Chances Read Free Page B

one by one, and systematically screwed them. It was the only form of justice he could think of, but it was an empty revenge.
    After Mira’s defection, life changed. Gradually Paolo became bitter and violent, and Gino was the butt of his violence. By the age of seven he had been in the hospital five times, but he was a tough little kid who knew his way around. He became adept at hiding from Paolo when it seemed a beating was on the way—and because there was no child to vent his anger on, Paolo took to beating his girl friends, of whom there were many. This little practice landed him in prison—and Gino saw the inside of his first foster home. By comparison, life with his father had been paradise.
    Paolo soon decided that crime paid, and he was an easy recruit for any job going. Jail became his second home, and Gino spent more and more time in foster homes.
    When Paolo was not in prison, women were his main interest. He called them “the bitches.” “All they want is sex,” he confided to his son, “an’ that’s all they’re good for.”
    Gino—sometimes trapped in the same room—would watch his father go at them like a bull. It disgusted him. At the same time it excited him. When he was eleven he tried it for himself with a raddled old whore who grabbed twenty cents and muttered curses throughout.
    Gino, watched by a circle of admiring friends, shrugged as he climbed off. “It ain’t bad,” he admitted. “Beats jerkin’ off!”
    “Come back again, sonny,” the whore cackled. Even at eleven his manhood was a prize.
    At fifteen he was street-wise, a bright sharp boy who knew how to keep his mouth shut. He was admired and looked up to by the kids on the street. Sought out by the older boys when they could make good use of him on one of their minor jobs, and idolized by the girls.
    Grown-ups were suspicious of him: a fifteen-year-old boy with the bleak hard eyes of a man. Somehow, in spite of his ready smile, there was something almost threatening about him.
    He was not very tall—five foot six inches, a fact which bothered him—and religiously he worked on his body, running, playing baseball, doing knee bends, pushups, stretch-outs.
    He had black curly hair, another physical fact he didn’t like, so he plastered on the grease to smooth it down. His complexion was dark and clear and he was not bothered by the unsightly acne which seemed to plague his friends—a definite plus. He was not good-looking in the conventional sense—his nose too big, his lips too fleshy—but he had a wonderful smile and great teeth.
    The combination worked. Gino Santangelo had style.
    “Gino—no!”
    “Aw, c’mon, Susie. Let me just put it there, just next to you. I won’t put it in, I swear I won’t!”
    “But Gino…”
    “There. I told you. Doesn’t that feel good?”
    “Mmmm, I guess… But don’t move,
promise
you won’t move.”
    “’Course not. I just want to be next to you, that’s all.” Gently he eased his prick inside her.
    “What are you doing?” she squealed.
    “Just gettin’ comfortable,” he replied, easing his hand down between her legs, feeling for the magic button. Susie gave a little sigh. He had found it.
    “Feel nice?” he inquired solicitously.
    “Oh, yes, Gino. Oh, yes.”
    All set. No problem. Keeping his fingers on target, he started to screw her properly.
    She did not object. He knew how to please. He had been taught at the tender age of twelve by his fourth foster mother how to find the magic button. It was a lesson he was forever grateful for. It gave him the edge over the other boys, who thought all there was to screwing was a fast shove. Gino knew it was just as important to make the girl like it—want it—even beg for it. He never revealed his secret to his friends, who were forever envious of his success rate.
    Susie was becoming agitated, wriggling and gasping alarmingly. He increased his stroke.
    God but he loved the feel of pussy.
    God but he wished he could find a