Forever Ecstasy

Forever Ecstasy




Published in 1967, and possibly earlier, this book had the honor of being our most-requested title (after the addition of My Mother Taught Me, the other legitimate Tor Kung, which earlier held the honor). An amazing story about schoolboys, led by Paul and the devious but cowardly Rick, who at the end of the schoolyear find themselves holding a young geometry teacher... right where they want her. Also a subplot involving Paul and his new home.



Publié par
Date de parution 04 janvier 2013
Nombre de lectures 322
EAN13 9781608727353
Licence : Tous droits réservés
Langue English

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Forever Ecstasy

Tor Kung

This page copyright © 2004 Olympia Press.


Paul carried his lust carefully through the day like some fantastically fragile, secret, infinitely precious treasure. Outwardly, he looked like every mother's dream of decency with his tousled hair and clear blue eyes. Old people saw such a picture of wholesomeness in his open face and healthy sixteen-year-old body that it gave them new faith. But inside, Paul had abandoned himself totally to lust. Lust in general for any girl or woman who passed; and lust specifically for his sister; but most of all, lust for Miss Bennett, his Solid Geometry teacher. Paul was also in love with Miss Bennett: totally and hopelessly. He would willingly have died for her. His love was fully as romantic and fine as that of any Provencal poet. And yet, even now he was on his way to spy through her bedroom window, hoping to see her undressing the secret flesh he dreamed of day and night. For Paul's beloved Miss Bennett was also the star of his endless corrupt fantasies, where she eagerly performed the most debased obscenities.

It was a beautifully soft Pittsburgh night of early June. The maples arched luxuriantly over the streets in her neighborhood up near the park. Underneath the prodigious leafage there was a restless dark that drove him wild with its secrecy and suggestion of power. He hurried even faster, his stomach twisting with impatient yearning for what he was about to see.

Night after night he had prowled here. He had traced Miss Bennett to the big white-frame house at the corner of Callowhill and Melon. He knew her apartment was the whole ground floor. He knew when she came home, when the kitchen light went on for her to fix dinner, when it would go off again, and the time when all the lights would go off except the high window at the back. He was sure this was the bedroom, but he could not rest until he was positive. So today, while she was at school, he had pulled a box underneath and climbed up to look. The sight of her bed—the private place of her life—excited him terribly.

It was then the idea came. Before, he had been content with hopeless dreams and longing; but suddenly he realized he could leave the box there and come back after dark when she would be in that room, and when he would be invisible!

It was strange how long it took him to think of that. Just as it was strange how long it had taken him to realize what a bombshell Miss Bennett was. Miss Louise Bennett: twenty-three, single, teacher of Solid Geometry in Room 318, seventh period. And stacked! How could he have missed it so long. But the other kids had missed it at first, too. Everybody noticed right away how nice her voice was, and how kind she was with the dumb ones. But she fooled everybody about the rest with her heavy glasses, the ugly way she pulled her blond hair straight back into a ball, and the funny clothes. Not funny, exactly; but the kind of clothes old women wore, or losers: big baggy sweaters that gave her the figure of a wounded dirigible. She wore full skirts that came below her knees; and clumpy shoes with low, thick heels.

Half the semester was gone before he noticed the kind of perfume she wore, and how pretty her hands were. Then he noticed her magnificent arms. Miss Bennett was not a small woman. Even in her sensible low heels, she was taller than he. And she was not one of those skinny teachers. Her arms were full and round and shining like the Greek statues down in the museum. Not fat arms, but like Sophia Loren or somebody. It was the next week that Paul noticed how she walked, and suddenly caught on that under all those stupid clothes Miss Bennett was really built!

Now he was going to see it. In just a few minutes his eyes would be eating at those immense breasts and lush, silken thighs. It took his breath away! She would take off her clothes and he would see everything. Another thing that excited him was the idea of seeing how she acted away from the classroom. She was hard to figure out at school. Especially during this last month. For instance, she had gotten careless about leaning on kids when she came to their desk to help with a problem. Maybe it was because she was so crazy about geometry that she forgot everything else. Or maybe it was because she was inexperienced. After all, she had never taught before. But whatever the reason, a kid would all at once find the whole soft mass of Miss Bennett's tits lying right on his shoulder, or pressing against his cheek as she bent over him. Paul knew it was not nice to call them “tits” when you were in love with somebody the way he was, but it was hard to find another word. They were not just breasts. What Miss Bennett had you had to call tits: big, warm, heavy tits.

Miss Bennett was also careless about stretching to write at the top of the blackboard. She would end up with one leg stuck out for balance while she was up on one toe, and it would pull her skirt way up. But that was nothing compared to when she forgot and sat on the desk. That was better than anything. It was what every kid in the class waited for all period. In fact, they waited for it from the time they woke up in the morning. She would get going about axioms and cones and all that. In her eagerness to get it across, she would come around in front of her desk. Pretty soon, she'd get so excited she would push herself to sit on the front of the desk—all the time talking about elliptical sections and drawing diagrams in the air. Nobody ever saw them, because the class was all boys and each one was watching her knees spread. The more agitated she got, the more the knees spread open; and the more they did, the more her skirt hiked up and let you see.

You always got to see at least the dark band at the top of her nylons. On a good day you could also see a big stretch of lush, creamy thigh above that—and the ribbons of her garters grooved slightly into the soft flesh by the pull of her stockings. Then the kids would start dropping their pencils. Often, when you bent down, you could even see her underpants. Which was another surprise, because they were not the kind you expected. They were black and frilly. Twice they had been red and lacy. One day a kid named Billy claimed she was not wearing any pants, and that he had seen everything! Nobody believed him, though; because no teacher was going to come to school without her pants. On the other hand, nobody absolutely knew, because she caught herself that day almost the minute Billy's pencil hit the floor and got off the desk fast. Nobody else got a look. So nobody could be one hundred per cent sure the kid was lying.

There was another funny thing about the desk business. Miss Bennett would catch on when they started dropping the pencils, but she seemed to get confused and there would be about a minute before she could move. You could get down and really look before she got control of herself. The whole thing was peculiar. She knew what was going on, and yet she would forget again the very next day. She would get that crazy thing in her about geometry and first thing you knew she would be up there on the desk with her old-lady hair-do and the thick-rimmed glasses while her big young thighs would be spread open in the class's face: sweet and white and offering themselves—and the old pencils would be dropping like crazy all over the place.

She never seemed to hold it against them. Instead, she would get mad at herself. It embarrassed her immensely. As soon as she had floundered down off the desk, she would begin the hardest problem she could find. But not because she was blaming them: only to cover up her shame. She never punished them for her own mistake, and the kids appreciated it. They behaved well, in fact. Nobody got smart-assed. They liked her and they treated her with respect. Even Rick.

Rick was a terror in all his other classes. That was where he got the nickname, King. That and his being the best fighter in school, despite being only five-six. The wildness and fierce confidence in his flashing Italian eyes made just about everybody back off. Besides, Rick came from a rough section and had a lot more experience fighting. Some said he carried a knife. But even Rick was pretty good in Miss Bennett's class. Outside, he was always talking about what a great lay she would be; how he would like to throw it into that nutty geometry broad to wake her up, and telling them all the things he was going to do to her one of these days. But in class he was curiously quiet and obedient.

Paul could feel himself trembling as he turned into the alley behind her house. He made himself go slowly and cautiously. He had to watch himself. He was nearly out of his mind these days and hardly knew what he was doing— what with always dreaming about Miss Bennett and having to live with “his sister, Michele. Paul and his mother had moved into the fancy house of his sister, Michele, and her husband, Walter, a month ago when Father died.

Michele turned out to be a lot different from the well-behaved girl he remembered. But he had only been seven when she went away to college, and the only time he had seen her afterwards was at the wedding. Then she had looked all virginal and angelic in her cloud of white lace and billowing satin. You would not call her angelic now, though. He was sure of that. There was an animal sensuality about her that filled any room she was in. Even if she was merely sitting there—and Michele was seldom content merely to do anything. Her small, full body and the pale face framed by dark hair, generated a sexual electricity which filled the whole house. The way she dressed did not help any either. Half the time, for example, she did not wear a brassiere. It was obvious from the way her nipples punched out through the thin blouses, and the way everything she had bounced around when she walked. Her boobs were always jiggling in your face like they wanted to scramble out where you could see them better. Paul tried not to look ... but what was a guy supposed to do? Especially when he began to suspect she liked him to look!

Being in a room with Michele was like being in a harem: all you could think of was flesh and sex and corruption. Particularly in her room. She spent most of her time in there. The windows were always heavily draped and the only light she permitted was from candles and the washes of rose from her pink-shaded lamps. It made Paul hysterical just to be in there. Everything was so absolutely feminine and sensuous. Everywhere there was silk and velvet and crystal: white, coral, magenta, mother-of-pearl, ivory, crimson and pale gold. Cushions were thrown all over, and leather hassocks from Tangiers. There were great gleaming mirrors, big bottles of perfume, bowls of fruit, and boxes of chocolates. A magnificent sable completely covered the huge bed which dominated the room under its canopy and frail side-curtains. Always there was music: sometimes wailing Arab music, often savage African drums. Other times just a single flute; or a lovely, faint flamenco guitar with people clapping in the background and calling out. Some days it would be Gregorian chants all afternoon. Everything was immaculately clean, but there was always a sense of disorder. Jewelry would be spilled around, filmy lingerie scattered everywhere; copies of Bazaar, Elle and Dom were open on the deep fur carpet, along with crumpled wads of money.

The pictures on the wall were strange. In one, an elegant nude lady was delicately pinching the nipple of another nude lady. According to Michele, the second lady was Queen of France when she posed for the painting. Near that was one of a pretty girl, also naked, lying on her stomach with her plump pink bottom saucily stuck up in the air. Michele said it was done by a great painter named Boucher, and that he painted it for Casanova to use as a kind of advertisement to show the Sun King, Louis XIV— to see if he wanted to buy her. Michele said he did, and that she was an Irish girl named O'Murphy, and that she was only fifteen. There was a little photograph by the bed the size of a postcard in a fancy frame. It showed a man making love to a little girl. A really little girl. You could see everything. The girl was looking up and smiling at you. The man had on button shoes. It did not faze Michele at all. She talked like it was a Rembrandt or something, saying how it was an old daguerreotype by a famous photographer, and how it was worth a lot of money. Paul's favorite was a picture of the Devil's head. When you looked closely, you saw it was made of lots of naked women. If you looked even closer, you could see the painter had put in all the details. Even the hair!

The thing that he thought about most, though, was an old, iron-bound leather chest. She once opened it for him. Inside were huge photograph albums, and stacks of movie film on big reels piled around a fancy projector. Michele said it was stuff about her and her friends, but she would not let him look at anything. She said he was not ready for that yet, and locked it up again.

Above the chest were shelves and shelves of books. Most were in French, but a lot were in English. Books on philosophy, metaphysics, abnormal psychology, satanism and things like that. She also had a lot of really filthy books. They were on a little altar which was built into one of the alcoves. About half were illustrated. Michele was always trying to lend them to him, saying: “Here's a good one on incest that should be right up your alley, all about a brother and sister.” He would blush and proudly reject it: then have to sneak back for it later when she was downstairs.

He also sneaked in to steal underclothes from the deep silken piles in her bureaus. He was sure she would never notice because there were so many. But Michele noticed everything. One night she came to his room and said she was going to a party and that she wanted to borrow back the pair of black pants which opened in front. He pretended he had not seen them, but she just laughed; so he had to get them out of the hiding place. She woke him just before dawn to return them. Paul never forgot how splendid she looked standing there in the pearly light. Still stunned from waking, he watched her reach up under long shining gown and slide them down. “They were fresh from the laundry before,” she said. “I think you will like them better now when I have been wearing them all night. You can smell me.” She spread the gossamer silk over his face and made him breathe deeply. Her low, whispering voice went on: “Part of that smell is from a man, and I thought you might like to know the man isn't Walter.” Then she was gone, leaving him lying in the dawn, immensely excited, breathing the musky smell deep into him. She was right, he liked it much better.

Then there were the games. The games and the evenings around the television set. She and Paul had begun the games almost as soon as he and Mother moved in. The first one was the bath game. Michele would make Walter, her husband, take Mother out for the afternoon, and then she would start one of her elaborate baths. Pretty soon the maid would come and say he was wanted to wash Madam's back. Paul would find her in the big, low tub among clouds of steam and perfumes, leaning forward against her upraised knees to hide her nakedness. That left the lovely curve of her back all shining and flushed, with her huge eyes looking mischievously at him over her shoulder. For an hour, he would caress her slick back and shoulders with his soapy hands, dizzy with the smell of her and the feel of the bare, wet skin. She would get sleepier and sleepier, dropping her head forward on the arms she had folded over her raised knees. Then she would begin a muffled whispering with her lips against her wrist:

“Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, that feels good. So good. Does it feel good to you, Paul? Do you mind washing my back? Does it embarrass you to be washing your big sister's back when she is completely naked? Do you ever wish you could wash more of me?” Her voice grew fainter. “Are you tempted to try, Paul? Are you tempted to see what would happen if your hands got naughty and went farther? Don't you feel tempted to try, to see how much I will let you get away with?” Despite himself, his fingers would begin to ease toward her side where he could see the delicate side of her breast under the raised arm. “You can see underneath a little, can't you Paul? And you are looking, aren't you? Doesn't it make you want to touch what you see? It would be so easy. I wouldn't have time to stop you. And maybe I wouldn't want to stop you. It might turn out that I like it. Then maybe I would ask you to wash all of me. Think what that would mean, Paul. You would get to wash everything! You could find out so easily. So easily. You only have to move your hand a little more . . .” With a sob, he would brush his fingers worshipfully down the outside edge of her breast. The touch would jolt him all the way to his chest. He could not stand it. He would spring back and run out, hearing her laughter behind him. Knowing he had lost the game again.

It was never mean laughter. Michele was genuinely loving. They were very close in the games. Like the Hair-Brushing game. As simple as it was, it was not a game you could play unless you trusted each other. The maid would tell him Madam wished to see him, and he would find her face-down across the bed, completely wrapped in the huge sable spread—so that only her head hanging over the side was visible. She was obviously naked inside the fur. They would not speak. He would get her gold hairbrush of unborn-boar's bristles and start brushing her thick black hair. It would go on until he lost all track of time. He would work deeply and strongly into the coiling luxury. Then she would begin squirming and whimpering. Her head would roll from side to side. He was crazy to see her face, but it was turned down and completely hidden by the hair. He would brush harder, sneaking a look at the turmoil beneath the fur—trying to understand what she was doing that made her struggle so. Then her body would become rigid, she would shudder and say one word that he could never make out. Then she would collapse and he would sit motionless, waiting. After a time, he would know she was ready for the question. He was allowed one question and one explanation each time they played. The rule was that she must answer, and answer truthfully—no matter what he asked.

QUESTION: What do you like best in the whole world?


WHY: Because it is so obscene.


QUESTION: What was the wildest thing in your life?

ANSWER: Once, when I was in college, I needed a lot of money and I sold myself for a week to a club of millionaires. I had to do anything they wanted. Absolutely anything. (Pause) Some of the time I wore chains. (Pause) That's how I met Walter.


QUESTION: If you could do anything, what would you do?

ANSWER: Go to bed with all the great men. WHY: To understand.


QUESTION: Of all the men of history, whom would you most have liked to have gone to bed with? ANSWER: Jesus.

WHY: Because he was the loneliest man who ever lived.


QUESTION: What living man would you most like to make love with?

ANSWER: You. (Pause) And I will. (Pause) Soon!

Paul withdrew in confusion, ending all games for that day.

There were lots of games. Another simple one was Kissing. Sometimes he would be allowed to take up her breakfast of thick chocolate and croissants, and afterwards get his reward. He would lie on his back on the sable with his eyes closed and his hands folded. Then Michele would begin kissing him, not touching anything but his upturned mouth. Kiss him with her extraordinarily fresh, plush, warm mouth. It was like a sun-smashed peach. She would kiss him with all the skill and subtlety and passion learned in a lifetime of practice and caring. The game would soon have him twisting and moaning. Eventually would come the endlessly delayed moment when the tip of her small, sleek tongue tentatively, unbelievably, slid between his lips. Thrashing and striving, he would lose control of himself and would explode in his pants. This would please Michele, and she would be especially tender afterwards in soothing his embarrassment.

Some games took all day, like Dress-Up. She would model her fine dresses for him all afternoon, taking them out of the big cupboards in brilliant armloads. At least, that was the original game. It quickly evolved into her modeling lingerie exclusively. She would get out all her brassieres, for example. Great drifts of them. Then she would put them on one by one for his approval as he lay eating chocolates. She would change behind a screen and come out shockingly beautiful in just a brassiere and a half slip. They would discuss each one at length: what did it do for her breasts, did it give enough support, how well did it fit. Sometimes she would try to get him to feel how good the fit was. He was on fire to touch her. The lust would have been building up for hours, but still he would be too shy! They progressed to her showing pants, too. It was sensational! One of the tests was how much could you see through them. You could always see all of Michele. Especially when she put one foot up on a chair and got him on his knees below her looking up on the pretext of checking to see whether it might bind. Sometimes Paul would go into a trance, and Michele was content to stand there for as long as he wanted to look. Mother had walked in on them like that: Michele standing there in a bikini brassiere and her leg cocked up, with Paul crouching underneath her with his face almost buried in her crotch. She had chided them, saying Paul was getting too big to be in his sister's room' while she was dressing. But the games went on, and Mother accepted it. She liked being rich. It was her first time. She was not likely to cause any real trouble.

Besides, it was Michele's house, and Michele obviously did not mind having him in her bedroom. Paul was tempted to tell his mother just how little Michele minded: to tell her how the wetness would start darkening the silk between her legs, and how a line of scarlet secret flesh would begin to show through the black tangle of hair as the flesh began to unclose. It was also clear that Walter did not object. Often he would be sitting right there with his drink, casually watching them play. Once Michele came out from behind the screen wearing a French brassiere with the centers cut out so the nipples were exposed. Paul had never seen nipples actually out in the open like that. He gulped, stupefied. Michele was delighted. “Look, Walter, he's all eyes. He's never seen Sis's little titties really naked before. I'm afraid he is having improper reactions about it, too. I think he is having dirty thoughts about his own sister.” Walter laughed, dutifully. She told him to show Paul how this kind of brassiere was supposed to be appreciated. Walter was a little embarrassed, but he went at her hungrily. When she pushed his head away, Paul noticed jealously how the dark nipples gleamed wetly. “Tell Paul how nice your wife is, Walter.” “Oh, it's lovely,” he said. “You ought to try it.” Paul knew he said it partly because Walter, despite being so rich, was fat and docile. But he wondered how much Walter might really have meant it. Did he really mean that it was all right with him if Paul sucked his wife's nipples?

It was quite possible. In fact, Walter had begun to get a kick out of fooling with Michele in front of her kid brother! Partly because he discovered how much more responsive Michele was when Paul was there, but also because it was so decadent. Imagine petting a girl right in front of her little brother's nose. Paul understood what was going on, but he was willing to go along as a way of enjoying Michele. Besides, something in him that he did not like to face actually enjoyed watching his sister being played with by another man.

That's how the Television Game got started. In the evenings, they would sit in front of the set: Paul in a chair on the left, Mother in a chair on the right, and Michele with Walter on a couch in between.

Paul came to himself with a start. He was in the alley and had just been about to open her gate when he realized that the old woman upstairs still had her lights on. He darted back into the shadows, knowing she always looked out just before she went to bed. He had to get a grip on himself. He was getting careless. Imagine if he got caught! A Peeping Tom. God!

But it was hard to be patient. The longing in him was almost out of control. He wished he could see his watch. He looked at Miss Bennett's window. Yes, the bedroom light was on and the kitchen light was off. It was like a television set when you were waiting for the image to form on the blank screen. It was fantastic that tonight Miss Bennett was going to be the TV Special!

As he stood with his eyes fixed hungrily on the bright window and his body aching with desire, his mind drifted to the television evenings at home. As soon as the set was on, Michele and Walter would start. Walter would squeeze his hand into her blouse. In a few minutes, Michele would begin opening the buttons with a coy pretense of secrecy. Pretty soon Walter would bury his face inside. You could not see anything because his head was in the way, but you could hear the wet sucking sounds he made. After that, Michele would really start to get excited. She would let him take her pants off. Even though they still acted like it was a big secret, he would drop the pants right out in front of Paul and their mother. Soon Michele's skirt would be so far up that you could actually see part of his hand as he worked at her. It was weird for a guy to look over and see his sister's flesh in that funny light from the television while a man was doing that to her. And with Mother sitting there!

Mother had caught him watching once and said he must always remember that his sister was married now and that a lot of things that seemed strange to a young boy would be clear when he grew up. Meanwhile, she said, he should watch the television and not let his eyes go straying, because they were guests in the house. And besides, married people needed their privacy. It annoyed Paul a little to have her talk like it was his fault. Michele had a perfectly good bedroom upstairs with a door on it if she wanted privacy; but there she was with her knockers falling out, her skirt up to her waist, a guy's hand right up in her while she was making those mewing sounds—and his mother criticized him! But he had to admit that he was glad Michele was not discreetly hidden in her bedroom. It was

a great show!

Then Michele began playing the How's-My-Little-Boy-friend Game during television. It's a game that all girls play after they are married when there is any six-year-old kid around, pretending they are lovers or something and kissing and fussing over them. Except that Paul was a lot more than six. But Michele would suddenly jump up with her blouse still half-buttoned and plump herself down in his lap with: “How's my little boyfriend tonight?” Walter and their mother thought his embarrassment was very funny. There was a lot they could not see. And they could not hear her whispering in his ear about what they could do if he wanted to, and did he see what Walter was doing, and did it look like fun, and did he realize that she was completely naked under her skirt! The intimate obscenity of her whispering drove him into an ecstasy of excitement. But she was not content merely to whisper. She was serious. She pretended to shove his hand under her skirt. When he fought that off, she switched tactics and before he realized what she was up to, she touched him! He almost vaulted out of the chair. She rode him with her weight until he quieted down. She touched him again and rode him while he bucked. She kept doing it until all his strength was gone. Then she opened his pants. He found a last remnant of strength, but she rode that out with her weight, too. Mother thought it was cute the way they were wrestling. Michele's body shielded everything. She released his cock. He was embarrassed to have her discover how excited he was, and to have her exposing him like that. His own sister, and with Mother right there! Michele whispered in his ear:

“Shame on you, Paul, and me your own sister!”

But even as she said it, her exquisitely gentle fingers began stroking his nakedness. He no longer cared about anything else: not about her husband watching, nor their mother being there, nor even her teasing voice in his ear:

“Paul, what's the matter with you! Have you forgotten that you are my brother?”

The only thing he cared about was her hand hidden between their bodies. Her personal fingers stroking and stroking. He thought he must go mad any second, but that did not matter either. Nothing mattered except that moth-like caress. Michele looked directly into his eyes as her nails lightly traced the length of him. He closed his eyes in embarrassment. But she ordered him to open them, saying she would stop if he did not. She wanted to watch it happening in his eyes, she said. He shuddered on the brink, but the fingers paused!

“Do you want me to go on, Paul? If so, you have to do what I say. Now reach inside my blouse.” He was ripped apart. How could he do that! But it was the only way to get her to go on.

“Oh, Sis, I can't! But please don't torture me. Please!”

“All right, little brother.” The soft squeezing and stroking began again. She looked deep in his eyes. “I can wait a little longer, Paul. But you have to pay somehow. If you want to come, you must at least admit that you want me to do this bad thing. So you have to ask me to do it. Tell me, little brother, do you really want your sister to do such a naughty thing?”

He was hanging on a cliff a million miles high over a universe of roses. Angels of delight were tearing out his bowels. Her voice went on coaxing, pleading, demanding that he take the responsibility. And all the time her soft hand was worshipping him, drawing his very essence to a great triumph.

“Say it little brother, tell me you want it.”

“Yes, oh yes. Please! Please, Michele!” And as she looked deep, deep into him, her astonishing finders lifted him over the edge and sent him bursting and plummeting into a rapture of Paradises. As he fell and fell, he heard her whispering far off:

“What a naughty little brother you are, Paul, to do a thing like that all over your nice sister's hand when she was just playing with you!”


Louise Bennett had been standing in her dark kitchen for an hour. Almost in a trance, she stood looking out at the box dimly visible under her bedroom window. She had shipped her books in it when she came to Pittsburgh a year ago. Often she had decided to have it taken away, fearing it might tempt someone to pull it under the window to stand on. But she always forgot. Each night, unconsciously, she looked for it in the dusk while she washed the dishes. Tonight it had been moved under the window and set on end. At first she could not understand why anyone would have done that to look into the empty bedroom during the day. Then she realized they might be planning to come back, and that it would make too much noise dragging it at night. They had made their preparations ahead of time. She decided to call the police.

But she did not. Instead, she found herself putting on her prettiest blouse and her one pair of high heels. She did it in a dream, not letting herself think. Not even when she spread all of her underthings on the bed. She told herself vaguely that a girl needed to dress up once in a while. After all, she did regularly wear the shapeless sweaters and long skirts Mother liked. And she agreed that it was disgusting to see women exhibiting their bodies in the vulgar clothes popular now. It did seem whorish to want people to notice your sexual parts. Still, it made a girl feel good to get fixed up a little. Besides, it was in the privacy of her own apartment. As for the underthings she wore, even if it was true that her mother would be revolted if she knew, it was the only bad thing she did. And nobody could see.

A deep part of her knew that there...


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