Author: Don Elliott
About: PRIVATE STOCK! That was twelve-year-old Lonnie Garth. Her father was
keeping her safe from her virile brothers for a special purpose... he
wanted her to marry a Holston. Any Holton would do, just as long as he
was a representative of the richest family in the Tennessee town of
Holton Mill. Finally, her father's dreams come true, as Tim Holton, a
novelty among the local people, seduces the chaste Lonnie beside a
secluded stream after a refreshing nude swim. In short order, they are
married and Lonnie finds herself installed in the palatial Holton
mansion... as her new husband returns to college. Leaving her prey to
every shame and degradation the hill country could possibly devise.
Like Gary and Steve, Tim's depraved beast-brothers. Cruel animals who
loved their loving any way they could find it, together, separately, in
any combination... and frequently. Like Peg, the redheaded maid, who
performed perverted acts with Lonnie as the two brothers watched and
cheered. Like Sally, to whom Lonnie turns for comfort. Like the final
damnation... when Old Man Holton makes his demands known...
Lonnie was a fast runner. That was how come her virginity lasted all
the way to the age of twelve.
You couldn't tell, just from looking at her, that she was only twelve
years old. You knew she was young, because she had that incomplete,
untouched look about her that disappears from a girl's face somewhere
between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. But to look at little
twelve-year-old Lonnie, you wouldn't think she hadn't yet made it into
She had ripened fast and filled out well. She stood tall, five feet
five, tall as her mother and nearly as tall as her father. When she
turned ten, her breasts began to pucker and swell, and by the time they
had had two years to blossom, they were the breasts of a woman, ripe
and firm and high and taut, like a pair of pale apples tipped with
little dark nipples. Lonnie's breasts were still growing, and they were
sensitive, so she didn't wear a bra. A bra just held them in and made
them hurt. She liked the feel of her bare breasts around inside her
polo shirt when she walked.
The breasts weren't the only sign that twelve-year-old Lonnie Garth
was a woman.
She had a backside, too. Most twelve-year-old girls, they have
buttocks that are flat and hard and boyish-looking. That is, unless
they run to fat, and in the hill country of Tennessee kids don't run to
fat. you can take a bunch of girls of eleven and twelve, and a bunch of
boys of the same age, and strip them all naked and stand them so their
backs are to you, and even an expert couldn't tell the sexes from the
It was different with Lonnie. Put her in that row of stripped-down
kids and anybody could spot her. She had the look of a woman to her. It
began at her hips, with a sudden broad swell that could take your
breath away, and it soared outward into two lush fleshy globes,
milky-white, with little dimples at the north end.
Those two globes of flesh were unmistakably female. They ended in a
deep horizontal crease going along the backs of her legs, and below
them were the luscious beginnings of her knees, the tapered calves and
It was a woman's body, all right. But a girl's face. Honey-blonde
hair dangled artlessly over her ears, and big blue eyes revealed no
intimate knowledge of the thing that makes the world go round. The full
red lips held promise of future sensuality, but only a promise. The
smile that showed pearly teeth was the unsophisticated, easy smile of a
Lonnie was quite a girl.
And, at twelve, she was just about the oldest virgin in town.