Cheap Date 12 And A Fuck
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I'm very popular, very beautiful; a socialite of exceptional standing in my school. I attend the best parties, date only the most attractive boys, and wear the most expensive clothes I can find. My father is a very valuable man, owning and running his own investments company and investing a good deal of it himself. We live in a large house in the furthest corner of the "rich section," which is to say, the land nearest the country club, where Daddy has a lifetime membership and plays at least two days a week. Our house, of course, is huge, with Corinthian columns supporting a house-sized balcony above the portico where I like to sunbathe during the warm months.
I love my room, too. I have a four-poster, king-sized bed with purple curtains and warm, aerated sheets and comforters. Once I've lain in the bed long enough to warm it up, I'll always be nice and cozy without actually getting hot. It doesn't matter if I sleep in a jogging suit or naked, the temperature stays within comfort. I've a big oak desk with a state-of-the-art computer on it, just as I've had since I was old enough to type (four). I use it to chat and e-mail mostly, but sometimes I'll actually do work or play a game or two on it.
Of all the things I'm allowed to have, my father has not allowed me to have a car or driver's license. I stopped bugging him about it last year, but, now that I'm seventeen, I stand out among my friends as the only one who doesn't have a car. Some of them think me stupid for not demanding one, but others seem to exalt me for it: I'm a princess, I don't need to drive myself. My father has a reason, though; he likes having control over me. I overlook it, mostly, because he gives me everything I could want or need. I have more stuff, more clothes, more shoes, more everything than my friends. And I'm smarter than most of them (there are a few who are closet geeks, I know).
I am different, though, because my father and me live alone in the huge house of ours. Some days, I can manage to never see him at all, and whenever a friend of mine stays over, they often comment on the fact that I seem to not have a father at all. But I do, and I see him rather regularly. He's a nice fellow, I can't really say that he's loving because I don't think anyone in his life showed him how to love. Me ... I don't really know how to love either. I certainly don't love him, but I do care for him. Every time he brings home some stupid slut, I want her gone as quick as possible. Of course, Daddy does a good job of that himself.
He's not looking for any sort of commitment, either. He seems only to want a nightly fuck and then think nothing of it the next morning. As rich as he is, he can easily find cheap fucks who don't look ugly, some are actually rather sexy (never attractive, just sexy). I hate it when he does though. It makes me sick that he would fuck such cheap shit and get away with it (and I try to keep him from getting away with it). One night when I was still in middle school, I found out just how sick I can make myself when he has a cheap fuck over. Not that I had to try hard. The bastard brought home this bitch who insisted that he cum on her face. She knelt right in front of the door and smiled while he jizzed on her, spitting out whatever cum got between her lips so the whole mess dripped down her chin and formed this sick, white, bubbly vomit-looking stuff on her tits. Seeing this happen, I couldn't help myself: I ran to the bathroom a retched like no girl of twelve had ever retched before. Genuinely sick, I'd not even thought to close the bathroom door, and there was my father, half-hard cock dangling between his legs like a hernia he'd lubed for her pleasure. I puked again just at the sight of it, knowing that the fucking bitch had sucked him red, that he'd enjoyed shoving it down her throat and rubbing it on her face. The bitch was probably still in the bedroom playing with his spooge, licking it from her fingers like barbeque sauce.
I couldn't stand it. I hated the shit Daddy did to get off. He didn't respect any of his cheap fucks, not as a woman or a human. They'd get money, yes, he'd probably feed them, but later, he would practically force them to bend over his bed and take it in the ass, lube or no, then suck it clean again before repeating the procedure. Daddy was like a sick porn producer, trying to find out just how far he could make his cheap fucks go before they'd break down crying. And, believe me, they would cry. One bitch walked in our door all perky, cheery, smacking herself in the chin with her tits as she walked, ready to do anything for this man who'd bought her a three hundred-dollar dinner and asked to have her as dessert. Her evening ended (at least the part she enjoyed) tied to the posts at the foot of Daddy's bed while he would fuck her in the ass, then the throat, then the cunt, until he finally came up her nose and made her suck it into her sinuses like snot. I remember the sight of her, wrists rubbed raw, ankles close to bleeding, and she was sobbing, streams of water over her redden cheeks. I hope she could baptize herself in her tears to save her soul from the shit she did just for Daddy's money and company.
That's why my mother left him. Daddy's a sick motherfucker. At one time, he was so caught up in his work that he was just like any other man. He married my mother right out of Cornell, where he was already a rich man and she was the president of her sorority. She dressed, according to the pictures in the family albums, like Jacqueline Kennedy-Onnassis, the lesser woman of a greater man. From what I could deduce and what I could pull out of Daddy, she was generally happy, after all, she had what any good woman is supposed to want: A rich man who, between getting out of bed and getting back in again, left her alone. Within a year of marriage, she was pregnant with me, nine months later, had me, then hired a nurse to feed me out of a bottle. When I was a few years old, her discontent started to grow, but it wasn't because of me (I was still the nurse's responsibility), it wasn't because of money; it was because Daddy's formerly harmless kinks started getting serious. From the beginning of their marriage, every so often he would ask her to ride him, or to fuck her doggy-style, or get her to suck his dick (never 'till he ejaculated), but usually it was just little deviations from the typical, kiss-fondle-missionary fuck pattern they'd established. As time went on, he started asking to cum in her mouth (which she found repulsive), or fuck her in the ass, or tie her to the bed, or any of the kinky shit he expanded on when I was older still.
She left him when I was four. The story she told me was that she wanted Daddy to be happy and she didn't think she would help him to be. The story I heard later was that she didn't want to face his depravity day and night. The true story, which I managed to finagle out of my father, was that he'd raped her in just the ways he wanted. A few nights before she officially left, he drugged her with some GHB, tied her to one of the guest beds (where I wouldn't stumble upon her; I never went into the guest rooms then) and waited for her to wake up. He'd gagged her with a ball-gag, so he could hear her muffled screams, then proceeded to have his way.
He turned mother into a cheap fuck, and I've still not forgiven him for it.
Even though I hate his cheap fucks, they do serve a purpose beneficial to me: As long as he has cheap fucks, I don't have to worry about him trying any of the shit he does with them on me. He's never asked me to suck his cock, or take it in my other orifices. He never ties me up. Of that, I am grateful. The stuff he asks me to do, I kinda enjoy, though it's not all that comfortable at the time. And, I proudly know that he would never get a cheap fuck to do what I do.
"Charse! Come on already!"
I closed the MS Word document, grabbed my purse, and headed toward the door just in time to see Daddy open it. He wasn't angry, just annoyed. I smiled my little girl smile and hustled past him, making sure to brush my tits against his chest as I passed. I knew I was in for it after school, but that didn't mean that I couldn't still make the situation good for me as well. I would be getting a lot of good shit tomorrow, including, last he spoke of it, $5000 just for liquor and license to buy it. I was going to have some of my girls over and they want to invite some guys over, get drunk, and let nature lead. This afternoon, I would pay for it all.
I strutted in front of him, swishing my hips while clicking my heels on the hardwood floor. I wanted to stop and let him get close so I could grab his crotch to judge my effectiveness, but it just wasn't the thing to do yet. I led him to the car and got into the passenger side without protest. He got quietly into the driver's side and started the engine of his sports coupe, practically purring at the sound of the motor roaring. I glanced at his lap and saw what I was pleased to see. I couldn't help but chuckle at myself. His pants were nicely bulged with a spot of precum near the beltline.
It's all worth it because I'm the cunt he can't fuck.
School came into view faster than I expected. I was hoping to avoid it until I was absolutely beyond escape, so seeing it approach so quickly made my heart fall. I hate school like I've never hated anything. I'm not all that sure how anybody stands school. The fact that I make exceptionally good grades means nothing. Besides, middle aged perverts are so easy to play when you're a nubile teenager with perky tits and an addiction to heels. If all that doesn't work, then a deepthroat bj will work like a charm. So very easy to play.
Deepthroating is my specialty, by the way. Of all the things I learned to do sexually, the one thing I do best is sucking cock. Thanks to the bulimic tendencies of my early teens, I no longer have a gag reflex. Without a gag reflex, it's very easy to just let a guy fuck your throat, except if they do it too much (which did happen to me, and I looked and sounded like I had strepthroat for three days afterwards). I don't like the taste of cum either, unlike other suckjob whores, but I don't let guys come in my mouth often, so it's bearable. Guys sometimes get pouty if you don't swallow, so I spit the wad on their shoes and remind them that I'm the one gracious enough to suck them off. But, if all else fails, I'll let the guy cum on my chest (never my face, never, ever my face) and watch as he nearly dumps another load just from seeing his seed on my mammaries. All men are boys sexually, and boys sexually are so easy to play.
"We're here," Daddy announced.
I looked up from the dashboard and saw that we were just about to enter the drop-off loop in the middle of the student parking lot. Today was Thursday and everyone standing around outside looked like they were going to die from exhaustion. Not me; I was happily built up on anticipation.
Daddy handed me a slim, silver pill case. "You know what to do."
I took the case from him and slipped it into the bottom of my purse. "Yes, Daddy," I replied in my most chirpy daddy's-little-girl voice.
He stopped on the outer West side of the circle and the doors unlocked. Without even looking at me, he said, "I'll be at the usual place to get you at three. Don't be late."
I opened the door and swung my right leg out. "See you at three, Daddy." I couldn't help myself but smile mischievously as I got out and strutted toward the South entrance to the school. My many acolytes and fanboys greeted me as I entered and went straight to the restroom in the lobby. I checked each of the stalls in the mirror with a quick glance (no feet), then entered the furthest stall from the entrance. After locking the door, I set my feet onto the seat and leaned against the wall next to the toilet paper dispenser. I set my purse on the handicap rail and retrieved my bottle of water, plus the silver pill case.
Just as I was about to get started, I heard a group of girls enter. I simply stayed still, knowing that they couldn't see me unless they walked up to the stall. They were randomly gossiping in a loud and annoying way that made me burn with hellfire to kill them just so they'd stop. I heard several names, nothing really important, and I also heard my own name tossed into the mix.
"That bitch Charse is holding another fuck party tomorrow night," one said to the others.
"She's such a whore! I bet she'd fuck her own dad if he asked."
I chuckled to myself. No, I would never fuck him, that's the fun part of it.
"If her father wasn't so fucking rich, she wouldn't be so full of shit."
One of the girls spoke up raucously, "She's not full of shit, Becksie. Sure, she's cruel, bitchy, and God in heaven knows, a slut, but she's not a liar about it. Ya gotta respect a girl who's willing to be honest."
The other girls berated her in such a hostile way I wasn't sure if they were joking or really upset with her. Still, she was a girl I could respect for seeing that. Maybe I ought to invite her to my party. I glanced through the slit in the stall and saw her in the mirror on her way out. Lessy MacDougal. Mental note made.
Once the girls were out, I heard the opening bell. This bathroom was now officially empty as everyone hustled to their first class. I quickly opened the bottle of water and the pill case and popped out the first pill, a green oval a quarter the size of my pinky nail. I tossed it in my mouth and guzzled the 20oz of water as quickly as I could manage. It tasted good and I was suddenly very full, a real waste considering by the second period it would all be out of me.
This done, I snapped the case closed and stuffed it back into my purse, chucking the bottle into the tampon box. Fuck the janitors, they get paid to clean shit, so they can clean my shit from wherever I leave it. I checked the bathroom through the mirror again, then stepped down from the toilet and made a hasty exit. I'll not say the next five periods are the most fun part of the day anyway, but they aren't made better when I get the silver pill case.
English wasn't very interesting that morning. Who the hell cares about essay structure other than the fossils who sit at desks in the front of rooms? Language is for communication and the average teenager is a hell of a lot better at it than the old fartbag pervert who teaches the English class I take. Add to the boredom the fact that the pill reached full effect fifteen minutes into class, much earlier than it usually does, and only got worse as the period continued. By the end, I rushed to the bathroom, almost ripped my panties pulling them off, and gushed for more than a minute. That's the part I love about the preparations. When it's on its way out, I feel orgasmic.
When I finished pissing, I washed my hands, checked around, then took the next pill from the pill case. This one I really hate to take, but it's gotta be done. Holding it in my hand, I marched to the water fountain and gulped it down. Checking my watch, I guessed I had about forty-five minutes to suffer. Second period is the period they take away from whenever there's a performance or presentation or program they want the whole school to attend, which is lucky for me, as the pill would start working in about 15 to 20 minutes and the rest wouldn't be very fun.
Diuretics aren't that bad, they're just like discovering after a three-hour movie that you really, really have to piss. They honestly come on that quickly. I'm sitting in class having a good ole time, then BAM! I've gotta piss a keg's worth. Sitting through class on a diuretic is like sitting through a really bad "needtopee" moment — it's horrible, but bearable. The laxative isn't anywhere near as nice to me, especially since it is prescription-strength, "preparing to get buggered by a tube with a camera to check for colon polyps so I gotta empty the lower tract first" type. Ever since my father's games began, I've sat in the back of the class whenever it was likely I'd have to take the laxative. If I'm having a good time of it, I squirm a bit, clench every muscle from my abs down, break out in a cold sweat, and get a look of sheer panic on my face; when I'm having a bad time of it, I pale, sweat off my makeup, shiver constantly, grip the desk top with white knuckles, and clench every muscle in my body that could possibly help hold it in. In short, to have the real fun later, karma requires that I suffer first. And, it's never predictable when it'll just be "bad" and when it will be "ninth level of hell".
I strutted to my next class, mercifully located across the hall from the biggest female restroom in the school, and sat comfortably in my seat in the back of the class. I pulled out the book I was reading then and let myself slip off into Neverland until the laxative started working. The fates smiled on me, apparently, because the tell-tale signs of its working didn't appear until thirty minutes into the class. The teacher droned on, never asking questions, never even caring to notice that I was reading a book other than the textbook. When it came to full force, I found out it would just be "bad," not worse. I really wished I'd brought a butt plug to aid in my efforts of bowel control, but that would require cleaning it, and I really didn't want to have to explain what one was to the uninitiated and certainly didn't want the initiated to wonder why the hell I'd have one at school. I just grinned and bore it, feet and knees together, heels pushing against the shelf under the desk.
Sooner than I expected (and hoped for), the principle came over the PA and announced that the program would begin in twenty minutes, leaving everyone fifteen to arrive at the auditorium. Without a glance back, I ran across the hall, book and purse clutched in my hands, and almost hurled myself into the last stall. Such relief flowed through me as I finally managed to get it all out of me. It seemed that no one entered the bathroom, either, so I was alone.
I checked the time on my cellphone and decided to just sit and read. I yanked off my panties and flung them onto the hook on the back of the door, then settled (as best one can settle) into the seat and read. The book was starting to get interesting when I heard someone's heels clicking their way into the bathroom. That's about when I realized I'd not performed a courtesy flush to remove the stench. Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshit.
My gut cramped like it would have another go at expulsion as I heard the heels get closer and closer to me. With a slight scrape, they entered the stall next to mine, where the door shut and the latch locked. Then nothing. Whoever she was, she just sat down. No clicking of a cigarette lighter, no tinkle of urine, no rumpling of a joint being wrapped, nothing. I was too scared to move. That's when she started to tap her toe.
The stomach cramp was indeed my gut having another go, and I noisily eliminated whatever could possibly be left in me. I lifted my ass off the seat and punched the manual flush button behind me, waiting for it to finish before I sat back down. When the noise of all that died down, she was still tapping her foot.
"Yaknow, Charse," said the girl, startling me out of my heels, "you really sound sick over there."
"Shhhhhh!" I demanded. "I'm fine!" I whispered back.
"You don't sound fine," she whispered back, mercifully obliging me.
"I'm fine, goddammit! Leave me alone!"
She sighed. "You're really vulnerable right now, I can understand. I don't want to hurt you, I just want to take advantage of you."
"What?"
"You're beautiful, you know?"
I couldn't believe my ears. I has sitting in the stall next to her, enjoying the fruits of self-induced diarrhea, while she was saying I was beautiful!
"Who are you?"
"Lessy, I was in your fourth period gym last quarter. You sound miserable over there." I heard her digging in her purse. "I think I've got something for that."
"It's okay, really. I don't need it." Of course, this comment was split in half by another stomach cramp. FUCK!! I screamed inside my own head. I tried to hold it in, but I was hit with another bout of elimination, forcing another courtesy flush, and my cheeks burned with a flush of their own.
Lessy giggled at me. "I'm sorry you came down with this at school."
"Why are you sorry," I growled.
"Donno, it's just one of those things I always say."
Relenting from my anger, I asked, "Why are you here instead of at the program?"
She paused a moment, then replied, "I waited outside the gym for a while looking for you, not like I was going to actually talk to you or anything, but when you didn't come I decided to check the usual places people go to skip. I didn't find you in any of those, so, feigning nausea to sneak past a teacher, I hurried in here and noticed your shoes under the stall door."
"You realize that's a little freaky, right?"
"Just a coincidence. I think nothing more or less of it. I would've found you sooner or later." She slid a piece of paper under the partition with her foot. "I want to talk with you more. I don't know how you feel about me, but I want to get to know you. If you're sure you don't need anything, I'm going to go to the program." The door unlatched and her heels clopped their way out the door.
I picked up the paper, which was folded in quarters, and saw her name written on it in a calligraphy style. Opening it, she listed her cell number, e-mail address, and home number in one of the quarters, and wrote in the opposite corner:
You're beautiful, Charse. I don't know if anyone tells you that often, but you are. I've wanted to get to know you for a while now, and I guessed that today would be as good a day as any. Please call me whenever you can, I'd love to talk to you!
Your λες Admirer,
Lessy MacDougal
I wasn't sure what I felt after reading her message. Everyone knows what "λες" means ("les" in Greek letters, short for "lesbian" in English), and I was a little surprised she was so forward with such a declaration. Still, she was so damned sincere. And, despite my position, I wasn't the one who was vulnerable a moment ago. I folded the paper halfway and tucked it into my purse.
Deciding that my abdomen was pretty much empty, I wiped, pulled my panties back on, and thoroughly washed my hands. Two more pills before the day was up. I exited the bathroom right as the third period bell rang.
Turns out I could've just stayed in the bathroom and read for nearly half of third period. The program, whatever the hell it was, ran long. I wouldn't be bothered with such "educational" bullshit as a school program on this day. Hell, I wouldn't be bothered by it or bother to be bothered by it at any other time of the week.
As I recall, the last program I actually attended was ... the mandatory safe-sex program held every year in segments over a week's time. It was a monumentally expensive program, included big-name speakers (nobody'd ever heard of) and usually ended with a group of virgin-pledge students handing out little candies in printed wrappers indicating everything from the ineffectiveness of condoms to the rate of various STDs to the perfection of abstinence. Of course, abstinence is a total crock of shit in its own right because I know for god-damn sure that the girls who take or run the abstinence pledge every year give head to their boyfriends and that the boys only join the pledge in the desperate hopes of getting those girls to give them head. I know, I'm exaggerating, fuck you! I've not met a guy yet who wouldn't do anything for the remotest chance of getting laid, and I've not yet met a girl who wasn't at least a little bit slut, in truth or fantasy.
If you really, absolutely, completely and truly want to "educate" kids about sex, drag out some mattresses, buy a shitload of condoms, spermicide gel, day-after Pills, and lube, then say, "Okay, kids, fuck to your heart's content!" They'd sure as hell learn, and you'd never hear another word about teen pregnancy and other such shit except in the rare case that a condom broke. And even that's not that scary because this country still believes that a woman has the right to choose. For now, we have that right, anyway.
To burn the time between the end of the program and the actual beginning of third period, I went to Thrasher's Pike. Thrasher's Pike is a gravel road hidden behind a line of trees on the student parking side of the campus. (Yes, it's a campus because we have three buildings; it's school grounds when you only have one building.) The typical denizens of Thrasher Pike aren't actually thrashers: that label died when we all moved from being eighth graders to ninth graders. No guys want to be a thrasher after they realize that they want pussy and pussy typically doesn't like being thrashed. Hence, the people on Thrasher Pike are a combination of outcast groups and people like me, who just don't want to be part of the goodly educational process.
The first thing I did was ask Ron for a cigarette. I kept meticulous tabs on the blowjob exchange rate. When I'd given Ron one, the going rate was twelve cigarettes or four beers or two cold beers or one and one-half a joint or two shots of whiskey (nobody on Thrasher Pike seemed to drink anything else). I suppose I could've traded a bj for the only truly straight-up exchange, getting my cat a tongue-bath, but then, that's a one time thing, whereas one bj would net me a month of cigarettes, as often as I smoked when I visited Thrasher Pike.
So, Ron gave me number three of twelve cigarettes. I gave him a little kiss on the cheek as I took it. He lit it for me and I leaned against a nearby tree. I'm not sure why, but cigarettes calm me. Perhaps it has something to do with the oxygen deprivation, or maybe it's all the stuff that gets sucked into my lungs along with the smoke, or maybe it has something to do with the fact that I always feel relaxed out here on Thrasher Pike. There's no pretentiousness out here and, usually, nobody's angry at anybody else. The folks of Thrasher Pike don't take kindly to people fighting on their territory, that, and there are designated enforcers. Ron just so happens to be one of them.
I took short draws of the cigarette, trying to make it last, while watching a goth girl work out an exchange whereby she could barter for some weed. Because it wasn't the season for weed, the exchange rate was driven up pretty high. Right now, a bj would only net a half-joint or a whole joint could be procured for the price of two packs of cigarettes. Ron, as an enforcer, didn't keep the weed, but he did know everyone who had some, and was partly responsible for working out and reinforcing the exchange rate. His services were priceless to the Thrasher Pike community. It was a good thing he would soon fail the eleventh grade again.
I felt bad for the girl. She was throwing together everything she had just to get an ounce of pot. She'd given up her cigarettes, a pill bottle, and was pulling down her panties when I stepped in.
"Ron, tell whoever it is she's buying from that I'll deepthroat them as part of her deal. That ought to be enough."
Ron nodded. "It would be enough, but are you sure you want to toss away a blowjob for free?"
I grinned. "Nothing's free, Ron. She'll be in my debt, my favorite place for everyone to be." I winked at her. "Will you take my offer?"
She nodded. God, I just love her doe eyes!
Ron led us down the Pike to where one of the regulars had taken an axe and made a seat for himself. The regular was named Paul, a gangly, dark-haired fellow who was fucking brilliant about everything except schoolwork. I liked Paul. He single-handedly kept half the population of the school doped-up. The other half was handled by a bunch of other random dealers who didn't have near the staying power or the resources as Paul. Needless to say, I'd given him a lot of head.
Blaze
- 26.04.2020
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