Brad

    It was the same boy.  Although it had been ten years, Sarah was certain he was the boy that had raped her, her first lover,  if one could call a rapist a lover.  He was at least, her first man, the first of many, even if he had only been a boy at the time.  She had been fourteen when she was raped.  Her rapist couldn't have been much more than sixteen.

    Still, he had ruined her life.  She had borne his child, a boy, giving it up for adoption.  A child herself, she couldn't have raised it, and her parents wanted nothing to do with it, the child of a rapist.  She had borne it because abortion was against her religion -- or at least against her parent's religion.  She no longer believed, either in their religion, or in their god, who had allowed her to be raped.  Her parents -- her father, anyway -- had blamed her as much as they had blamed the boy.

    "You must have asked for it," her father had said; but she hadn't.  Sarah remembered that day as if it were yesterday. 

    As she walked home, that hot, Texas, summer, day, a car pulled up beside her.  "Hey, beautiful, want a ride?" the driver asked.

    Sarah put her head down.  She knew they were trouble, even though she didn't foresee the extent of the trouble. Attending the Faith Gospel Tabernacle church school as she did, she knew little about sex.  It wasn't a subject that even girls her own age discussed among themselves.   No member of their church had a television set or attend movies.  Their preacher, Brother Strickland, preaching against both, included dancing among his prohibitions.  Anything that might arouse lust was sinful.

    When she didn't stop, the other two boys in the car -- including the one that raped her -- jumped out, grabbed her, shoving her into the back seat between them.  "Calm down," the driver said, turning around to look when she screamed, "We won't hurt you.  You're Brad's birthday present."  He grinned, as did the boy.  "It's time he got laid." 

    She didn't know then what getting Brad laid meant, but she soon found out.  They pulled off onto a dirt road, parking later in a field out of sight of the road.  The driver turned around.  "Ready to get laid, Brad boy?" he asked.

    "Hell yes," said Brad.

    The two boys accompanying Brad dragged her from the car and threw her to the ground, holding Sarah down while Brad pushed up her dress, revealing her panties.  "Do it," one of the boys said.  Sarah didn't remember which.

    Brad pulled down her panties.  He was the first boy to see the hair covering her there.  Neither her father or her brothers had ever seen it.  "Go for it," Sarah heard.

    "Wait," said Brad, "I want to see her tits."

    "OK, Bro," Sarah heard.  The boys pulled her dress over her head.  One unsnapped her bra and pulled it off.

    "Shit," said one of the boys, "she's got hair under her arms."

    "She must be one of those holy rollers," said a boy.  Sarah wasn't paying attention to which boy said what.  "I hear they don't shave their arm pits."

    "Gross, if you ask me," said the boy.

    "Your turn, Bro," the driver said.  "Take off your clothes."

    Grinning, the boy pulled his t-shirt over his head.  His tanned chest was smooth, devoid of hair, except for a few around his nipples.  He had hair under his arms.  Why was it gross that she did? Sarah wondered.  None of the girls in her church shaved under their arms or used makeup.

    As frightened as she was, Sarah watched in fascination, as the boy pulled down his jeans -- his underwear, white briefs,  with them -- revealing an erect penis about six inches long.  It was the first she'd ever seen -- well, the first on a boy his age anyway.  She knew boys had them. She had changed her younger brothers when they were babies, and sometimes their little penises would get hard like this boy's was, but theirs had been only a couple of inches long.  Sarah didn't realize a boy's penis grew so large.

    "Oh fuck," Brad said.  He grabbed his penis as a white, creamy, substance began shooting from it.

    "Man," said the boy that called him, Bro, "talk about premature ejaculation.  Couldn't you wait until you got your cock inside her?  Are you going to be able to fuck her?"

    "I can fuck her," said Brad. Although he'd ejaculated, his penis was still half hard. He began pulling on it.  As he did, it grew, stiffening once again.  Once it was hard, he knelt between Sarah's legs, then lay on top of her, scooting up until his face was level with hers.  One of his hands found her breast.  She could feel the hardness of him, his stiff penis, hot and hard, pressing against her abdomen. 

    He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head.

    Then, she felt his hand, touching her, the tip of a finger, exploring that most private of places, seeking entrance to it; then -- it entered her. "Fuck -- she's tight," said Brad.

    "Hell, if she's a holy roller, she's probably cherry.  You'll have to bust her cherry.  Are you up to it?"

    "Hell, yes," said Brad.

    As the other boys held her down, Brad plunged his finger deeper into her. It hurt.  "Shit, she's tight," said Brad.

    "Virgins are a bitch," said his brother -- the boy calling him bro, at least.  "You'll have to deal with it.  We ain't getting you another one.  You're lucky you don't have a cock like your big brother.  I would have trouble getting my cock into her."

    "Yours isn't that much bigger than mine," said Brad.

    "An inch and a half said the brother.  Seven and a half is a lot more than six."

    "Fuck you," said Brad.

    "No, not me.  Fuck her.  You're not queer are you?"

    "I'm not queer," said Brad, plunging his finger back into Sarah's vagina, finger fucking her.

    He rolled on top of her.  Sarah felt his penis press against the entrance to her vagina.  "No, please don't," she said.  She wasn't certain what he was about to do.  She had no idea that his engorged penis could possibly fit inside her; but she knew it was wrong; she knew it was against all she believed.

    Then, with a tear -- with a ripping pain -- he was inside her.  She felt his penis fill her, as he plunged it in -- then pulled it out -- his groin, his pubic hair, grinding against hers.

    He didn't last long.  He shuddered, said, "Fuck," then collapsed on top of her.

    "Did you cum?" someone asked.

    "Yeah," said Brad. 

    "Let's get out of here then," the boy said.

    "Hey," I want a piece of it, too," said the third boy.

    "Naw," this is Brad's.  We got to get out of here before someone comes along.  You've had your share of pussy -- although I don't know what any girl would see in you.  This one's Brad's."

    They left her, naked and bleeding, her pubic hair matted with blood and Brad's cum.  She dressed, putting on her bra and dress, but couldn't find her panties.  One of the boys had taken them for a souvenir.

    Her father didn't report her rape to the police. He wanted to keep her shame as private as possible.  Of course, once her belly grew, he could no longer hide her shame.  Everyone in the church knew she was pregnant.  Few believed she'd been raped.  "Too pretty for her own good," many of them said.

    Sarah ran away from home at sixteen.  No one came looking for her.  That was eight years ago -- about a million men, it seemed.  She'd never been back.

    A million men.  Well, there hadn't been that many, but she had lost count of them.  At sixteen, her looks and her snatch had been the only thing of value she possessed.  She wasn't a prostitute, not in the strict sense, anyway.  Rather than selling herself outright, she bartered, trading sex for a meal, a night at the movies, a new dress, or a place to stay for a month or two.

    She had a job now and a place of her own, but she still bartered, trading her assets for something of value.  She didn't love any of the men.  Rather -- she hated them all.  Men -- one boy in particular -- had destroyed her ability to love.  That boy had killed her father's love for her.  Until then, she had been his favorite.

    Now, here he was -- that boy -- ahead of her in the line at Wyatt's cafeteria.  It had to be him.  Certainly, he had changed.  The face had filled out; it was more mature, the face of a young man, not a boy; but she'd never forget that face.  Not for as long as she lived would she forget it, staring up at it as she had, while he raped her.

    "Hey, Brad," a voice from behind her in the line called. 

    He turned around, his gaze pausing on her face.  Had he recognized her?  Did he know who she was?  Apparently not.  His gaze only lingered on her face for a minute.  Sarah was pretty enough that she often attracted longer stares from strange men. She had changed more than he had, dying her hair red, and using makeup now.  He wasn't likely to connect the pretty woman she was now with that fourteen year-old in the drab dress he'd raped ten years before -- the Holy Roller.  Sarah certainly couldn't be mistaken for a Holy Roller any longer.

    Brad was joined by two other men.  Sarah sat alone at a table next to theirs.  She wanted to be close enough to overhear what they said.  Although she didn't think Brad had -- or would -- recognize her, she sat behind him, where he couldn't see her.  Occasionally, the man opposite him would try to make eye contact with her, but since she kept her eyes averted, he soon gave up.  Sarah wasn't ready for Brad to notice her, not until she had a plan -- a plan for revenge.  For -- she would have revenge.  She didn't know yet what form that revenge would take, but she would have revenge.

    Mostly, they talked about sports and women.  Isn't that all that men talk about?

    When they left, she left, following Brad, watching him go into an oil service company office, along with one of those sitting at his table.  When they didn't come out, Sarah decided that he must work there.  She waited until quitting time, then followed him home to an apartment complex, watching him go to an apartment, unlock the door and walk in.  She knew where he worked and where he lived.

    Now -- to plan what she would do next: what form her revenge would take.

    Sarah quit her job.  Planning her revenge would occupy all her time, and -- besides -- once she'd extracted her revenge, she'd want to be leave town anyway.  She didn't know what she was going to do yet, but she would hurt him.  She'd hurt him a lot.  Likely the police would come looking for her afterward.  Better she wasn't around for them to find her.

    A month later, Sarah had planned her revenge.  She wouldn't kill him.  Although she'd thought about killing him, that would be too quick.  She'd suffered for ten years.  She wanted him to suffer that long, at least.

    He often stopped in a small tavern for a beer after work.  Not a pickup joint, it wasn't frequented by girls looking to pick up men, or by men looking to pick up women.  She wouldn't have much competition for his attention there.

    On her third night at the tavern, after fending off the advances of several other men, he showed up by himself.  Standing at the bar, nursing a beer, Sarah was the only unaccompanied girl in the bar.  She smiled at Brad when he walked through the door.  He came over.

    "Hi.  I'm Brad," he said, "Can I buy you a beer?"

    "I'm Sarah," she said, lifting her beer, "I have one.  Let me buy you a beer."  That always worked.  It surprised men when she offered to buy them a beer.  It peaked their interest.  If she would buy them a beer, they figured they were about to get laid.  Of course, most of them refused, buying the beer themselves -- the manly thing to do -- but it worked.  They knew she was interested.

    A few beers later, after about an hour of conversation, Sarah apparently hanging on Brad's every word, he said, "You want to go to my place?" 

    "How about something a little more romantic? Sarah said.  "Let's go up to the lake.  I have a thing for a little motel up there."

    "Aren't they closed?  It's a little late in the season for the lake."

    "So much better," said Sarah.  "We'll have it to ourselves.  This place I'm thinking about stays open all year."

    "The lake's a long ways," said Brad.  "If you don't want to come to my place, we could go to a motel down the street."

    "I tend to been a little too noisy for a motel," Sarah smiled.  "The place I'm thinking about has separate cabins, far enough apart that I don't have to worry keeping quiet.  I get a little carried away when I have sex.  Besides, it's only about a forty-five minute drive.  Aren't I worth it?"  She sidled up to him, pressing her snatch against his leg.  "I really like the place.  Going there with a guy makes me hot."  That -- and the look she gave him -- promised a lot.

    On the way to the lake, after stopping for a takeout pizza and some beer, Sarah rubbed his leg, occasionally brushing his cock.  It was hard.  Brad was ready.

    The lights were off at the motel office.  Brad rang the bell for the third or fourth time.  Sarah had told him to get the cabin down by the lake.  She had stayed there before.  It was too far from the office for the manager to hear any noise they might make.  He probably wouldn't even hear a scream.

    A light came on inside the office.  When the door opened, Sarah sat back, obscuring her face in the shadows.  She didn't want the manager to see it, if she looked in her direction.  He might remember her from before.  It was enough that Brad would know what she looked like.

    When Brad came out of the office, he held up the key to the cabin, waving it back and forth a time or two. "The one down by the lake?" Sarah asked, after he was back inside the car.

    "Yeah," said Brad, "I think we're the only ones here."

    "Good," said Sarah, "I'm a screamer.  I wouldn't want to wake up the neighbors." 

    She sometimes screamed during sex, but faked it when she did.  She'd never had an orgasm.  Not one man she'd fucked had ever given her an orgasm.  She'd watched enough movies to be able to fake one, but she had no idea how one felt.  She'd never even given herself one.

    "What the fuck did you want to come up here for?" Brad asked after they entered the cabin.  "This place is a dump."

    Sarah put the pizza and beer on the table.  "I told you I was a screamer," said Sarah.  "I knew there wouldn't be anyone here.  If we'd stayed in town, we'd probably had either the manager or the cops knocking on the door, wondering if someone was being murdered.  Here, I can really let my hair down.  I can get into it."  She smiled at him,  sitting down on the bed and patting the space beside her.  "Have a seat."

    When Brad sat down, Sarah undid his pants, then slid them and his underwear -- he wore boxers now, not white briefs -- down past his knees.  His cock -- all six inches of it -- was erect.  Taking it into one hand, she licked the head of it; then, looking up at him, she grinned, "Are you sorry you drove all the way up here, now?"  Her hand pumped his cock.

    "Use your mouth, not your hand," said Brad.  "I want to cum in your mouth."  Sarah went back to work with her mouth.  It wasn't long before she felt Brad's hot cum strike that back of her throat.  "Swallow it, Bitch," Brad said. 

    She did.  I've probably swallowed a gallon of cum in the past ten years, she thought.

    By this time, Brad was lying back on the bed.  When Sarah stood up, he said, "Where you going?  We're not through."

    "I need a beer.  If you don't want to taste your own cum when you kiss me, I need to wash this down." She pointed at her mouth with her forefinger.  "I'll get you a beer, too."

    The main bed, built into one corner of the rustic cabin,  had a wooden canopy above it and was framed by curtains.  Another, smaller bed, was built into the wall at its foot.  Leaning back on the bed, Brad couldn't see the table where the beer was.  Sarah opened a beer for each of them, then opened her purse, taking out a small plastic baggy filled with powder.  She emptied its contents, four quick acting sleeping pills she'd ground up, into one of the beers.  Half of one was usually enough to knock her out.

    She handed Brad the beer, along with a piece of cold pizza.  "I don't want a beer," he said.  "I just want to fuck."

    "Well, I do," said Sarah.  "Are you going to let a little girl like me out drink you?  Here, have some pizza.  You can wash it down with the beer.  I want you to have plenty of energy.  I'm just getting started.  Are you man enough for me."

    "Fuck you," Brad said.  "Hell yes, I'm man enough -- man enough for you and a half dozen other girls.  I'm the one that's just getting started."  He bit into the pizza, then took a swig of beer.  "This beer tastes like shit."

    "You just can't keep up with me," said Sarah, "and here, I thought you were a man."  Hit him where it hurts.  Attack a man's pride, and you can get him to do almost anything, no matter how stupid it might be.  Sarah had long ago learned that. 

    "Fuck you," Brad said again, turning up the beer can, draining its contents.  "Get me another one."

    Sarah gave him another beer, one with nothing added to it.  She sipped at hers while Brad drained his second.  Although he didn't realize it, he'd had at least two beers to every one of hers that night.  That was something else Sarah was good at faking.  Most men she dated thought she drank as much as they did.

    "All right," said Brad, after he'd finished his slice of pizza, "get your clothes off.  I want to see you naked."

    Sarah slipped her dress over her head.  She wasn't wearing either bra or panties.  "Like what you see?"

    "You've got small tits," said Brad.

    "You knew that before I took off my dress," she said, "you can't fuck my tits, anyway.  This is what you want."  She inserted a finger into her cunt, then took it out, inserting it -- the same finger -- into her mouth.  "I've got three holes.  You've had this one already.  Which do you want next?"

    He took her in the ass, from behind, on the floor.  Sarah didn't mind.  She liked it better that way.  Next, they fucked on the bed  -- Brad on top, of course.  She knew he wasn't a man that would let the woman on top.  He'd want to be in control.

    No foreplay in Brad's repertoire.  She could tell he didn't care if she got off or not, so she didn't attempt to fake an orgasm.  The boy could fuck, but after four orgasms and a half hour of fucking, he became drowsy.  He yawned.  "Fuck, too much beer."  He closed his eyes.  A few minutes later, he was snoring.

    Sarah slipped on her shoes and his jacket, then went out the cabin door.  Earlier -- several days before, when she'd stayed in the same cabin -- she'd hidden several items she needed. 

    Brad was still asleep when she returned with the items she'd retrieved, some rope and a knife.  She tied him up, spread-eagled, on the bed, each arm and leg to a different corner of the bed, then lay down in the other bed to sleep for a couple of hours, to give the sleeping pills some time to wear off.   

    It wouldn't be light until after seven.  She'd wake up at four to do what she had to do. 

    Sarah opened her eyes, looking at her watch, unsurprised to see it was five minutes to four.  She never bothered with an alarm clock, seeming to have a sixth sense about time when she slept, able to awake whenever she wanted.  Sarah filled the water pitcher, then walked over to the bed.  Brad snored softly.

    Holding the pitcher over his face, Sarah tipped it, dribbling water onto his face.  "Uh," he said, "What the fuck?"  He opened his eyes, looking up at Sarah.  She poured out more water.  Brad tried to rise, but was restrained by the ropes tied to his wrists.  "What the fuck?" he said again.  He looked at one wrist, then at another.  "What have you done, you crazy bitch?  Untie me."  Now, he was fully awake.

    "Not just yet," said Sarah, "I think we'll have a little fun first."

    "This ain't my idea of fun," he said.  It was the first time Sarah had heard him say, ain't.  Perhaps, it was the stress that had made him say it.  He would probably like if fine, if she were the one tied up.  Yeah, he'd like that fine.  She wondered if he tied up women he fucked.  Well, whether he did or not, he'd liked it fine when his brother and the other boy had held her down for him to fuck her.

    "Tell me about the first girl you fucked -- the first time you got laid," she said, remembering what his brother had said, It's time he got laid.

    "Fuck you," Brad said, "Let me go."

    "Tell me first.  Tell me, if you want me to let you go.  How old were you the first time?"

    "Fuck -- I don't know.  About twelve, I guess."

    "Wrong answer," Sarah said, grabbing hold of his balls, giving them a tweak -- a squeeze with her hand.

    "Ow -- God damn," said Brad, "that hurts.  Cut this shit out, you bitch.  I'm not getting off on this.  Let me the fuck go."  Sarah squeezed again -- harder this time.  "Fuck," said Brad, screaming, "what do you want?"

    "I want the truth," said Sarah.  "You were fifteen or sixteen, not twelve, your first time, weren't you?"

    "All right -- all right.  I was sixteen."

    "Who was the girl?"

    "I don't know," said Brad, "just some girl.  I never knew her name." 

    Well, that much was true.  "Did she like it?"

    "Yeah, she liked it."

    She squeezed his balls again.  "Oh -- oh.  God damn," he said.  "What do you want, you crazy bitch?"

    "I want the truth."

    "Fuck I don't know if she liked it."

    "I think you do," said Sarah.  "Did the holy roller like it?"

    Brad's eyes opened wide, "What?"

    "Isn't that what you called her, a holy roller?

    Brad's brows knitted.  His gaze shifted away from hers, then back.  "Was that you?" he asked.

    Sarah nodded.  It wouldn't hurt for him to know; she wanted him to know.  It had been ten years.  What was he going to do, go back to her town, asking if anyone knew the girl that had been raped ten years before?  Who would tell him, if he did?  The cops had never learned of it, and no one from her church would tell him anything.  They wouldn't tell him anything.  Besides, she'd changed more than her appearance since leaving him; she'd changed her name.

    "She didn't like it," said Sarah, "She didn't like it a bit.  You have a son.  Did you know that?"

    "I do?" said Brad.  "Where is he?"

    "I don't know," said Sarah.  "I gave him up for adoption.  I haven't seen him since he was born.  They didn't even let me hold him."

    "Hey -- I'm sorry," said Brad.  "I was just a kid.  What do you want from me?"

    "You ruined my life," said Sarah.  "I want to ruin yours."

    "You can't prove anything.  That was ten years ago.  It's your word against mine."

    "Oh, I'm not calling the cops," said Sarah.  "I have other plans for you."  Reaching down between his legs, she grabbed hold of his cock, instead of his balls and began jacking him off.

    "What are you doing?" Brad asked.

    "I think I'll give you one last fuck," said Sarah.  She hadn't planned this.  She didn't know why she wanted to fuck him, but she did.  Maybe it was because -- this time -- he was the one that was helpless. She wouldn't fuck him; she would rape him.  She had given him his first fuck.  Now, she would give him his last fuck.

    Once his cock was hard, she climbed onto the bed straddling him, lowering herself onto his erect cock.  If felt good.  For the first time in her life, it felt good to have a cock inside her.  Her eyes closed, she raised herself, letting his cock slid out, until only its head was still inside her, then lowered herself, grinding her pelvis into his, rubbing her clitoris against his pelvic bone.  Yes -- it felt good.  Sarah didn't know fucking could feel so good.

    She came, her first orgasm.  But she knew it wasn't the fucking alone that had caused it.  It wasn't the fucking alone that had turned her on -- not the fucking alone that had cause her orgasm.  What she intended to do next was what had turned her on.

    Spent after her orgasm, Sarah collapsed onto Brad's chest.  She felt his cock slide out of her.  He had cum, too.  That was only fitting, wasn't it -- that he got to cum one last time?  "OK," you had your fun," he said.  "Now, let me go."   

    "Not just yet," said Sarah. She slid off him, off the bed, then walked over to the table.  When she came back, she had a knife in her hand.

    Brad must have thought she was about to cut him loose.  "Fucking time," he said.

    But, instead of cutting him loose, she climbed onto the bed.  "Do you like fucking?"

    "Yes," he said, "of course I like fucking.  You like it, too.  Tell me you didn't like it."

    "Oh, I liked it.  That time at least, I liked it; but do you know why I liked it?"

    "Why?"

    "I liked it because I knew it would be your last fuck."

    "What do you mean my last fuck?"  He had the same look on his face as when she'd told him who she was.

    "I'm going to cut off your cock and balls.  That's what I mean.  You'll never fuck again."

    "Fuck you, you crazy bitch.  You'll never get away with it."

    "If I'm crazy, you made me crazy.  As for getting away with it, I don't really care.  I don't plan to stick around, but if they catch me, maybe they won't go too hard on me when they find out what you did."

    "Wait!" he said, as she gathered his balls in her hand.  "Don't -- please.  I'm sorry.  I was just a kid.  It was my brother's idea, not mine.  It was his fault."

    "I didn't hear you say, No, I don't want to fuck her.  She remembered that day, able to replay it in her mind like a video tape.  She placed the knife blade -- the sharp edge -- at the base of his scrotum.  "Tell your balls goodbye." 

    "NO!" screamed Brad, but it was too late. 

    The sharp knife bit into his scrotum, cutting through it, then through the cords holding his balls.  Sarah held them up for Brad to see.  As Brad looked at his balls -- now in Sarah's hand, not on his groin -- he continued to scream.  Bright red blood soaked the bed between his legs.

    Sarah's hands were covered with blood.  She picked up his cock, placing the knife blade above it, half hidden in his pubic hair.  She didn't tell him to say, goodbye to it.  He probably couldn't have; he was still screaming. 

    It didn't take much; the knife was sharp.  Brad's cock came loose in her hand.

    Sarah hadn't intended to kill Brad.  He wasn't dead yet; but there was so much blood.  She hadn't counted on so much blood.  She went into the bathroom, coming back with some towels, packing them against his mutilated groin.  They were soon soaked with blood. 

    Grabbing the ice bucket -- naked and covered with blood herself -- Sarah ran to the ice machine, coming back in a few moments with it full of ice.  She wrapped the ice in a clean towel and held it against his groin.  At first, it didn't seem to help, but after a while the flow of blood seemed to slow.  Sarah didn't know whether that was because of the ice, or because he'd already lost so much blood.  Anyway -- it was all she knew to do.

    She took a shower, checking on Brad after she was finished. At first, she thought he was dead, but then she saw his chest move.  He still breathed.  Maybe he'd fainted. Checking his groin, she found that -- although he still bled -- blood no longer poured from his groin.  She went back for more ice, repacking his groin with it when she returned.  Well -- she'd tried.  If he died -- if he bled to death -- that was how it had to be.  She wasn't about to wait around to find out.

    His car keys were in his pocket.  She took them, along with the cash from his wallet, a couple of hundred dollars.  She thought about taking his credit cards, but didn't.  That would be too risky.  The cops could trace her through them.  She'd leave his car down the street from the tavern, where she'd left hers.  Maybe she'd call the cops -- or an ambulance -- to let them know where Brad was.  But then -- maybe she wouldn't.  Maybe she'd let the maid find him in the morning.  That would give her more time to get out of town.  If he was going to die, he'd probably die before the cops or an ambulance could to him, anyway.

    Did it really matter?  She had her revenge.  She wanted him to live, but even if he died, he was dying without his cock and balls.  He would die knowing she had cut them off.

    Thinking about it -- thinking about cutting off his cock and balls -- aroused her.  She looked down at him, at the blood stained towel covering his groin, at his cock and balls lying on the bed beside him; she rubbed her clitoris.  "Oh -- oh."  Sarah had her second orgasm.  She liked it.  She liked it a lot; but she'd never had one before; and she probably wouldn't have one again until she cut off some other guy's cock.

    Well -- why not?  None of them deserved their cocks, anyway.  She would cut the cock and balls off every guy, if she could.  She would someday cut off some other guy's cock and balls.  It might not be soon, not in this town certainly -- perhaps not in Texas -- but she would cut off another man's cock and balls.  She liked doing it.  She had never felt so alive.