The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever

by Jennifer Tate

  She smiled at him. "I'm not trying to discourage you, but perhaps you should consider what Shakespeare said about performance."

  "Performance?"

  "He said, 'All lovers swear more performance than they are able.'"

  "But the Bard also said, 'Let copulation thrive.'"

  Her hand discovered a once again perky Brad. "That's amazing! Maybe you really are the Boy Wonder." Then, when he grinned, and moved behind her, she ventured, "'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.'"

  "Not so! Nubile beauty bang your drums, 'cause something awesome your way comes."

  "Not too shabby for spur of the moment."

  He moved into his nubile beauty. "Did you notice the way my shaft finds you as if it were a homing torpedo?"

  "We'll call him Homer. But I should warn you—it's all over for you and Homer if you start to sing 'Back In The Saddle Again.'"

  He thought for a moment. "I wish you hadn't said that. Now I can't get that melody, or the image, out of my mind."

  "Foolish Boy Wonder, why do you think I said it? On all fours like this, with my bum in the air, I feel like a frisky filly that's being mounted and tamed by a conquering stallion."

  "I love your images, but you have to stop. You've made Homer so hard he's hurting me."

  * * *

  Sandy was pleased with herself. "What a remarkable talent I have," she purred.

  "Your talent isn't remarkable."

  "Excuse me!"

  "I said your talent isn't remarkable." She tried to get away from her unappreciative stallion, but found that she couldn't because he had a firm grip on her hips.

  "You ungrateful..."

  "Your talent isn't remarkable, it's phenomenal! I'm in love with our pussy."

  "What's this our pussy stuff?" She was still indignant. "You've been playing with it for less than an hour, and already you're claiming squatters rights?"

  He laughed. "Wasn't me who blew the toy-boy challenge. But instead of worrying about squatters, you should be enjoying the merrymaking that's going on inside you even as we speak."

  "What Homer's doing does feel marvelous—so I've decided to let you tarry a while longer."

  He gave her rump a slap. "You know, if I were smaller, I'd have been one fine jockey."

  "That assumes that you only had friendly fillies like me to mount."

  "You're not giving me enough credit. Riding you isn't all that easy."

  She laughed and urged him on. "Born to giddy-up."

  He applied his hand to her rear once more. "Just checking the elasticity of my pony."

  "More like a tomcat staking out his territory."

  "My territory," he said. "Now that's a concept I could get used to."

  She knew he was grinning. Then his hand moved around her leg, and caressed her love button, while Homer continued to roam her inner pastures. The combination was heavenly, or at least it was what she believed heavenly must feel like.

  "Ride like the wind, Bulls Eye," she sang before she stiffened, cried out, and peaked yet again.

  Afterward, he nibbled, and then bit her neck.

  "When you bite me like that, I feel I belong to you."

  He snuggled against her. "Sandra, you're amazing. How can I ever thank you enough."

  "Still two hundred and forty-three shopping days 'till Christmas," she said, as she returned his snuggle.

  "I apologize for that macho demonstration earlier, but making love with you is the most incredible thing that's ever happened to me."

  She felt a vast joyousness wash over her. "'Did thee feel the earth move?'"

  "Earth move?"

  "Hemingway."

  "Something definitely moved."

  "Try to remember that the next time a perky pair of sweater-puppies catches your fancy."

  "Believe me, if your sweater puppies were a watch, they'd be a Rolex, and if I had a Rolex, why would I want a knock-off?" He kissed her from head to toe, and back again.

  This darned Grasshopper is making me love him on purpose. "Let me take you home—it's the least I can do for you."

  By the time they pulled themselves together, and back to the limo, it was two-thirty.

  "Looks like you owe me an hour's overtime," the driver said with a smirk. "Hope it was worth it."

  Do women really have a just-done-it look after they've made love, she wondered, as she nuzzled Brad? "How much will the overtime be?"

  "Don't worry, it's only another seventy dollars. Wait a minute, that would pay for several movies. This may be more serious than I thought!"

  "Bastard!" She shifted to the other side of the limo, but before she was seated he was on her, pinning her arms, and Frenching her. Frantically, she tore her lips from his, and jerked her head to the side. When her mouth collided with his forearm, she bit. She bit as hard as she could. Then she held on in a laudable imitation of a Pit Bull. I'm going to hurt him as much as he's hurt me!

  -17-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & JIM BOB O'HARA

  Witchcraft in a Pickup

  Jim Bob was like a kid who'd been given an unexpected bag of candy, but couldn't make up his mind which piece to sample first. Finally, he went to work on dress removal—he unzipped the back of Betty-Jo's dress, slipped the spaghetti straps over her shoulders, and pulled the bodice forward onto her lap. Dress removal was an awkward but rewarding business for the Gator captain. For a while he just stared at her bra-covered breasts, spellbound—then he ran his hands over his treasure, focusing on the tips, which, without her permission, had perked up beneath her black lace bra. She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to watch what Jim Bob was doing to her. For years Betty-Jo had been looking forward to her first lover, but now that he was finally happening, she just felt miserable.

  Why does it feel as if the Grinch—or in my case, the Wart Hog—has stolen Christmas? How have I managed to become the lead squirrel in this post prom from hell? "Maybe I could give you a hand-job like Deborah Sue threatened you with. I'd hate to see you miss out on something like that because of me."

  She moved her hand to Jim Bob's crotch, and unzipped his pants, but when she reached into his athletic shorts, she was unable to extricate his unruly shaft. Blushing, she fumbled around until she finally had it cornered. Then she gave a nervous tug, and out it popped.

  Betty-Jo had never handled a man's equipment before, so she was uncertain about how to proceed. And there wasn't time to write Miss Manners for her thoughts on the matter, because no sooner had she unsheathed the Wart Hog's manhood, than the darn thing started to shoot. The first blast caught her cheek. Instinctively, she pushed the out-of-control shaft lower, so the second burst hit her bra. By the time she had his sperm-thrower under control, her dress was a mess.

  She was astonished. The last weapon she'd encountered with that kind of force was the Super Soaker her brother had been given for his birthday. Jim Bob also looked dumbfounded. He looked in his lap at the retreating pride of Grand Strand High. Then he looked at her.

  "Hu, howd' you do that?" he stammered. "Nothin' lahk that has evah happened to me before."

  "While I appreciate modesty in a man, yours is a little difficult to believe," Betty-Jo replied.

  "Thas not what ah meant. Ah've done lots a women."

  "There you go. Now you're sounding like the wart hog I know and love."

  "B-J, you don't understand. Somethin' weird jus pulled ma trigah. Yo hand is unearthly—it's charged with electricity or somethin'. Somehow, the energy of yo entire body is bein' channeled to the aura around yo hand. Either that," he hesitated, "or you ah a witch."

  She listened to Jim Bob's theory, half-amused and half-annoyed.

  I don't believe this wart hog. He's blaming me 'cause he has a hair trigger? But then, what do I know? Maybe his lack of control is the result of magic hands, or witchcraft.

  Poor Betty-Jo. The likelihood of her chastity being repealed that evening, had gone from a virtual certainty, to nil, in less than twenty seconds.

&
nbsp; "Jim Bob," she said, "even witches wanta have fun. So when does the fun part begin?"

  Later, a forlorn Betty-Jo spent some time in her room feeling sorry for herself. Sad, sad, and sorry me, she thought. Am I destined to dry up, and die an old maid having never been loved? But after a while she began to cheer up. Next year I'll be cruising down the 501 on my way to CCU. Surely at Coastal, there'll be a man I can love, a man who'll know how to move past my magic hands, and have me.

  -18-

  BRAD RAIDEN & SANDRA MANDERVILLE

  Souvenir Panties

  The pain that shot through Brad's arm was intense, but you didn't play hockey if you couldn't handle pain. So despite the pain, he was euphoric. "Sandy," he said through clenched teeth, "I'd happily trade seven movies for one smile from you. Besides, why would I ever want to watch movies if I could watch you?"

  * * *

  Sandy released her pit bull hold on Brad's arm. A sinking, horrid feeling replaced her fury.

  "If I'd pay a couple of hundred dollars for one slow dance with you," Brad said, "imagine what I'd pay for what you've given me tonight. I told you, because of you, this has been the best night of my life."

  Tears welled up in her eyes, and she grabbed his head and pulled it to her breast. "How could I have done this to you? Can you ever forgive me?"

  He grinned. "Of course I forgive you. I have to. You have my boy-toys."

  "That's not funny. Look! I've hurt you!"

  On Brad's jacket sleeve was a semi-circular perforation where she had bitten him. "One thing's certain—you've hurt the jacket." It was soon apparent that Brad was also damaged, because blood was spreading on his shirtsleeve. He took off his shirt, and examined the wound. Two rows of reddish-purple tooth marks were bleeding lightly. Sandy was horrified by what she saw.

  "Cheer up," Brad said. "I'm thankful to have you back. For a minute or two I thought I was dating Hannibal the Cannibal." Something between a sob and a cry escaped from Sandy. "Don't think there's major damage, but I'd better go for a rabies shot tomorrow—just in case you've been carousing with the wildlife on your estate."

  She failed to find a smile. "I'm so, so sorry. There must be something I can do to make it up to you."

  "All is forgiven if you give me your panties as a souvenir of our evening, and so I can bandage this wound." She was unable to remove them fast enough. "Don't worry, it's a trivial mutilation. Look at it this way: I'm a big boy, and I knew that messing with high explosives was a risky business. The injury to my arm was an occupational hazard, and your panties are my reward for outstanding bravery in the face of clear and present danger."

  "You were very brave." She placed his hand on her breast.

  "But in fairness to innocent bystanders, we should get a sign for this limo that says Pit Bull on Board."

  "I don't want to be a pit bull, I want to be your girl." She searched his eyes.

  "Here then—wear my ring. That way you won't be losing your drawers, and getting nothing in return."

  "Are you sure? After what I did to you."

  "I want you to have it: cubic zirconium, gold plating, and all. If you like, I'll buy you a chain so you can wear it between your sweater-puppies. That would be a nice, warm, symbolic place to keep it."

  She gave him her best kiss. "I'll wear it there always."

  "But I want a written guarantee that you'll stop biting."

  "I'll never bite you again, I promise. And I'll make it up to you. Your girl will be whatever you want her to be. All you have to do is tell me what you want in a woman—besides your dick!"

  Brad put his feet up on the black leather seat and laughed. "Seriously," he said, "I've always wanted a cross between a love slave and a Pet Rock."

  She grinned, and moved as close to him as she could. "Why am I not surprised?"

  * * *

  On Olympus, Venus wasn't having nearly as much fun as Brad and Sandy. "That Raiden/Manderville SexCapade doesn't fit into my plan," she informed Old Hairball. "Time to send Mercury back to earth to put an end to the malarkey. And that diminutive dumbbell better not object. Can you believe it—after his botch-up with Foul Odor Smith, he still had the temerity to beg me to fornicate him?"

  -19-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE

  Daddy's Girl

  When Betty-Jo was five, she watched the televised glory of Chrissy Evert at the U.S. Open. Chrissy—standing in the center of the Stadium Court, the championship sterling-silver cup held high above her head—made a lasting impression on young Betty-Jo. With that picture of Chrissy constantly with her, she lived, practiced, and developed her gifts so that one day she might be there. It also helped that her grandmother, Sue-Ann, was eager to teach her the game, and the proper attitude to go with it. Sue-Ann, a talented tennis player, had only eased out of coaching tennis a few years before Betty-Jo showed a knack for the game. Sue-Ann cut down the handle on one of her rackets, and took on B-J as her only pupil. Then she smothered her granddaughter with affection, and passed along her passion for the game. Sue-Ann gave her granddaughter the attitude she would need to be a winner.

  "You have the talent to play Center Court at Wimbledon," she told Betty-Jo. "All you have to do is learn to 'treat triumph and disaster the same.'"

  "What does that mean?" Betty-Jo had asked. She would always remember the answer.

  "Learn to control your emotions, win or lose, good calls or bad. It isn't the bad calls that keep you from becoming a champion—it's the way you handle them. I handled them poorly."

  Betty-Jo spent hours on the court each day. If there was nobody to play with, she played with the practice board, and she practiced in all kinds of weather, thanks to Sue-Ann. It had started to drizzle one day, and Betty-Jo had dashed for cover.

  "What's the matter, B-J?" Sue-Ann said. "Are you made of sugar?"

  Some days Betty-Jo spent more time sweeping water off the courts than she spent practising tennis.

  "If I'm ever a homemaker, my contribution to domestic bliss will be sweeping," she told her father.

  "Maybe you should take up curling," Victor had suggested.

  * * *

  Victor Chance loved Myrtle Beach. In '69 he'd purchased a small motel on the Grand Strand. He was a straight shooter, whose word was his bond, and he worked hard to parlay his initial investment into the 300 room Strand Princess.

  Betty-Jo was her father's daughter. Like Victor, Betty-Jo's word was her bond, and like her father, she loved Myrtle Beach. From her room at The Princess she could gaze along the Strand for miles, and marvel at its great expanse of sand, hear the lapping of its surf, and appreciate its American Graffiti appeal. She loved the place, and she knew why. It made her feel American.

  * * *

  Betty-Jo's mother died when Betty-Jo was twelve. It was '87, and Dixie Lee and Victor were practicing for the Seoul Olympics when a freak wave broke over their Star. Dixie Lee was swept overboard, and drowned before Victor could reach her. The accident was disconcerting, because nobody could recall a rogue wave off the Grand Strand that was anything like the monster that killed Dixie Lee Chance.

  "I almost didn't ask your mother to marry me," Victor told Betty-Jo. "I thought she was too good for me, and I was right. But I thank the Lord for every minute I had with her." He handed Betty-Jo the gold heart-shaped locket that her mother had always worn. Inside it was a picture of Victor. But B-J didn't keep the locket. She replaced Victor's picture with a picture of him embracing her. The picture showed a terribly happy, twelve-year-old girl sitting on her daddy's lap holding Ben-Gal, the tough Bengal tiger that Victor had given her for winning the girls twelve-and-under tri-state open. For Victor's birthday, Betty-Jo gave him the locket. That was the only time she ever saw her father with tears in his eyes.

  * * *

  With his childhood sweetheart gone, Victor Chance showed no interest in finding a replacement. He already had a close father-daughter relationship with Betty-Jo, and they grew even closer when she helped him pick up the pieces, and then mothered
him, and her younger brother, Eddie.

  The one divisive issue between Betty-Jo and her father was his insistence that she go to college. Betty-Jo believed that she was good enough to play on the professional tennis Tour—she was confident that she could earn a living as a pro.

  "It's difficult for me to deny you anything," Victor told her. "But I want you to enjoy your youth out of the spotlight. The Women's Tour often gobbles up the best teenage talent around, chews on it for a while, and then spits it out. I don't want that kind of anguish for you."

  As partial compensation for not letting Betty-Jo play on the Tour, Victor bought her a slightly used, cobalt-green Mustang for the twenty-minute commute along the 501 to the Coastal Carolina campus. He suggested that she live in dorms, but Betty-Jo was her daddy's girl—she wanted to stay at home and look after him.

  -20-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & VICTOR

  Dirty Old Robin

  Robin Bender was the coach of the Coastal Carolina tennis team. On the side, he also instructed a number of promising younger players, including Betty-Jo. He was anxious to have her play for the Coastal Carolina Gray Ghosts after her senior year, and it was thanks to him that she was given a full scholarship to play tennis at Coastal. Betty-Jo liked Coach Bender. He was competent, and his shoulder was just the right height for crying or celebrating on, depending on the outcome of an important match. However, it seemed to Victor that Robin was attempting to instruct Betty-Jo in areas that were unrelated to tennis. When she was involved, Bender's tennis demonstrations appeared to require a hands-on approach. He would show her the strokes with one hand holding her racquet, one arm wrapped around her waist, and his dipstick nestled comfortably between her buns.