index


Message-ID: <41200asstr$1047298204@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: punchinello@pulperotica.com (Punchinello)
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
NNTP-Posting-Date: 10 Mar 2003 04:01:02 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} The Virgin of Polema (MF,Mf,nc,F-voy,Ff) Pulp Story!
Date: Mon, 10 Mar 2003 07:10:04 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

THE VIRGIN OF POLEMA

She was a tall and tan and lovely schoolgirl. The drunks in the
outdoor cafes lusted after her, but she never spoke to them...or their
wives.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. If you are offended by sexually
explicit material or are under the age of 18, stop reading now. This
material cannot be reproduced for commercial purposes without the
consent of the author.

Find more pulp stories and cover art at http://www.pulperotica.com


The Virgin of Polema

(MF, Mf, nc, F-voy, Ff)
By: Punchinello


Polema, 1950

"Here she comes." The two men sitting at the outdoor bar on Patidos
Street turned slowly, trying to look casual.

She was a beautiful girl, just a schoolgirl of 17 or so, but a lovely
thing--tall and tan, lithe and graceful. She was a joy to look at in
her short, flimsy dress. She walked to her home by the sea every day
after school, cradling her books like a baby. Every movement seemed to
be part of a sensuous dance, as though that part of her that had
become a woman was trying to win over the rest of her young body--her
slim legs, her willowy arms with their delicate wrists, her slender
neck. But her hips were all woman; and her breasts, which swayed
dangerously as she moved.

Joan stood in a doorway behind the little café bar. She could see past
the bar, past her husband in his white suit, and watch the girl. She
seemed to Joan to be an awful tease. Her dress was much too short for
a girl her age. And why didn't her mother insist that she wear a
brassiere? They didn't know and they didn't care; the drunks at the
Patidos café enjoyed the show.

Surely she knew the men watched her--Joan's husband watched her. She
couldn't avoid seeing them. They were there every day, these two,
drinking until after sunset, half off their stools by the time she
passed by. What she didn't know is what they thought about her, how
they lusted for her, kneaded their stiffening pricks under the bar,
fantasized about pulling off that dress and seeing her in the full
glow of nakedness.

But Joan knew. She was old enough to know the true filth that lies in
men's hearts, her husband's as much as any. They were pigs and could
never withstand temptation. How else could whores on the street get
respectable men of Polema to give them money for sex? Men had no
willpower. They couldn't even put off their own pleasure long enough
to pleasure a woman. Did this girl sell herself for money? She didn't
seem to be the type; she was probably a virgin. God! How they must
have wanted to get their dirty hands on a virgin!



"Uhn! Uhn! Oh!" Joan's grunts echoed through the little house. Her
clothes lay in the kitchen where she'd shed them, the dishes
half-washed. Her husband thrust again and again, his own grunts mixing
with hers. She pulled him into her, eager for him for once, wanting
him to want her, to forget about the others--about the girl.

"Oh, please," she whispered. His cock filled her, made her ache. It
felt good. She thought about the girl, so young and naive, so pretty,
so graceful. "Yes, yes," she urged breathlessly in his ear.

Suddenly, he thrust hard into her and froze, pumping his semen in
heavy globs inside her. Joan groped him, pulled him close, rocked her
hips. "Don't stop," she pleaded. Paulo began thrusting again,
tentatively, giving her just enough. "Yes! Oh, yes!" she cried. "Oh,
darling! I'm coming!" The feeling rushed through at last, making her
body tremble, warming every part of her, thrilling parts of her that
he hadn't thrilled in months.

They lay together in decadence, damp and worn. "Were you thinking of
the girl?" she asked at last.

"What girl?"

"The girl that comes by the café every day where you sit."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He turned away and picked up
his shorts from the floor.

"She's a young girl. She lives down by the sea. She walks home from
school every day, and you and Cresor stare at her." He said nothing.
"You are filthy old man," she said. "She's just a schoolgirl--probably
still a virgin."

Paulo shrugged his shoulders. "Cresor insists."



Soon after, Joan stopped by the café again on her way to the market.
It was just that time of day; she knew when to go. She stood in the
same doorway and watched as the girl came by, picking her way through
the rough cobblestones.

The men stared at her: Paulo and Cresor in their white suits, the
bartender; even a tourist who sat at a table nearby, stealing glances
over the shoulder of his female companion. Would he be making love to
her that night, caressing her blond hair but dreaming of this nymph's
black tresses? And what would the girl be doing tonight? Brushing that
lustrous black hair by the fire? Mending her worn sandals?

On impulse, Joan abandoned her errand and walked down the alleyway
behind the café and the other storefronts on Patidos Street toward the
sea. She crossed over and stopped at one of the an open-air fish
markets not far from the wharf, far enough away now that her husband
wouldn't happen to see her. The girl passed behind her, oblivious.

Joan had never watched the girl from behind. The moment she saw it she
realized that she'd only ever seen half the show. The girl's black
hair tumbled down her back, swaying gently as she walked. Her young
bottom moved hypnotically, a living thing unto itself. The hem of her
too-short dress whipped to and fro with every step, threatening to
reveal even more of her smooth, tan legs. Joan understood the
fascination. She wandered if she had ever looked that good--probably,
actually, when she was a teenager herself; she still turned heads now
and then.

She followed the girl down by the water. They turned and went up the
rocky beach a ways, away from the boats and the shop fronts. This part
of town was mostly boat houses, not residences. Joan wondered where
they were going.

At a run-down shanty not far from the stink of the fish markets, the
girl stopped. She didn't knock before going in. Joan watched for a
moment, but didn't see much movement. She went back to the market.

Joan picked up some bread and fruit; she went back and found a spot by
a boat house and watched as the shadows crept down from the mountains
to cover the town. She wanted the girl to come out of the house so she
could talk to her alone. She didn't want to have to explain herself to
the girl's parents; she wasn't sure she could. Joan pulled out the
bread and fruit she had bought at the market; she cut them up with the
little knife she kept in her market bag. The water sparkled like
jewels in the last light of day as she ate. She would be home very
late; she didn't care what Paulo would think.

Just as the sun was setting, the girl came out of the house. She
walked delicately, barefoot, down the rough walk toward the shore. She
held a length of cloth in her hand, probably to dry herself after a
bath. The older woman watched impassively and remained absolutely
still as the girl looked around for anyone who might be watching. But
there had hardly been any movement at all that Joan had seen all the
time she had been there. The girl pulled her small, flimsy dress over
her head and held it close to her. Her naked back shined in the
twilight. Joan felt her own body stir as the girl carefully laid the
dress on the rocks near a little pier and stand up, bare-breasted, in
the dying light of day.

She was a gorgeous creature with firm, young breasts and thighs; her
hair was glistening black; her face a mask of serenity like a
classical painting; her eyes large and dark. Joan felt intensely
envious of her--her youth, her exceptional beauty, her grace, even her
naivety. She was a luscious picture of young femininity. She pushed
down her panties and let them slide down her legs to her feet; she
stepped out of them, gloriously nude. Joan gripped her little knife
with white knuckles.

The girl went into the water and waded in to the waist before diving
in for a swim. She swam only a few powerful strokes out before turning
and resting for a moment, then swimming back in. She rose out of the
sea like a goddess, water dripping from her golden body, clinging to
her pubic hair, shining in the last, red light of the sun. The girl
took a ceramic dish from its spot on the pier and produced a little
piece of soap. She used this to wash her body and her hair and then
used the dish to pour water over herself, rinsing her naked body
clean.

Joan moved--to talk to her; only to talk. She would catch the girl
nude and have the advantage. Strutting her naked body like this was
the perfect example of her teasing, taunting ways. But instead, she
turned away; Joan turned from the glowing shore and walked deeper into
the shadows toward home. She would talk to the girl another day; not
after spying on her bathing naked in the sea.

It was a long walk home, through quiet shadows. Just weaving her way
through the boat houses and shanties was a chore. She hadn't got very
far before she heard noises behind her, but moved on anyway. Then
there more noises--a man's voice, low and indistinct; the girl's
voice, muffled. Was she meeting a lover?

Joan threaded her way back through the buildings toward the shore. The
only sound she could make out were the sounds of the waves lapping
gently at the rocks and the breeze rustling the through the trees. But
as she returned to her shadowy vantage point, she could make out the
shadowy forms of a man and woman down at the shore. They were locked
in a firm embrace.

The sun had set now, clothing the lovers in darkness--as surely was
their plan. Joan crept closer, past even the girl's little house. The
bodies wrestled violently, twisting and straining on the little pier
now, laid out for little tryst. Who was this man? Another of the men
who admired the girl every day? Paulo himself even? Joan couldn't
remember Paulo coming home late--or not at all.

Joan crept closer still, her feelings of envy and jealousy writhing in
the pit of her stomach, mixing even with arousal and desire. This
little slut was getting a rough and eager balling; something inside
Joan wanted her to be a part of it. The man was completely naked, his
clothes nowhere in sight. His body was fully grown--not some skinny
boy she knew from school--and muscled, but not muscular, and working
heavily at its task. His flexing buttocks ground his pelvis against
the girl's, moving them both back and forth bodily with each powerful
stroke. He was probably an older man, one of her teachers, perhaps; or
even, Joan speculated wildly, her own father or uncle, molesting his
little girl as a nightly ritual--some precious virgin, thought Joan.

His hand was over the girl's mouth, muffling her whimpering moans. Her
legs were splayed wide, giving him all the access she could, the
little harlot. His thrusting continued, rising slowly to a heavy
pounding that must have been hurting her backside against the rough
wooden pier. Joan bit her lip as she wondered how such a young girl
should have a taste for such a violent fucking. Her own womanly center
became damp; her nipples hardened.

Joan found a comfortable spot and sat. She pulled up her skirt and
reached under it to massage the soft flesh of her pussy through her
panties. Her breathing was heavy and erratic, rising and falling with
the lovers she watched thrusting and groaning on the pier. Joan pulled
her panties aside and rubbed her aching clit; her pussy was moist and
willing. She stroked herself hotly as the man relaxed his grip on the
girl's mouth. He rose above her, gazing down on her naked breasts,
shuddering under his powerful strokes. Joan felt herself nearly lost
to the grip of ecstasy as her orgasm began to rise inside her.

But then, the girl's soft whimpers turned to cries. "No!" she cried
out pitifully. "Stop! Stop!" The man quickly covered her mouth again
and redoubled his efforts. The thrusting, pumping bodies sent Joan
over the edge of rapture, the fiery feeling of orgasm sweeping through
her even as she realized that the girl before her was being raped!

Joan's body convulsed with ultimate pleasure even as the man's body
did the same, surely pumping his thick semen into the young girl
protesting beneath him. Her ecstasy seemed like a powerful river of
pleasure coursing through her, from her groin to her breasts and head
and down to her arms and legs to her very toes. But even so, the
feeling mixed with horror at the thought of having watched this poor
girl abused right before her eyes! And even as Joan recovered, she saw
the man rise over his victim again and strike her across the face to
quiet her!

Joan shook her head violently to clear it. She was dizzy from the
pleasure and the shock. She tried to rise, but her legs were weak. She
adjusted her panties and skirt and gathered her wits. On the pier, the
man had risen and found his clothes--a white suit. He pulled on his
shorts and pants casually, even while the young girl, naked and
bruised, turned away and began to weep. Joan reached into her market
bag for the knife she had brought.

As she rose and went down toward the water, the rapist was slipping on
his shirt. He noted the movement in the shadows of the houses as Joan
came down toward the shore and stood still, staring up, moonlight on
his face, as he began to button his shirt. Joan froze. It was Cresor.

Then, behind him, rose the girl. He was standing on the rocks beside
the pier, she on the pier above him, the large, ceramic dish heavy in
her delicate hands. The dish came down on the back of Cresor's head.
The middle-aged man grimaced and raised his hands slowly to cover it.
The naked girl cracked him again, harder, and harder still, until the
dish broke in two and he stumbled away. Then she followed him and
smashed his bloody head and hands with the ragged pieces yet again.
Cresor crumpled to the ground, his head a fractured mess of hair and
ichor, half in and half out of the water. He barely moved.

The nude girl, her hands red with his blood and her own, staggered
back toward the pier, where her dress lay. Joan dropped her little
knife and rushed toward her, gasping and stammering unintelligibly.
"My God! Oh, my God!" The girl turned, horrified at being caught,
frozen, naked and bloody-handed, eyes wide with terror. But Joan's
soft expression calmed her. "Are you all right?" the older woman
asked. "My God, are you hurt?"

The girl burst into tears and clutched the tattered dress to her
breasts. Joan went to her and held her in her arms for a long moment
before speaking again. "Did he hurt you? I saw it. I saw what he did.
I was coming to help."

"He raped me!" the girl sobbed. "He tore my dress." Joan used the
ragged cloth to wipe the spattered blood off the girl's hands. Then
she found the cloth the girl had brought to dry herself and wrapped
her up.

She walked the girl back to the little house and knocked on the door.
But the girl began to sob again. "There's no one there!" she cried.
"I'm all alone!"

Inside the humble little shanty, Joan heard the full account. Her name
was Carlita; she was sixteen. She lived alone in the shanty since her
father died several months before. He had been ill for a time, and she
had cared for him on only the money he had made by selling his fishing
boat. When the money ran out, she began taking odd jobs at the
school--cleaning up, helping to prepare the meals, and running
errands. Everyone knew she was poor, but she had kept her father's
death a secret from the school; when the police had come to take her
father's body, she had told them that an aunt was coming to take her
to away from Polema.

Cresor had followed her and approached her before, but she had refused
to speak to him. When she had finished bathing, he came out of the
shadows, saying he only wanted to talk. She had tried to put on her
dress, but he had torn it off. Then he threw forced her onto the pier
and raped her, striking her in the face and leaving a red lash across
her cheek.

"It doesn't look too bad, darling," Joan comforted her. "I don't think
it will bruise." She brought Carlita to a washbasin--there was no
running water--and washed her hands and face. Then she pulled the
cloth from around her body and examined her backside.

The pale lamplight and light from the little wood-burning stove washed
over them. Joan brushed the dirt and debris off the young girl's naked
body. She moistened the cloth and washed her gently, looking her over
for bruises. Close up, nude, and vulnerable, Carlita was more alluring
than Joan had imagined.

"Thank you," the girl said softly. Joan stood, and Carlita turned.
They met in a soft kiss; wet lips full and warm; with timid, uncertain
tongues.

Joan turned away. "You should put some clothes on." Carlita said
nothing. "We should go tell the police so they can come and arrest
him."

Carlita took her by the arm. "Thank you. Thank you for helping me. But
I can't go to the police. They will find out that I'm an orphan.
They'll send me away. I won't be able to finish school."

Joan turned back to her. "Oh. Of course."

"Let him go. He won't bother me anymore." She watched Joan closely.

"No, I suppose not. He knows that we know who he is." Carlita pressed
her against the wall with her naked body and kissed her again. "I like
that," the younger girl said.

"So do I," Joan confessed. And they fell together on the little pallet
that passed for a bed. Carlita pushed at Joan's clothes, pulling her
blouse over her head without bothering to unbutton it. Joan kicked off
her shoes and held the girl close; such a pretty girl, so soft and
eager; she'd never known another woman this way. Joan was the virgin
now.

Carlita pressed into her center, rubbing her gently and kissing her
softly. "Help me to forget," she whispered. "Make me feel good."
Joan's clothes came off quickly, her skirt and panties landing beside
her blouse and brassiere.

"Mmmm, ooh," Joan cooed. Carlita stroked Joan's vulva, massaging her
clit on each up stroke. Then she squeezed the flushed and pulsing
labia as her fingers, covered in Joan's thick cream, slipped fingers
inside the warm pussy.

"Is this right?" Carlita mumbled shyly.

"Yes, honey! Oh, yes!" Joan gasped.

As her fingers massaged the dark interior of Joan's womanhood, Carlita
took her warm lips again. Joan's mouth opened, and her tongue found
Carlita's. The younger girl was tentative at first, but Joan's murmurs
encouraged her to invade further.

The lust in her was rising up and directing Joan's actions. She
caressed Carlita's perfect young breast; the skin was as soft as silk.
Carlita's areolas were smaller, darker, and harder. Carlita also
cupped her friend's bare breast, squeezing gently and bringing the
nipple to her waiting mouth. The saltiness of the sea mixed with their
sex scents. Carlita suckled it like a thirsty infant, murmuring softly
and matching Joan's gentle moans.

Carlita's cooing aroused Joan, whose hand slid down Carlita's feminine
torso to the dampness of her soft mound. She slid her hand up and down
the tuft of hair, which quickly became very moist. Wanting to give
Carlita all the pleasure she had to offer, Joan slipped her hand
inside the folds of her pussy and stroked the soft flesh.

"I was a virgin," Carlita said softly.

"I know, darling."

Joan knew well how to bring pleasure to this secret place; she had
practiced many times on herself. She cupped Carlita's vulva; the skin
was wonderfully smooth. Joan worked the ball of her hand up and down
the girl's vulva, adding slight pressure from her middle finger to
slowly part her lips, her finger drawing out the girl's juices with
each stroke. Then she curled her finger and let it penetrate into
Carlita's warm hole. The dark-eyed girl moaned, and Joan shuddered as
she realized what she had just done. The warm wetness on her hand and
the tightness surrounding her finger told her that this was reality.
She was inside the beautiful little virgin of Polema. This was a man's
fantasy that had finally become reality...for a woman.

Carlita's vagina felt hot and forbidden. It felt as though it was
pulling Joan's finger deeper within its grasp; even as wet as it was,
she couldn't work a second finger inside the tight little hole. The
naked girl began to gyrate her hips and press against Joan's motion.
She was very close to coming. Suddenly, she grabbed Joan's wrist and
pleaded, "Wait!"

"What is it, darling?" Joan asked.

"Can you do it like a man?" Carlita asked. "I want it like a man."

Joan knew what to do. In one quick motion, she rolled on top of the
girl. Their breasts pressed into each other. She rubbed herself
against the younger woman, their nipples grazing and teasing. Joan
began to gyrate her hips, moving her naked vulva all over Carlita's.
After several minutes like this, she stopped with their pubic bones
pressing against each other. She began to hump her pussy against
Carlita's. The contact was hard, almost to the point of being painful,
but it also stimulated both their vulvas.

"Can you feel it?" Joan breathed.

"Oh yes!" Carlita moaned. She began to match Joan's motions, and soon
they were grinding against each other, slit to slit, in perfect synch.
Joan's motions changed to short side-to-side movements, first light
pressure and then firmer. The purpose and skill of her actions became
clear as it served to flatten Carlita's labia and spread them, opening
her pussy like a flower.

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Carlita gasped. "It's wonderful!" Joan pressed her wet
twat down onto Carlita's as she straddled the younger woman and once
again began her gyrations. The sensation was indescribable as their
vulvas pressed together perfectly. The stimulation was fantastic, and
Carlita began to match her thrusts by lifting her hips up off the
pallet and pressing her pussy hard against the Joan's. Joan could feel
an orgasm rising inside of her, and Carlita was beginning to groan.

Joan leaned back slightly, which shifted the point of pressure where
their two bodies were coupled. Carlita cried out--suddenly Joan felt
enormous friction directly on her hardened clit. The girl's clitoris
had found her own! Carlita squealed as she started to orgasm and
grabbed Joan's hips tighter. Joan pressed with all her strength, even
as the girl lunged up with her own hips.

"Oh, darling!" Joan cried, her orgasm exploding inside her.

Joan felt Carlita's hot come flood her vulva. The younger woman held
tightly to the older, keeping their naked slits in tight contact and
rubbing together gently. The sound of wet flesh sliding together
became more pronounced as their movements spread more of their liquid
lust over each other. The sound and the smell added to the powerful
sense of touch that was still overloading Joan's senses.

They kissed the most sensual kiss Joan had ever experienced. Their
breasts pressed together again, and their pounding hearts beat
together. They drifted off to sleep still in each other's arms.



The next morning, Carlita rose early and washed the sticky juices off
her body. She put on another little dress and sandals and began to
prepare a pleasant little breakfast for the two of them. Joan watched
her from the pallet, naked and decadent, loving to look at her
beautiful body, her beautiful face; watching her move through the
little shanty, graceful but self-conscious of they eyes upon her.

"You look at me like the men do."

"I know why they do it now. You're incredibly beautiful, you know."
Carlita said nothing. "It's true." Joan rose and went to her, naked
and unashamed. She wrapped her arms around her and felt her breasts.
"You're a stunning girl. Would you like to be a model?"

"The men say those things."

"Not after they've made love to you," Joan teased. She raised the
girl's dress and caressed her bare hips and thighs. She wanted Carlita
badly again already.

"Take it off," the dark-eyed girl said softly. They came together in a
gentle kiss.

There was a knock at the door. Joan's heart suddenly pounded. She
looked all around for her skirt and blouse, utterly panicked--Cresor?
Paulo? The police? It was the police. "Good day, madam, did you see or
hear anything unusual last night?"

"Anything? Like what? I don't recall anything."

"There was a death here last night."

"A death? Here?"

"By the pier at the water. Did you see anything? Did you hear
anything?"

"No. No, I'm sorry. Carlita? Did you hear anything last night? The
officer says there was a death."

"No. Nothing."

"Who was it, sir?" Joan asked.

"A local man," the man answered casually. "A known drunk. We believe
he fell off the pier and hit his head on the rocks."

Carlita gasped involuntarily. "How awful," Joan said. "I hope he
didn't suffer."

"Of course, madam," the man said off-handedly, already turning. "You
will let us know if you recall anything?"

"Of course," Joan said to his back. She turned to Carlita. "It's okay,
darling. Nothing will come of it. I'll help you from now on; I
promise."

"Thank you, Joan," the girl wept, now more a little girl than Joan had
seen in her yet. She clutched her close. "Oh, thank you."


Find more pulp stories and cover art at http://www.pulperotica.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+