She felt her pussy lips swell and pulse and grow fatter inside her panties. She could feel the whole length of her silky, virginal pussy tunnel squirm and writhe wetly. She pressed the soft length of her full body against the coolness of the stucco and let out a small moan.
The breathtaking tingles were getting worse and worse. It was as if some dread force had crept into her being and was taking control of her.
It made her do irrational, unheard-of things, such as she was about to do now. It made her feel emotions she knew in some way that her grandfather was quietly in fear of. And she knew the strange, scary, wondrous sensations rippling through her young body were responsible for the way he'd practically tripled the guard over her in the past year.
She wasn't exactly sure why she wasn't allowed away from the estate except to go to school. She had the feeling the restrictions had something to do with the way her mother had been murdered so long ago, but she didn't even know the full story of that, yet.
Whit knew, but he wouldn't tell her. Her brother was a brat. A trouble-making, nineteen-year-old brat. He got to go out alone. He even had his own car to drive around.
One of them took her everywhere. She wasn't allowed to go from the estate with Christine, even – Chester's wife, who did the cooking and cleaning and who had become her surrogate mother over the years.
Always one of the men. Sometimes Whit, but only in the daytime with him, and only after very close questioning by their grandfather, which always made Whit rant around like a brat and back-talk the old man in a way she wouldn't dare do.
The hassle they had to go through to get permission to go to a movie or somewhere just wasn't worth it any more, and she hadn't been out with Whit for a long time.
She'd thought of rebelling and carrying on the way Whit did. But that wasn't her. And she felt it wouldn't do any good anyway – because she was a girl. She knew in her heart that was part of the reason Whit had some freedom and she had none, that it wasn't all just because of the difference in their ages.
She was a girl, all right. The throbbing in her firm breasts and the tingling of her leaking pussy told her that.
The way Burke Hammond looked at her in school told her that, too.
Monica closed her eyes and drew forth an image of him. He had sandy hair, a good build, a tanned, outdoorsy way about him that was clean and good. When he smiled at her and talked to hem she felt as if she would melt all over, and she'd have to change her panties when she got home because of the slippery wetness that leaked from her thrilled pussy.
She moaned softly again and cupped her twat tightly with her hand, feeling it throb and tinge unbearably. Then she heard a soft whistle come over the stucco wall, and her heard pounded like a jackhammer.
She whistled back, softly and furtively, and she nearly leaped onto the arbor, curling her toes around the cypress, strips, climbing it swiftly. Her round buttocks flattened and slid against the wall as she went up and turned and bellied cautiously over the top of the wall, and her full tits nearly spilled from the halter.
She looked down and saw him standing there behind a thick clump of big-leaved seagrapes. He smiled in his handsome way and lifted his arms, urging her over the wall.
Monica scanned the vacant lot first. Louis sometimes cleaned up the vegetative litter, and it would never do to have him see her escaping the estate this way.
There was a waving stand of sea oats at the high tide mark, solitary palms curving gracefully against the Gulf and sky. There were dense clumps of seagrapes, palmettos, sturdy hibiscus shrubs, and feathery Australian pines. There were No Trespassing signs on the fences facing the street to discourage bathers, but they were not totally effective. Her grandfather owned this lot and the one on the other side of the mansion. He'd bought them long ago to keep anyone from building next to him.