The Curfew

Vanessa was 16 when she lost both of her parents. She had no other family, so she ended up in the juvenile “system.” She was a very pretty, petite, light brown/auburn-haired girl whose hair went blonde in every summer sun. She had green eyes, a heart-shaped mouth with full, lush lips, small, firm breasts. She was lithe, having been a dancer. She was athletic, but feminine.

One day shortly after her arrival at the group home for ophans, an open house was held. Prospective foster and adoptive parents were invited to interview the children in the hopes that relationships would develop and some of the children would find homes.

A man came to interview some of the children, paying particular attention to the teenaged girls. If any of the workers noticed his attention to these girls, none objected. The home was overcrowded, so any prospective parent who could meet the criteria for fostering or adoption was welcome.

Vanessa caught this man’s eye. She had an air of impudence about her, even though she appeared shy and quiet. She seemed feisty.

She went home with him that day. He signed all of the necessary papers and she was his. All his. To live in his home, sleep in his bed, wear what he told her to wear.

He enrolled her in school the next day, as required. She quickly met friends, including many boys who wanted to date her. When she asked his permission to accept a date, he seemed angry, but he allowed it, with a strict curfew of 10:00.

The next night, she looked very lovely in a new dress he had bought her. It was a bit sheer, summery and flowing. She wore a rather skimpy bra, and very wispy panties, lacy and nearly sheer. Her pert nipples could not be contained by the light bra and they protruded out of it and the dress. She wore stappy heeled sandles and no hose. Her toenails and fingernails were painted a demure pink. She was a lovely vision.

The young man arrived to pick her up for the date, and he saw them to the door, telling them to have a nice time and for her to be on time getting home.

She arrived home, and 10:10. He was waiting when she walked in the door, with a belt in his hands. She was startled at the site of him, so tall, so overwhelming, so powerful. He glared at her as he asked why she was late and what had she been doing. Did the boy kiss her? Did he touch her? Why was she late, after being specifically told not to be?! She became afraid, and tears began to well up in her eyes.

He barked an order for her to get out of that slutty dress and bend over the coffee table. Surprised and frightened, she slowly began to pull the spaghetti straps down her shoulders. He yelled, “Hurry up!” She winced at his loud voice. She was very frightened now. She quickly removed the dress and stood before him, very shyly, looking down, but glancing at him to see what he was going to do. “I told you to bend over that table!” She shuffled over to the table and bent over it, still in her bra, panties and heels. He put his large hand on her ass, feeling the soft lace of her panties, and asked if her boyfriend liked the nice clothes he bought her. She had begun to cry, and tried to explain that the boyfriend had not seen the panties, but he didn’t want to hear it. He said he knew what she had done, and she was going to be punished for it. He rubbed his huge hand over her ass for a few moments, then he pulled the panties down around her ankles. He pulled back his arm and gave her a smack with the belt. She began to straighten up from the pain, and he pushed her head down, telling her to keep her hands on the table or she would get it worse. He smacked her ass with the belt again and again. He pulled at the panties around her ankles, lifting her foot to remove one side, and then pushed her thighs apart with his knee. He asked her if her boyfriend had been in here. She sobbed, “No, I swear it.” He bent down to look at her pussy, spreading the lips apart, smelling it, pushing a finger inside to see if it was loosened. She let out a moan. Maybe a moan of pleasure, or maybe of pain; he was not gentle. He tasted it, longly. He licked up and down the clitoris, pushed his tongue inside, until he was satisfied that she hadn’t been fucked. But had she been fingered? Did that kid have his hands on her breasts? She sure seems wet for someone who hasn’t been having some kind of sex.

He takes her roughly by the arm and leads her to the bedroom. Waiting there quietly, is a friend of his. He claims to be able to tell if she has been messing around, and he invited him over to give it a test. He throws her down on the bed. He keeps smacking her ass, with his hand, with the belt, and sticking his finger up her snatch. The friend puts his face into her pussy. He smells and licks, he spreads and probes. They both squeeze her breasts. They stick their cocks in her mouth to see if she knows how to suck them. They take turns up and down. All the while, she keeps getting her ass smacked by both of them.

The friend never did say if she was innocent. They just made her get on top of his dick, greased up her ass, and the friend put his cock into her ass at the same time. They both fucked her until she came 3 times, and they came inside her warm wetness.

This became a regular thing. He would find some reason to punish her, then fuck her, often giving her to his friends. Sometimes he just watched her fuck the other men, and women. Sometimes he joined. She came to look forward to every adventure as she learned how nice it was to be tied up, to have your arms chained over your head while being whipped, how sex could be soft and tender, or violent and frenetic.

And just as he saw that first day, she was impudent, provoking reasons for him to punish her.