The sweet, near-virginal teen-ager had been happy and excited when Stan Lubin had picked her up in the Aston-Martin his father had left be hind. As she had climbed in and sat against the tan leather upholstery, her pulse had quickened, for Stan had grinned at her, his face glittering with excitement. She had still not been overwhelmingly sorry about what had happened to her the night before, and actually wanted to have Stan's penis back inside her tiny, already expectantly quivering pussy again, spewing its cum into her belly. She had remembered the conversation of babbling, lust encited words she and Stan had had between them while she was being so wonderfully fucked by his hard, slamming cock, but those words were said in the heat of passion, weren't they? Certainly nobody would really mean for her to do all those things that Stan had said to her… letting the football team fuck her, forcing her to suck his cock… no, of course not. She was his girl… he had so much as said so last night!

And Stan had been so nice. He'd talked about all sorts of things to the pretty daughter of Roger Carmel as they drove to his parent's house. And he'd given her a marijuana cigarette to smoke, and even another after she'd finished it. By the time she'd arrived, the car swinging around the crushed oyster shell semicircular drive and stopping in front of the front door, she was carefree and lightheaded and laughing at everything. She was having a wonderful time! She was part of the "in" crowd now, and she had found it so much fun to be part of the group, that she'd have done anything to keep in it. Anything – she didn't reckon on how prophetic her thoughts would later become.

It was only when she saw the grinning, expectant faces of the other six boys, including that of Lance Retliff, the huge Negro tackle, that she began to feel the pangs of doubt, and terror began to creep between the fuzzy layers of wool which the marijuana drug had swaddled her brain in. "Stan…" she whimpered, clutching his sleeve.