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.

(MF, Mf, nc, F-voy, Ff) caution
By: Punchinello for Pulp Erotica

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 tho 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 thru 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 naïve, 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! Unh! Ohhunh!” The feeling rushed thru 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 thru 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, thru quiet shadows. Just weaving her way thru 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 thru 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 thru 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 a 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 thru 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 thru 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 thru 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. "I cared for him all I could," she said. "But we had only the money from selling the 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 came to take my father’s body," the girl said, "I told them that my aunt was coming to take her me away from Polema." She began to sob again. "But it was a lie! I have no one!"

Cresor had followed her and approached her before, but she had refused to speak to him. When she finished bathing, he had come out of the shadows, saying he only wanted to talk. "I tried to put on my dress, but the man tore it off!"

"The filthy pig!" Joan said, and turned spat on his memory.

Then Cresor 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.

She embraced the girl from behind, holding her for a long sweet moment, feeling her soft, warm flesh, so different from a man's. The girl turned in her arms and pressed against her also, and they stood together in gentle, caressing embrace, breathing each other's clean, womanly scent.

“Thank you,” the girl said softly. Joan stood still, and Carlita looked up at her. They met in a soft kiss; wet lips full and warm.

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. “No, please! 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.” She brushed the girl's hair from ther eyes. They gazed into one another's eyes for a long moment, woman to woman, and found great comfort.

Carlita leaned forward, Joan stepped away. The girl pressed the woman against the wall with her naked body and kissed her again. “Do you like that?” she asked.

“Yes,” 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 tho 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 pussies.

“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 thru 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?” Her shock was real.

“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.”

All models are 18 years or older, regardless of the text.