection again.

"C'mon over to the mirror," he said, laconically, and ambled to one side, leaving her in the light. Impersonally he turned her about, patted her here and there, tugged at a skirt edge, pulled down the shoulder line. "Yeah," he said, after a while. "Looks okay 'cept for the front, there. Take it off again, baby, and I'll fix it."

Maryon was getting mad as she stretched, pulling out the hem and wrestling the thing over her head with crossed arms, acutely aware of the splendid display of her firm fleshed beauties as they escaped their prison and bounded free. She was used to being handled, but always it had been for the purpose of mutual arousal. Now, she was getting turned on by this dressing and undressing, but Wes treated her like a dress-store dummy. Was he queer or something? Maybe that was it. Well, she'd have her fun with him, now, the cool bastard. But he was talking to her again even as his strong long black fingers played with the neckline of the blouse. "At least you've got the right kind of hair," he said. "Won't need no wig. Reckon I can fix you up as you are. Sit down here, huh, and let's see what Wes can do."

He dropped the blouse to the dressing table top and, as she docilely sat down, came behind her. Teasing him, she lifted up her breasts and massaged them, as though they'd gotten crushed by the blouse. His fingers went to her hair and quickly took out the pins there, then began to fluff and mold the curl and comb, gradually creating a rough version of the curly, wavy yellow- golden Daisy Mae hair style. Despite her thoughts of him... contemptuous... Maryon let herself be thrilled by the sight of his black hands working in her hair, contrasting her creamy-white nakedness as seen in the mirror to his shiny darkness. Flirting with him, she cupped her breasts and raised them toward the glass, curving her back in, herself admiring the way she neatly tapered into the tight waist. "Don't you like them, Wes?" she asked his reflection, fluttering her long fair lashes over her big blue eyes.

He paused, and settled his strong hands on her shoulders, leaning over her. "Yeah," he said. "Why? You want to sell 'em or something?"

As he spoke he began to stroke her shoulders and moved in against her. With a shock she felt something against her bare back and realized that, beneath his pants, Wes' cock was as hard as iron. He was no queer! Fascinated now, she watched her image as his stroking, gentle hands symmetrically moved on her white body, each finger moving separately in a light massage, smoothing her neck, the curves down, her shoulders, her upper arms, back to her shoulders and then, at last, down to the upper slopes of her breasts, suddenly down through the valley that separated them and up underneath, supporting their weight, with thumbs now beginning to circle around her roughened areolas, spiraling in to the fast- growing dull-red nipples, not quite touching them, teasing her... and most of all she was conscious of the blackness of those caressing hands against the cream of her silken skin. She was hypnotized by her image... watching it happen to someone else... barely perceptive of his eyes studying her face.

His steady handling continued, paced to her needs, with only an infrequent scrape of thumbnail over nipple-tip to make her gasp. Little muscles twitched with familiar signals in her thigh- guarded citadel and she knew her briefs must be moist with her inner oils. She was lost to desire. She knew well enough that now she could not go back. She would do anything to have this loving fondling continue. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back to rest it against his hard flat belly. She placed her hands over his and uncrossed her legs.

"Don't stop, Wes," she pleaded. "Oh, please don't stop."

"You want a little loving, Daisy Mae?" he asked, and she nodded, a flash of amusement going through her at his misnomer of her for her role in the play. His hands moved lightly down over her ribcage and for a while stroked her flanks with a touch that was not quite a tickle but which in any case centered its circling about the twin magic spots that always added to her body's wants. She arched herself out like a cat fresh in from the cold and moved her shoulders about on his hardness, imagining it in her hands. Soon he spanned her waist and urged her to stand. She obeyed him like a doll, knowing he would not disappoint her. He turned her about and, holding her in his arms, embraced her with never-still hands that covered every last tingling inch of her bare back, then moved again to her belly and breasts till she hung from him weakly, a vessel of want. Now he began to kiss her, nipping her earlobes, spooning his tongue into her orifices until each warm laving sent a wave of heady warmth through her. He gently kissed her closed eyelids, the curve of neck and shoulder, her throat, the dimples of her cheeks and chin, the sides of her nose. His hot and steady breath thrilled her with its own caress and she let herself hang laxly, borne up only by the flexing flow of lusting life he was molding into her with his kneading hands. She floated in a sea of sensuality, lived only a now-life of longing. Presently she felt her bare foot being raised and placed upon the soft worn-cushioned top of the dressing table stool, and then his warm large hands clasped her ass and lifted until she stood on it. Tremblingly eager for the return of his touch, she waited as he carefully slid the ragged skirt down her legs then inched her briefs down until the back of them slipped beneath her curving buttocks and the front excitingly pressed its tight edge across the strong columns of her upper thighs and the protruding muscled mound between them.