The lights of the city shone bright and clear. She liked Los Angeles best at night: when the smog cleared, and the glitter of lights gave it the tone glamour cities wrote into their press releases. The city spread from each horizon, as far as she could see, with the only darkness immediately below them. The trees muffled the lights of the houses on the hill.
Mist spread across her vision; Carol realized with a shiver that she had rested her face on the cool glass. Her ragged breathing clouded the window, but the view was becoming less important. He kept up his insanely slow pace, pulling his long cock out almost far enough to slip from her, then plunging ... His body barely rested on her back, with most of his weight on his elbows close to her body to keep her imprisoned where he wanted her.
She was getting more interested now, and wriggled her buttocks, to provoke a change in rhythm in him.
"No," he said, firmly. "Lie still; just let me work."
She sighed and carefully maneuvered her face down from the glass to rest on the shaggy, soft carpet. Usually she had to coax, persuade and tantalize. Carol thought, I should be glad I found one who knows what to do for a change. But this slow, slow, slow pace ... it was dulling the edge of excitement from the first time they'd fucked.
He had taken her quickly and violently that time, slamming his cock hard into her, suddenly so excited that they had both become slippery with sweat and nearly slid off the satin sheets. He had banged her so hard (hunched over with his mouth nipping her boobs, avoiding the nipple until she had cried out and grabbed his hair to position his mouth to suck her breast) that she suddenly found her head hard against the wall. By then they were both lost in the increasing rhythm of his passion, lost slowly to the friction of his prick in her wetter and wetter hole, to the small slap of his balls against her contracting buttocks, to the split second when her body was penetrated to the limit, when his cock pressed a moment then retreated.
Carol hadn't even marked the beginning of her orgasm, she had been so lost to their passion. But suddenly they were still, and she was smiling and his head was resting on her chest as he panted for breath. The memory of her long shuddering climax came back in pieces, but she remembered only his cry-and wondered how it had been for him.
They had started to talk then, with his cock twitching in response to her cunt. They talked until both could breathe regularly again; their bodies cooled, and he pulled her to the floor, where they lay side by side and watched the lights far below.
When his prick had begun to hump up again, he squirmed on to his stomach. He had arranged the pillows from the bed under her belly and told her to lie still; watch the lights.
His hands each scooped a breast to squeeze in counterpoint to his rhythmic attack. His face nuzzled the back of her neck, then he stretched a bit. Pausing a minute, he bit her ear quickly and hard.
He laughed when she helped and reared her head from the carpet.
"Hey! That hurt. You know, what was your name again?..."
"Oliver." He was still chuckling, damn him.
"Oliver, I don't like marks on me, and I don't like to be hurt."
"You didn't seem to mind when I banged you good and hard. But now that I'm soft and easy you're none too patient, are you?"
"You ... "
"When I just put my dick in, and pu-u-ull it out, and put it in, and pu-u-ull it out, you're itching for me to touch you or to play with you, or to do something else, aren't you?
"It's just damned uncomfortable," Carol explained. "I can't move. I can't touch you. I'd like to kiss you, to tongue you, but I fucking can't move."
"Right."
"Goddamn." I'd like to stock my tongue all the way in your throat, she thought. I'd like to tease your balls with my hands, roll them in my palms while my legs wrapped around your back, my feet touching your head. I'd like to buck hard when you move down at me, and slam the head of your cock hard inside me so that you gasp, shudder.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"I fucking can't move," she said, clenching her jaw.
"What would you do if you could move?" he asked. "Eh, what would you do for me?"
"I'd make you work to keep that goddamn pace up," she said. "I'd wriggle and make you keep track of me. I'd get my hands down there in the wet and poke and probe and play with whatever I found. I'd..."
"Yourself?"
"What?"
"Would you play with yourself?" She said nothing; then, "Maybe."
"Well."
"You sure as hell would."
"But what I'd like to do is..."
"What?" he asked.
"I'd like to eat you. I'd like to find out if you taste as arrogant as you look, as you act."
"In and out. That's all it is, basically, isn't it? In and out. Why does the pace matter? Why do you have to move? Why can't just laying there be enough?"
"It would have been, if you'd taken some time to do something to me besides jam your prick in my snatch."
"Oh?"
"What the fuck makes you think I'm going to cream just because your cock stands up and comes here?"
"My, you've got a lot of growling behind those pretty teeth. You're certainly not as sweet-sounding as you look."
She stiffened and got a funny feeling in her stomach. He continued:
"You're pretty fucking slick, too, or should I say slick fucking? That boss in the agency must be some teacher. Or no, he's probably a fag. Anybody who runs an agency for teenage male models and has such a steady turnover of men must be. Well, it seems logical." He paused as he slowed his maddening assault a little more, as if he were pondering.
"Damn!" she said
"What did you say."
"I said, goddamn you."
"Getting hot, eh, chick? But not in the pants, where you want to be hot. You want to cream heavy, to squirm and moan as I pound the shit out of you. You want to rake my back again and scream when you come."
She was twitching in spite of herself; her cock-hungry cunt started to contract a little.
"Mmmmm." he said. "Getting excited or something, chick?"
"Mmmmm." she answered. (His hands, cupping her breasts lightly, tightened and he wiggled his fingers to pull at the nipples.) "Yes," she said.
"Would you like to turn over? Would you like to play with me, do all those things you thought about, talked about?"
"Yes. Yes. Yes."
"Do you think you'd enjoy doing all those things to me? I mean, how would they be better for you than just lying here, getting fucked, with a view of the city right there where you don't have to even strain to see it? Tell me. How could you dig all that when I might not even touch you?"
"I'm not worried." A little snappy. She was hot now, her cunt was wet, but somehow desire was missing, the flaming need she had felt in the car as they had come up here was gone.
He was talking: "Yeah, you know I want you, right? Why else would I have picked you to come home with tonight, chick? Out of all the teenyboppers and slinky, skinny chicks, and all the chicks with bigger tits and finer asses; why did I pick you? Do you have any idea?"
"No." Definitely snappy. She didn't need any crap from some fucking teenager, damn it. There were enough who did their fucking and smiled and left, making their way in the darkness, back to the world she had left so long ago. She definitely didn't need a smart-ass little prick.
"Do you want me to stop, chick? You seem a little unhappy."
"Do what you want, you..." Little boy, she wanted to say.
"Oh." He stopped his prick, hips a little up in the air, started to slowly pull out. She tensed and tried to lift her ass from the pile of pillows, but her back was already arched too far.
"Do you want me?" he asked. She made a strangled noise in anger. "What did you say?" His voice was infuriating. "Do you want me to fuck you?"
"Yes," she said, clearly at first, and then with a long hiss.
"You do?"
"Yes." The answer surprised her, even as she said it. It seemed to well up from her cunt, which had sensations running through it: small teasing sensations. The anger was going. Maybe he would fuck her good and proper with no more of this silly game he was playing.
He lifted from her, and started to move away. She turned onto her back and kicked some of the pillows away from her hips. Then he moved; slowly but without seeming intent, closer to the window, on his knees. His long cock gleamed in the light with the wetness of her box. When he sat she knew suddenly what was on his mind, and anger rose again.
"Damn it."
"Suck me off, chick."
"You're not even making an attempt to find out what I want."
"I told you. And you told me a lot of things you wanted to do to me. Eat me was one, you said. Changed your mind?"
"You don't even ... you just ... damn, you're so fucking high-handed."
"You weren't complaining before."
"That was different."
"How? How different? Did you decide you'd used me and would throw me away now? 'Well, his prick's big again, but I don't need it. Maybe he can go jerk off in the John. Or maybe the cool air will calm him down.' " There seemed to be no anger in his voice; just a teasing, annoying kind of lilt that set her on edge. Carol started to push at his chest, but he caught her arms and sat down on her chest, pushing her tits hard against her body. He kept his weight on her and slid up until his cock touched her chin.
"I'll knock the shit out of your pretty face if you give me any hassle, broad," he said, and this time there was an edge to it. Something she couldn't identify; puzzled, she shrugged mentally.
"Okay. Let my arms go, please. And ease up a little. Why don't you lay down?"
"Bullshit, bitch. You're right where you ought to be. Eat that fucking cock, and stop playing cute games."
"Then, closer, please," she said.
He moved down and the weight eased a little. His legs tensed. She caught the tip of his cock with her tongue, and pulled it into her mouth. Without her hands she felt awkward. Suck, she thought, just suck the motherfucking prick until he comes. She sucked hard, as if to pull the come from him. No, easy, get him passionate. Get your way, she told herself. Then he pushed hard and his dick filled her mouth and started down her throat. She gagged, but he pushed more, then eased up, until she had only the head, the velvet, bright, slick head in her mouth.
With nibbles and tongue kisses and a quick suck to ease a thin fluid from him, she worked her mouth. She squirmed a little, too, trying to get some kind of satisfaction from the position. She would beat herself off later, Carol thought, play with that small hard little clit until release came. Release of a kind. She wanted to make him fuck her now, but didn't know how to do it. Just keep going, she thought, and get him off and send the idiot back to his mama or wherever he rests his head.
His position shifted; both her hands and arms were gathered together, with one arm crooked around them. His hand touched her snatch, she felt a current of need go through her. Oh damn, she thought, oh, damn, more. His hand was gone.
She moaned, and his hand came down again, to touch her lightly, the way most of these kids would do it. With a quick swipe they touched her cunt, as if checking to be sure she was turned on enough for them to shove their cock into a wet hole. Then his hand came down now, one finger square on her clit, and he massaged her whole snatch with a slight pressure. She moaned again, squirming and lifting her hips helplessly.
Carol slipped her mouth away from his cock and whispered to him, pleading, "Please." Then louder:
"Please, please, please." But his hand went away and came to position his prick at her mouth. Sadly she began sucking again. A tremor went through her and she gasped. There was a mouth on her, sucking her clit, moving to kiss her wet opening.
"Keep going," he said "Suck me off, damn you." He couldn't eat her and talk to her, she thought, he couldn't be perched on his knees over her face and facing the city lights and have his mouth on her cunt. She smiled to herself. Suck him off. Just eat his cock, nibble by nibble, and think of that tongue probing your deep hole, think of the lips on teeth gently, gently nibbling your clitoris; enjoy it and stop worrying about this kid. Suck him off and get rid of him then find out icho was eating her with such skill.
"My hands," she said, commandingly. He hesitated a moment, then released her. With her hands she cradled his balls, jiggling them, squeezing them, reaching with practiced fingers to press the base of his stiff pole, to press, release, stroke.
"Better," he said. "Much better." It. sounded strained though. The tone of command was fading a little. The mouth on her pussy worked steadily, hands reached to her belly, lightly, then slid between her slim, moving hips and the carpet. He clutched her ass, kneaded it as he sucked hard, then easy, hard, then easy. Oh, beautiful tongue sliding in and out, again and again.
Carol wanted to know who was this man who knew better than she what was wanted. And how did he get in? Georgie was gone for the weekend. And Georgie hadn't given the apartment key to anyone, not even Paul.
She kept grinding her hips in this stranger's face; this stranger who responded with such lust. She kept pulling on the prick in her mouth; coaxing it, teasing it to come. The insane cunt-teasing leading to this was a dim memory. Fucking, hard and satisfying, before that, was a memory too, one that would have to be brought back when she needed comfort or wanted to trade stories with Georgia.
Carol licked his balls, flicked her tongue at the strong cord which held them to his body. A glance through the haze of sweat on her eyelashes, sweat from her face, and streaming onto her from his upright body: arms at his hips, he stared out the window. Carol wondered what he was thinking. Was she in his mind at all; or was he lost in his own dreams: using her for his fantasies because it was easier than masturbation?
This, who? Oliver. This proud young body with its fine long cock coaxing its way into her mouth. He was hard, well-muscled, and would look good even after he stopped his fad for weights and sports that probably got him that way. Ah, but how did his gnarled, red cock get so big, she thought? What exercise provoked it to grow?
Probably all the young girls he went to school with, all those self-conscious giggling high school girls who, if they bothered about sex at all, were tight and scared and ashamed. Carol wondered where he got his rocks off, from which cunt, hand, or mouth he usually sought comfort in when the huge hot stick in her mouth and hands throbbed and blood pounded through its head like now. Where had he gone before to fuck?
I may have twenty-odd years on him, but he'll not get anything like this from those teenyboppers sitting across from him in class, she thought.
A tightness in her cunt, small, quick twinges foretold a strong climax, a hard, shaking orgasm. She tried to make her body ripple, so her cunt ground into that tireless mouth between her legs. She held his cock away from her mouth a minute.
"Put your hands on my breasts," she said. "Play with my tits." No please. No more please for him. Abruptly he pulled away from her, turned, and inserted his prick, oozing a slight fluid, smoothly into her mouth working his hips as if she had a cunt where her mouth was.
When she gagged a little he eased up, then pushed a little more. She gagged again, and her body whipped convulsively, trying to fight this intruding hot, wet, hard cock. He had found a way into her throat that ignored her gag reflex. Or maybe the fingers which had slipped inside the mouth which sucked her, playing with her clit violently, were distracting her. Oliver's mouth, sucking on one nipple as if he wanted milk worked one slippery tit, while a hand brushed the other nipple softly, only close enough for the stiff, throbbing nipple to strain tighter toward his hand.
He came suddenly, a gush of fluid slipping down her throat, and he pushed more, through the thick come, further, as if to bury his balls in her mouth too. He bit her tit hard, then harder, and only let go to cry out. As soon as the fluid had left his cock, the spasms beginning to die, he pulled the huge pole from her mouth and leaned to shove the mouth away from her cunt. She moaned, tried to reach down for the mouth, and stopped in shock. With his body away she saw the mouth as a person; the shock was like stunning blow to the side of her head. She was scarcely aware that Oliver had moved and was poised above her. Again he blocked her vision, and she barely had time to realize it before he had plunged his still hard and longer than remembered prick, into her. The violence did not touch her not as he entered; only when the force of his thrust pushed her cunt to the limit. She screamed. Dripping wet, everywhere especially between her legs. Yet more goo gushed from her, coating his cock. At the next thrust she met him, ramming her hips up at him as hard as she could and gasped as his cock rammed deeper into her cunt. Again, harder. Again, harder.
Carol screamed as she came, called out, and let her body tense until the release warmed her, softness came over her muscles, and she smiled. He was still fucking her, but easier, mindlessly, pumping her-no, coaxing his pump handle into her snatch, priming himself to gush forth into the bucket between her legs. She lay still, not responding to his frenzied pounding, but suddenly clenched her ount muscles as hard as possible while he tightened and emptied his load into her, holding him, close, making soft noises, smiling. He relaxed on her, resting as a child might sprawl where he has fallen, breathing heavily. Carol smiled, watching the person standing in the doorway. The shock was turning to delight.
Georgie grinned back at her, moving into the room again. She unzipped her dress and dropped it on the chair, where she tossed her coat when first entering. As she bent to slip her panties off, her heavy tits swung. Before she stood straight again, she caught them in her hands, and lifted them so that all of their bulk flowed from her chest, spilling over her fingers. One thumb reached to flick the nipple, which immediately sprung out, hard. Georgie was watching herself in the mirror.
She moved closer to the reflection, lifting her boobs higher, as if offering them to her image, slowly gyrating her hips as she walked right up to the mirror, to press her hips, then nipples, on the smooth glass. She wriggled her body from side to side, then stepped back, frowning at herself. She took one breast in both hands, and tried to lift the nipple to her mouth. Her tongue flicked out the way Carol had seen a lizard's tongue in the desert. Georgie dropped the tit, and slid her hands onto her belly. She turned, and inspected it for flatness in the mirror. Satisfied, she reached down and fluffed up her rich red hair, which had been crushed by the mirror. The other hand rested on her hip.
Georgie darted a finger into her cunt, wiggling it for a moment, in there. Removing the juicy digit, she inspected it close to her face, sniffed then sucked it into her mouth.
"How old is he?" Georgie asked, having put the finger back into her snatch and twitching her hips as it worked from side to side. Her thumb pressed her clit, ground it a little.
"Probably about seventeen. He's a senior. In high school. He was hitching a ride home from some," she paused, "festive occasion, at the school.
We went to a movie, then stopped for coffee, then came up here for dessert."
"Very-likely."
"Does it matter whether he bought the story?"
Georgie turned, and used both hands to scoop her long auburn hair away from her shoulders and pile it on top of her head. Her tits caught the extra glimmer of light from the hallway. Carol thought of the mouth on her cunt and itched. She wanted to reach down and rub her cunt and put fingers into it and tease herself a little. The mouth and Georgie's full body-she connected them in her mind and Carol wanted to touch that lush, creamy-skinned body, to be touched softly in return.
The heavy body resting on her stirred slightly.
"Why the floor?" Georgie asked. Carol put the boy on the floor, and folded her legs so her slit was wide, her lips parted, and the oozing moisture could be seen to fill and overflow her cunt. She started to tell her the story.
Cross-legged in front of her, their knees almost touching, the two talked and gestured and tried to avoid looking at each other's cunts. Carol felt warm and wet, and wanted only to reach over and touch that slick, shiny, open slit in front of her. But she kept her mouth busy and her hands still, unless the words called for a gesture. She lost herself in her words, and lost her mind in the urge to kiss Georgie's red slit, to suck the wet from it so that Georgie would fill again and again, until she came, flooding her lover's face with the fluid. The smooth honey of love.
Georgie had no division in her mind. She nodded and answered and tried to keep track of where her mind was, but only the thought of sucking Carol until she screamed.
Oliver moved, mumbling a little, and started to sit up. He stopped halfway and rested on his elbow, watching the two women. Georgie took her hand from Carol's thigh, and stroked the inside of one calf gently before she said, "Look." They both turned.
The boy was smiling, and his eyes caressed Georgie's body. God, this first chick was not bad: thin, but decent tits and pretty face. But the redhead, damn! She was full-bodied and rounded, creamy skinned, with dark, strange eyes. A glimpse of her white teeth made him draw in his breath, and narrow his eyes. In the semi-dark, they flashed, sending back light from everywhere in the room. Sitting that way, man, he could see all her cunt, stretched wide. Damn, he'd like to eat her, to cover her with his mouth and swallow as much of that sweet stuff as she could put out. There was so much now!
Those two: were they queer for each other? That redhead had come in cool as ice, dropped her coat on a chair, removed his exploring hand from the broad's hole then had gone down on the slim one's cunt with no hesitation, and probably would have sprung the bitch's fine case of the fuck me's. Somebody had told him once it's better to fuck her than eat her ... she'll soon be ready for more.
His prick was throbbing up again from its limp resting place on his leg. They had gone back to talk, but glanced at him now and then. He used his first two fingers to squeeze the base of his cock, and then ran them lightly up and down. Damn, yes. He'd like to fuck again. This time the redhead. But he had to get them away from each other.
Well, Oliver thought, just plunge. He sat up fully, swung his legs so that he was turned around, and reached past Carol to plunge his face into Georgie's lap. He heard a laugh as he nuzzled against her pubic hair. They were talking but he decided to cover his ears with her thighs. They'd have to pull him off if they didn't like what he was up to. He reached up blindly and found her tits with one hand, so he could push her down. With his fingers in the crack between her two breasts, he pushed hard. Another laugh, and she fell away from him. His cock was pounding madly now, filling with blood again, ready to plow into her and wear furrows in her mind. Oh, man, there hadn't been this much laying-down-shove-it-in cunt since his sister had come home from college with three girlfriends. Two weeks of strutting, fucking and exploring. His parents hadn't been able to figure why he stopped going out every night to " 'study'" with Tony. Why should he have to go looking with Tony if there were three horny dames in one bedroom who ate him at the merest hint of a rising cock. Sylvia for instance:
She hadn't much style, but her huge mouth gobbled his prick while her tongue flicked at his aching cock to bring him ecstasy.
Now he was burrowed in this clean-smelling, hot chick, licking her lips with his tongue, licking the hard, hot little clit, sliding out to nip at her thigh, swooping back to stick his tongue in as far as it would go, gathering the lips in his mouth, again, and again. He explored her with his tongue, tasting and smelling the nectar of her cunt, lost to sound, or vision.
Her legs were wrapped around his head. She squeezed them a little every now and then. He had kept one hand on her belly when she fell back; the other spread on the carpet. Now he took his free hand and maneuvered it down to his cock. Holding it sheltered the hot, aching tool from the carpet. His thumb and forefinger held the head and squeezed it in time to her erratic squeezes with her thighs.
A hand covered the one on her belly; he grabbed it hard. Her legs clamped on his head while she pulled away from his probing tongue. After a minute she clutched his hand again, this time to pull at it as a gesture to him. He lifted his head and saw her flushed, happy face.
Come here, her eyes were saying.
"You're wet. Your face is all wet."
He grinned.
"Oliver, let me dry your face." He came closer and she leaned forward to lick at him with her tongue. When he was near enough she started at one eyelid and cleaned the stickiness from his face.
Tremors ran through his body as she tongued him. Damn, he thought, I wish she'd lick every inch of me. I wish she'd stick that tongue in every opening, every fold of my body. He moaned a little.
With a vague, mysterious smile Georgie looked down; his eyes followed hers. She spread her legs a little, and wriggled her ass as if to get more comfortable. This thick fuck carpet was more comfortable than most beds he'd slept in, but rough on skin. Oliver watched in amazement as the woman lifted one leg, then the other. She put her knees to her chest and pointed her feet to the ceiling.
"Well," she said, "come on," softly encouraging him to do his part. I don't know what the game is, he thought, but it's not a bad one, not bad at all.
Oliver moved around to kneel at the spot her thighs had just left. He could see the sticky fluid from her cunt matting the carpet. Her ass was even wet with the stuff. Lightly he caressed the soft thighs she presented to him, and tickled at her spread cunt for a moment. Staring in amazement at the vast, sweet offering before him, he hesitated. What was he to do?
"Please," she said, in that soft voice, "please fuck me." He was stunned by the contrast of her softness and this forthright display and offering of her snatch. When he moved to touch her cunt again with his hand she moaned. His cock ached so he reached to shelter it in his cooler hand for a moment.
"Stick it in. Move around. Just fuck me, fuck me. Slam that dick into me as hard as you can. Come on."
So softly, but her voice incited him. He guided his cock into the spread opening, felt the lips widen more to take him in, and then the walls of her cunt closed around him. Moving tentatively, unsure, he thrust into her, the slow, even contractions of her cunt massaging the warm fluid from him, trickle by trickle. He was on the verge of climax, so close to coming he wanted to cry, but his passion overtook him too soon for that. He slammed into her, slowly, but hard. Her cunt met him and held him at each entry, so that he had to pull away from her a little to draw it back. The suction on his cock was driving him wild.
He was resting on her upturned thighs, with his arms around her legs. Her face was buried by his chest; it was cool and comforting. Quiet and still, she moved a little in response to his thrusts, but mostly her cunt worked. All that motion inside her, while she seemed so calm. Arms still spread on the carpet, she kept so calm-except for that strong, grasping cunt . ...
He tightened the arms around her legs as the pressure built in him. As he increased the pace she quickened with him; a low moan of need formed in his throat. He slammed into her hard then pulled away; passion gripped him. Thrusting back into her, as hard as he could, he poured his load into her, yelling.
After a minute she relaxed her cock-hold on him; he moved away. Lying back on the carpet, he sought her face. She was smiling, yet sweat glistened on her forehead. Was that his sweat or hers? She seemed so calm.
He frowned and wrinkled his forehead.
"Is something wrong?"
"I don't ... no, I guess not." He didn't want to ask her if she had come. It seemed like some fault of his. "No. Nothing's wrong."
"Well, if you say so."
He couldn't understand this broad. Was she a whore or something? He had heard that whores never came, and that they rarely said anything at all. But if she was a whore, where was he? Why was she here? Was the other girl a whore too?
And oh, no. No. The thought made him want to laugh. Money? Maybe they wanted money. Well, they sure as hell picked the wrong guy. He had maybe three or four dollars, but that was for a movie over this weekend, with one of the neighborhood girls. You had to take them out or they wouldn't fuck. Most girls he knew weren't like these chicks. They didn't lay down just for kicks.
But why were these two interested in him? He frowned again for a moment, then shrugged it off. Well, what could they do?
The redhead was staring at him. He shook his head. She looked puzzled. He smiled.
"Mind if I wash up a little?" he asked.
"No, go ahead. Why don't you take a shower?" She pointed to a corner door. "The bathroom's in there."
He got up slowly, and walked a little crookedly to the door she had pointed out. All this fucking made a guy a little unsteady. He was smiling still. Damn! He'd never fucked this much, or this steady, since he'd known what to stick in a girl's hole. Whew, this would be a tale to tell the guys. Not that they'd believe him....
* * *
Carol came in the door from the hallway after he had gone to the bathroom and carefully closed the door behind him. She could hear the water running, and imagined the steam rising, filling the small room.
"God, that kid's something, isn't he?" Georgie was perched on the edge of the bed, with the pillows that had been tossed to the floor arranged around her. Carol smiled, and looked at her friend.
"Yeah, why didn't they make them that way when we were kids?" Carol moved towards the bed, and took a pillow from the pile.
"Are you kidding?" Georgie asked. "We were so uptight we'd never have gotten into bed with anything, or believed that anything good could come out of that." Carol placed a pillow behind her head and stretched out her long white legs in front of her. Georgie turned to face her. "When I was married it took Paul six months to get me near bed with him. The poor dude was a virgin, too, and knew nothing but, stick your cock in here, move it around and after you feel real good ... take it out. Go wash off, and then you'll sleep just fine." Carol was giggling.
"You laugh, but was it much better for you?" said Georgie. "I mean, your old man wasn't that great, from what I've heard you say."
"Weii, we started screwing around in cars," said Carol, "when I was still in college. He knew what he was doing; I thought he was the most marvelous thing in all the world. It was even better when we got to the point of spending weekends together. Half the time we'd skip the football game and just stay in bed. He was nice, but he got bored after we were married." She grinned oddly. "Marriage seemed to be the death of sex for us. We stopped taking time and making a big thing of it. You know: we saw each other every night, so what was the big deal?"
Georgie looked at Carol's breasts and her thin belly, then away.
"Ah," she said, "I guess I get so down on screwing sometimes and so down on men that I block out al! the good that might have been." She looked it Carol again. "I even forget that it might be good for you, sometimes."
Carol sat up, leaning forward a little.
"Did something go wrong with this weekend? I mean, you weren't supposed to be back until Monday," Carol said.
"No, I just changed my mind. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go through just for a new fuck, you know?" Georgie lifted her head, and gave a toss towards the view. "It's a big city; I haven't exhausted it yet."
"The change might have done you good though. Fresh air at least."
"Well, I just changed my mind, that's all," Georgie said.
"Okay, okay." Carol moved over and put an arm around Georgie's shoulders, and squeezed. Georgie licked her lips: "Keep that up, and I'll take up where I left off."
"I liked it," Carol said. "You know, it's funny. I never thought of myself as, you know, a lesbian, or liking girls, but I really liked what you did."
"If you want, I'll. ... well, I'll..." she grinned. "Damn, here we are, two middle-aged chicks."
"We're not middle-aged!"
"Close, anyway, damn close."
"Well ... "
"But anyway, two experienced, worldly, casual, pretty forward ladies (do you like that better?) too damn shy to screw each other." She looked at Carol somberly, straight in the eye; suddenly they both laughed.
Georgie's hand cradled Carol's tit, held it a moment, then she leaned over to kiss the nipple gently. Georgie looked at Carol again, then put both hands on her shoulders and pulled her near to kiss her lips.
They explored each other's mouths with their tongues, leaning close so that their tits brushed lightly. Carol brought her hands up to hold the back of Georgie's head, then moved them slowly down her neck and back. The soft mouth on hers tenderly explored her. Her cunt got warm; a quiet need building. And Georgie, she wondered?
She moved a hand down to Georgie's rounded belly, stroking it softly hefore reaching to ruffle the pubic hair. Georgie moved a leg away, so Carol could reach into the warm slit between her legs.
Carol creamed suddenly, to feel the warm and the wet in her friend's snatch. She explored, finding the clit with one finger, and stroking it easily, thrilling at the quick hardness of the nub. She moved to the hole, poking a finger between the wet lips. She touched tentatively, (wondering at the smooth flow of wet coming down her finger) then jabbed deep.
Georgie gasped, closing her eyes, moving her head away.
"Did that hurt?" Carol asked.
"No." Georgie shook her head. She moved her head close again and covered Carol's mouth with hers. This time there was more passion, more urgent need in her kiss. Her tongue poked hard; Carol felt a shudder go through her body.
Carol pulled away from the kiss, and took her finger from Georgie's slit.
"Let me eat you," she said. "Can I see what that's like?"
Georgie nodded, then added, "Yes."
Carol bent down as Georgie spread her legs back, and leaned on her elbows, watching Carol approach her. When Carol's tongue touched her, she shuddered, and jammed her hips forward. Carol met her, eagerly, and darted her tongue into the wet, open snatch. She probed the hole for a few moments, enjoying the taste and smell. The newness of it thrilled her.
When she looked up, Georgie was smiling at her.
"Yes," Georgie said, in answer to her silent question. "Yes, that's fine. Just fine."
Carol smiled, and moved her mouth back to Georgie's snatch.
CHAPTER TWO
Oliver took a long, long shower, pleased with the knowledge his brother, sister, mother, and father could not interrupt him. They would not bang on this door and yell for him to get out. Hot water kept coming, too, in an endless supply.
He washed inch by inch, taking care to scrub places he normally passed over for lack of time and water. When he had scrubbed everywhere else, his hands went to his cock. Looking at the scrub brush with a smile, he hooked it by its strap on a fixture. Don't need to be rough with my dick, he thought. Only the softest touches here.
Lovingly he soaped the hair at the base of his cock, then gradually worked soap from the base to the tip, moving slowly and carefully. As he soaped he thought of the two women he had just left. Memory made his member stir. Damn! He hadn't fucked that much at one time in his whole life, before tonight. If he worked it right they would let him stay, he was sure. Mom and Dad were convinced he had run into an old friend, from grammar school, who was back in town, with his parents. He was going to visit with them, he had said, and the broad had gotten on the phone and made like George's mother. Asking permission and telling her not to worry, she and her husband would take very good care of Oliver and make sure the two boys didn't get into any trouble.
Dad had swallowed the story, he was sure, because Mom had been completely convinced by the sweet line that woman laid on her. When Mom would get around to telling Dad, he'd believe it. She was too dumb to lie.
Mom. As he soaped his dick, more and more, making suds which fell off into the streaming water, feeling a small excitement grow, he thought of his mother. What was she like in bed? She ran to fat all around her waist and her legs were thickening. Her boobs were big enough, though shapeless and drooping. She probably looked pretty good once. Now, though. He wondered what it was like to fuck her. What would it be like to approach someone as shapeless and large as her? He couldn't imagine her being able to move at all. He thrust slowly, trying to figure out the feeling. This cock, hard and long, slipping between two mounds of flesh, burrowing through the mountains of her thighs to find the hole. Would she be wet at all? Did she like sex?
Dad used to pat her on the ass before, but it seemed now that they never touched. Not when he could see it, anyway. He never saw them kiss each other, except for the peck that seemed to be standard marriage fare. After all these years, they must be bored with each other. By now they must have tried everything-from fucking in many variations through eating each other to anal sex to...
Her ass. It was probably easy to fuck Mom in the ass. She was a big woman anyway, with lax muscles and a lazy way about moving. The pillows, propped up so he could enter her easily-or would the fat of her stomach be enough of an elevation?
While she sprawled lazily on the bed, her arms folded so she could rest her head, he would watch the open invitation of her cunt and her ass-hole. Maybe talking to her would make her wet. Giving her a bad time, telling her what he would do to her, what he had done to the girls he took out, what had happened on the senior class trip, what he did with Tony while they "studied"; yes, the shock of it might make her wet in spite of herself.
He would get her to beat off, to use her hand to work up any flame of need she might be capable of. He imagined the girls he had fucked watching, and the remarks his father would make if he were there-not aware it was his wife being laid, of course.
That thought was enough to rouse his stirring cock even more. Yes. Dad, too, should watch, to know what's going on. But not know, until too late, that it was his wife getting fucked.
Oh, yes.
At the thought, he increased the soaping motion of his hand. Up, down, a little quicker now, to get it clean. To take away any badness that may have come to him from those two girls he had just fucked. To stir his fantasies about his mother's huge white ass; his to violate as violently as he dared.
Yes, when he was creamed well, and had worked himself to a sufficient pitch, he would approach and slip his cock slowly into her ass-hole. With luck it would be as tight as the virgin cunt he was used to. Her hole was large enough for his hand, he was sure. While he slowly, carefully fucked her in the ass he would move his fingers, and as much of his hand as would fit into her cunt. Who knows? She might start to dig it. Maybe she would like being fucked for a change. Dad was getting fat, too, and he probably didn't bother about satisfying his mate in bed.
It would be a quick kiss and maybe playing with her tits and shove it in, slam-bam and to sleep quickly after. Dad didn't have enough energy to open his own beer cans, how could he have enough to fuck?
Oliver was hard with need, his throbbing cock adding to its size with each stroke; each stroke of his fingers went harder, faster, more eager. He imagined his cock stroking in and out of her ass, easily, evenly. He could imagine her shuddering beneath him, shuddering with the thrusts of his cock, and with the exciting movements of his exploring fingers.
He leaned against the tiled wall of the shower, closing his eyes to everything now. All that mattered was the rapid movement of his hand, the building feeling of an explosion in his groin, moving up from the root of his long tool. His hand stopped then, and he surrendered himself to the relief.
For a few minutes he stayed under the shower, letting the water wash over him, washing away the traces of his come and removing the last tensions from his body.
Oliver shut off the tap and shook the water from his head. He opened the door of the shower looking for a towel. A sudden cry made him turn his head, questioning, toward the bedroom door, then smiled and buried his head in the towel.
By the time he entered the bedroom again, the two women were asleep, their arms around each other. He studied the two. Both were certainly lovely women. The redhead was fuller, with rounded tits and curvy, well-made hips and ample thighs. She was not fat though; her rounded hump of a belly was appealing and seemed well-muscled below the softness.
Oliver had the urge to touch her. He put out a tentative hand, and stroked carefully. It was hard to avoid the dark-haired girl who was slender and so much younger than the other. Her boobs were smaller, but had an even curve to them. They brushed lightly on the chest of her friend.
He sighed, looking at them, and stroking them lightly on creamy skin. When he stretched on the bed, his belly and chest fitted well with the back and ass of the dark-haired girl. Her smooth, cool skin made him want to squirm. He slipped his prick into the crack of her ass. Soft, it nestled between the soft mounds of flesh. He reached down for something to cover them with.
As he started to fall asleep he worked one arm under the girl's body to hold her, and laid the other across the two of them.
It had been only a few minutes that he had been sleeping, he thought, when something woke him. The redhead was pulling away from the tangle of bodies, muttering to herself. She moved through the shaft of light to the door. Oliver heard her speak, then realized that the phone had been ringing. He listened to the lazy, soft voice, then the door to the hall closed, and the room was dark. Moving closer to his bedmate, he fell back to sleep.
* * *
Carol awoke with the last image of her dream vivid before her: Tied to a thick, heavy post, she was tortured by sparks of fire licking at the hair surrounding her cunt. The heat passed from pubic hair into her cunt and shot through her body like the vivid red streaks of infection she had seen once on the arm of a friend.
She lay still in relief for a moment, then suddenly realized the source of her dream. The boy, Oliver, was curled around her, his body twined about hers, his legs and arms twisted with hers. And the flame in her cunt was need, desire; his cock rested on one of her thighs, the head teasing the top of the other at the juncture where her ass curved into her leg.
She explored her position carefully, anxious not to disturb Oliver, since she hoped to make use of him to ease this desire licking at her cunt.
Slowly she twisted to look at the wall of glass. Faint light was coming through it. Either it was still early, or the sun had not yet worked its way through the smog. It was probably later. Smiling, she remembered the events of the night before.
Georgie! Damn, she had known that women visited her roommate overnight, sometimes young girls, their soft tits loose and swaying easily under shirts or sweaters. It was a relief for them, to stay with a woman for a few days, and not worry about the problems of staying with a man. These free-spirited girls puzzled her.
Some of them were as young as fourteen, on the run from parents, but their eyes were hard with worldly knowledge. It was a blessing to be soothed by the soft hands of another female, they said; many of them had been beaten or raped countless times. Yet somehow they kept going, moving confidently, continually, through the streets and the country roads of the land.
Her childhood had been secure and sheltered. Until Carol had met her now dead husband, at 17, her desire and lust had been, at most, vague fantasies and inexplicit stirrings. Raised in the closed-minded atmosphere of church and middle class, she hadn't even known why sometimes she was wet between the legs. With fear she attributed it to some strange disease.
When small her mother had caught her touching the tiny slit between her legs; Mom slapped her hand hard. The lecture that followed instilled a sense of shame in her. Whatever was between her legs was not to be mentioned or discussed.
She received a strangely undetailed sex education, and began to wonder at her parent's silence on the topic. In her first year at college, with a joy in her newfound freedom, she began exploring topics her family had always considered taboo.
When men told her that they wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to perform odd-seeming acts with her, and because they loved her, she melted with delight. Gladly, she learned to do all the things they asked. Even without warning, though, she realized that all of her date-time activities were not a subject for dorm conversations.
Carol had always been silent during the all night talks the girls would have about men, about sex; she became known as a shy, lovely girl, who was rather dumb on the topic. God knows she certainly went out often enough, though!
The bitterness of these talks surprised Carol. Of course, men were a bit strange, sometimes a little urgent, but she had never met demanding, cruel men. How was it they knew she could be won by soft words and easy touches? It took her a long time before she realized that men could be bitter and harsh, too. One or two dimly remembered drunken experiences opened the door to pain and hate during sexual acts.
One night, a drunken professor at a party had talked her into the back bedroom of the house where the party was. He had closed and locked the door before he demanded she take off all her clothes and spread her legs.
Bitch! he had called her, and his gestures were none too kind. When she had balked, he lifted one unsteady hand and slapped her hard across the face. The sudden terror had driven all desire from her. He tossed her on the bed, forced her legs apart, and drove his monstrous cock into her. Without any care for her at all he pounded into her screaming slit, raking his nails across her tits, and laughing. He called her slut, whore, bitch, and kept on laughing.
His cock tore into her, and he pushed hard to satisfy his cruel lust. Each thrust was an ache, his hot tool scraping the protesting walls of her cunt; and her tears and protests only seemed to incite him more.
The sweat of his body, on her cold, fearful flesh, was repulsive. The smell of him seemed to be sour and hateful. As he started to come he leaned to kiss her on the mouth and she twisted her head away from him.
When he forced her mouth on his, with his tongue deep in her throat, the bitter taste made her gag. He came with his tongue pushing hers back, his teeth biting her lips. His stick was deep in her, hurting, the only relief was the sticky come. It seemed to ease the ache of her slit.
Done, he pulled his trousers back up and belted them shut. Wiping his mouth, he stared at her for a minute, then fumbled with the door and was gone. Carol turned from the door and curled her body into a tight ball and cried.
She had fallen asleep, and woke to find a young, blonde face near hers. The man was asking her if she was all right. The memory of her attack came back and she began to cry again. Slowly, he worked the story from her.
It was his room. He let her take a shower. By the time she came back he had smoothed the bed and hung up her clothes. He held her for a long time, talking and stroking her hair until she fell asleep, at peace this time.
In the morning, ah, in the morning! Out of gratitude, she moved down to position her face near his cock. While he slept she took it into her mouth and worked on it with her tongue. It began to harden, to grow, to throb in her mouth.
He moaned a little and a hand came down on her head.
"Hey!" he said, and she looked up. He had lifted the blankets and was smiling at her. She took her mouth away and questioned him.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"God, no. Oh, no, it's really nice."
"I was just, well, I just want to."
"Hey, just go ahead. I'm sorry I even moved. Go on, please."
"Okay." She smiled. He threw back the covers so he could watch. Beginning with the base, she used her tongue to draw a fine line along the underside of his cock. Her mouth covered the head when she reached it, and sucked gently. Moving back down, she brought a hand up to cradle his balls.
He was moving a little as her mouth traveled on his cock. She went up, down, using the tip as a break, when she would suck for a minute, or two, flicking the small portion in her mouth with her tongue as the thought occurred to her.
The saliva from her mouth was warming on his hot prick. A small amount of fluid was leaking from the enlarged head. The flavor he had was changing a little. She tried to set up a rhythm Her hand moved slowly and carefully, playing with his tender balls.
When he started to move his hips in an abortive rhythm, she took his prick into her mouth, as much as she could. She pulled, evenly, letting up as he moved in, pulling hard when he moved away. His breath was coming in loud, uneven jags.
Unexpectedly, he jammed into her mouth as hard as he could. Her mouth was full of his cock, and she wanted to gag. There was no room to breathe. Then his come flooded her mouth. She swallowed, again and again, trying to take all of it down as quickly as it spurted out.
He pulled out suddenly, leaving a trail of fluid on her mouth and across the bed. He was reaching down, to hook her shoulder and pull her up next to him. There was a strange look to his face, something baffled and determined.
She lay flat on her back, surprised and waiting, while he moved over her. Pushing her legs open with one hand, he brought his cock close to her cunt. Wet, from the surprise of his action, she watched him, creaming more as he waited, watching her face. Poised over her, he merely watched.
Twitching, she brought her cunt up, against the head of his cock. It was hot, hard; she wanted it. Again she moved against it, then away. Her body went hot as the blood raced through her suddenly. She reached up with her cunt again, teasing him, asking him: please!
The expression on his face never changed. She knew hers was twisted, changed by her rushing desire. Trying to relax it, she lay still, not thinking of his long, sweet cock. She let her body stay perfectly still and thought only of the strange, itching need filling her. While outwardly calm, her cunt contracted slowly, of its own accord. Her clit itched for his touch. She moved her eyes back on his face.
He looked warm, flushed with blood and with some kind of puzzling satisfaction. Out of control, she squirmed again, and a low moan escaped her lips.
As she began to say something, he moved. In a sudden rush, with unexpected force, his cock entered her and drove into the innermost part of her. Jamming her hips into his, she cried out. He was slamming into her, thrusting with great force, jackhammering at her cunt.
When she came, lost in a river of sensation, she cried out again. His mouth came down over hers. His tongue probed deep and she arched her back so that her aching tits lightly touched his chest.
He kept going, slowly, evenly, as she relaxed. Kissing her gently, tonguing her mouth tenderly, he kept her at a plateau of pleasure. She focused on his mouth and on his cock, alternating between his insistent tongue and the hard, long tool he plied her cunt with, drawing forth moisture from it as though his action were pumping her.
While he moved, probed, and she answered his movement, his hands caressed her tits, gathering their weight and moving them slowly.
They kept on until she lost all sense of time.
She forgot everything, even her identity, caring only that this continual motion not stop. A need was building in her again, a lust to have him bang her until it would be satisfied.
The need seemed to communicate to him, or perhaps he had waited long enough to please himself. Pulling his mouth away from her, he asked her "Again?" and, at her nod, lifted away from her with one leg hooked in his arm, his eyes caressing her. He lay closer, bringing her leg between their bodies. His cock was driving deeper into her, touching her in places so sensitive she gasped.
Until she relaxed to welcome each thrust with an answering push of her hips, he kept the slow pace. Then, urgently, he increased the rhythm and the pressure. As he had pounded before, he began again. It was different for her, though, with her lust slaked by the first fuck, she had a quieter, more careful need.
She moved with him, worked with him, aware of him more than she had ever been aware of a man in her cunt. She closed her eyes, and felt the long, hard strokes enter her, felt their bodies meet and press a moment before moving away quickly, only to come together again, harder.
The pace increased, the intensity built. She felt the first faint quivers of a climax in her belly somewhere.
"I'm going to..." she began.
"A minute," he said. "In a minute I'll come with you."
"Hurry," she answered. "Please hurry."
The word built in him. "Now!" he cried.
She let go, and the dam of desire broke. She felt him empty into her, felt the spasms of his cock and the answering spasms of her cunt. The release swept through her until she could no longer move. They lay together, gasping, flushed.
For a long time afterwards they clung close. As their breathing eased and their flesh cooled, they fell asleep again, waking hours later to the noonday sun across their faces . ... Carol knew she had met her husband.
Too bad the passion they had begun with had faded. He became so tangled in his career, so tied up with the myths of business, they lost touch. So much of his energy went to keeping up in his field that he had no time for his wife. He had no time to kiss, to touch, to fuck long hours, day after day.
He had long trips away from home and got into the habit of slaking his lust quickly, mindlessly. Often, too, he found women who were always available; women who wanted to advance their career by balling her husband. He had less and less time for the adoring woman at home.
So the adoring woman at home looked for other men. But she found boys most ready and willing. Working in an agency for young people, Carol found that young men wanted to fuck her to advance their careers. They thought an inside track to one of the agents might help.
Well it helped Carol all right. She came to appreciate the adorable fucking of these boys. The younger ones never seemed able to convince anyone older of their passion. Their ardor and vigor made up for lack of skill. She could teach them, though, to do all of the things she liked. She could dismiss someone who was getting too strong-willed, and find another young boy to give her head the way she liked, to fuck her in the style which she currently desired, and to listen avidly to her needs and her demands.
There were literally hundreds of young boys roaming the streets of the city, on the prowl for pussy. Females, too, like Georgie's little girls, roamed the countryside anxious to find food and a place to stay. There were small secrets to gaining these youngsters but it was much easier than trying to deal with the drunken, near impotents her own age.
Right now there was a boy at her back, his cock lying on her leg. The tip of it wet with the fluids caused half with memories, half with the nearness of this strong-willed, but quite, quite satisfying boy.
She reached with one hand, touching the head of his penis. It was slippery with the syrup from her body. He was half-hard. Carol curled her body around so that her hips did not move, but so that she could more easily reach the prick on her leg.
Carefully she began to stroke it so that the fluid covered it little by little. She dipped a finger into her slit, and took the moisture to spread on his dick.
The cock hardened more under her touch, growing steadily, but calmly ... it did not throb or pound as it would have if he had been awake.
When it was almost full length, and warming steadily, Carol brought her cunt down on his cock. To get it in more easily, she lifted her leg, and widened the lips of her anxious, wet cunt with her hand. Wriggling her cunt downwards she eased the huge tool into it; once partially in she let her leg down, and removed her hand. Working carefully, she began to move on the hard, strong tool inside her. His cock, without his conscious thought behind it, was better than any dildo she had ever tried. And better than many cocks, too.
She maintained a steady rhythm for a few moments when he suddenly thrust into her hard, then withdrew slowly. Shuddering, she lifted her head to look at him.
He was awake. Watching her, he thrust again. Then he closed his eyes, and kept the thrusts happening; hard in, slo-o-ow, even carefully to the tip out.
Sweat beaded her body. She responded with small movements of her hips to his thrusts. Otherwise she was still, and completely undemanding. His breathing was deep, but also even. One hand had come to rest on the side of her tit, but it did not move. He was not fucking her out of any strong urgency, but moved as if both building and soothing his lust at the same time. He could fuck her forever like this, she thought, and she would go on, enjoying it for the pure act, as if no lust motivated it at all, or hardly at all. They were fucking for the pure joy of it. Yet there seemed to be little actual joy to it.
She found great pleasure in the movement, the thrust of his cock. She traced the movement with her mind, and eagerly waited for the push inward, but it seemed more a detached curiosity on her part.
While she was sure he was enjoying the feel of his prick, and her sure, regular response, she wondered at his calm.
It was quite good, though, this fucking. His cock was large enough to push at the walls of her cunt each time he entered. She felt herself stretch and expand for his entry, and felt the slow expansion contracting, just as slowly as he retracted. The head of his cock touched the lips of her womb, deep inside, gently, each time he pushed forward, as if in a kiss. After this light quick kiss, the head moved back.
She thought of the cock inside her, suddenly, as a separate, tiny being, a small image of the man, burrowing into her flesh to get deep inside her, at the very depth of her, right at her inner being, kissing this hidden portion of her voluptuous body.
This why, almost reverent kind of balling was something that happened so rarely it surprised her every time. She felt awed and a bit careful of herself. This could be her interpretation, just her interpretation. Be careful, Carol, she thought. He could be merely hardly awake and fucking only half aware of what he was doing.
He could be totally unknowing of the effect on her. But surely, if he was aware at all of what he was doing, he would know that she was increasingly wetter, and that her breath was coming in shorter pieces, jagged and uneven.
It didn't matter, she thought. Her sensations were her own. What he felt was totally his to feel. And should this perfect rhythm they had developed falter, or prove unsatisfactory, then they would change to another.
"Hurry!" his gasp surprised her out of her reverie. A careful hand told her he was hot, a glance saw that his face was buried in a pillow, where his choking breathing was disguised. She worked the muscles of her cunt, anxious to please him, if he wished to come.
His face pulled away from the pillow and she heard the moan. The sound triggered something in her.
"Now!" she said. "Right now!" and let go. Through the vague mists of her climax she felt him clutch at her and arch away, uncontrollably.
Inside her, the gentle head had exploded into a mass of warmth; sticky fluid that was covering her, slipping past him and leaking out onto her legs and the already damp sheets.
CHAPTER THREE
Sprawled asleep on the king-size bed in her darkened room, Georgie was a picture of innocence.
A trace of light came through the window over the bed, despite the drawn draperies. The bed was actually a huge mattress on the floor, covered with dozens of pillows and several brightly colored and wildly patterned spreads. Most of these were piled in a heap on one side of the bed.
One spread was wrapped around the figure sitting at the head of the bed. His eyes were open, yet seemed to see nothing. While not sleepy, he had a lost look to him, as though wanting to sleep but could not. He smoked a cigarette, taking long, careful drags; exhaling evenly. The ashtray on the floor was nearly overflowing. A few times he had missed the small container.
Incredibly still, as if used to sitting like this, his muscles did not seem to protest, though his only movement Was centered around the cigarette. Occasionally, he glanced at the sleeping form. Georgie was on her stomach, her rump high in the air, almost as a child would sleep. Her face was away from him, but he didn't need to look.
He knew every line of her face; every expression, each variation he had encountered in her was etched on his mind's eye. Her face used to come most vividly to him after he had first met herwhile he was with another girl.
In the middle of balling or just before the moment of climax as she sucked his dick, he would see Georgie's face, in a flash, before him. Because of her he had stopped eating girls at all. None of them tasted like her, or appreciated it as much. And it was the only way she could come. For him it was more an act of love. He still balled chicks, every now and then. The feel of them coming beneath him was a good one.
He still fucked her, too, though he knew she got little satisfaction from the process. She was always glad to spread her legs for him but could not fake any pleasure. Though she said how she enjoyed him, because he got pleasure from it.
He cursed her husband. She was a good woman, he thought, but that big prick had used her to be merely a receptacle: a hole in which to shoot his come. One thing about her husband, though, he still supported her. Paul sent her money, whenever she asked for it, and her checking account always had a balance of a thousand dollars in it, no matter how many checks she wrote, or how often. He must have a deal with the bank, to call him when she wrote so many checks and he would send them more money.
At least Paul was supporting her, which he-Harry Evans-could not do. No, lord no. Not at 16. There weren't too many ways to make money at that age. His schooling had given him worthless knowledge as far as earning money went.
Society would keep him handicapped a few more years. Society-and his parents. They somehow seemed to like his dependence on them. They told all their friends, see! Look, how well he's dressed. He goes to one of the best schools, you know. And he does quite well.
Sure he did well. If he got good marks and didn't seem to be a discipline problem they showered more gifts and money and approval on him. But most of all, they left him alone. And they never asked him where he went on his motorcycle. Or what he did while he was gone. They never bothered him, so long as his grades were good and his teachers never had to call home because he was a problem.
To them he was a status symbol; an example not only of their ability to produce a good-looking, intelligent offspring (see how good our genes are!) but also of their talent for producing money and their so-called taste in spending it.
Probably it would not even bother them if he were arrested, so long as it were for some socially acceptable offense. But how would they take his relationship with Georgie? Harry wondered about that fairly often. It had become a standard fleeting thought. Maybe he thought that so often because he wondered what he thought of Georgie.
For months now he had been coming up here at least once a week, many times more often, and at least once a month he came up out of absolute terror or some kind of empty desperation. He would call, it seemed always, in the small hours of the morning, a little drunk or a little high and scared.
Perhaps his fear was that one time she would say no. He would call more often, but he was horribly afraid that she would have someone else there, or she would so calmly, so irritably say, "Please, will you stop bothering me!"
His parents were very careful never to say that explicitly, but he knew they felt that way. Maybe that was Georgie's particular appeal for him. She was 38-he knew. He had checked her driver's license one night as she slept, not believing that she had told him the truth.
That made Georgie a year older than his mother. She looked five times better than his mother, but she was older, somehow more stable than all of the girls his age he knew. If she said he was good in bed, it seemed more true. If she told him that she liked having him around, it seemed very-likely.
His telling Georgie he loved her was serious. It was a hard thing to say to her, but he had. He figured it out in his head and it was true. Somehow it was something that he had to tell her. Because, maybe, she didn't betray his trust. She didn't laugh, or tell her girl friends who spread the story all over school.
Georgie liked him, a bit more, because he loved her. She seemed awfully unsure of herself, for all her poise and her sure movements. He had watched her asleep, more times than he could remember; something about her sleeping pose told him of her inner uncertainties better than :my number of words.
Sometimes her needs in bed told him, the funny way she would move under him, the driven way she fucked. She wanted to come, probably too hard. If she'd quit worrying about it, she might. But she worried and tried and looked for every possible release-hopelessly.
The little game she played had fooled him at first. "I don't care if I come fucking-give me head, I like that better. You give nice head, but girls give it better. I like girls, too." After a while it didn't work. She tried too harri. He wanted to tell her to relax, but he was less confident than he appeared; how could he say a thing like that?
He always ended up sessions like these telling himself not to worry. If Georgie didn't want him around, she'd tell him. But maybe she pitied him, he thought. Maybe she knew about his parents and just plain pitied him.
Stop it! he told himself. Just stop it. He stubbed out the cigarette with one vicious movement and watched Georgie for a minute. She had turned, and was curled on her side. She looked so lost.
When he first met her, in a poster shop on Hollywood Boulevard, she had looked completely the opposite: standing, hands on hips, in front of a huge poster of a couple fucking. It was a black and white poster done in sort of misty tones, as if the photographer were trying to shade over their genitals enough to have the picture accepted on the common market, not be risqu' enough to have kids buy it or horny old men want it for their walls.
Harry had decided he didn't like the poster. It was too commercial-looking. He preferred the hard-core stuff-or so it was called-even though that sometimes made him blush.
But she was standing in front of the poster, looking at it carefully, with her head thrown back and her ass tilted in a funny way. All this incredible red hair was thrown back over her shoulders, and two round, full tits were pointed right at the poster. She was wearing a sort of T-shirt in a sweatery material covering otherwise naked boobs.
As he walked between her and the poster, Harry noticed all this. Pretending to stare at some vague greenish ecology poster that he never really got a look at, he studied her obliquely.
Right then he was stunned. Too stunned to even feel any reaction to her at all except wonder and a vague fear at the strong sexual attraction he felt for her. His cock was so hard he had to work at thinking about something else to be able to move.
She had noticed him ... somehow, because she was talking to him, and somehow they were walking down the street, making light banter. God, what a phrase. He was walking down the street reacting mindlessly to what she said, and she was saying it all.
Without realizing quite what was happening he had gotten into her car with her, and drove up to the small house on the side of a hill. The friends he had been with were forgotten. She had asked about his parents, but accepted his shrug as an easy dismissal of the problem.
She had kept on talking, and he had kept on answering and somehow suddenly his cock was deep in her hole and he was working furiously. Her legs were on his shoulders; her hands were traveling the knotted, working lumps of his ass and she must have been rubbing him with one of her oils. He smelled something sweet and heavy that had stayed with him for days, despite showers.
Harry had worked at her, pounding, pounding her cunt, floating in the sea of his passion, until the passion let go and he came into her. He had fallen asleep almost immediately; when he woke he turned her over and began fucking again.
Funny, that she was now the one who dropped off to sleep and he would roam or waken halfway through the night, smoking endless numbers of cigarettes until, if lucky, falling into a fitful sleep at dawn.
He unwrapped himself from the bedcover suddenly, and went to the door. Maybe if there was something in the kitchen, he thought; turning back, he looked at Georgie again. That was what he really wanted-not food.
In the dimmed light of the room she was pale, shadowed heaps of flesh, with her red hair, dark in this light, spread across her. It didn't disguise anything, or hide an inch of her. Knowing how creamy, how soft her skin was, he wanted to caress the soft flesh he saw. He wanted to stroke all of the skin not covered by her hair; then move aside the hair and stroke all of her body.
When he moved her hair across her body she would shiver with the feel of it. In her sleep she would stir, moving under his hands and responding before she was awake. Maybe she would stretch, or she would move, and the weight of her lovely, heavy tits would change. He would take them, then, and play with them, moving the nipples with his thumbs, massaging the weight of her and testing it in his hands.
He wan doing it. Harry had walked over and knelt by her. His legs were spread a bit, and he was back on his haunches at the moment, moving her fine big tits with his hands. The light changed on them, shifting as he moved them.
Her hair had fallen back, but still curled in the mounds of her flesh. The tendrils made dark slashes against her flesh. His prick rose as he watched her. It got to be hard and hot, ready to fuck.
But he would take his time. It was still early morning and they had all day. After he had come in last night she had moved the phone into the hallway and shut it off. It gave him a strange feeling to think that she had left it on, but shut it off when he came. But maybe she did the same thing every time someone came over.
She had never failed to answer the phone when he called; and she always came to the phone if Carol answered. He didn't understand it. Shaking his head, he tried to focus his attention on the situation at hand.
His body had gone on, stroking her breasts, moving down from their roundness to the softer, smaller roundness of her waist and her belly. His prick was hard, and stood like a flagpole in his lap. While it throbbed to remind him of its state, he kept his mind on the girl before him.
But to his constant amazement she was a woman; a full-grown woman, older than the mother who had borne him. All right, only by a year, but still, she physically existed before his mother, and that was years before he had come into being.
He had seen many kinds, many shapes of females in the time he had been balling but this was one of the few real women he had encountered. He had fucked Carol, once, maybe twice, one night when four of them got loaded and ended up fucking and eating each other; making merry until the sun rose. More than anything, that night, they had laughed.
Moving his hands down her body he explored her thighs again, marveling at their roundness and their fullness. These were not the skinny, or the flabby thighs of his Saturday night girls. They were strong yet soft beyond belief.
More and more his cock itched to be near her cunt, to push aside the lips which guarded the vast, mysterious hole beyond, and rush on into it.
A finger slipped between her legs and touched her small clit. As lightly as he could he stroked the tiny bud. It hardened instantly, a miniature, yet quick imitator of his prick; the action brought syrup oozing from her cunt. Suspicion, or maybe desire sent another finger to see if she had creamed.
Finding the thick fluid sent another tremor of lust through him. Damn! He stretched out with his lips moving closer to those strange counterparts between her legs. His hips were near her face, with the hope that she would tongue him as she woke, and ease the huge staff a little.
Her mouth might at least cool him a little. The thought made him smile. Her mouth would do nothing of the sort!
CHAPTER FOUR
She had been half awake when he began to touch her. Still, the touch of his mouth on her cunt was surprising. He began with her there when they had been apart for a while or when he wanted her particularly. Last night when he had first come in he had eaten her as he talked to her; it was a way he had of winding down.
One of the reasons I like you, Harry, she thought.
This kid! God, he had been a pickup like dozens of others; before and since yet something kept him coming back. Every time, too, he called, she said, "Yes, come over." A few times she had sent boys home with the peevish admonisliment that she was tired.
He came in at times like these tired, but keyed up and talkative in strange, almost nonsensical ways. He thought of some really odd things, if their talks were in any way an indication of what he thought about
Now he said nothing. But of course, he thought she was asleep. She didn't have to pretend with him. When he looked up and saw her awake, he merely smiled.
Harry seemed to expect nothing from her, in bed, as if he knew that he could get what he wanted one way or another. He tried to please her in whatever ways she could be pleased. And he knew, somehow, that he would be pleased.
Georgie stopped all thought for a minute to let the tongue which was deep in her cunt, wriggling, telegraph its message. Damn, he was really very good. His teeth or lips were somehow on her clit, applying more pressure than she would have thought comfortable, but pushing because of his tongue. That tongue, which darted like some reptile through grass, licked and probed her.
He had a finger up her ass-hole, too. That was something she had had to talk him into. He simply couldn't see the pleasure in that at all. Then one day he had lain still and calm while she probed him with her finger, and pushed at that one spot where the walls inside were thin and all the muscles joined. The surprise of her finger had brought him oft in her mouth. Laughing, they talked about it later.
She could see his cock hot, turning deeper red as his passion mounted. His was a long, fine tool, with small veins running down one side of it that were particularly prominent. He was as hard, as fully hard as he would be this time. The skin of his cock was smooth and taut. A place near the ridge of skin which began the head was mottly.
A small dribble of come lay on the head. It must have bubbled out as he worked his mouth on her. Touching it with a whimsical finger, she spread the fluid over the head of his cock, making it twitch with excitement.
Smiling, she caught the prick in her hand. By reaching with the longest finger she could smooth the fluid over the head of his dick and down, down the long, hot tool. At the same time her fingers still free managed to squeeze him, gently.
He was fully hard, so she thought; but the skin of his cock was stretching more, more and thinner; his meat seemed less contained, more something that was of him, in him, a part of him that could be extended into her.
Now she would take him into her mouth, slowly. The head first. Nibbling, licking, she teased the head, as though tempting a long thin creature who might be persuaded to follow her, if the head thought it all quite reasonable.
The fluid from his dick had a strange taste to it, something different from his usual flavor. This happened rather frequently, she had found, in her long experience with this kind of thing. He must have been sitting up all this time, not sleeping.
She had the head in her mouth and was sucking lightly on it. With one hand she cradled his balls and moved them with the play of her fingers. The other hand still squeezed his prick in careful tempo. His hips moved in a slow, slow rhythm.
Then he moved away, suddenly, and his head was gone from between her legs.
"I want to fuck you, Georgie. Let me fuck you."
His voice was low, fierce, intense. She looked at him startled.
"Well, come on, then."
He moved his legs around and brought his face near hers. His face was calm for some reason, and only a slight flare to his nostrils and a fine beading of sweat betrayed his passion. After looking at her a moment he reached to the floor and brought up the pillows and bedcovers that had fallen.
"Lift your ass, Georgie. Come on, sweet." Obediently she reared up from the bed. He slipped the pillows behind her and pushed them carefully to bring her to a high angle. A mental image of the dick she had just been sucking flashed through her mind. Now it arched from his big patch of dark hair that when he bent to kiss her tit-teasing the tip, mouthing the nipple the way she had teased his dick-it swung down to brush against her thighs.
She ached to have him in her, feel the huge dick that brushed against his belly and hers, deep in her. Arching her back, she tried to take the nipple from him, but he only sucked harder, using his teeth to ring the nipple.
Bending her back again, this time extending the motion into her ass and her cunt, she first moved away from him, then near again.
"Hey" he said. "Hey, Georgie!" There was the edge of surprise to his voice; he had taken his mouth off the nipple to stare into her eyes. They watched each other a minute, assessing the face before them.
Again she wriggled her body, bringing it up harder this time, so that his cock was squeezed by her flesh. His hands were on her waist, holding her and supporting a little of his weight. He must be kneeling over her, though, since he was light and easy to buck...
The buck this time brought back an answering slam from his body.
"So that's what you want, eh?"
His hands came away from her waist and leaned on the bed near her shoulders. He moved his hips back so that the hot wet head of his dick trailed on her round belly and slipped on the pillow. This time when she bucked he slammed that prick into her, slipping easily into her long wet hole.
Georgie moaned, and her skin crawled. She tossed her head to the side and closed her eyes.
"Do you know," Harry was saying, "you're the only woman I've ever fucked, Georgie." He was moving into her with an easy, slow motion. How much her cunt wanted him! She tried to move with him but felt suddenly awkward and lost.
"I've fucked little girls, and funny little females who were women in years, but you're old enough to have mothered me, to have brought me into the world. This could be incest, but we aren't blood-related. You're a woman, a feeling, thinking, moving, good-looking, hell!" He paused a minute, then went on. "You're beautiful, Georgie," he said.
In that light, with her body falling away from his from the point of their union, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted her. But he wanted to fuck her slow and easy. He wanted to taste this fuck, he wanted the desire to build in him until he went insane.
The passion he had felt before, even the intense feeling for her, seemed like small segments of practice for this great building feeling. And it was only the beginning.
He could tell that he would be able to move his cock in this lazy motion of in and out, up and in for as long as he liked. Now he wasn't fucking for release, but for the pure pleasure of it.
"It feels good to fuck you, Georgie. It feels so good just to be inside you, to move my cock in your cunt-that god-awful good sweet cunt of yours."
Georgie said nothing. She wasn't thinking or trying to answer anything at the moment. She was feeling him, really feeling the movement of his cock between the wet lips of her cunt. She felt him travel the length of her and be blunted by her womb.
Everything else was lost. Her arms were limp and lost in the maze of bedclothes; her body tilted away from her cunt, falling easily to both sides. Although her eyes were half open, she wasn't watching anything, just slowing, absorbing the haze of color and light that passed before her eyes. With her head turned away, her neck was offered to him. The hair, swept away from it across the bed, was another crazy pattern of light and dark.
She felt warm and good, with his cock so much a part of her she had almost forgotten he was a separate being. His hands, traveling her breast slowly, evenly, were some sort of extension of herself, moving just where they needed to move.
The movements she made in response to his even thrust into her were effortlessly dictated by the beat their two bodies had set up. Two bodies! She didn't know where she ended and where he began. She felt able to ball him now and forever, always effortless.
As he pushed into her she anticipated each feeling the moment before it crept across the nerves and the muscles to shoot more warmth into her veins and across her skin.
She felt the light in front of her changing, growing warmer and more golden, and her body felt glowing and yellow with the light. His cock kept thrusting into her, pounding the beat of this strange dance they were engaged in and she kept answering him, lost in the strange rhythms.
His whole body felt as though it were on fire; the blood in him racing and pounding, the heat he emanated slithered off his body in rivers of white heat, sheets of sweat.
Now the need in him to keep fucking her, moving his cock in her cunt so this fire would be maintained, was edged with desperation. If he shot off, if he came now, the fire would fade, the passion would slip and they would cool, becoming too damp, somewhat irritated with each other.
"No. No." Was it his voice? No, she was moaning and twisting on the bed, trying to say something, but only that syllable emerging. Oh, God! the thought shot through him: Was she going to come? She had never before moved like this under him, never moaned so much. Now she was lost, writhing, unintelligible; like an animal in pain.
He pushed harder, faster, in a passionate, mindless fury to keep her moving and crying out beneath him. The sweat came off him hard and made him slick; so he brought his body down on her, his chest heavy against her full-blown tits.
She felt the ache in her building and there was nothing she could do about it.
He was dull with the effort of holding himself back.
As Georgie moved and pushed at him, she let her mind roam free. She thought of the hundreds of times she had watched his face as the light crossed it while he slept, or as the darkness disappeared when one of them snapped on the light, or . ...
One time he had taken her ass in his hands, cupping them and holding the twin orbs of soft flesh as gently as he might cup her head. She was flat on her back, with her legs pulled back, the knees near her chest. Her hands were playing with the tangles in his hair and she had been talking to him softly.
With great care he had licked the soft, spread lips of her cunt, and worked its way onto the moist small hill of her clit. Someone had slammed a door elsewhere in the house and his head came up suddenly.
She had lifted her head from the mattress and looked at him, startled. Memory of his face, at that moment, was one of the moments she cherished. He had been wide-eyed, tensing, with his mouth soft and open, wet with her love-syrup; before he resumed his task, he had licked his upper lip slowly and smiled at her.
Now she could not see his face. Her lashes were dimming her vision with the heavy overlay of sweat pouring from her. Her hands were gripping his back, holding his as tightly as she could. Her legs were wrapped around him, helping to keep him closer and giving her leverage to push back at him. She was so aware of the bulk of him, of his slick, sweet cock, and of the building warmth-warmer than ever before, in her cunt.
'Oh, Georgie, Georgie, I ... " He took in a huge gulp of air, and began to speak again, but she missed his words. With one shattering, convulsive snap of her spine she climaxed, silently.
As she felt the sensations fade a bit he began to laugh, and came into her. Smiling, she gripped him hard in a hug that used her whole body, then began to laugh too.
They fell away from each other, laughing. It took them a minute to get some breath, then the laughter built again.
"Damn, Georgie, that was beautiful!" he said, and began to laugh again.
"Nothing like that has ever happened to me before," she said. "Nothing."
"You were insane," he said. "Absolutely out of your mind, woman."
"Cock-crazed," she said, in a break from the laughter, He nodded, unable to say anything. Suddenly she was silent.
"I came, Harry. I came just a minute ago."
He sobered immediately. His hand touched her hair, and he brought her close to him.
"I know, Georgie, I know. I'm so glad."
They had forgotten the difference in their ages, in their generations. They had ceased to exist as socially governed creatures. He and she were lovers, and she needed comfort. Holding her close, he rocked her.
Georgie was crying.
CHAPTER FIVE
Oliver sat on the living room couch, his feet on the coffee table. The television was on but he was paying it only minimal attention. Piled on his lap was a stack of magazines Carol had pointed out to him. He had flipped through all but one of them: the one he held open now.
He had seen naked women before, but these were a surprise. All of them were lovely, firm, well-shaped with high, firm, rounded tits. They all had long luxurious-looking hair, and even teeth in a lovely smile. Oliver realized the number of lovely women in the world, suddenly.
His cock stirred a little, as he looked at the long-legged women, all posed so as to carefully hide their pussies, though some of the magazines showed the tufts of hair. These weren't the usual collection of nudie magazines he had glimpsed at before. But they were certainly as exciting, maybe more so than the other, more blatant, more showy ones.
"Down boy!" he said, and laughed. Carol and Georgie had gone out, chattering happily like schoolgirls, to go shopping or something. When they left, each of them kissing him on the cheek, they had told him to save his energies for later.
Georgie had turned at the door and asked him to please try to not wake Harry, sleeping in her bedroom. Who was Harry? Oliver shrugged, and closed the magazine. He would watch television for a while. They probably wouldn't be gone long. Unless they had other plans, well, he'd just cart one of them, or both, maybe, into the bedroom.
Oliver glanced around the small airy room. It seemed much larger than it actually was. All of the furniture was small, and the color scheme was light, and white. It seemed much cooler in here than it actually was. Outside was shimmering, hot, a typical summer Los Angeles day.
This side of the house faced the hillside, away from the view of the city. Out the glassed door to the walkway leading to the garage were large, leafy plants, and the overhang of a tree.
It was odd-a white, young-seeming, almost virginal-looking room for these two older women, both with (at the very least) twenty-one years of fucking behind them. Would the juices and the sweat of loving stain this couch, or the rug?
Probably not. One or both of them must have fucked someone in this room before. Carol said they had lived together here for years; in that much time they must have been caught by passion before they could escape to the routine of their bedroom.
Routine? Well, maybe not. He smiled. It wasn't exactly the best thing to think-that he was one of a long crowd for whom the treatment was almost precisely the same. He preferred to think that he was a little different. Of course. He smiled at the thought, again.
A knock interrupted his train of thought. Looking up, he saw a thin, very pale blonde with a straw handbag which looked something like a shopping bag. When she saw him look up, her dark-painted lips broke into a smile. She opened the door and came in.
"Hello, there. Are Carol and Georgie at home? It looks like they've gone out, but you never know. They might have one of the cars at the shop, or maybe just one is out."
"No, they've both out. They may be gone for sometime."
"Maybe I could just wait." She came further into the room and looked as if she were going to sit down.
"You should probably just leave a message. Or come back later. They'll be gone for some time, they said."
"Oh, are you worried?" She smiled coyly at him. "You needn't worry. I'm a friend of theirs." A titter. "But of course, how do you believe that? I mean, I could just lie."
"I just, well, they didn't say they were expecting anyone."
"Oh, they weren't expecting me. I just decided to drop in. I live on the other side of these hills and I was driving by on some silly errands and I decided to drop by."
"Well, I don't know you. But I guess..."
"Well, I could stop back later, but I'd just as soon stay a while." She moved over and perched on a chair. "I wasn't in any particular hurry."
She crossed her legs and put the tote down. After looking a moment to make sure he was watching her, she leaned back, carefully moving the skirt higher as she went.
My god! he thought. Is she out to lay me or something? She's an old lady. Attractive in a way, but an old lady. She was watching him.
Her pale platinum hair was short, cut close to her head in a curly way. The bones in her face were very prominent, and the bones of the rest of her body seemed quite obvious in her dress. But despite her thinness to the point of absurdity, there were lines in her face, on her arms, in her hands. She looked a little hard, a little too knowing to be a younger woman.
Well, she could stay, he supposed. It didn't really matter. He looked back down to the books on his lap. Closing the one he had been flipping through he sighed; he reached for the last magazine.
This one was different from the others. The first inside page was a beaver shot. Spread shot. Her cunt, glistening up from the page, pink, moist, wide open, in color and size a replica of any cunt he had been near.
Looking back, the inside cover seemed to be as alien as a spaceman would be next to an earth-man. Lines of print. The listing of publisher and photographers and the name of the magazine. The front?
The front was a nude, like all of the other magazines had been. No preparation for this, this ... Damn! His cock was hot, pushing against the pile of magazines. He felt the sweat evaporating from the back of his neck, where it would have been caught by his collar, if he had been wearing a shirt.
Surely his blush was visible. He felt it spreading down through his neck. The woman! He shot a glance up. She had pulled a book from her tote and was curled up, reading.
Maybe she would think that ... or maybe she wouldn't even notice, thinking that his redness was simply an extension of his tan.
He couldn't get up. The minute he moved the pile of magazines his cramped cock would spring up, pushing against his pants to make its needs known.
If he sat here and just kept flipping through the magazine she would not notice a change, and he could cool himself. Lose this erection. Be able to get up and go in the other room and find something else to do.
But, God, flipping those pages wasn't easy. Each page was still another close up of another pussy. Or maybe the same one, posed a little differently. No, this one had different color hair, blonde hair. Darker than this broad across from him.
Damn, his cock was getting bigger. He kept his head bent, his eyes down. He was barely aware that she had gotten up and was walking in the direction of the kitchen. She had stopped. Maybe she would look at a painting.
If she left for a few minutes maybe he could relax, ignore everything and concentrate on the television or something.
Television! Yes, thank God. He could watch it, get engrossed in whatever passed the screen in front of him, and forget his pretty worries.
Only his petty worries were growing.
His petty worries were throbbing, pushing against the front of his pants, and the pile of magazines. Why couldn't he just get up, stretch, and walk casually into the other room? He could beat off in the shower again, or just in the John. It wouldn't take long.
Why would she even have to notice? How would she even notice unless she was really watching?
And then what difference would it make?
Except that she would probably think the erection was because of her. And she might be embarrassed, or maybe she would want to do something with his stiff cock. He couldn't imagine fucking her.
Only now she was standing to one side of his outstretched legs. When he looked up her nakedness startled him, but seemed almost what to expect.
She was standing there watching him, just watching him, and not smiling, or saying anything, or puzzled looking. He felt confused and enormously excited.
His eyes left her face and traveled the length of her body. She was thin, yes, he had known that. But her tits were full, or had been quite full once. Now they sagged a little, resting on the well-defined rib cage as if weary.
Her waist was tiny, bony, her belly a small, shrunken mound of dark tanned flesh. Her pussy hair was very pale, very sparse. She must dye it, too; surely none of that color was real, natural at all. There were no bathing suit marks.
Her legs were thin, very well-muscled, with just a small evidence of flab of age in the thighs. Oliver had never seen such bony knees.
She reached over and took the magazine from his hand. Folding it, she simply dropped it to the floor. She dropped the others, too, one or two at a time, deliberately. Very self-assured, it seemed.
Of course, he couldn't stop here. Oh, he could, but why? His cock was waiting for an easy, quick hole to slip into. He was mesmerized by her actions. What she could be thinking completely escaped him.
There was nothing in her face. Nothing. No interest, no excitement, no concealed flame of passion. She picked up the last magazine, dropped it. With careful fingers she worked on the zipper of his jeans. She opened the fly, brought out his cock.
It was such a relief to have the thing free-standing, stiff and ready in her hand. She stroked his heavy cock a minute, then let it rest on his belly as the jeans were worked down over his hips, his thighs, his knees, his calves.
He worked with her, lifting each body part as she needed to clear it. Neither of them said anything. She tossed the jeans down on top of the magazines. Then she climbed on the couch.
Kneeling, she had her cunt almost at his eye level. He could see the glistening, pink lips of her cunt, opened just a little by the spread of her legs. The heat of her came off gently, in easy spurts, as if it were breathing.
"Suck me, a little, please," she said. Very quietly.
"Come, come here," he said. Holding her skinny thighs, he positioned her cunt where he could reach it comfortably. Darting his tongue like a lizard's, he reached out to jiggle the small protrusion. She wriggled.
"I like it when you touch my clit. Do it again."
"O.K." He reached again with his tongue, bringing his head closer so he could use more pressure. "Mmmmmm."
"You like that, huh."
"Yes."
"Why don't you lie down and let me do the whole job up right?"
"No, this way. It's harder, but very ... nice."
"But I can't use my whole mouth."
"Use your fingers. Use that gorgeous tongue, Mmmmm!" He had kept up the darting, probing flit of his tongue on her cunt, pushing back from her enlarged clit. Sweet syrup dribbled out from the lips just beyond his reach.
"Like this?" He shot two fingers of one hand quickly into the opening, pushing as far as he could. Wriggling, he moved the two fingers against the damp walls of her cunt.
She had jumped and then came down as if to impale herself on those wriggling fingers.
"Oh, yes. See, if you have to be inventive to suck me, to finger me, you do think of some lovely things, don't you."
"Mmmmm." He said. He was busy, exploring the bush of her hair, nuzzling her legs, working his head back so that he could catch some of that dribbling syrup.
"Lovely," she said suddenly pulling away from him. Pushing her knees closer to the back of the couch, she began to settle down on his prick. With one hand she guided his hot stick into the warm moist crevice he had just been exploring.
He brought his hands up between them to cup her full tits, to bring them above their sagging normal line. His fingers, with a little pressure, made deep indentations in her flesh.
Think about other things, other things, he told himself. He wanted to come so badly that he was red and tight-breathed from the effort of holding it back. She had a huge, wide, well-traveled cunt, but god! she was moving up and down on him like some fucking jackhammer. And she would close her cunt, her whole cunt, around him, squeezing his prick as though with a huge hand.
"You like that?" she asked. "You think that feels good?"
He could barely breathe, let alone reply. Her face had a fine, hardly visible film of sweat on it but was otherwise calm and quiet.
"Take your hands off my tits," she said. "You're hurting me." His fingers, his nails were gripping the twin globes of flesh. "I said, let go of my boobs, you stupid boy."
Her harsh tone of voice, her coldness made him angry.
"Don't tell me what to do, hag."
"Whom are you calling a hag?"
"You, bitch, don't tell me what to do." As he said it, the words surprised him. He'd never talked that way to anyone. What was she doing that made him so mad?
She was slowly decreasing her pace, as if losing interest in fucking him.
"What are you doing?" he said.
"What do you mean? Is something wrong, boy?" Anger rose in him like mercury in a thermometer.
"You'd better watch your mouth." He took one hand away from her tit. "You'd better watch your fucking mouth."
She stopped moving for a minute, resting on him. What the fuck are you up to you funky old hag? he thought, saying, "You getting tired or something?"
"Yeah, a little tired."
"Well, you'd better get untired pretty fast. Get that ass moving."
"I don't want to," she said, making him angry again; angrier.
"You started this, bitch. Now get that ass moving."
"I don't want to," she said. "Why the fuck should I?"
"Because if you don't I'll probably knock your fucking teeth in."
She started pulling away from him.
"I don't need any teenage boy telling me what to do."
"Move, dammit."
She tossed her head, moving around all the silvered curls.
He hit her with the side of his hand, on the cheekbone, then hauled back and slapped her as hard as he could with his whole hand: her eyes were just meeting his. They went wide, then immediately narrowed.
She pulled away from him again, leaning way back.
He hit her again, with the other hand, so hard that she fell back and began to fall from the couch. Grabbing her arm, he yanked her towards him. With one hand holding her, so she wouldn't fall, he began to hit her face, again and again, until his hand began to numb from the impact.
Narrow-eyed and silent, she began to pull her arm, trying to get free of him. He took one of her tits in his hand, and brought it to his face. With all the force he could find he bit the nipple.
At that, she screamed. A torrent of words escaped her, but he couldn't make them out.
"What did you say?"
In answer, she leaned forward and tried to bite him. Again he swung at her face, determined to make her whimper. Her head snapped back as he hit her. The second time he let go of her wrist and she tumbled from the couch onto the white rug.
Again he hit her; on the mouth this time. Her face twisted into a grimace of pain. "Bastard!" she spewed. He came off the couch after her, kneeling over her sprawled body. His cock was still hard, ready to ram in her.
He knelt, straddling her. Grabbing her tits, he raked them with his nails. When she struggled under him he felt wetness.
Reaching down, he explored her cunt. She was running wet, as full as a faucet. Well, this wasn't only pain for the old lady, eh? He had heard that some people really got it on when they were hurt, but this was the first he had actually met.
Grabbing her arm again, he started to rise and pulled her with him.
"Come on, bitch. Get up. We're going to fuck again; this time you're not going to stop, or to slow down, or to call me names."
She twisted and pulled, but wasn't actually putting much effort in the action. He sat on the couch and pulled her over.
"Back in the saddle, bitch."
"What do you want, huh?" she sounded a bit submissive.
"Get back in the saddle and ride me till I come, bitch." He laughed. "Jackhammer the way you did before you stopped. You can really move that ass, and move those muscles, can't you?"
"Lots of practice." A little defiantly.
"That's all right. I don't care if you're a fucking two-bit whore. I don't care if you've balled nine men already today. You know what you're doing, so do. Do!" He smiled lopsidedly. "How old are you anyway?"
"That's none of your business, kid."
"Maybe not. But still, how old? How long you been fucking?"
"I've been fucking damn near fifty years. You figure it from there. Maybe I started fucking at 20, maybe at 8. You figure it from there."
"Holy cow!" It sounded dumb, even to his own ears, but the combination of her potential age and the fact that she had just settled over his cock again were astonishing him.
Again she started up, down, up, down, all the time moving those internal muscles so that the sides of her cunt closed on him, and massaged him the full length of his prick. He had started to dry from the air, but she wet him with her syrup the whole length of his pole as he relaxed gratefully in the grasp of her cunt.
"You..." he said, then stopped. Finished the thought in his head. You could really wipe me out, now bitch. My reflexes are probably veiy slow now.
"Say something?"
"No."
"Oh."
Her eyes were closed. She wasn't touching him anywhere except at the cock and where it was necessary for their legs to touch so that she could keep her balance. Her arms were stretched passed him, her hands keeping her level by holding the back of the sofa.
His grandmother had been a thin woman, with the skin stretched so translucently that he felt he could see the bones beneath it. She had lain on a bed in an empty house, hardly breathing at all; dying. That skin, stretched so tightly, had been a sign of the toll of age. Her pallor had been a sign of death.
This woman was as pale, as thinly skinned, as skinny. Only she wasn't lying on her deathbed. She was straddling a teenage boy, fucking him with an incredible amount of agile strength.
What made one woman die, the other flourish, or at least be capable of active movement? This bitch's boobs were bouncing crazily. Damn, she could move!
Maybe this was something all women could do. Maybe, if his grandfather had been alive, Grandmother would have fucked him silly only a couple of weeks before she took to her deathbed. The thought made him smile.
The jackhammering of this cunt twisted that smile into a grimace. For a moment, he held back, then suddenly he spurted his load into her. Helplessly he felt the squeezes continue a minute, then her cunt relaxed, and all his come poured out of her.
CHAPTER SIX
Traffic was heavy, the drivers hot and irritable in the combination of California sun and L.A. smog. No one liked it when Georgie pulled the car over close to the lane of parked cars suddenly and Carol opened the door to get out.
"Half an hour?" Georgia asked.
"Maybe more like an hour, this time. His apartment for some reason. If his fucking parents are home I'm going to speed out of there before they even know they've seen me."
"I'll be in that cafe, over there. You know the one. After I shop a little."
"Okay." Carol slipped out just a small thin card-case, or something that looked as if it would carry credit cards. "For the bread." She put her purse in the glove compartment. "Lock up the car, okay."
"Sure."
"In an hour, then."
Carol got out of the car, quickly, moving through the parked cars to the tall apartment buildings. Taking a minute, she checked the numbers, then entered one. The elevator was behind a small gate. As she approached the desk a boy detached himself from one of the chairs near the door. Silently he fell in beside her. The man behind the desk looked up absently, nodded at the boy, and they passed through the gate.
They said nothing as they waited for the elevator. Someone was already in the small gilt box as the door opened. They entered; the boy pushed the eight button then stepped back. They said nothing. The man got out at six. A woman got in, asking, "Is this going down?"
"No, up," the boy said.
The tension was destroying Carol, but she said nothing. Carol and the boy got off at the eighth floor. The boy moved rapidly down the hall; Carol almost ran to keep up with him. At the door, she put a hand on his arm.
"Bruce? You're alone. I mean, your parents aren't home?"
"Of course. Did you think I'd tell you to come here if they weren't?"
"The thought occurred to me." No, she thought, it's been torturing me.
He was closing the door behind her, putting his key away.
"No," he said. "They're not here. They were all teary-eyed about leaving me on my fifteenth birthday. But they figured I am a big boy now." He grinned. "And they gave me an extra hundred this weekend, in case expenses came up"
She grinned at the thought. Her parents never gave her more than $10.00 at a time (unless she was shopping with something particular in mind) and that until she made her own money at a part-time job, at 17. But then she, unlike this boy, wasn't a successful male fashion model at age 12, either; with prospects of commercials by the time he is 16.
He stretched, sitting on the couch.
"How about right here, in the living room. Gold rug and all."
"It's luxury, after the back of that shop."
"Yeah, you can stretch out, too, and I can watch easier." He hesitated. "Could you take off all your clothes?"
She stopped, looked at him.
"I'll give you the extra hundred. If you take off all your clothes."
"Well, I...." Before she had always just worn a dress, no underwear, and they had hiked it up to her belly. She felt nervous in this apartment. "Are you sure there's no one here, or coming here later?"
"No one," the boy said. "Nobody is here No one is coming." He reached into his pocket. Flipping open the wallet he took out three bills. "Here. One for the regular, one more if you take off all your clothes, and fifty because you're nervous, and I don't want you to go away. Okay?"
"Okayyyy." God, two-hundred and fifty dollars. She took the money, and slipped it in her card holder. After she had put it on a table, she began to unbutton her dress.
"Are you wearing a bra?" '
"No." She unbuttoned the dress and pulled her arms from the sleeves. It dropped to the floor; she stepped out of the small pile of cloth, then bent to unfasten her sandals. When she straightened, she blushed. Only a thin creamy chemise was her protection from nudity. Her nipples were clearly visible, the patch of hair at her crotch dark against the thin material.
"My God!" he said. "God, that's as exciting as I had thought seeing you nude would be. But, go ahead, take it off."
She clipped the straps over her shoulders, and wriggled to get the clingy material away from her skin, and down to the floor.
"Ooa." he said, "how nice, Carol," She smiled suddenly, and relaxed.
She bad creamed and scented her body before she left th house. Standing there, she was aware of the faint sweet scent surrounding her. Her skin was smooth pale, creamy to the touch, she knew. And the muscles beneath them were lean and strong.
Years ago she had decided that while the years took their toll on many woman, she would not be one of them.
Father Time had battled her, but her urge to stay young, in looks at least, had kept her dieting, sleeping well, avoiding drink, exercising-though she hated it, and a slave to a regime of care that would frighten some women who declared themselves above that sort of stuff.
Yes, and most women her age were wrinkled, sagging, fatted, slowing, and dull. Not her! Her breasts were as proud and high as they had been at 16. Her belly was nearly flat, her legs and arms sculptured tiny.
Unconsciously she caressed her breasts with her hands, tracing their shape with a light touch, testing their weight. Her hands traveled the smooth clean curve of her waist, flared with her hips, and settled on the flat strength of her thighs. For a moment she toyed with the huge bush of hair which guarded the entrance to her pussy. Then her hands lifted and she brushed her loose hair from her back and shoulders and lifted it.
She smiled at him again, shaking her head. Raising her hands toward the ceiling with a laugh of pure animal delight in her being. With a quick turn she spun around her tits bouncing with the sudden movement. Again she shook her head, crazily, letting the hair tangle and fall where it wished.
Bruce was smiling at her, his mouth wide, those perfect teeth gleaming white. Leaning forward with a practiced gesture of grace he seemed to sniff the air. Something like an animal on the hunt, Carol thought.
"Sit down," he ordered suddenly, "right there, on the floor." She sat quickly, sinking to the floor with a graceful motion. "Spread your legs, you lovely, lovely lady. You beautiful bitch."
"Fifteen, eh? she asked. "Are you sure? You sound more worldly than half the middle-aged men walking around."
"Don't tease me," he said, grinning. "Let me see you, cunt."
"You see me. Don't you want to say, 'let me see your cunt'? "
"Picky, picky. That's why that old bastard Smith keeps you on as secretary, doesn't he? Doesn't he really trust your judgment? You pick boys and test their cock, or related skills, and tell him which ones are hardy enough to stand the rigors of this field."
"Bruce!"
"Just teasing."
"Well."
"Spread your legs, girl."
"Why?" She giggled.
"Why?" He pretended surprise. "Why?" He laughed. "Because this big black mean old mouth is going to eat up your pussy, pretty girl."
"Well, why didn't you say so?" She spread her legs as wide as she could. Then, slowly, she reached down to touch herself, but his hands stopped her. "No. I'll do that."
He stretched himself flat on his stomach and pulled himself over close to her. His face was barely an inch from her suddenly wet cunt. He sniffed again, closing his eyes.
"You've a lovely smell, bitch." he said. "Lovely."
"See how wet you made me?"
"Me? I did that?"
"Mm-huh. You did."
"Well, let me clean it up."
He slowly opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out at her. It was long, thick and bright pink. Almost as pink as the lips of her pussy.
Wriggling his tongue he barely touched her cunt, teasing the drops of liquid from it. His tongue moved from side to side, touching the swollen lips, quivering.
He began slowly to enter the hole. She was leaning back on outstretched arms, her head thrown back, eyes closed. His tongue probed into her cunt, licking, exploring, retreating gently, then heading forward again. Oh, she was thinking, oh, he does do lovely things with is tongue.
When his tongue was almost completely lost in the slick walls of her cunt, he quickly pulled it out. Leaning over, he bit her thigh, quickly. Her leg bent, in reflex. His head turned and her other thigh jumped as he bit it.
His nose nuzzled in the hair at her vee of flesh, and he was sniff rag again. He made a strangled sound, then darted his tongue again into her pussy.
He wriggled that tongue, coaxing still more wetness from her hole, sucking it up. His mouth closed over the whole expanse of her, and he took his tongue back. With his lips he coaxed the fluids into his mouth.
Carol still had her head back, waiting. She knew if she relaxed she would have a quick, shuddering climax And he would wait, holding off, and let his load explode into his pants when he knew she was off.
Her hair, on the back of her neck and down her back, teased the flesh. She tried to take her mind from the delicious tongue to concentrate on the slow tickle of her hair.
Almost without warning, too soon, she felt the sensations build in her. She cried out and he paused as if listening. She brought her head up, to watch him, and saw the slow, careful teasing his hips made on his cock. As if plunging into a pussy, in pantomime, he wriggled and bunched his ass.
Even under the cloth the working of his muscles was evident. His cock: the strong tool which he had resolved, he said, to never stick in a woman. But this brought his pleasure, this careful practiced licking he gave her. And it gave him pleasure to pay her-or maybe it just soothed his guilt over his lack of desire to fuck.
Crying out again, she climaxed: her cunt muscles closing on his tongue, full in her. Again his mouth closed over her. He sucked the juice from her as it flooded her cunt, eagerly. She saw him stiffen and jerk suddenly.
Bruce relaxed then, his tongue back in his mouth, kissing her now-red lips tenderly. After a moment he pulled away from her to get up.
"Well?" she asked, knowing this was part of the ritual. She had to ask him how it was.
"I felt like some bright, orange light exploded in my gut. My belly is all warm inside, illuminated, and God, I just feel warmth radiating from my belly to my whole body. From my cock, to my whole body."
"Good. Sounds as if it was good."
"Yes, good."
"Good."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, Bruce."
"Carol?" She stiffened. Again? What was bothering him now. It was his habit, she knew, to ask her about jobs, or problems with his career after he had come. Though usually he waited until they were settle in a cafe, drinking coffee. But, well, here there was no one to bother them.
"Yes?"
"Friday, on that jeans job."
What happened now? She wondered if this would be a variation of an old problem. Rarely did anything else new, or unusual come up. Someone had made a crack about his age, or his size.
"What happened, Bruce?"
"Well, you see..." he said, and began to tell her about it. She sat up as he talked, and began to put on her chemise.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Georgie was sipping slowly at a tall, iced glass of juice. The stuff was bitter tasting, acrid, but then it was supposed to be completely natural with nothing artificial added. They usually squeezed the fruit in the back room when you ordered it.
The blue-jeaned waiter was disappointed when she asked for orange juice.
"We do have other kinds of juice," he said. "Carrot, apple,. . . "
"I know," she interrupted. "I would like a glass of orange juice, please."
He had looked at her strangely then, scribbling on his pad and taking the menu away with him. Waiting, she leaned back against the wall behind her, extending her legs to keep her balance. She was in the corner, out of the main current of air from the fan. But here, at least, it was a bit darker and she could watch people without being watched.
Forty-five minutes had passed since she had dropped Carol in front of the apartments a couple of blocks down. A small pile of packages testified to the shopping she had done. Totally useless stuff, she thought, smiling: a few scarves, costume jewelry and a heavy, earthenware bowl she could float flowers in.
Carol wasn't in the room, so she must still be at that boy's place. That whole situation amused Georgie. What would the boy think if he knew that Carol would let him go down on her whether or not he paid her? And he shelled out a hundred dollars every time he came near her-as well as picking up the tab if they ate anywhere afterwards.
Usually Georgie waited for Carol while she met the boy. Carol rarely was gone more than 30 minutes, and she felt safer with Georgie near, waiting for her.
More than once Georgie had told her that if she was so frightened, she should tell the kid she couldn't meet him anymore.
But it was easy money, and took so little time. And, she thought again, Carol would have done it anyway-for the pure pleasure of the act. She had told Georgie more than once that the boy was a genius with his tongue. Almost as good with it as some men are with their cocks.
Georgie smiled a little at the thought. The boy wouldn't be as good as Harry, in any case. She had sized him up as they sat in cafes, watching the movements he made, the way he carried himself. He may be a famous, rich, boy genius of a model, but that didn't make him any less scared. Making a lot of money made a difference, too.
While money was nice and certainly bought a lot of things, it put him far away from the class of people that many blacks would associate with. They frowned on him, she knew, because he was making money, kowtowing to the "establishment" to pile up lots of that long green, and to gain a fame of sorts.
Carol had never seen it, she said, but Georgie guessed that his cock was not all that large. Sure he was a big boy, with a long, strong build that carried clothes well. But big man did not mean big dick.
Of course, big dick didn't mean big satisfaction, either. Some big athletic fellows are so clumsy, so muscle-bound that they could barely move atop a woman. They prefer the woman to climb on top of them and do all the moving around.
What was his name? She remembered one fellow like that. Yes, he had really a big one, but unfortunately rather dumb. He moved almost as slowly as his mind worked, except on the football field. There, despite the huge pile of equipment he had to wear, he seemed to prance down the field as though touched by some special gift of speed.
She had met him at a football game, or rather, after one. A bunch of people had gathered in a small dingy-looking restaurant after the game and huddled together at tables, as if to keep warm.
Not long after they had ordered their coffees or hot chocolates the doors had been flung open. Several members of the victorious home team charged in. After pausing a moment to accept the cheers of the crowded tables they distributed themselves among the fans.
So they wouldn't have to pay for their drinks, Georgie had thought. This guy, a huge, wide-shouldered guy, had decided to come over where she and Carol sat, in comparative isolation. At his yell, a couple of his team members had stopped trying to push into an already-crowded booth and had joined them.
High school kids maybe; but these were the big ones. Exchanging a glance, she and Carol had decided that this Saturday night would be a celebration of the football game.
Half-expecting to be overpowered, they had taken two of them home with them, and rapidly to bed.
The kid had undressed rapidly, as soon as the bedroom door closed. He didn't seem to need any coaxing. Or reassurances that it would be all right to be here with an older woman. By then, the two seemed to have decided they had been picked up by women older than they were used to.
Almost before she had closed the door and turned to talk to him he had stripped and was finding a comfortable place on her bed.
"Eat me."
The command startled her. "Well, please?"
She didn't say anything. Slowly Georgie stripped, hanging up the clothes, slipping into a soft, clingy robe. When she turned to look at him again he hadn't even developed a hard-on.
"You sure take your time. I thought you ladies were really hot."
One eyebrow lifted, but she still said nothing.
"You should eat me, first. Then I'll have a nice big erection. Then you can fuck me."
She studied him at her leisure. His shoulders were as broad as she had imagined, and the muscles which covered his body were strong-looking, bulging. His cock, too, was large, and bulging. At ease, the damn pole was thick, almost as thick as her wrist. And long, about as long as her hand. It rested limply on the huge sack of his balls. The whole business was wrinkled.
It would grow to something quite huge, she thought. What a shame he is so unwilling to use the equipment. Or even to let it grow, to simply let it grow.
"Well?" he asked. "Well, come on. Eat me. Lick me up. Suck my dick. Or don't you know how?"
"Hey, kid," she said softly. "Are you nervous or something?" It had been a guess, just a well-trained guess, but the arrow seemed to hit home.
He flinched, and looked away from her level eyes. After a moment and a deep breath he looked back. Well, she thought, three points for poise. He looked at her for a long moment, slowly moving his eyes up and down her body.
"That's why we're here, isn't it?" he asked. "To fuck, to suck, all of that stuff."
"Well," she said, then paused for a moment, Would a touch of bitchiness, cruelty, be worth it? "Why don't you get a hard-on, or do something toward promoting fucking and sucking? Eh?"
She sat carefully in a small chair near the closet, and curled her legs up near her body. By keeping her heels close to her pussy she knew he could see nothing but her chest.
He hesitated, unsure of his next move. Slowly, he pulled himself up, by sheer muscle. His belly flexed smoothly. Watching the well-trained muscles she felt a surge of lust. Ah, but it would be nice to have those strong muscles of his belly flat against hers, with those strong arms holding her legs hard against her chest. And that tight, sweet ass bunching as he slid his huge cock in her, out of her.
Just at the memory, her cunt closed a little, in yearning.
But he had been clumsy, not knowing exactly what to do and in despair she had gotten him back down on the bed. To get him started she had licked that long pole, persuading it to grow a few inches.
"You do it," he had asked. So she climbed on him as he stretched out flat on his back, and inserted that huge, disappointing tool into her cunt. She had worked on him, moving her cunt furiously over him, until his lust exploded. So much jism shot into the recesses of her pussy that it flowed out onto her leg.
She had had to go wash off afterward, annoyed by the stickiness.
The experience had warned her against huge athletic men. Most of the boys she knew were tall, basically skinny.
But how many fat teenage kids were there with all the speed freaks running around? With the emphasis on looking rough, tough, and revolutionary?
The waiter at these corner tables was an ideal example. His jeans were worn skin-close, faded. He was skinny with narrow hips and a barrel chest which was probably quite strong. Even his face was lean, with hair brushing against jutting cheekbones. They weren't exactly high cheekbones, but his thinness brought them out.
He moved quickly, purposefully, his shoulders slightly bent forward. He was moving toward her. Behind him Carol glided slowly forward in that particularly liquid way she had.
She was followed by Bruce: huge, thin, dressed quite well. They smiled faintly-causing Georgie to also smile.
They sat and ordered tea from the waiter. Both greeted her yet continued a conversation begun as they walked here. After their tea came and they had stirred in sugar and waited for it to cool, Carol looked at Georgie's wristwatch to check the time.
Heading home soon, Georgie thought.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Well?"
"Is that enough for you."
"Enough?"
"Yes, or shall I jam my cock in further."
"Will it go any further?"
In answer, he wriggled his pelvis and removed his cock just enough to show the tangles of pubic hair where they joined.
"Well, bitch?"
"Well, what?"
"Are you going to scream when I stick the bottom of your heart."
"Brag, brag."
Oliver felt giddy. They were nearly breathless and had paused the mad pace of their fucking long enough to catch their breath. Their conversations were catching them off-guard or taking up much of their air.
But he had lost tract of how long they had been fucking. After his first climax, with his cock nearly straight into the air though tucked into her cunt, they had fallen apart and cooled.
Almost immediately she had curled down on his belly, licking sperm and her juices from his cock. Damn if it hadn't immediately come up to . the occasion.
Now they were tight together, her feet tucked behind her head, half his weight on her upturned cunt, half on his knees and outstretched arms. Her short platinum hair was mussed, her eyes misty with sweat.
Oliver was developing a healthy respect for little, well-trained women. This tiny bitch might be near sixty, but he was excited by the mere fact of her experience.
Yes, some young girls he knew were full, round, well-fleshed, and had appealing smiles. But this weekend he was realizing the many benefits of age. Now he could understand why some men sang the praises of older women. There was a book by that name, he thought, but he could not remember the author-nor had any desire to look it up.
Well, not now. He pulled his cock a bit further from her slurping cunt, taking a deep breath to hold as he slammed down into her as hard as he could.
He heard her gasp; her eyes glazed.
"You like?"
"I like."
"More?"
"Please."
"Harder?"
"Yes."
You really like to be hurt, don't you, bitch? he thought. Before this experience Oliver had always taken special care to be gentle with females. Although he had yet to meet a virgin, he had determined that should that unlikely event occur, he would be as gentle, as unhurting as possible.
But maybe all women liked to be hurt a little. In any case, some of them liked to be hurt a lot. For this last group, pain translated into pleasure after a certain point.
He grabbed her shoulders, letting his nails rake into her flesh, ramming his cock into her again. Watching, he saw the change in her face again. This time she let all of her breath escape in a low moan.
"More?"
"Please."
"Here." Grunting, he began to thrust into her with a slow but even rhythm, each thrust as hard as his strength would allow.
She was making small, low sounds now constantly. Except to arch a little as he penetrated her, she didn't move. Sweat poured, slicking her body so he could keep hold of her only by gripping hard with his nails.
Her eyes were open, but she didn't see anything; it spurred him on to see how attuned to her own body she was. And, he thought, it was obvious he was reaching her in a way. How else could he communicate so well with a woman probably three times his age?
Generation gap! what a thought. Fuck to bridge the generation gap. How revolutionary a thought that really was. Yet if he went home and tried to take his mother to bed to understand her better she would pack him off to the priest or to a doctor
Now his daydream of fucking his mother resoundingly in the ass seemed a bit harsh. Unless, of course, he had no tender feelings for her. Or she really liked to be hurt.
like this bitch, this godawful beautiful old bitch so connected to him and so lost in her own world. Later he would ask her what she was feeling, what she was thinking, how she liked a kid, a kid! fucking her.
Kid, eh? Damn; if anyone had ever done better than this, he wanted to know how. He had never tried harder in any case; fucked with his whole soul, his whole body, only a small piece of his mind remained his own.
He'd never been able to do this before. Anyone else he'd ever run across he had had to keep busy with surface relationships. This bitch just wanted to fuck, to be fucked.
And his stiff raging cock was pounding sweet hell out of her flexing cunt. She was stretched by the years, so that clutching movement she made must be instinct. Her cunt seemed to caress the thrusting tool as though by a hand, or the tighter passageway of a much younger woman.
Leaning over he nipped at her breast with his teeth. She was soft in so few places, and so bony in every other place.
Pounding her steadily with his cock, he felt her passion tightening her. She seemed to be winding as slowly as a casually wound watch spring.
Her voice seemed to tighten, too, to raise in pitch as she approached release. She was whining, her hands raked his back. Then without warning she screamed and her grip on him tightened. Her whole body arched up toward him.
He had thought it impossible, but her chest was touching his, her head completely back, twisting from side to side. Although he tried, he could not keep up the pace, and held his cock deep in her.
Her cunt seemed to close on him more tightly than ever.
Slowly she relaxed and collapsed back on the floor. Her face was soft, seemed more fleshy than it had been, a grin widened the bottom of her face, and her eyes were normal again, watching him intently.
"Well?" she asked. "Are you ready now."
"Ready?"
"Yes. Thank you, by the way."
"Oh. Sure." For a moment he felt a thrill of worry. She didn't want to talk now, surely? He just wanted to keep on fucking her. No talk.
"Hey?"
"Yes?"
"Don't stop. But why don't you fuck me in the ass now."
"Well ... "
"Go ahead. If you've never done it before, it's all right. You won't have any problem. Not you." That reassured him, and he smiled at her. Carefully he pulled away and brought his cock carefully out. She wriggled around so that she could get some fingers into her cunt.
She brought out wet, slick fingers and worked them slowly into her ass-hole.
"Now you," she said. "Go ahead, wet down that tight brown hole."
Damn, he thought, she certainly knows how to keep my interest up. Kneeling, half-sitting on his haunches, he probed her slippery pussy with his fingers, gathering up the slightly sticky come with care not to scrape her with his fingernails.
Then, still amazed, he worked those fingers into her ass-hole; spreading the come like a salve. She was cooing at him; talking lowly in words he couldn't quite make out.
His cock felt twice as hot as it should be in the relative coolness of the air. It was drying a little bit still stiff with the need to pound into her until she cried out again.
With the need, too, to pound until all this stiff need turned to softening, liquid, hot release. Oliver was torn between the desire to burst free and the urge to keep fucking as long as the woman had fluid to produce.
After a couple of forays with his fingers, the ass-hole seemed wet enough to try. She was relaxing, too, letting him probe her tighter channel.
"Stick your cock back in my cunt, get it wet, again, slosh around in there, then slam into my ass. It doesn't matter if it hurts."
"You'd rather I hurt, wouldn't you?"
"Yes, go ahead, hurt me!" she said, in an intense, quiet whisper. "Fuck my ass until I bleed."
Her talk was exciting him. The very thought of screwing that much tighter little hole was tensing him, teasing his cock, and her quiet whispering made it worse-or better, depending how you look at it.
Stroking her wet cunt was reflex action, so preoccupied was he with the idea of screwing her ass. He felt at home in this wider, but quite exciting cunt. Now her ass-hole would be a new entry to her body. In his freer fantasies he had never imagined fucking so much or so wildly in one 24-hour period.
When he started to pull out she slipped away from him quickly. Startled, he jerked back. Had she changed her mind? She was grabbing a pillow from the couch. After she had flipped over onto her stomach, she jammed the pillow under, raising her skinny haunches.
Lifting her legs closer to her chest brought her cheeks far apart. She used her hands as a sort of pillow, to cushion her head. Lying like that, she looked something like a frog.
So he would fuck an old, whitened frog. Only her skin was softer than a frog. And she had hair. But once he had begun, he would close his eyes and maybe the fantasy would come back.
Right now he was about to screw the ass of a skinny old lady who had the miraculous power of keeping his lust at a high pitch. After just a minute's hesitation, he used a hand to guide his prick to the round muscled hole, then, gathering his strength, jammed it into her.
She made a sound of pleasure as he did. Through the sudden fog of sensation he heard the sound and felt satisfaction there. But he was busy sucking his breath sharply between his teeth, gasping with the delight of this tight hole.
Here was a hole as tight as any girl's cunt he had ever known. Carol and this bitch had shown him that women got bigger as they grew older, though that did not take away from the pleasure of fucking them. Now he knew how old women could keep their hot-blooded studs happy.
He tried to stop himself from thinking. Sure, it keeps you hard longer, but this sweet bitch didn't seem to need much more fucking. Though she certainly enjoyed it, he could relax now, and let his load burst out of his cock.
She was moving her hands, letting her head rest at an awkward angle, and she moved now so that her hands were touching her cunt. Watching, with half of his mind he imagined her fingers carefully stroking the small bud of her clit, while the rest of his mind concentrated on the flow of feeling that surged from his cock.
If it were possible to fuck a Coke bottle it couldn't be much tighter than this. He had to push hard in order to get in as far as, with her cunt, what would be a smooth stroke. Coming out created incredible suction, working to keep his cock deep in her.
It wasn't going to take long. His body was tensing; of his own will he held the start of his climax to the sharp, bright feeling that seemed to burn the base of his cock
Then he gave in to let the heavy load of his desire spurt up her ass. A long time he let his climax take him far inside himself. Gradually he came to the realization that his cock was jammed tightly into her ass while the rest of him was collapsed around her thin body.
She was still moving, working her cunt with her fingers, maybe with her whole hand. Her movements were carefully controlled, but she did not hesitate because his weight was on her.
With a sudden short spasm she came again, making no noise. Her muscles worked and her ass with them. To his amazement she seemed to be milking his cock. It was happening-but he could barely feel the trickle of thinner fluid leave his cock.
"Pull out, please," she asked, "your cock is itchy for some reason." He smiled. "Got the itch for me, have you?" She giggled.
"Will you pull that fucking cock out of my ass-hole, please."
"Sure. You know, that didn't seem to hurt." She sighed.
"I've been fucking people with my ass for a long, long time kid."
"But you were so tight. Wouldn't that stretch you?"
"It did."
"But."
"Wait until you fuck a virgin ass, then you'll know."
He said nothing.
"There are some benefits to being a virgin anything," she said. "Some day you'll be old, too, and you'll have tried everything."
What could he say? He was suddenly too tired to try thinking of anything to say. It was unnecessary, anyway.
* * *
Dressed, they sat in the kitchen, The Platinum Bitch made tea and perched on a stool across from him, sipping it carefully. Now that he had the chance, he was studying her.
Around her eyes there were definite signs of age; lines that even care and good makeup could not hide. Her hands, too, were lined. He noticed how each pink nail was carefully polished and cut the same length.
She sat straight with her head high. That must help to keep the wrinkles from lining her throat. Her bare arms showed a touch of flab, a bit of looseness at the tops. When she was dressing he had noticed the same thing at the tops of her thighs.
Other than that, she seemed to be in fine shape. Awfully thin but otherwise fine. Until this moment of quiet they had talked casually back and forth; he found her quite aware of the changes in the world and of it's present state.
Both of them lifted their heads as a car pulled into the driveway. After a minute its doors slammed, then the sound of footsteps on the gravel.
Carol and Georgie came in the door chattering busily, dumping packages on the couch.
Oliver watched Carol look in their direction and smile as she saw the two of them.
"Hello, Mother, Oliver," she said. "I knew you were here as soon as I saw a strange car in the driveway."
She walked toward them. Oliver was still swallowing his surprise, trying not so seem shocked. "Where did you get that car? Another new one!"
"Reggie. He's rather extravagant. When the Fiat broke down he said to just forget it. He doesn't like to repair things."
"Carol..." Oliver began. She looked at him questioningly. He smiled uncertainly. "Hello."
She smiled back at him radiantly.
"Hello," she answered. Then her attention went back to her mother.
"Maybe he was just jealous that Father gave you an Alfa Romeo. How do you know he didn't do something to the Alfa?"
"I'm sure he did. The garage said it was a clear case of ... mischief."
"Well, what did he give you?"
"A Triumph." She laughed. "British engineering, my God! But it can make some quick little moves when I want it to."
Carol smiled, and nodded.
"So that's three of your own; cars, I mean," Georgie said.
"Yes. One is mine, the Fiat, one Carol's father got for me, and the Triumph, of course. There's the Rolls, or the Jag, when we get racy."
"You're seeing a lot of Reggie ... " Carol began.
"Yes, Carol, I know. I suppose you want to know if I'm planning on leaving your father."
"Well . ... "
"Well, I'm not. I told you two years ago I was tired of all that sort of game, and I meant it. I will fuck around all I choose, but I won't leave your father again." The Platinum Bitch could be quite calm and cold when she so chose ... but she was smiling, too.
"It's quite tiring to leave him, my dear," she continued. "I always go back. He knows I'll come back and doesn't even bother to send for me." Her smile widened. "He's still the best, most consistently good lover I've ever had. Besides being the richest. It took me two years of careful strategy to get him and I've had him thirty years now; why should I toss that over for some vain, middle-age bore?"
Carol's face changed expression suddenly. Her eyes shifted to Oliver, then back to her mother. Not in front of the children, she seemed to be saying. But....
"And this child, no matter how wonderfully enticing, is not about to forsake all and spend all of his time with an old bitch like me. And what else would he do? Some of these young ones, except for the artists and musicians, have no concept of how to fill their time."
Georgie laughed suddenly, loudly. Her good-natured merriment seemed to lighten the mood and to automatically change the subject.
"Let me show you what I got," Georgie said. "She, Carol," with a nod in her direction, "spends tons of money, but she got some of the most gorgeous things I've seen in a long time. Silky, sexy things. Wait, Oliver, you'll see."
"Georgie!" the Platinum Bitch said, playfully.
Oliver sat back bored as they began to show off the wares of their expedition.
CHAPTER NINE
There were five of them at dinner. They were all sprawled around the low table in one corner of the living room. With Georgie's pillows thrown everywhere and candles for illumination, the place had lost its virginal look.
The wine may have helped that, too. Oliver's vision, having had quite a lot of wine, was rather blurred around the edges. The others, except for Harry, had had enough to relax them. Harry sat calmly leaning back against the wall, pillows piled around him. He still toyed with the first glass of wine he had been poured.
But he was smiling. Every now and then his eyes slid over to Georgie and he let them travel the length of her body, which was reclining lazily. Georgie had a pale green dress on, a sort of Grecian robe falling straight from her shoulders.
Her magnificent pouting breasts jutted out, giving the dress form. It clung barely to her hips. The dress fell from one side of her body as she deliberately displayed her form.
For Georgie knew he was watching. Knew he wanted her. At a crook of her finger or an inclination of her head they would both rise; by the time they reached the bedroom his cock would be stiff against his jeans, and he would be hot for her, panting.
It would not take much to arouse her either. Even now, if he caught her in a glance off-guard, she felt dribbles of moisture between her carefully crossed legs and the lips of her cunt itched for him. The wine had forced her guard down and an occasional flash of memory would sneak in. Memory of this afternoon was devastating. Her body ached to have his cock embedded in her again.
Oliver's attention was divided. He was fascinated by Carol, who wore only a loose, nearly transparent dark shift which barely reached her thighs. Her tits were plainly visible, the nipples brushing the cloth, and her triangle of hair vaguely visible. A glimpse of it teased him, and he would drop his hand into his lap. The excuse would be to get his napkin, wipe his fingers, but his fingers served as a warning to his cock.
There was every reason why the long shaft should be tired and disinterested but the thing still began to poke its head up.
The Platinum Bitch didn't help by wearing the same dress she had worn this afternoon. Each time he watched her, memory of the afternoon flooded him.
Gradually he had learned her name-Yvonne-and he tried to use it. He was afraid to slip and call her "Bitch." The others did not seem to know that they had ... he wanted to say slept together, but rejected the bland phrase. They had fucked. Balled. Fornicated. Or, since she was married, committed adultery.
But was she really married in the sense that he had always understood the term? No. She loved her husband but they stayed together also because of money, tax benefits and a kind of friendship.
He didn't really understand, but at this point in the evening it didn't matter much. He'd had much too much wine.
The Platinum Bitch, Yvonne, had had a great deal to drink, too, by his count. He had been so busy watching her that keeping count of her drinks and of what she ate seemed natural. But she seemed as composed, as self-possessed, as Harry. Except for an occasional bout of giggles she was, on the surface, no different drunk than sober.
Harry had said something dry and very funny; all five were laughing heartily, involved in their amusement. None of them saw the tall, slender man in a dark suit come in, through the door, propped open for air.
When she looked up, suddenly, ready to top Harry's joke, Georgie saw him. Her face went white. Even in the soft light it was evident. Harry went stiff, and his eyes followed the line of her vision.
The newcomer's hair was dark, cut close to his head on the sides, balding on top. His features were softened by fat, but he was trim enough elsewhere. He walked near the table then stopped uncertainly, swaying.
Everyone watched him. No one said a word. The others didn't see Georgie slowly get to her feet and close the space between them. Carefully she put out her hand; he took it in both of his, grasping, shaking it a little.
"Paul," she said. "How nice of you to just drop by. Have you eaten?" Say the right thing, she told herself. Be polite. Re correct. He is your husband. He pays the bills. If you see him unexpectedly, it shouldn't . ...
But the sight of him made her suddenly stone cold sober. Why now? They saw each other once a week in his office or in the living room of the house that had once been hers too.
He had never come here before. She had lived here for years, and he had never been to the place. What could have brought him here now? If they had had children she would have been fearful of them. But what could have gone wrong? What?
A nagging fear sprung up in her; she took a long breath, as if that would help, and tried to smile.
Turning to the table, she said, "People, this is my husband, Paul." Then, going around the table, "This is Yvonne, Carol's mother, and Oliver, of course you know Carol, and Harry." Did her voice quaver? She was so afraid of betraying Harry ... Paul might be here on a mission of jealousy. After all these years?
Yvonne, blessed with an inborn sense of danger, rose.
"Paul," she said. "Do come and sit by me." Walking near him she extended her arm. Automatically he took it. She brought him around the table and guided him down.
"Let me get you a glass and some silver. That's really marvelous stew. Or have you eaten?"
She seemed to have awakened the social rituals in him, because he blinked, looking at her for the first time. She was bending solicitously over him, and incidentally giving him a generous view of her tits. It was the only generous portion of her body.
"Yes, Yvonne was it?-I think I could eat something, if it's not any trouble."
"Of course not," she murmured, and moved into the kitchen.
"Georgie, how are you, dear?"
"Quite fine, thank you. How have you been?"
She was continuing to talk, but her mind had left the situation. Perhaps I've lost my mind, she thought. Perhaps I'm better off not knowing what I'm doing. You look fine, you bastard, why are you here? she wanted to scream at him but kept her voice carefully modulated. Leaning gracefully to him, she lead the conversation into common topics.
What am I doing sitting down? she thought suddenly. How did I get here? But her mouth kept working, until enough string was unraveled so the cat would play with the yarn.
All of the kittens would, as a matter-of-fact. She could relax. React automatically. Trust Carol, and Yvonne. They wouldn't let it go bad. They would cover the wrong thing said.
The old whore Yvonne might even get him into a corner by herself, and work on making him forget why he was here. Ply him with wine, seduce him. The thought was almost funny. She wanted to laugh. But almost screamed.
WHY WAS HE HERE?
She leaned back trying to relax. She shut her eyes but the fear rose from every side. She opened her eyes and watched the other five. It was as if she were watching a play.
WHY WAS HE HERE?
* * *
Paul sat on a huge pillow separated somehow from the rest, leaned against the wall, with his long legs bent before him. He was acutely uncomfortable. At odd moments he looked about him, taking in the room, the furnishings, the statements on the posters, the half-open closet.
Everyone had come in after dinner and tossed the pillows back onto her bed. Georgie was stretched on them now, flat on her back. She had one hand, palm up, on her forehead.
They had been silent for almost five minutes now. Georgie was determined to let him make all the moves. She didn't know why he was here and she was afraid to throw him clues to her fear.
He would Use them later, she knew. He was inevitably sadistic when it came to arguments. Years ago she may have accidentally damned his favorite tie. Should a chance open, he would toss that into the conversation. Or talk about one of the series of sexual fiascos that had led to their separation. Paul had a very destructive way of talking about sex. He could pull her apart in secondsthen enjoy studying the remains.
He spoke abruptly in a low voice. She could barely hear him. There was some kind of financial disaster at the office. The whole shebang stood to lose a million dollar contract. It was his fault, yet you couldn't fire the owner-only humiliate him.
Someone, he said, was out to embarrass him. To beat his pale, pudgy ass pink, streaked with flecks of blood, Georgie fantasized.
Of course, they were her images. He couldn't speak imaginatively at all. Throughout the years they had lived together, Paul had never compared her to his mother. Neither favorably nor disagreeably. It was a simple matter. He couldn't imagine any possible connections between the purebred
Boston lady transplanted to the garish Southwest with this redheaded, part Mexican, part Irish hellion. Even if the redhead is as carefully trained as his mother and they both had the same snobbish standards in society.
They liked each other. Paul couldn't figure out why. There was every logical reason for them to be incompatible. To fight incessantly over the smallest details.
However, they rather adored each other. It was almost like complimenting the woman who has the rare good taste to know everything about who made your dresses and of course, have the same couturier yourself.
His mother had been to this house before, on routine visits. She treated their separation quite matter-of-factly. Why shouldn't they live apart if it suits them? She and her current husband discussed the matter one evening. He was amazed that she rather liked the way the place was put together.
Secretly she wondered why Paul hadn't fought to get her back. Exercised, taken mistresses to practice with, dressed a little less conservatively, and worked a little more during office hours and less after them.
But there was big money trouble at the office. He was worried sick. He was tired. He had been fighting this battle alone for ten years, no, more like fifteen, and he was revolted by the thought of continuing the battle alone.
Suddenly Georgie knew what was coming. It was like being hit in the stomach. No, of course not a divorce. He had no desire to go looking for another woman. A male companion might be arranged, but he preferred to keep his sexual life apart. He was too lazy to track down and to train a suitable wife.
"I wonder, Georgianna, if you would consider, I mean think about it first, but maybe you would..."
"No."
"But you haven't even heard the question, Georgianna," he whined childishly. "I know what you're going to ask Paul."
"But ... "
"I won't come live with you again. Not even with separate bedrooms. Not for four times the cash every week that I have now. Not if I can have all the lovers I want. Not if you will not touch me, nor even kiss me, and keep your little boys as discreet as ever. Twice as discreet. No."
"Georgie. ... " He was nonplussed. Logical, well-thought-out Paul-speechless. Though not witty, he'd always had an answer. Until now. Head rested in his hands, his shoulders caved in. He was silent.
A streak of pity flooded her and, as quickly, disappeared. She didn't know why, but she knew that he had been driven to come here, to ask her.
"Let's not talk about it Paul. We really have nothing to talk about. Unless you're interested in a divorce."
His head came up. "No! I won't divorce you. And
I won't let you divorce me."
"I sure could find a way if I wanted to."
"Why would you want to? There'd be less money."
But I'd be free of you, she thought. I wouldn't have to make those forays into your world and come out exhausted. I might have to work, but I wouldn't have to pay for my money in blood. You're polite enough, Paul dear, but you still get your fucking blood.
He was getting up. When he floated into her vision, she brought her hand down from her forehead and studied him. Half-smiling, he looked down at her. His eyes traveled the length of her body then back to her face.
An alarm bell sounded in her. She froze. Oh no!
God, no!
Before she knew what he was doing he grabbed the long gown by the neck and ripped it from her body in one strong yank.
The effort brought her up from the bed a little, and the gown from her. Her sudden nakedness disarmed her. Fear sped into her blood and clouded her vision, her reason. She was aware that he had roughly twitched her legs apart, but she couldn't move.
For a moment he seemed to study the cunt before him. The lips were tight together with their own moisture, the insides of her thighs pure silk in the dimmed light. With one finger he spread the lips and studied their pale color. Suddenly he jammed three fingers into her cunt.
In fear she tightened her cunt on his fingers. As it did he made a sound of pleasure, or of sudden de--. sire. His thumb closed on her clit, pushing at the small mound, working it roughly. She pulled back because of the irritation but his hand followed.
Unexpectedly, she creamed. Against her will, desire welled in her. A moan escaped her throat, a moan of protest. No. Oh, no. But automatically, her hips ground up a little in response to his probing fingers.
At each disclosure of her mounting passion, Paul felt the heavy stick in his pants throb. His urge for her had been mostly dispassionate anger, but now he found himself pounding with the desire to fuck her.
Every time they had fucked before, long before they had separated, he would fuck her until she cried out for him to stop. His control was such that he could have gone on for as long as it took her to be satisfied. But over the years, pride in fucking her to exhaustion faded.
He got exhausted first, or became too selfish to think of any interest other than his own. Even now, at the office, he could only think of his plight at the loss of a huge account.
It had been so many years since he had fucked her. Anticipation made him harder. This would be his first woman in months. Men were easier to come by, and he felt safer with men. Now he disregarded his need for safety. Now . ...
Now he would fuck her again, as long as he could, until she screamed at him to stop, then whispered her request. Now ...
He worked the fourth finger into her cunt. Another moan. She creamed so heavily it seemed to flood his hand. His thumb worked mercilessly at her clit, provoking an unwitting response.
His prick was hot, huge, heavy in his pants. God! he hadn't wanted a woman this badly in years. There had been only one woman after Georgie left him who had meant anything-only one woman who had inspired any kind of desire.
Perhaps Georgie would always enflame him this way, if he relaxed his control. His fingers working in her cunt were working juices out of her, were working his cock to the point of explosion.
He wanted to fuck her though, to feel his load of sperm rise in the seemingly limitless reaches of her cunt. He wanted to unite with her as fully as possible, to give her the gift of his union. He wanted that blessed relief that comes after ejaculation.
Quickly he pulled his hand away from her body. She started, looking up at him in surprise. A little dazed, she watched him pull his jacket off, his shirt after it, an undershirt. Shoes, socks. Her breathing was jagged, the rising and fall of her tits enticing. Quickly he stripped his pants, his shorts.
Naked, he thought. He never dreamed he would ever again be naked with this woman, about to fuck her. When they had separated he had resigned himself to never again joining her, that their bodies would never unite to form the crazy double-backed animal of lust.
Was it lust, or love? he wondered, mounting her. What was it that motivated him? As his cock pushed the lips of her cunt wide, he questioned himself. Plunging into the depths of her body....
For Georgie there was no wonder. The vague, compelling desire she had known was gone as he climbed to perch over her body. When his prick forced into her vulva she felt herself begin to go cold. Deep inside, in the pit of her being she felt the coldness begin.
It would grow as they fucked, as this smooth in-and-out motion he made speeded and pushed more urgently. As his need grew, hers would diminish. How had she ever let this happen. Again. She swore it would never happen again, each time, but here, years later ... again.
With each shove into her cunt, her loathing grew. With each withdrawal of his cock from her body came an urge to push him away. If she could endure long enough he would spasm and jerk and shoot up his jism into her and pull away, heaving himself far from her body. Then it would be over; this time she would resolve to never let it happen again.
As his pace increased she decided that the end must come. She would divorce him. Not one of his arguments would hold, not next to this. She could not bear this hot stick between her legs, this gasping, sweaty body pressed on hers. His silly moans and cries annoyed her; the automatic response of her cunt with fluid to lubricate his prick's passage repulsed her.
She was not touching him with her hands or her mouth, and she did not move in answer to his jerking pelvis. The sudden thought of her hands once exploring his ass, thrilling to the clenching of his muscles as he fucked her ... she was going to be sick even at the thought.
Now he murmured her name, his hands came up into her hair and his mouth sought her. He was getting clammy, cold to her touch. It must be my own body, Georgie thought. He's in the heat of his passion. This softened, thickened body is in the throes of passion. Passion. She wanted to laugh.
Then she wanted to cry. Her husband. He was her husband. No. No, never again. After all the soft touches of young men with their strong, lean hands, as she rested in the arms of a firm, sweet, hot body-this? No. No. Never again.
Would he finish? Would he ever finish? Was he going to pound at her body until she died? Until she screamed? Until she pushed him away? What was he waiting for?
Paul was waiting for her response to build, for her passion to culminate, to explode. He thought her overcome by desire, lost in the sudden love-making of her husband-her husband of many years, of much of her young life. How different it must be, thought Paul, to be fucking a grown man, a mature adult man, with control, with concern for her fulfillment.
Ah, he loved her more than ever. How he loved her! He could fuck her now forever. Forever. It would be good like this always for them. Always, until they were too old for fucking, they would just hump, hump, hump in bed until satiated. When they were dried, tired, relaxed from love-making, they would hold each other, laugh of many things. The aggravations of his days at the office would fade as he held her.
Right now the problems of the day were nothing. Nothing in the world was as important as pleasing this woman. This red-haired beauty who lay beneath him was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. It was a a privilege to know her, to hold her, to FUCK her,-no, to make love to her. He moved his body with more care, pushing his prick into her more carefully. Ah, he thought, how good it is to fuck you, lover, how good.
Some of this thought he murmured into her ear. If she understood, she made no sign. She must be deep in her own thoughts, buried within the avalanche of feelings reborn by their reunion.
She was breathing heavily, deeply, excitedly. Her hands closed around his head as his mouth worked at nibbling portions of her face. She carefully pushed back his head. She was watching him, looking carefully at his face. Carefully she began to speak.
"Why don't you come, Paul? Please come. Now. Please?"
The breath left him, as though he had been punched in the stomach. What? What was this cold, even voice?
"But, Georgie," he said. "I want to wait for you." A laugh, too high-pitched. He cursed the laugh silently. His voice took on a keen note of anxiety. "Georgie, you haven't come yet. You haven't climaxed. Have you?" Had he been so lost in his own world, he thought?
"Georgie, have you come yet?"
"No." So cold, calm. "I'm not going to come. I never came with you before. Not at the end. I'm not going to come now."
What was she saying? His head began to fill with fear. This was blurring his mind. His thoughts began to ramble, to disconnect. It wasn't making sense.
He was stopped, his prick half out of her cunt, his body sprawled over hers, awkwardly, on the bed. A moment ago he had been dizzy with the thought of his love for her. Now he was mentally thrown by the mere coldness of her words.
The meaning of her words was only slowly seeping into his mind.
"Will you come, please, or get off me? You're heavy, Paul. You're hurting my chest."
Again that hard punch to the stomach. My God. Oh, my God. Suddenly his prick wilted, faded to a small, cooling, sticky bag of potential. All gone. His body felt ugly, dirty, damp, evil.
Away from her, get away from her. Clothes, get them on. Get out. Get away. Away from this cold, ice-hearted bitch. This red-headed evil-mouthed bitch. This, this wife of his. Wife. He snorted.
"You'll probably want the firm lawyer," she was saying. "I'll get another one. There are lots of them on Wilshire Boulevard. Good ones, I hear. It shouldn't be too expensive, or take too long. You won't contest, will you?"
"Contest?" he asked, half afraid to have her confirm his suspicion.
"The divorce. I plan to go Monday morning to see about a divorce. Didn't I tell you last week?"
Last week?
"Well?" A little puzzlement clouded her voice.
"Is something wrong."
"Are you going to contest the divorce?" If they were divorced, this would never happen again. It couldn't. "No."
"You won't contest it."
"NO!"
"But you had arguments against it, last time. You..."
"I won't contest the divorce, Georgianna." Pause. "I'm sure after all this time you know you're sure." A deep breath. "And we're certainly not children anymore. This isn't a spur of the moment decision made by children."
"Shall I see. you in your office on Wednesday, to discuss the money? As usual?"
He nodded. "Of course," Then again, to himself, "Of course."
CHAPTER TEN
Yvonne sat ramrod straight, in a chair in Carol's room watching the two on the bed. Carol was almost hidden beneath the large body on top of hers. They wriggled, the two of them, occasionally changing their positions, shifting just a little. When they moved, Yvonne usually saw a flash of cock or some glistening ass, a teasing patch of darkness that must be her daughter's snatch.
The two of them, Carol, and Oliver (of course), were still necking. It was incredible to Yvonne. They spent so much time teasing and provoking each other. It would have been nice to watch them lunge at each other, instantly wet and eager, shoving their hips together, slapping and sloshing as they fucked with heated need.
But they chose to kiss, to nibble, to use their tongues as instruments of exploration. Occasionally a hand flickered across the partner's genitals but mostly they caressed other parts of the body.
It made her impatient, watching them.
Why did they take so much time with it? If Carol wanted to fuck this sweet-fucking boy, well, get on with it.
Was she the only one who liked her sex hard, quick, heated, soon? She liked to climax before her body had time to tire of the game. Before she could realize what was happening, she wanted to be deeply lost in a back-snapping climax.
Were these two interested only in learning the shapes of their bodies? Didn't they realize that the two sexes were made to fit together? Did they expect that one curve, one hollow might be different-and thus they would be ill-suited, and should part? Perhaps this time, if they had fucked before, they weren't sure of their passions, and wanted to seek new positions, a new approach.
Ha! In years of fucking she had realized how unimportant position was, how unnecessary it was to try to vary, to explore, to divert the mind with kissing and variations on the regular performance of the sex act.
She would rather have, she thought, much fucking and less fiddling. Quantity is sometimes more diverting by far than quality. No mater how good, how long the fuck, if you wanted more in three days, or three hours, and were told the other was too tired, or too busy-frustration!
Well, maybe for these younger people it was different. But was fucking ever different? No matter the age, the shape, the concerns of the parties involved-no matter what year, or time of year ... what differences were there? Well, yes, minor ones.
But Yvonne was bored. Bored. Blame it on yourself, old lady, she told herself. You yourself wanted the boy to fuck you hard and hurt you to increase the pleasure. Maybe these two don't fuck like you. Maybe the pressure and the pain and the effort and the haste involved in your kind of fucking doesn't please them.
She had been young once, this Yvonne now inching past her sixties. Once it had been very important to be soft, tender, loving. Once flashes of thigh, of cock, of long hairy chests, of the lean line of throat-these things had been exciting. Touch and smell had been important, being alive to this body so close, about to penetrate your own.
Rapidly, for her, it had come to the hard, the quick, the fulfilling fuck. But suddenly she realized something. That was her daughter-her middle-aged daughter-on the bed, with the teenage boy Yvonne had fucked this afternoon. If her daughter were still seeking touch, smell, and other sensory delights at her age, well, maybe she was just different from Yvonne.
Maybe for Yvonne violence was necessary from the beginning. Violence and quick release. This was tiring. She was tired. She had reason to be tired. Yvonne decided to go to the living room and sleep on the couch. There two had invited her in with them, earlier, to talk, but the talk had faded.
Now she was tired and her mind was confused with strange images filling it. She would dream strangely, with erotic symbolisms, maybe exacting, graphic reality.
Cocks. She might dream about cocks. Although Yvonne had seen a few cunts quite closely and at length during various periods of her life, it was cocks she creamed for.
Her husband had a long one, even when limp. He was small, thin, but his cock was long. That prick hung curved over the generous sack of balls. When he stood by the bed, adjusting some malformation of the bedcovers, his movements would shift that huge sack and its long friend. Just the thought of that huge fucking instrument stirred her desires.
But as adequate and as inspiring as he was, there were others. Always others. One lover, the rich friend of her tennis instructor, was the smallest man she had ever met as far as cock size went. His prick was barely three inches long while limp. But he certainly knew how to use it. She would caress him to begin and hold his tiny instrument in her palm, licking and nibbling at it, as one might pursue a sausage. When he had expanded and lengthened his sausage prick to its limits, he would slip it into her generous cunt, pushing with the head against the soft lips of her cunt and the small mounded clit. He never slammed into her, but he pushed mightily, and evenly.
He, too, could use his nails to better advantage than any other man she knew. When he raked his carefully trimmed fingernails across her chest she would scream with the delightful pain. And the accompanying battering ram of his prick was a distraction which served to increase her lust. They usually ended with his stick in her ass-hole, as she clenched her muscles tightly and fingered herself as vigorously as she could. If they worked, and timed it right, the two of them would have a bone-clattering climax within seconds of each other.
Now, the tennis instructor. True to form, he was Scandinavian; tall, blonde, carefully in trim, he looked the picture of health as the members of her club advocated it. His prick was thick, moderately long, and a purolish-red at ease. The sack of balls was small, but very sensitive. When she touched him there, he shot off. Inevitably her hand would stray to cup and stroke his balls-or to try to hurt them, if he were hitting her.
As soon as she touched him there, the sperm in him shot out of the thick projectile and coated her ready pussy inside. The simple thought of her control over him ordinarily made him so angry he would slam a fist hard into her until the pain would transmute to the infinite pleasure of an orgasm.
Curled there on the white couch in the white living room, Yvonne felt incredibly black, evil thoughts. She tossed aside the blanket she had taken to wrap around herself. After a moment to admire her naked body, she brought her hips up toward her face.
Postured carefully, she would watch the lubrications of her pussy seep forth. Then she inserted fingers into the glistening hole. Straining, she tried to reach the wetness with her tongue, but failed.
Yvonne was quite practiced at masturbation. Watching her sweet cunt flow with sticky juice provoked even more self-lust in her body, and the lubrications increased. Within a matter of minutes she was contorted in the compelling spasms of an orgasm.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Carol and Oliver weren't even aware that the old woman had left the room. In a conspiring tone they had invited her to watch, thinking she would probably join them or come closer to watch.
As the minutes went by and neither of these projected alternatives occurred, they lost interest in the old woman, and rediscovered their bodies.
Having fucked rather frequently in the last 30 hours, Oliver was in no hurry to bang Carol. He wanted to stretch it, to tease and tantalize her until she was limp and urgent in her need. Carol, for her part, was enjoying this sensuous escapade.
They were well aware, both of them, of their mutual reactions, of their growing delight in touching, in bringing out a truly lustful response.
Carol stroked his hair, nuzzled in his ear, and traveled with her mouth down to his shoulders. For the most part Oliver played with her breasts, holding her huge tits in his hands, squeezing them, pulling at the nipples and stroking the curve of them from the nipple to deep in the cleavage.
It was different from the frenzied, anger-fucking of this afternoon. At this time he wasn't even hard yet. His cock had swollen a little with the stimulation of her touch, of her mouth moving over his warming body.
The sweet knowledge that they could take their time, and could touch hand and mouth to arms, face, body, cock, cunt, legs, back, hair, anywhere, kept them in a delightful state of sensual awareness.
Oliver groaned inwardly with the nibble of her moistened lips on his skin. Closing his eyes, he let his hands roam and pick at her as she provoked him. She moved her mouth down on his body a little, so that he had to curl to keep his hands on her.
Now she was moving her face across his chest using her nose as a tool of massage, with the quick tongue darting out to flick at his nipple, or to catch in the hairs on his chest and pull at them, gently.
Oliver stroked her back, and the back of her neck. Long strands of her hair were spreading across the bed and trailing across their bodies. Occasionally she tossed her head to get the hair from her face; the hair which stroked him lightly slipping from place to place.
It was beginning to be an obsession with her: to touch, to kiss as much of his body as she could. Now that she had begun, she wanted to know his body entirely. It would not be enough just to fuck.
Her next impulse was to lick his cock, to take the wrinkled tool into her mouth and provoke it to a larger size. But that would lead to fucking, to a pounding lust-satisfactory in itself, but this luxurious licking would stop.
The taste of his gradually emerging sweat was salty, of course, but now there was yet another taste. Did he use some kind of lotion? Had he developed a different tinge to his body because of the shower last night, or the fucking this morning?
It might be the taste of fucking to satiation. This , boy probably did not get this much ass in months. What a difference it must be to fuck this frequently and to be able to fuck at leisure! Except for forays into woods or chance times when their parents weren't at home, high school kids seemed to fuck in cars or surreptitiously in odd corners and at unexpected moments.
Now she could lick the hairy tops of his thighs, teasing herself with that slightly changed taste. Smiling a little to herself, she kept herself busy tasting this boy, nibbling at him, down past his bony knees, ignoring his thin, hard calves almost completely.
His long, thin feet were more interesting. The sole of his foot twitched and moved away as she tickled it with her mouth. He wriggled his toes as this tickle spread, and he attempted to move around still more to touch her.
He giggled, then lay flat, calmly on his back, letting her take his toes, one at a time, into her mouth to suck.
"Carol, that's insane. It feels completely insane." He giggled again. "Oh, stop it. No, don't ... I like the feeling. Um, yes, I like that feeling. Mmmmm, Carol, do you know what you're doing to me:
She was laughing, treating each toe like a tiny penis, sucking on it as she would work the head of his cock. Then she ran her tongue down the smoother underside. Even the pads of his feet, the ball of his foot was similar-it seemed almost more sensitive than the projecting part above it.
Suddenly she pulled her mouth away from his feet and tossed her head back. The hair tangled and spread, flew wildly around her head, and settled away from her face a bit. She straightened and tossed her head again. The hair flew out and for a moment seemed to be frozen in mid-air against the light.
Oliver was watching her strangely, and she noticed suddenly that his prick was huge, hard. Before she could realize what was happening, he had sprung up and grabbed her by both shoulders; pulling her on top of him, his mouth reached for her and his tongue probed her mouth.
Down she came on top of him hard, her tits hitting his chest first and the pressure at once crazily hurting and oddly exciting.
For a moment he stared at her as their mouths were joined and their bodies clashing. They stared at each other, wide-eyed with his tongue in her mouth. He locked his arms around her tightly holding her as though capturing her.
Then they rolled over, as if the impulse occurred to them at the same time. Lying on their sides, with Oliver's arms binding them, they kissed with mouths glued and held each other. Carol lifted a leg, placed it behind his ass, and brought her mound of venus against the base of his cock.
She rubbed him gently there, then more passionately, even harder. Her body felt suddenly achy and stunningly alive to all the small points of contact they made. When he pulled back, she was surprised; feeling blindly with that coated eye at the head of his cock, he brought his prick to the area of her cunt and pushed.
Her juices made her slick and, with pressure, his prick easily found its way into her pussy. As he entered, they both took in long gasps of air with mouths clenched, hissing.
Carol felt his tool smoothly sliding in and out of her, the walls of her vagina closing around him as he moved. It was going to be a matter of seconds before she came. There wasn't even enough time to warn him.
As she tightened, she tried to tell him what was happening, but the words came out garbled and unclear. Her raking fingernails on his back, and her clenching cunt must have told him.
He was breathing evenly, deeply, but moving his prick into her continuously. As she calmed, he kept the rhythm of his cock steady. She smiled, pushing herself close to him in delight.
Oliver had his eyes closed, listening to her whisper his name, over and over again. He felt as if he would like to fuck her again and again, but something told him this would be the last time. He wanted to savor this, to cherish this feeling of his traveling prick.
Her tits were smashed against him, the weight of them spread against his chest. The nipples were hard little dots into his own chest area. Her back, long and smooth, with the inverted ridge down the middle a deep hollow for his fingers, was a fine piece of sculpture to hold.
He was pumping into her harder now, determined to fuck as hard as he could and still hold back the impending orgasm. Part of him did not want to come yet, but the long tool demanded quick release.
Carol did not seem to be aware of him; she was not moving, or working with his increasing rhythm to aid him. Limp in his arms, she seemed closed into herself, inward.
Her words were soft, and continuous, but disjointed. She seemed lost to her own passion. That was all right. He was sufficiently content to fuck her, to let the ending come as it would.
He imagined her bright red lips, the lips of her cunt, sucking eagerly at his dick, bringing it inside. The hard obstruction that was her womb (though he didn't yet know that fact) seemed to be the need of her body to offer resistance to him; he thought of it as some kind of diametrical protection, so that he could not damage her heart, stomach, or other internal organs.
There! Again today Oliver felt the small hard sensation at the base of his cock. His load was about to spurt up from there into her pussy.
As his sperm sped out of him in the hot liquid, he heard her cry out; again, he tightened his hold on her.
* * *
Oliver woke suddenly, listening for a sound which would have brought him from sleep. He and Carol were tangled with themselves, naked on top of the bedcovers. Maybe the cold woke him. It was a chill morning, just after dawn.
The light was strangely gray. The smog must be heavy today. He untangled himself carefully, trying to avoid waking her.
As he left the bed she murmured something. He kissed her cheek and she smiled in her sleep.
It didn't take him long to dress. As he closed the outside door behind him, he thought of her as he'd last seen her. Then he put all these thoughts from his mind. Somehow he had to get down into the city again, and get home.
The visiting friends were again leaving town; Oliver had enjoyed the visit.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After Paul had left, bursting out of Georgie's bedroom and rapidly out the door. Harry walked to the room and hesitated.
"Georgie?"
There was no answer. He came cautiously into the darkened room. She was curled tightly in the fetal position on the bed, her arms hugging her knees to her chest. A small mound of silk or something soft-her dress?-was crumpled on the floor.
She had a pillow at her back, and covers on her feet. She seemed to be asleep.
Uneasy, Harry lifted one end of the stuff. Her dress it was, torn, raggedly. What had happened?
"Are you asleep?"
No answer.
Maybe they had fucked and she was content now. Maybe she wanted no part of him now, or she was asleep. But Paul had run out too hastily for the experience they shared to have been pleasant.
He turned to go. This did not seem to be the place to be now.
"Harry?"
He stopped.
"Yes?"
"Come here, please." She sounded about to cry.
"Is anything wrong?" He was standing next to the bed, afraid to touch her. "Harry . ... "
"Are you all right? Did he hurt you?"
"No. But come here, please. Hold me, fuck me, Please."
"Oh, Georgie."
She laughed a little through the sobbing sounds.
"Take off your clothes, boy, and get in this bed."
He smiled, snorted.
"You telling me what to do, woman?"
"Yeah."
"What you want me to do, woman."
"Fuck me, please, fuck me."
"Yeaah?"
"Yes, hard, hard as you can. Wipe out the whole memory of him, please."
"I don't know if I can, baby."
"You can. You can."
"But what happened?"
"I don't want to talk about it. But I'm getting a divorce, and he's not going to contest it."
"A divorce?"
"Yes." She started to sit up on the bed; her hair was tangled crazily. In her pale face, her eyes seemed to burn. "Please, Harry, please come here."
He leaned over and kissed her, softly on the lips, without any attempt at Frenching her. Pulling away, he smiled at her. She watched him take off his shirt, toss his jeans away, and step out of his sandals.
As she watched, his prick throbbed at quick intervals. He looked at her suddenly, and blushed; she creamed. Harry was a strange, self-contained fellow. Though he said little, he thought a great deal, and acted with great decisiveness.
Sometimes she wished she were twenty years younger. She'd capture this boy, his lovely cock and the good, healing way he had of loving her or making love to her. Whether it was "Love" or not didn't matter: they came together joyously in bed, and managed to be friendly to each other at other times.
And the immediate problem was that his long cock was lengthening and that she was creaming with the very thought of him.
He was kissing her again, this time with his tongue between her teeth. She cut the progress of his tongue short with her teeth, but only to let her teeth scratch at his thick tongue.
Slowly he was pushing her down, with his mouth on hers. His hands had found her breasts and he pushed with his body at her pelvis. Slowly they moved to a prone position.
Then, with a rush, the two fell; immediately Georgie started teasing his cock with the thrust of her hips. In response, his dick grew, throbbing.
She felt a smiling, glad feeling he was here. She was going to be properly fucked! Her thrusting hips were working easily, and his hips began to answer.
When he pulled his hips away, she knew what would happen. She let her ass drop to the bed; .he pulled his body back until his cock was positioned near her cunt. For a moment, he held. Then he began to push, letting the head fight the hard areas around her lips, until she rose up a little.
With a surprising suddenness, his cock slipped between the lips and into her slippery cunt. She gasped, muttering "oh, nice," and brought her hips up closer to his body to take as much of his cock as she could. Almost immediately he began the pull to bring his cock out of her. Halfway out, he pushed back in.
He kept his movements slow, so that she could match them easily. When he pulled his cock to the very head, she was also pulling away from him. When he pushed his cock into her, she was pushing too. That way, the push was a sudden, surprising rush of feeling.
Sweat had already broken out on her body, like a fine mist. He was hot with the effort of fucking her. The wetness on both of them was making it easier to slide towards and away from each other.
With his hands still on her tits, he massaged the weight he held. Her hands had found his ass when they fell back to the bed. One finger was sliding along the crack of his ass, probing a little, as if looking for the hole. The other hand, palm down, traced the line of his ass, over and over again.
When he clenched to push into her, her hand followed the tight muscles. When his ass relaxed, her hand stroked the full globe of flesh and muscle.
His head was fitted into the small hollow between her twisted head and the smooth white shoulder. Occasionally she moved her head a little, away from his, then towards his. As she moved, she moaned a little, with the effort of returning his thrusts.
His face was buried in her hair, the fragrant strands beginning to tangle. The hot breath he was letting go in quick gasps was brushing her hairline, where the hair was spread away from her head.
His cock, sliding in and out of her, was heating; the heat of their bodies combined and warmed the juices they were putting out. v
She was wet, from cunt to belly, to the slick globes of her ass. The slickness was coming off on him, wetting his belly and his thighs. She moved her hands away from his ass and reached from under her legs to run a finger along the wet of his body. She traced the shape of his balls with that finger, feeling the smoothness of the case that had been so wrinkled and baggy.
Slow twitches ran through her cunt, unexpectedly catching his prick as it moved the length of her. She was building towards a climax. It was taking a long time, a long, long time, but the thrusting of his cock had removed all the ugly memory of Paul's cold fucking from her mind. She would remember it later, but the warmth of Harry's long, swollen cock was erasing the hurt from her cunt.
Where before she had been stiff, fearful, hurting, now she was relaxed, eager.
He could not know what she thought, but the immediate response of her body to each of his invasions was driving him crazy. Her need and very evident pleasure made his cock hot, pounding more fiercely into her, pushing to her womb. The usually hard obstruction had opened a little, the resistance of her body relaxing. She was letting him in, taking all of him into her, as far as he could push.
When she tightened, and climaxed, there was a rush of come from her body that coated his prick. The clenching ring around the entry to her cunt was tight, squeezing his prick as it moved. The climax slowed him a little, and for a moment his passion stilled. Then, without warning, he felt the load of his sperm rising in his cock. It exploded into the soaked recesses of her cunt.
* * *
They had talked for hours on end. He wasn't sure what they had said all this time. There was an occasionally quiet period when they were going to both speak at the same time, and both stopped. They would think then refuel in silence.
For a while they had talked about Paul, her husband, and she had told him some of the bad things that had happened between them.
He had started thinking now about the girl, Donna, who was considered liis girl. They saw each other twice a week, maybe more, in the evenings and often at school during the day. She was a sweet girl, with a soft face and completely innocent manner. His parents loved her, considering him properly developing. If he kept seeing girls like this, he would surely marry. Perhaps he wouldn't even finish school right away, they thought.
Donna was the kind of girl who would work during the time it took hin to finish college. They would keep paying for his tuition, of course, but that way he would settle quickly. Married men weren't radicals, in their experience. Worrying about a rounded wife and a possible baby would make anyone conservative, they'd found.
Even Harry's father liked the girl. While she was not that shapely, sexy kind of girl who would be extremely exciting in bed, she was good-looking enough, with small round breasts. Her ass was generous, but firm. Her long legs were nicely rounded. They played a lot of tennis-Harry and Donna-and she was strongly muscled.
She would be a good girl to marry, Harry's father thought. If Harry wanted exciting girls, well, there were enough lovely bitches around. He would wander a bit, for sure, and girls like Donna seemed to make better wives.
And when Harry got bigger, filled out a little and began to slow with age, then he would be glad of an undemanding wife. Harry was bright enough that he'd manage to make enough money to keep a wife happy.
His parents told Harry these things, though his father made disguised comments about the bed-ability of Donna, and the suitability of certain mistresses.
But they never realized what it was that drew Harry to Donna. They ignored her gentle intelligence, her mildly sharp humor and her sexuality.
While she would not let Harry fuck her, Donna was willing to go down on him, or let him go down on her as often as possible.
She had a small, pungent cunt. Every time he ate her she was good-tasting, clean-smelling. Despite exercise, heat, and hours together, she seemed fresh.
They usually found a parking lot somewhere near the end of their date, and pulled into the middle of it. No one could approach them that way, without some kind of warning. And usually, since they stretched out on the back seat when there was no one within range, it seemed unlikely anyone would investigate the empty-seeming car in the middle of a darkened parking lot towards the middle of the night.
They took up the 69 position automatically; Donna would take his limp prick in hand and squeeze it with her hands until his prick gave an answering throb. Then she took it into her mouth, nibbling on the head, while she stroked the base with her fingers.
Harry would wait, letting his prick grow, before he touched her. As he watched, her lips would go from their normal pink to a deeper, rose pink. A small trickle of sticky fluid would come from her pussy, smelling like flowers in a vague way.
He breathed deeply, letting the scent of her intoxicate him, before plunging in with his tongue between those swollen lips. When he first entered her, she would gush forth fluid, and moan a little as the fluid was sucked up by his lips.
Her hand would grip his cock more tightly and her mouth pulled more tightly on the throbbing head. They were so practiced that it was only a matter of minutes before he was thrusting carefully into her mouth, her hands on his ass with the head of his cock banging against the side of her mouth or part of her throat.
He would put his whole mouth on her and suck as much fluid as he could from her and dart his tongue into her cunt until she trust her whole cunt on his face and ground into him in climax.
Inevitably, the feel of this writhing female would bring him to orgasm.
Sometimes they would stay there, partially dressed, breathing heavily, until they got the urge again. Sometimes Harry would start first, bringing his nose near her for a sniff, then biting her softly all over thighs and cunt.
But more often, Donna would hold his prick so tightly and so unexpectedly that he would build a hard, thickened cock before he had realized it. And she would lick, and tongue and tease him, all over the balls and down to the thick cord that kept his balls close to his body.
She hesitated to lick further, towards his ass-hole, but occasionally she would begin to; he tensed with the thought of it, but relaxed a little when she stopped. He was afraid of her tonguing him there, in his ass-hole, for some reason. It seemed like something that homosexuals did and he was afraid of being a homosexual, or of even thinking of the act.
Then, realizing the time, they would straighten themselves carefully and climb back into the front seat. Harry always got her home on time.
Donna's parents thought that an encouraging sign: Harry respected them, as well as their daughter.
At other times, very rarely, they would park somewhere nearer the street, when passion overtook them, and sit close, necking, and feeling each other quickly, furtively. Harry had hefted Donna's small, but substantial breasts many times, but he had never seen them, or kissed them.
If they felt that no one would watch, or could see them, they would fondle each other's genitals. Donna enjoyed finger-fucking, but she felt guilty about doing it. Harry dismissed her complaints by telling her that at least she knew she wouldn't get pregnant. And she would beat him off.
With her thickish, quick finger, she ran her hand up and down his cock; sometimes, after he had brought her to a stifled, jerky climax, she would go down on him, there, while he watched the world just outside the windshield, trying not to give away the knowledge that a girl was sucking his dick.
Even when it was dark, and there was little chance that anyone would come by, he was careful to hold the feelings deep inside him. It seemed to build the climax more that way.
God! All of the talk that his family, and hers, had made of them ... he wondered if they were really serious about marriage. He didn't want to get married. Looking at his parents, at most kids' parents, he decided that marriage was the furthest thing from his mind.
And if Georgie, whom he trusted more than his parents and teachers and all authority put together, could show him how badly a marriage could end, well, he didn't think he wanted anything to do with the institution.
Still, knowing that he would have a wife, someone to cook for him and to care for him, and someone to care about, to come home to-it was appealing.
There would never be anyone like Georgie, though, and he would never marry Georgie.
* * *
Now he and Georgie were kissing, unexpectedly, Frenching furiously, with an unexpected passion. She was moaning, and moving in his arms, pushing her tits against him, bringing the bush of her pussy near his own curly bush, and again teasing his cock.
His cock responded, of course, throbbing and filling with blood, turning from brightly soft warm brown to a dullish purple, red, with large veins curling up around it to the head.
He mouthed her tit, taking the tip of it and sucking on it as he might nurse if he were a baby. Holding her, he nuzzled his face in the cleavage between her tits, and rammed his growing cock against her mound of venus.
She wriggled more and more against him, moving against him carefully, to excite him. He handled her cunt, playing with her clitoris.
After a minute he brought his cock to her cunt and proceeded to fuck her. Between his hand, and her excitement and the rhythmic ramming of his prick, it only took a few minutes before she came, and he followed her almost immediately.
Her come flowed out of her as he pulled his prick away. On impulse he went down on her, licking up the juices as they dribbled from between the scarlet lips of her cunt.
She lay still and breathed carefully, then, to his surprise, climaxed abruptly and flooded his mouth with more come.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Carol was roaming the town, this smoggy Sunday, driving the streets of Hollywood in her small MG; she was impatient and tired.
On impulse she had brought her bathing suit: those two scraps of material that satisfied the law against nudity on public beaches. She might head into Santa Monica later to look up a boy she knew, a model with the agency.
He was alone for the summer. His parents had gone to Europe and would probably roam the Mediterranean for a while.
They had left him with a housekeeper. That woman was a laugh-old, dumpy, and rather dull, but she kept a clean house, fed him well and got him to his modeling appointments on time.
The sleek leather book with all the models' addresses in it was locked in the glove compartment. There were several guys in town who might be interested in seeing her.
There was a fellow who was going to UCLA part-time, and worked just enough to keep himself in style, in Westwood. He was tall, extremely thin yet rather muscular for a model. With light blonde hair, an extremely handsome face, and a rope-like cock, thick and long, he was one of the more popular models.
A couple of times he had fucked her in the back room, leaning her up against the dressing room door. They undressed themselves just enough to be able to connect cock and cunt.
In the waning afternoon sun, he would make her spread her legs apart and lean back. Then, without preliminaries, he ram his cock into her, fucking her roughly until the juices of her cunt came down almost in sheer defense.
Why his cock was hard so readily was a surprise to her, but he was quick, efficient, and very quiet. The first time she balled him she had not come but stood there shuddering on the brink of climax when he pulled out and moved away from her.
Despite his climax, she had thought that she would be able to hold him between her legs long enough to bring herself off.
But he had leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, and walked away. Without a word. The next time they had decided to fuck he had her Up against the wall with her legs very far apart. She was closer to the ground that way, and his cock rubbed against her clitoris.
She had gotten an evil pleasure out of her climax. It was sudden, catching both of them unexpectedly. Perhaps it was the surprise that had brought him off sooner than he expected.
After his climax this time, he stood there, leaning against her for a couple of minutes before he pulled out of her.
When he did, the mixture of their come slithered down her legs.
John was nineteen-a little old for her, but the memory of his quick and uncaring handling of her irked her. It would be good to drop in on him, and see if she could get a decent fuck out of him.
And if he had company? Well, she could deal with that if it happened.
* * *
Carol sat in the small chair by the window, very straight, her legs carefully crossed to show as much of her thigh as possible. She had those legs angled so that the girl was not as aware of her legs as John was.
But of course, women rarely were as aware of those things as men.
The two of them were very sleepy-looking. Evidently they had gotten up just before she arrived and were sitting down to breakfast. The girl had a man's shirt around her, buttoned halfway. Only the long tails kept it from showing all of her ass and pussy. John had only a small pair of cutoff jeans, cut very high on the leg, pulled on, with the snap at the top of the zipper undone.
The girl had made her son coffee and Carol sat watching outside, carefully composed, waiting for it to cool.
There was little conversation. John leaned on his arms on the table, every now and then reaching up to clear his eyes as well as he could.
He had explained to the girl, picking up Carol's clue without hesitation, that he and Carol had to discuss a new portfolio for him. He had forgotten that she might be coming over.
The girl was going to the beach for the day. She finished up her coffee, suddenly, and headed for the bedroom. John and Carol were silent while she was gone. Carol sipped at her coffee. It was a good thing she had thought to bring alone the sleek black case that held some paper and some pictures from work.
If the girl got curious, there was probably a small set of samples she could show her as what would be done for John. But the girl seemed to accept the story. She came out of the bedroom, her hair pulled back into a tail down her back, in her bathing suit. She had the shirt on over it, and a pair of sandals on her feet.
She sat for a minute while waiting for a friend of hers to come over. She and John chattered amiably, small talk about school.
At the knock on the door, she jumped up taking her canvas bag with her. Stopping for a moment next to John, she leaned to kiss him, then giggled and moved away, adjusting her bra strap.
He must have kissed her nipple, quickly, Carol thought.
Then he patted her ass and lingered there a moment. She giggled again, then moved towards the door. She called good-bye to Carol too, smiling innocently.
"Does she live here?" Carol asked John, as the door closed behind the girl.
"No," he answered, then smiling, "She's here so much she really should move in. We could share the rent and both save money."
"Oh?" Carol smiled at him, and lifted an eyebrow.
He laughed.
"That wasn't why you stopped by, was it? To find out if I had anyone living with me."
"No."
"And you didn't stop by for business, I'm sure. I have a current portfolio and a whole line-up of assignments. And I don't think anyone is displeased with my work. Are they?"
"No."
"And I can't imagine any phase of the business that would be so urgent you'd have to drop by on a Sunday afternoon to discuss. I can't imagine you working on a Sunday, actually."
"Well, I'm not actually working."
"I didn't think so."
"I was driving westward, towards Santa Monica, and the beach..."
"Well, if you wanted to go to the beach, you could have gone with Annie."
"I changed my mind."
He was grinning at her, inside, and she was smiling too, inwardly, at the game they played with each other. Carol knew that they would end up in bed, but the process of getting there would be fairly interesting.
"Actually," she said, putting the coffee cup on a small table, "I wanted to show you some work that a new photographer has done. You might be interested in seeing his style. When some of the clients want to have studio work done, well, you might want to suggest this man. He's just getting started."
"Really?" He looked interested, and a little surprised. She had been teasing him, maybe, about the reason she was over here. Well, it was quite conceivable that she had no real desire to fuck him-but she probably got as much ass as she could in that place.
"Would you like to see the things I have?"
"Yes, it would be interesting."
"You mean, a new photographer?"
"Yes." They both knew that a good photographer could help out any model, by working with him sympathetically, There were small tricks in the darkroom which could improve almost any print. And care there would make a shitty day-and every model had a couple-a small obstacle rather than a dreaded terror.
"He does his own printing, of course."
"Of course." She had opened the case, and was sorting it-"You know Bruce?" She selected a blue-covered portfolio and brought it on top.
"The black dude?" She nodded. "Yes. We had a job together not too long ago. One of those integrated ones for the Fashion People..."
"Yes, I know, mass-produced clothes for mass-produced minds." They laughed.
He was relaxing, distracted. Good. Good. She had determined to seduce him, this time, to catch him off-guard so that he was at her mercy.
There was something about his dominance over her-however slight-that irked. She was going to pussy-whip him.
It wasn't a bad idea. No man or boy had ever complained about being in that state before. Of course, the most effective way to pussy-whip anyone was to do it so they weren't even aware of the control over them.
If he responded well, it might be a nice idea to keep him on a leash for a while. A long one, so that he could have his Annie, but he would come to her when she called her as surely as reeling in a fishing line.
She hadn't had a regular lover for quite a while now. Bruce didn't count. Bruce was a trick.
Money. Very nice money, but still money, that's all.
She rubbed her thighs together carefully, to squeeze the accumulating moisture out so that it dropped onto the silk of her thin panties and spread carefully. If she let the moisture go slowly then she would have a small irregular patch of fluid on her panties, which, if the heat built, would communicate itself subtly to him.
Keep the conversation on business, she told herself, and tease him as gently as you came. Be firm and cool-voiced and warm-smiled, and you'll catch him as sure as a fish in a tank.
John was becoming aware of her in small, irritating ways. At this time, he thought she had only been playing with him for a minute before getting down to business. Now, because he had started the train of thought in that direction, he picked up the small signals of her sexuality without trying.
Her crossed legs, so effectively hiding the small patch of blonde hair and the generous cunt he had twice been inside, teased him. He wanted to finish this business conversation and maneuver her into a corner and rip off a piece of her ass before she realized what was happening.
But these pictures interested him. The man who had taken them was quite good. He seemed to know the right combinations of light and shadows to do effective fashion stuff, and quality of his darkroom work was quite high. There wasn't a flaw to be found-even with his practiced eye.
John had been modeling for years; years of learning the business very carefully, so he could have the money he needed to live in fine style with a minimum of effort. Though for some people the efforts toward keeping himself up-the grooming rituals and the strict dieting and exercise, would be more work than the simple matter of an office, store or a sales gig.
He liked the work, though, as demanding as it was. The pay compensated for all the efforts. This photographer might be worth getting to know.
Then, a small shock traveled down his spine. There were some nude shots of Bruce mixed up in the bottom of the pile. Carol handed them to him to study as casually as she had passed any of the others.
Looking at her quickly, he wondered if this was a ruse of some sort, but she was cool-looking, calm-faced. She studied the pictures critically, unperturbed by the nudity in front of her.
Actually, Bruce was not quite exposed in all of the pictures. With clever poses they had managed to keep his cock obscured. Sometimes a drape of fabric covered him, sometimes the pose itself. John wondered if Carol had been there while the pictures were shot.
He wondered, too, if she had ever fucked Bruce.
It bothered him a little that she seemed to fuck a number of the models at the place. However her system worked, it was very discreet. No one actually came out and said that they'd had anything sexual to do with Carol. No one ever gossiped about anyone else and Carol, either.
John felt himself growing excited. His prick was bent inside his shorts, but already it was growing larger. It was uncomfortable to sit here and casually study pictures of a partially-nude man with a very attractive woman.
Despite the air-conditioning, she seemed to be warm. There was a small, almost invisible line of sweat on her upper lip and a faintly cunty odor seemed to waft up to him. Maybe it was perfume. But could you buy a very real smelling perfume that exuded the smell of a female in heat?
If she was in heat, why was she sitting here calmly discussing the business of photographers with him? Why didn't she follow up the very suggestive conversation they had begun with?
Damn! His prick was growing larger by the minute, and with a glance he realized that it was becoming quite evident. His thinly-worn jeans were a very poor disguise for his hard-on.
She seemed to be completely ignoring him, though. Her prattle about this fellow was disarming. Her smooth thighs distracted him each time he reached over to take a picture from her. Then, when he reached to put the picture on a pile on the table in front of him, he got a strong whiff of her odor.
His uncertainly about why she was here grew. John realized that twice now she had very effectively talked herself into a little cock. Once he had tried to avoid giving her any pleasure-so that she would come back. She did come back. The second time it was pure luck that she climaxed at all, but the satisfaction she got out of it was minimal, he knew.
John thought that if he kept leading her on with his cock, if he kept teasing her so that she wanted him badly enough, well, he would have a woman around who needed to please him, very much. Then, too, his job and his future at the agency would probably be more secure.
It could happen that she would put him down by steering jobs to other people, but it was more-likely that she would want to get him fine assignments so that he would feel indebted to her.
Being "indebted" to her was a damn sight better than being indebted to one of the fags in the office. He had little urge to fuck any of those guys in the ass to secure better work. Or to suck any of their dicks. Better to eat out some broad than to eat out some dude. He'd eaten out a couple of fags before, at another agency and the act bothered him. It wasn't actually repulsive but he still preferred woman come.
But now, this very icy blonde was turning him on; giving no hint that she was interested in taking him to bed. Or in fucking him right here as he sat on the low couch near her chair.
Carol, for her part, was careful to keep the front of her skirt smoothly stretched across the crossed legs she was teasing him with. Now she was so wet with anticipation that her panties were completely soaked at the crotch. The back of her dress, which barely covered her ass, was probably wet too.
If she could get up and moved without him seeing the back of the dress, there would soon be a spot of wetness to tease him even more.
She had noticed the growing bulge in the front of his shorts. Glancing at him carefully after she handed him a print, she watched him for a split second as he began to study the print.
Reassuring herself that his cock was still interested in her, she would then patter on, to keep his mind confused.
It was working. If she fucked him soon, and did it on her terms, to her enormous satisfaction, she would be sure to get into his pants again soon. The next time she could tease him even more, leading him on, backing him to a corner where she could use her pussy to lead him right into the trap she was mindful of setting.
Unless, of course, she decided that his cock was not really worth the trouble. He might simply be a bad lover, or a poor one for her. That Annie seemed happy with him. Of course, that Annie might have ulterior motives, too, for feeding him her cunt regularly.
They had finished the pictures and were talking business in general. As with Bruce, he was asking her opinion, and taking her answers very seriously. Bruce, however, needed his ego built. This near-grown man had little need for that.
But John was a professional, and respected the advice of anyone who could help him. John would probably be in the business as long as he cared to, j.' as long as he could keep in shape.
The talk was taking only half of her mind. The half which was paying attention to her eager cunt and to the growing matter of his cock decided that it was time to get on with the real reason for stopping by.
She leaned over, stretching, to get the pictures he had laid on the coffee table. By carefully keeping her arms close to her body and pushing on the weight of her breasts as she bent, she knew she was giving him a generous, uplifted view of her cleavage. If the neckline of the dress fell far enough he would see the pale brown of her nipples too; she was almost jackknifed, so that her crossed leg was also pushing on the breast. That brought even more cleavage in front of him.
Taking as she moved, taking a minute more than necessary, she made sure he was stirred by the sight she presented.
Then she reached for the black case and put the portfolio away.
Down to business.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Now," she said, leaning back in the chair, "maybe some more coffee?"
"If you like, Carol," he said. But she knew he was reluctant to get up.
"May I make it?"
"Well, you're a guest."
"Yes, but I'd like to."
"Well, go ahead."
He looked down as she moved away, wondering what he was going to do with this fine hard-on. If he stayed still, talking calmly, perhaps he would lose it before she left and he had to walk her to the door.
She had left a book on the table which had also been in the case. Now it was on the table, and intrigued him.
"What's this book, Carol?"
"A friend wrote that. You might be interested. He writes mysteries for a living. That's his newest."
"I think I've heard of him."
"You probably have."
He was looking at the book. She watched him for a minute, to be sure that he would stay interested, then slipped off her dress. Folding it carefully, she laid it on a counter.
As the water boiled, she fixed two cups of coffee. Cream and sugar, she thought, why not. If she asked him he'll look up and that would blow it.
Once the coffee was ready, she slipped off the panties, soaked at the crotch. He probably would not get to the coffee anyway, she thought.
Carol set the two cups down on the table in front of him. Her tits swung down. He looked up automatically from the book.
"Oh, my God," he said. She saw the book drop from his knees where he had had it propped so he could read easily.
"Oh, my God," he said again. She checked. Sure enough, his crotch was a huge, lumpy-looking bulge.
"Take those shorts off, John," she said calmly.
He looked at her blankly, moving his eyes up her naked body. He looked at her feet, her knees, her patch of pubic hair, waist, breasts, shoulders, hair, that calm face.
"Oh, my God," he said. Much quieter that time.
"Well?" she said, kneeling to put a hand in his shorts to protect that precious lump from the zipper. As she pulled the zipper down, she heard a gasp of breath.
"Lift your ass," she said. As he did, mutely, she pulled the shorts down. Tossing them away, she faced him again.
"And you..." he started. She ignored him, fascinated by the huge prick which sprung up in front of her.
"How huge," she said softly. He was thick of cock, and long. His cock looked a little browner than the rest of his body; perhaps because the skin was thicker.
Perhaps, too, because he had seasoned his cock with so many women's juices. If some of them rubbed strange oils on him to annoint their fucking act, well, maybe that would help.
More probably he was born that way. But it was interesting to speculate on the possibilities. She would take him in her mouth first, making him control himself, unless he was capable of maintaining an erection after shooting off into her mouth.
She leaned over, letting her breasts brush his legs.
"Spread your legs, John."
He moved slowly, but finally brought his long, hairy thighs apart. Carol reached in, to cup his balls. Slowly she brought her mouth over his huge prick, nibbling at the flared head.
As she did his cock dribbled a small amount of thin white fluid. She licked it up, with great, slow care, letting him wriggle as she touched his cock. Savoring every moment, she played with his balls and licked at the head, irregularly.
He had closed his eyes and had leaned his head back; suddenly his whole body was popping sweat. The excitement of having her mouth him, of thinking she might fuck him soon was destroying his control.
She kept up the hand and mouth on him, at the same time playing with herself under the cover of the chair skirt.
Carol jammed three fingers in her cunt and let the ether play with her clit. She was wet, and very close to climax. If she kept him on the verge of climax, and herself very close, she could probably jump on him suddenly, fuck into a climax very quickly and get a second one before he came.
It was a sort of revenge.
She slowed her mouth on him, and let her finger work furiously on her clit while the others wriggled in her sopping cunt.
Damn, if she wasn't careful she'd come now, and he'd not have done any work at all.
She took her mouth away from his cock, letting it cool a little. Her fingers still pressed on the base of it, but the excitement he felt faded slightly, she knew.
But she finger-fucked herself even more, letting the small contortions of her face seem to be reactions to the size and feel of his cock.
Almost ready to climax, she pulled her fingers out of her cunt, wiping them on the front of the chair. She stood up abruptly, lettir.g her hand drop away from his prick.
"See?" she said. "See what you've done?" She dipped a finger into her aching slick hole and brought out a finger full of come. She put the wet finger under his nose.
"Smell," she said.
"Umm," he began.
"Taste," she commanded.
He opened his mouth and took in her finger, sucking it clean.
He began, when she took her finger away, to lean to lick at the moisture which had matted some of her triangle of hair and spread onto her thighs.
But, before he could touch her ;he spread her thighs wide and moved to sit on that upstanding tool in front of her.
She poised above him for a minute then settled on the long stick, sighing as his prick pushed the walls of her cunt.
When she had taken him in all the way, she sucked in her breath. His prick pushed into her; he would fuck her deeply if she were stretched on her back, her legs high.
Now, though she moved slowly on his long prick, pushing her ass back, so that his cock rubbed on her clit with each move.
She was so ready that it took only about three minutes of slow fucking to bring her off. When she came, she flooded his prick and his balls and his thighs with come: he began to breath in deep, jagged gasps.
Holding her muscles over half of his prick for a moment to catch her breath, she let her body's twitching subside.
Then she pulled off him and backed down to a clear spot on the carpet. Quickly she lay down and spread her legs as widely as she could. When they were wide and the view of her scarlet cunt-lips was breaking his breathing into more irregular chunks, she lifted her legs so that her thighs rested on her chest.
Now he had an enticing view of her whole cunt and the wet jism, slick all over her pussy and her ass-cheeks. Ho stood for a moment, shaking his head a little from side to side.
"Come here, John," she said. "Fuck me."
"Carol, my God."
"Come here, silly, fuck me."
He came over clumsily, led by his cock.
"Can I eat you a little, first. Please?"
"Well, will your dick hold out?"
"Yes. I was, I want...."
"Eat me, then," she said, laughing.
He plunged his face into her pussy, licking and sucking the juice from her as quickly as he could. The eager tongue in her cunt was exciting her tremendously. Almost without warning she came in a spasm that lifted her back completely off the floor.
Shuddering, she lowered herself to the floor, breathing heavily and trying to focus her glazed ayes. John watched her; he had pulled his face away from her pussy when she came.
He lowered his head to her cunt again, licking up the new juices flowing from her.
After he had cleaned a cunt-lip and was beginning another, he felt his prick pounding on his leg. Damn! he wanted to fuck her.
Almost as if she had read his mind, she murmured to him.
"Hey, John." she said, "will vou fuck me, now, please?"
He pulled his face away from her slick pussy and watched her face through narrow eyes. It wasn't pleading, but need that made her murmur to him.
"Almost ready," he said. But his voice cracked-she realized his urgency and a thrill of fresh need went through her.
He leaned over and licked the other cunt-lip clean. Then, using his tongue to clean his lips, he moved up so that his prick stuck out just above her wide-stretched pussy.
He brought his hips back and put the head into her lips using his hand as a guide. Then, leaning over so that his chest rested lightly on hers, he pushed his cock into her.
That huge dick in her cunt again made her gasp. He slid in very slowly as far as he could. When he was in fully, he gave a twist with his hips, so that the head of his huge dick rubbed the deepest part of her body.
Then, after a slow, slow pull outward, she whimpered. The sound seemed to spur him on. He jammed into her as hard as he could, pulled back, and jammed again. Her cries and the lifting motion of her hips spurred him on.
His ass suddenly was the energy that powered the piston of his cock. He slammed into her again and again, trying to increase the rhythm with each stroke.
Carol, already crazy with lust, writhed on the bed, crying out, trying to move in answer to his attack, but unsuccessfully.
She cried out, almost screaming; suddenly, her body and her face contorted powerfully.
John slowed then began to piston-fuck her again, pounding his cock into her cunt madly. When he came, the rush of sperm seemed to start from his stomach and flow endlessly into her already sopping cunt.
He groaned helplessly, letting his weight fall onto her body, flopping in intense orgasm as his load kept coming more and more into her cunt.
* * *
It was near nightfall. Carol was again driving the MG, this time smoothly, purposefully toward Santa Monica. She had phoned another boy while John was in the shower.
John was on the leash, she thought exultantly. They had fucked again, twice, until almost exhausted. He was more satiated than he had ever been in his entire life, she was sure: he had told her so, quite convincingly.
The girl Annie would sleep undisturbed tonight.
So would Carol-when she had finished with this boy in Santa Monica.
