She wanted to make him come ... to make him explode in her mouth ... to taste that part of him.
She couldn't explain the feeling-but there was something strangely exciting about her father's cock. She had felt it grow from a limp nothing into a throbbing hunk of excitement. It became a magic vessel in the warm oven of her mouth as she sucked his sleek, swollen prick ... bathing every inch of his member with saliva ... letting it touch the back of her throat on the deep plunges. She squeezed up and down on his cock as fast as she could ... sucking hard ... intensely concentrating on what she wanted as the final result.
He let her do it all-adoringly watching his daughter eagerly trying to please him. He had taught her well-and was proud of her performance.
CHAPTER ONE
It hurt. She could feel her tiny virginal pussy stretching all out of shape. She had wanted it-wanted it so bad she could taste it and soon she was going to taste it whether she wanted it or not. But how could she have known it was going to be so big, so hard, so unbelievably stiff and unyieldingly strong, so male? If only people would tell her things ... darn! Fifteen years old last week, practically an old maid already, and nobody had ever told her how much it hurt-how nice it hurt. Ooooooohhhhh, he was doing it again and it felt so gooooood every time she felt it slide into her.
But it was so big and so hard. Pat could feel it splitting her right in two. And this was only the second stroke! Good golly, she thought, what if he does it two or three more times? It was funny. She had thought she knew all about how it was done. Nice girls always had to pretend they didn't know or even want to know about such things. But, back in Middlevale High School, there had been one adventurous spirit in Gym who had given an analogue of illustrated lectures in the shower, explaining with hilarious commentary how blurtingly and spurtingly inept was the quarterback, who had barely gotten his quim-splitter halfway past the lips of her waiting receptacle before he had expired in a premature and solitary ecstasy.
But with Pat it hadn't been that way at all. Instead, he had taken all the time in the world, hovering over her tense, scared-stiff body until she had been so torn with suspense that she had actually become impatient and wanted him to do it-had wanted something, anything to happen rather than that awful waiting, just waiting.
Stiff as a poker, she had lain motionless, unable to resist or defend herself from the sudden presence in the darkness around her narrow virginal bed. She had known who it was. Who else could it be? She supposed that ever since she had come to spend the summer in this huge old house it had been inevitable. She had known that this was going to happen, and she had been afraid it was going to happen, yet all the time she had wanted it to happen.
And now it was happening! Just like in her dreams it had come without warning, without preparation, without a word exchanged between them. She wondered momentarily if perhaps it wasn't better this way. At least she could say it had been none of her doing. The decision had been taken out of her hands but her body was responding whether Pat did or not. Ooooooohhhhhh, was she ever responding!
She had lain there, stiff with dread intermixed with desire, feeling his hot body hovering over her, feeling the heat radiate from his great thumping thing, warming, scorching her just-hairing crotch like the tip of some erotic branding iron. And then just when she had been ready to scream or even to reach up and pull him down on top of her he had finally started moving.
She had felt the heat of his tremendous bludgeon move closer until finally, with an electric thrill there had been actual physical contact between his knob and the swollen, passion-and panic-flushed labia of her never-used little pussy.
Without so much as a finger to guide it, his thing had found its unerring way between her flushed lips, parting the just-thickening hair so like and yet so unlike the blond ringlets of her fifteen-year-old head. Slowly and carefully, his thing had slid up and down the slit of her barely-parted labia, coaxing from her the same smooth slickness that her exploring fingers had occasionally discovered. And only then had his blunt instrument ceased its casual exploration and begun to press the issue.
It had hurt. But it had hurt so good, with the promise of something even better than good and she lay tense and breathless, trying not to wiggle or scream as his thing came down onto her, into her, pressing and stretching, pulling her labia apart and stretching, stretching her maidenhood until her maidenhead had finally parted with a funny little tearing feel and it had stung for a moment and she knew instinctively that now part of the wet slickness was blood and not just the clear thick liquid which is the lubrication of love.
And still he had gone on pressing and she felt herself opening, coming apart, her labia parting and stretching as his great thumping thing went where no man had gone before. There had not been a single word exchanged between them. Pat wondered if she was doing it right. Maybe she ought to have struggled a little or at least said "No," or done something to establish that this was not what she usually woke up to. Good gosh, she suddenly thought, maybe he doesn't even know I'm a virgin! Maybe he thinks I do this all the time with everybody!
It was too late now. He was splitting her in two, pressing steadily and relentlessly as he drove his stiff and unyielding masculinity down into her, wrapping her labia around the dry shank of his cock and turning them in, tucking and pulling and hurting as he tried to turn even her hairy outer lips inward and wind them around his cock and guy, it hurt! But it hurt so goooooood!
Finally, just when she had known she was going to have to scream he had stopped pushing, had pulled it out a fraction of an inch and love's elixir had flowed until her labia were no longer puckering. She felt a tiny snap and she was no longer stretched quite so hard and then he was pushing again, only this time it was sliding into her without all that pulling, puckering pain and it was going deeper and it was going deeper and she wondered how long his thing was, how deep it would go and could she take it all?
Why didn't people ever tell her things? She had been fifteen for two weeks now and she still didn't even know how to do it. It was all so dark and so shivery and maybe it wasn't even him after all.
Maybe some stranger had sneaked into the huge old house. Maybe she was going to be murdered once the rape was finished. Why had she ever come here at all?
As if a fifteen-year-old girl had any control over where she was going to spend the summer! Momma, who had suddenly decided she wanted to be called Maman, had finally decided to marry one of her new boyfriends and go off to Europe and Pat had wanted to go but even at fifteen she had known that a daughter can be a fifth-wheel on a honeymoon and now Momma or Maman was off sending picture postcards of Hradcany castle and Pat was off spending the summer in this huge old house where Momma-Maman had once spent a summer and the people were all supposed to be so nice and there were horses and canoes and a river and a little lake and--and there had been nothing!
Instead, Pat had waited for centuries at the airport before a graying man with hayseed in his hair had come along finally with a station wagon that actually had wooden sides and had silently hauled her and her single piece of luggage for nearly an hour over roads that abruptly changed directions into ever-thickening forest until finally the road had been one-way and Pat had wondered what would happen if they ever were to meet another car but they never had and finally the man who might as well have been mute for all he said to her had finally deposited her on the uncut lawn before this immense old house that looked like something out of an English movie.
Stunned, Pat had stood numbly on the lawn waiting for somebody to open the door. It was clouding up and getting ready to pour when she gave up and walked toward the dark hole that was probably a doorway. Only then had she seen the piece of rope sticking out of the wall.
She gave an experimental pull and from somewhere deep in the house she heard a bell. Though it seemed like an hour, she guessed it was only a minute or two later when the door had finally opened and for the first time in her virginal life Pat had stood face to face, her long straight legs trembling as she first saw him. Even then she guessed somewhere deep inside her she had known this was going to happen. She had wondered only if Momma knew how the place had changed since those halcyon days of horses and canoes and all the things that were no longer here.
Silently they had stared at one another and finally it had been Pat who spoke. "Hello," she had said. "I'm Patricia. Didn't Momma tell you I was coming?"
She had never gotten an answer to that question. Instead, he had made some vague gesture of welcome and had picked up her single bag. Heart beating wildly, Pat had followed him down the dark hall, wondering if she was really seeing empty candlesticks set along the walls, and finally they were in a hall with a fireplace that was bigger than her bedroom in the flat where she and Momma-Maman had been living until Momma had married again.
He had led her upstairs down another hall and shown her a tiny upstairs room next to the bath and it had a narrow bed just as narrow and virginal as her bed at home had been and now she was in that bed and she was flat on her back and she was no longer a virgin and she didn't like to use those messy words but Pat knew there was no other suitable or honest word for what was happening to her. Call it what you might, she was getting fucked.
And it felt so gooooood! It was hurting but she had never hurt in quite that way before. That first stroke had been agony and ecstasy. It had taken centuries for his great prod to poke its leisurely way into her, sliding slowly puckering her labia inward until he had been forced to pull out slightly for a fresh start. But each time he had gone back to that steady relentless pushing until she had felt not just her virginal cunt lips stretched all out of shape, but it seemed as if her whole belly was being stretched, all her insides pushed this way and that to make room for the great throbbing thumping chunk of maleness that was invading her. It hurt. Guy, did it ever hurt! But it hurt so goooood.
Finally she had sensed that he couldn't put it much deeper into her. His lean hard-muscled belly was close to hers, his crisp pubic hair mingling with her sparse blond ringlets as he pressed close. She felt something hot and wriggly tickling the quivery cheeks of her ass and wondered if it was what all those sex education things with their silly stick figures called a scrotum.
Whatever it was, it wasn't doing anything one-half so interesting to her as that great thumping lump of maleness that he was poking in deep, deeper, deepest until she could feel the bony hardness of his pelvis press and grind against the firm prominence of her just-furring mons veneris.
Pat knew she shouldn't be doing this. She was only fifteen and he was centuries older than she was. Besides, there were other even more compelling reasons, she suspected, for not doing this. Not with anybody. But especially not with him!
But, she told herself, she wasn't doing anything. She had been asleep in her bed, minding her own business because no girl can be held responsible for her dreams, for god's sake! She'd been sound asleep when suddenly she awakened to the realization that what she'd been thinking about, fearing and dreading and yet expecting-it was finally happening. She wasn't doing it. It was being done to her.
But guy, how could she ever have guessed it was going to feel so wonderful? He had put it almost all the way into her now and he was hesitating for a moment waiting for her unused body to accommodate to this great thumping invader before he pressed for the final silly millimeter of togetherness.
Pat wondered if she had ever felt so full. It was the funniest feeling-not at all what she had been led to expect. In a way it reminded her of when she had been a little girl and become so involved in playing that she would forget to go to the toilet until she was ready to burst. She was that full now but full of something hotter, harder, more living and breathingly masculine than the substance which had strained her little girl's pot belly.
She sensed his body tensing, gathering forces for a final assault and then he was pushing it still deeper into her stuffed-unto-bursting little virginal belly. Pat gasped. It was the first indication she had given that she was even awake-as if a fifteen-year-old virgin was going to sleep through this!
He pushed until the hard bony prominence of his pelvis ground against her mons veneris, mingling hair with hair, male with female, cock with cunt. Pat gasped again, then struggled to hold her breath. It was happening to her; she was not inviting or asking for it. But guy, did it have to feel so gooooood?
He had his arms around her tiny firm little ass now and was holding her to him as he screwed-suddenly Pat understood the full meaning of that word as he screwed his pelvis against hers, working his stiff cock into her from delightfully unexpected angles, stirring her until she wanted to shriek and wail but guy, she couldn't do that. She wasn't even supposed to be awake!
CHAPTER TWO
Pat supposed it was only natural that Momma get married again someday. After all, she was still an attractive woman, somewhere in her carefully-vague thirties. But what bent Pat out of shape was the way it had all happened. She had expected to be-well, not exactly consulted about it but-did they have to make such a big conspiracy of it all?
Suddenly Momma had been trying to revive her high school French, insisting that Pat call her Maman and all that. Pat guessed she ought to have been able to predict it. But she hadn't. Instead, she had found herself being packed off one morning to spend the summer at this lovely old place where Momma-Maman had once spent a summer and there were horses and canoes and all kinds of groovy things and it was going to be a wonderful summer and she was going to meet all kinds of interesting people andguy! She was off so far into the woods she wasn't even sure what state she was in!
Except that she was in a state of desperate boredom. Guy, what a creepy place! The lake had turned out to be half as big as Momma's memories. In justice to Maman, there had been a splintering boathouse and dock some hundred yards uphill from the diminished lake. And the horses had also, Pat suddenly realized-they must be the same horses Momma had ridden that wonderful summer Maman had spent here way back in the Stone Age.
She remembered that first day here, when he had finally appeared at the door and led her up to this room. Even then she had been possessed of a feeling about this tiny room with its narrow, virginal bed. Or had it been the room, the atmosphere of this whole creepy place that had possessed her?
Pat didn't know. She knew that until she'd come here she'd been a perfectly normal fifteen-year-old girl-which meant she didn't think about sex more than once or twice a minute. But here ... with him around all the time never saying anything, just lurking in odd corners and surprising her with his silent presence....Pat wondered if there had ever been a moment since she had first seen him when she hadn't known in her heart of hearts that some part of her taut young body-a part somewhere beneath her heart-was going to learn what the real difference was between a girl and a woman.
But it was all so creepy.
That first afternoon ... she'd been more tired than she realized from the airplane and then the endless ride in all directions through the woods. And the lovely summer had turned out hotter than a convent fantasy. By the time she'd been left alone in that tiny room Pat had been ready to drop. If it hadn't been for the white pleated traveling skirt she had on, she would have dropped.
Instead, she had let the skirt drop. Carefully, she had picked it up with a toe and tossed it into a corner. She kicked off her shoes, shed her blouse, and sat on the edge of the bed. As long as she sat perfectly still the room was not hot. She lay down for just a moment to rest before getting into her blue jeans. And when she had awakened moments-hours?-later, he had been standing at the foot of the bed, staring silently down at her panty-and bra-clad body.
"Oh!" Pat had said, turning it into half-gasp, half-shriek. But he had not been embarrassed at all. "Dinner in half an hour," he said, and disappeared, closing the door behind him.
It might have been perfectly innocent. She might have awakened just as he stepped into the room. In a pig's eye! Something deep inside her told Pat she had been giving a free show for minutes, perhaps hours to those eyes that saw everything and commented on nothing.
I'm still just a little girl, she told herself. He isn't that way about me. He couldn't be. It just wouldn't be natural. But all the time she was telling herself all these comforting platitudes Pat knew they were only half-true. Maybe they were true for him. But they were not true for Pat. She felt her body responding in ways new and strange.
Like any awakening girl, Pat had known the warm giggly melting feeling that came from being smiled at by a firm-bodied young man. But what was new for her was this straining, yearning, drawing fixation that made her think night and day about him, made her wonder what he would be like with his clothes off, with his thing standing at attention, jutting from his lithe, hard-muscled body in full throbbing erection.
But she was ashamed of such feelings. It wasn't natural. He was too old. She told herself it was just because she wasn't used to having a man about the house. If she'd had a daddy home all her life instead of living alone in a dozen tiny flats with Momma-perhaps it would be different if she'd been able to crawl into a daddy's lap when she was little, sit in his lap and be cuddled and told bedtime stories and maybe catch him peeing with the bathroom door open once in a while and maybe he would give her baths when Momma was busy and he'd put his hand between her little legs and tickle her there and wipe her dry and pass a towel between her tiny buttocks and she would be so used to it she wouldn't go feeling all funny and gooey inside just at the thought of a man looking at her half-naked body.
Guy, I show more than that when I've got my new bikini on, she told herself. But she also knew that when she wore her new bikini she didn't suddenly wake up atop her bed with a strange silent brooding man staring thoughtfully down at her defenseless body.
What on earth had he said? Dinner in half-an-hour, she suddenly remembered. Abruptly, Pat wondered what dinner was like here. Was she supposed to dress? Of course. But how much? She was suddenly aware of prickly heat. There was a bath down the hall. She found a peignoir and slipped out of her bra and panties, finding a moment for silent narcissism as she glanced up at the ceiling. Now wasn't that a funny place to put a mirror!
Even foreshortened, looking up at her ceiling reflection, Pat knew she had a nice little body. Not a full-blown sexpot body like Momma-Maman, but a firm fifteen-year-old, never-been-kissed little piece of virgin flesh. Her matched set of perky little tits poked even more provocatively skyward, tiny nipples straining upward as she craned her neck to see their firm yet jiggly little cones atop the smooth firmness of her fair-skinned midriff.
Below, her tiny navel seemed even deeper than usual from this angle. She could barely discern the blondish ringlets that formed an almost invisible nimbus over the bony prominence of her mons veneris. Her eyes traveled down the firm straight columns of her thighs and she thought vague formless thoughts of how it would be to have something hot hard and male spreading those thighs and forcing its insistent way into her....
She jerked back to awareness and put her arms into her peignoir. She considered a mad dash down the hall to the bath but he might be lurking outside. Carefully, she drew the peignoir around her slight body and tightened the sash. Satisfied that she was revealing nothing more provocative than an ankle, she opened the door and walked the half-dozen steps to the bath. The hall was empty.
So was the bath. She tried the door and discovered it had no lock. She was about to give up and go to dinner without bathing when she reflected that she was going to have to spend the whole summer here.
She might as well face up to it now. She considered ways of blocking the door against some unexpected intrusion. If he had managed to get into her room while she slept....
In the goopy novels she had already outgrown somebody was always jamming a chair under the doorknob. But there was no chair here and she could recall none of a suitable height in her room. She poked through the medicine cabinet and found a venerable toothbrush of some design that had stopped being manufactured about the time she was born. She jammed the handle between the door and floor. With a silent prayer she stepped into the shower, drew the curtain, and only then slipped out of her peignoir.
She tossed it over the top of the curtain rod and-began fiddling with the outsized old-fashioned valves. It took her a moment to figure out which way to turn the weird knob in the middle and then suddenly she was deluged with too-cold water. It trickled between her legs and tickled the warm soft inner surface of her just-hairing vulval lips. Pat struggled not to think about such things as she dedicated herself to soaping and showering. Suddenly she realized she was passing the soap back and forth between her thighs far longer than was necessary to lave that flawless skin. Hastily, she put the soap away and rinsed off.
Guy, what a big keyhole in that bathroom door! She scooted hastily to one side, aware as she did it that she was acting very like some silly old maid looking under her bed. But Pat felt much better once she had draped her peignoir over the doorknob and was able to towel herself off at her leisure.
There was a full-length mirror on the bathroom door and, standing three-quarters, she could see her slim body past the edge of the draped peignoir. From this angle her breasts did not point quite so indefatigably skyward but they were still too firm to justify a bra. And now that she had finally won the war of nerves with Momma and could buy all the brassieres she wanted Pat was no longer obligated to wear them. Especially in this heat. She studied her tiny virginal nipples in the mirror and wondered if they would show too much through the thin blouse she planned on wearing to dinner. It was too hot for things like bras and slips-or even panties.
Staring at her body, she was reminded of the way he had been staring at it when she had awakened. Under the memory of that gaze she felt her tiny nipples flutter and suddenly they were rock-hard and throbbing. She scooted to one side of the keyhole and slipped into her peignoir with one fluid motion. She felt herself starting to go prickly all over from the heat-but it wasn't really that hot, was it? She scooted back down the hall and into her room, shucking the peignoir once more as she closed the door to her room.
A half-hour till dinner. She had forgotten to wind her watch and even if it had been working Pat didn't know how long ago she had awakened with that brooding maleness standing silent at the foot of her bed.
She glanced up again at the mirrored ceiling, studying her firm little body from that angle. Tilting her head back made her firm little jugs jut even more provocatively onward and upward like the slogan of some booster club.
What was there about these twin jiggling cones, she wondered? It must be some part of the mysterious sexual chemistry she was always hearing and reading about but never understanding. For some reason the sight of these totally innocuous and perfectly natural protuberances seemed to drive otherwise sober and dedicated men right out of their minds, forcing them into frantic evasive maneuvers with crossed legs and half-turnings. Abruptly Pat realized it must be akin to the same thing she was feeling now; her whole body tingling and glowing at the glorious inchoate thought of something wonderful that was going to happen. She felt the tiny twin tickles that meant her nipples were once more rigid. Was this what boys-men-felt when they looked at her and had to turn suddenly away or cross their legs?
A half-hour till dinner! Guy! How long had she stood here mooning, neck craned to study herself in that ceiling mirror? Hastily, she found the blouse and skirt. The blouse was thin but it was not all that tight. She put it on and posed before the door mirror-guy, this bedroom was full of mirrors! Her nipples were plainly visible if she threw her shoulders back. But she wasn't going to do anything like that. She wondered what it was that made her body, now naked only from the waist down, seem even more alluring than when she had been totally exposed a moment ago.
Still she studied the mirror doubtfully, wondering if perhaps the sight of her slight girlishness in a bra might not seem to be calling attention even more emphatically to those twin prominences which had done so much to complicate her life of late. Finally Pat reminded herself that he would be seeing nothing new. He was old enough to have seen naked girls before. And more importantly, he had been staring silently down at her undraped body when she was awakened a half-hour ago.
A half-hour till dinner! She grabbed the skirt, stepped into it frantically, fastened it about her waist and reached up beneath it to draw her blouse down to a proper tautness. Panties....No time now. She slipped into her shoes and dashed downstairs.
Guy-where was it? She wandered along the candle-sconced hallway dithering before doors. Remembering how she had been surprised in her own room, Pat was hesitant about what she might uncover behind some other doorway in this unpredictable household. What if she were to open a door and come upon somebody naked or worse-actually doing IT?
There were servants in the house, she knew. And there was that other silent personage who had stood brooding over her sleeping body. They were all adults, all older and more experienced than she was and, if Momma-Maman was any example, Pat suspected that adults were just as interested in doing it as she was. More importantly, they knew how and instead of just thinking about it, a considerable portion of their lives was actually spent in doing it.
She felt her nipples rising once more beneath the thin blouse just at the thought of all this joyous activity from which she was barred by age and immaturity. How long, oh lord? She was still wondering which door when she felt a touch on her arm, only inches from one tingling nipple.
CHAPTER THREE
Pat almost screamed. She managed not to jump more than a foot as she spun to see what had found her in the dimly-lit hallway. It was the same brooding maleness that had stood over her. Without speaking he led her farther down the hall and through a doorway.
The dining hall was like out of a Frankenstein movie, with a fireplace that could burn telephone poles. The table was long, with endless rows of chairs down both sides. She wondered if there would be others coming to dinner and guessed not. There were only two places set. She wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not when she saw that the second place was not at the far end of the table from his. At least they wouldn't have to send semaphore signals the entire length of that table. But would she really be happier sitting to his right, possibly even brushing knees with him?
If only he weren't so silent! A grimfaced, aging woman came in with a tureen and ladled soup. Pat was so ill-at-ease that she actually found herself trying to eat consomme madrilene with a tiny dessert spoon. And all the while he sat silent beside her, not even seeming to notice her.
She wondered if she'd been imagining it all. He didn't even seem to know she was alive. Maybe he was too old even to remember the kind of feelings she was thinking about. How old was he? She sneaked a glance over her soup spoon at his face. He wasn't really old, she guessed. It was just the serious and unsmiling mein that made him seem like some superannuated Abe Lincoln. Guy! What was she going to do all summer in this big empty place with nobody to talk to?
Soup was over and the woman was silently serving Dover sole. Pat was worrying at an unexpected bone in hers when suddenly she sensed that he was looking at her-actually seeing her.
"Should have gotten in touch with you sooner," he said in that disconcertingly deep voice that always reminded her of some Israeli general. "I don't know whether you're old enough to appreciate the facts of life but there are certain people who are unfit for marriage to anyone. When two of these people come together the felony is compounded."
Pat wondered what on earth he was talking about.
"It was an agonizing decision and, thanks to the bias of our courts, it was not totally in my hands. In any event, now that your mother has found other things with which to amuse herself, perhaps we can get to know one another."
Pat thought of the way Momma-Maman was amusing herself with a new husband and suddenly she was blushing as an unexpected wave of total sensuality wracked her slim body. Guy; she thought, he's looking at me and I bet he's reading my mind.
He must know I've never done it and how much I want to and oooohh, dirt! Why does he have to be so handsome? Why does he have to be sitting so close to me?
He wasn't really all that close, she knew. He wasn't crowding her or rubbing his knee against hers or playing footsie like some of those grubby boys in school-but she could feel the warmth, the maleness radiating from him, bathing her in a warm glow of desire. Guy! If he knew what I'm thinking....
The grim woman was back in the room. She was pouring white wine to go with the fish. Pat realized abruptly that the woman was filling her glass too. Guy! She had tasted wine but she really didn't care that much for it. Still ... it would never do, she guessed, to make like a little girl. She raised her glass and hastily gulped.
It wasn't all that bad. It wasn't sweet like the gloppy champagne she'd had when Momma-Maman had formalized her alliance with somebody to scratch her internal tickle. Actually, Pat guessed, it tasted more like a slightly vinegary Seven-Up. But even at fifteen she had sense enough to know that it was loaded. The warm glow of propinquity that assailed her young body in his presence became abruptly warmer. She put the glass down.
He was talking again and she hadn't even been listening. Something about horses ... or had he been talking about swimming? "Perhaps after dinner you'd like to see where I grow them," he was saying with just a hint of invitation in his deep voice.
"I'd love to," Pat said, hoping he hadn't noticed how her attention wandered.
Dinner progressed through meat and a sticky dessert and then there was coffee and brandy. The coffee seemed more bitter than she was used to.
"Espresso," he explained as he saw her puzzled look. He nodded at the brandy decanter but Pat was already feeling wobbly enough. She finished the coffee and wondered what it was that she had said she'd love to see.
Whatever it was, it seemed to be several stories down in the basement. She followed in silent wonderment as he led her down flight after flight of stairs, first of echoing wood, and later of cement until finally she realized she was descending a flight of stairs hewn from living rock. Guy, she thought, there must be a cave under the house!
The lights became farther apart and dimmer until she was stumbling. There was a hint of chill in the air and she was reminded that she wore nothing but a skirt and thin blouse. From somewhere ahead came a steady draft. She stumbled and bumped into him. Without even looking back, he put out an arm, caught her elbow and steadied her. She stumbled again and this time he did not let go of her elbow.
They came to a door and he opened it. Abruptly the draft became a blast of wind that send her skirt skywards. Oooohhh guy! she thought, wondering if it were possible to die of embarrassment. She wasn't wearing any panties!
He had to turn loose of her elbow to struggle with the door. Finally it closed and the draft subsided along with her skirt. She could still feel her crotch tingle from the hair-twitching blast of chill air. Surely he must have seen her naked as-as naked as he had seen her on her bed before dinner! But if he saw he gave no indication. They were in some kind of subterranean shelter now. She didn't know if it was a mine or a cave.
Then suddenly they were in a large chamber full of drooping stalactites like stone icicles. And beneath every stalactite was its counterpart, a glistening limestone stalagmite shaped like--
Guy! Couldn't she think of anything else? Every one of those glistening limestone protuberances was wet with dripping water. Every one of them jutted from the floor of this subterranean chamber like some man's thing in full rampant erection, as stiff and hard as her tiny nipples suddenly felt beneath that thin blouse. And he had seen her with her skirt up in the air!
She wondered if there was anything about a girl's crotch that would make it as obvious what she was thinking about as....But she didn't have anything to stick out and make the front of her skirt bulge....
And yet, somehow Pat knew that he knew. She felt cheap, realizing suddenly that she ought to have had sense enough to have worn panties no matter how hot it was up there. But ... how could she have known he was going to take her on a walking tour of some subterranean funhouse?
If only he weren't so serious! Didn't he ever laugh or smile? Any boy she'd ever known would have been snickering uncontrollably at her plight. Instead, he held her elbow as if nothing had happened-all the while leading her through a veritable forest of stone phalli as if there were petrified giants buried just beneath this rubble-strewn cave floor with only their maleness sticking out, standing at rapt attention in homage to her pristine little body.
Oh guy! They looked just like a man's thing-big and hard and glistening with love's elixir-only they were ten feet high! What on earth was she doing here? She tried to remember what it was that he was going to show her. It couldn't be this. He was going through it unseeing-as if it reminded him of nothing apart from the marvelously complex shapes which nature and the millennia can achieve with carbonic acid and limestone.
She was gasping with the effort to keep up with him. Still he guided her by the elbow. Overhead at infrequent intervals she saw naked light bulbs strung from wires that looped from the ceiling of the chamber. Then they were stooping to get through a tiny hole and once more the draft threatened to raise her skirt but she got her hands over it in time and hoped the light was too dim for him to see her blushing and then there were shelves full of dirt and dim lights and she finally realized what she had come down here to see. So this was where he grew the mushrooms that had garnished the meat course and this was what she'd told him she'd love to see and now she was looking at hundreds-thousands of mushrooms and every one of them was like a minia ture stalagmite, like a man's thing, and every one of them stood up shameless and baldheaded, pointing straight at her, pointing straight at her shameful secret thoughts, telling the world that here was a girl who knew what a man's thing looked like in full rampant erection and guy, couldn't she think about anything else?
Stone stalagmites, mushrooms-what was wrong with her? Did everything on earth have to remind her of a man's cock? He was picking one, handing it to her, and now she held one of those firm, yet yielding, long, straight-shanked edible fungi with that great flaring head so like a glans penis-held it in her hands and ran her fingers over the tip and wondered if this was what it would feel like to hold a man's masculinity in her hand and if she were to hold a man's thing in her hand, would it inflame him with erotic desire and leave him as panting and fluttery and near-fainting as she felt at this moment?
"Go ahead," he was saying.
Pat gave a guilty start and nearly dropped the mushroom. Go ahead and what? Suddenly she wanted to drop everything and run screaming up that winding passage, back up to the surface of the earth-back where she could breathe clean air and think of something besides what it would be like to have one of these things forcing its insistent way in and out, in and out, filling and emptying her, stuffing her lean, virgin belly with the stuff dreams are made of.
"Go ahead and eat it," he was saying. "They're delicious raw."
Pat stared at that thing so like and yet so unlike something else. She blushed furiously and then, realizing the longer she waited the worse it would get, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and popped it into her mouth.
It tasted like-a mushroom. Now she recognized the odd flavored bits that had permeated the salad. It didn't taste bad but-guy! She hadn't come down here and been scared half-to-death just to taste raw mushrooms!
Suddenly awareness seeped through her and she wasn't eating it. She could feel it sliding into her virginal pussy. She wasn't here in any cave or cellar. She lay on her back, knees flexed, thighs spread, gasping and straining in the darkness as he hovered over her, pushing his mushroom into her, spreading her, filling her, hurting her but hurting so goooood she was shuddering and gasping with delight and waiting for him to hurt her some more and where was she? Was she down here in the cave looking at man-shaped stalagmites and man-shaped mushrooms and tasting a mushroom or was a man's mushroom tasting her on the narrow bed of her upstairs room?
Illusion blurred with reality and what kind of a mushroom had she eaten? Surely a half glass of Rhine wine hadn't done this to her.
He was on top of her and he shouldn't be there. It was wrong. But it felt so good....Pat felt her tiny body thrill at the feel of overpowering maleness and it was so much what she had been wanting and waiting for and dreaming and wishing and ... she couldn't stop now. She'd let him put it in one more time and then when she felt it coming out she'd make him stop. It was wrong!
But it felt so right and then she knew she wasn't really doing it anyhow. She was down here in this cave where he grew mushrooms and they were just the old kind everybody eats with steak and she had a vivid imagination and if only she'd been around men a little more while she was growing up maybe her imagination wouldn't play all these dirty tricks on her whenever she got within smelling distance of a man.
He had such a lovely male smell to him. He was offering her another mushroom and it was all so elemental. What was wrong with her? Suddenly she felt silly. He was a nice man and he was probably as awkward-feeling with her as she was with him. He was trying to be amusing, showing her all his treasures and if she insisted in seeing something in mushrooms that wasn't there, then it was just her fifteen-year-old imagination and he really didn't have his other hand on her trim little ass at all!
Suddenly she was reeling and maybe a half glass of wine had been too much after all or maybe it was the long ride and all the surprises of this eventful afternoon. She felt herself spinning, falling backwards, spiraling down into a black hole and something was sliding into her hole and ooooohhhh guy, what was wrong?
CHAPTER FOUR
Dimly, Pat felt his arms capture her and then he was carrying her back through the chamber with all the ten-foot-tall cocks where all the sleeping giants had gotten stony hard-ons from the sight of her trim little body as she had walked through. Only now she wasn't walking; she was being carried and she could feel the hard-corded strength of his arms beneath her shoulders cradling her firm little bottom-and he was cupping one buttock in his plam and his other hand had somehow gone clear around her and was cupping her little tit and she wondered if his fingers could feel how stiff and hard her nipple was through the thin fabric and maybe she should have worn a blouse and then she was drifting again and it felt so good to lie inert in a man's arms and let him carry her and he felt so strong and she felt so weak....
Guy! She knew she hadn't worn any panties or bra but she had on shoes, at least. She knew she'd put on a thin blouse and a skirt. Now she knew she was naked as the day she'd been born-naked as this afternoon when she'd awakened to see him staring down at her, only this afternoon she'd had bra and panties on and now-where on earth was she?
She opened her eyes and saw she was still being carried, that her skirt was well above her knees but he really wasn't grabbing all those great handfuls of her that she'd been imagining. "Feeling better now?" he asked.
Pat nodded. She abruptly wished she hadn't. She didn't want to walk. It felt ever so much nicer to let him carry her back upstairs. Then she realized he had no intention of putting her down.
"You must be tired," he said soothingly. "I noticed this afternoon that you looked odd."
"Now how could you know whether I look odd?" she demanded. "Have you ever seen me before?"
"Not for nearly fifteen years," he conceded. "But, like most of the young, you forget that people of my age have experienced everything you have, plus several more years of experience."
Pat blushed as she wondered if he had ever experienced the gooshy, melting feeling inside her every time she felt him move, every time his hard-muscled body flexed and strained to carry her smoothly up the endless rock steps.
Fortunately, it seemed dark enough for him not to notice her blush. She sensed their steady progress upstairs, through the drafty door and back up past the dining hall, upstairs to her room and then he was pulling the sheet down and laying her down on top of her narrow bed. She lay tense, wondering what next and then he was pulling the sheet up over her slight body. She was ready to kick and scream with frustration when she felt his firm, hard-muscled hands snake in beneath the sheet and loosen the waistband of her skirt. Then those capable fingers were blindly unbuttoning her blouse. Deftly, he got her arms out of the blouse, only once accidentally brushing the back of his hand over her hot, throbbing nipple. He got the blouse out, folded it neatly over a chair back, then got his hands in again and pulled the skirt from her firm little ass, leaving her thrumming with expectation beneath the sheet-only one thin layer of fabric from his sober burning gaze. And then he was kissing her.
Before Pat had time to react it was over-a brief, passionless kiss and he was asking once more if she was all right, if she needed anything and well, good night now, see you in the morning and I hope you feel better by then.
Pat lay flat on her back, naked, covered only by a thin sheet, alone in her room, alone atop her narrow virginal bed and she wanted to kick and scream.
After all that long slow buildup to-she didn't know what, but surely it hadn't all been building up to just nothing! She could feel his cock sliding slowly, steadily, inexorably into her tiny opening, feel it come out again just as slowly, pulling her labia Until it felt like she was turning inside out and it felt so goooood but it wasn't really happening. She was just here alone in the darkness, the room barely lit by starlight through the thin drape and he was gone and here she lay alone and it was hot and she was hot and she was furious. She kicked and the sheet went flying.
The door opened once more and, thank the gods of luck and love, the light did not come on. She lay cringing, naked and exposed as his shadowy profile hung in the doorway. "I forgot," he said. "There're horses if you'd like to ride tomorrow. Have you any clothes?"
Not on me. Then she realized what he meant. "Uh, no," she managed in a tremulous voice.
"Don't worry. There ought to be something around that'll fit you," he said and once more the door was closed and she lay alone and naked in the darkness, wondering if it were possible to die of .sheer rage and mortification.
Horses! He was as bad as Momma. As if she felt like wasting her time with great smelly, hairy, four-legged beasts! Pat wanted to waste her time with great, smelly, two-legged beasts like the one who was on top of her right now putting his thing into her, stretching her, stretching her to the delicate boundary between pleasure and pain, making her whole body shudder with joy fulfilled as he filled her full of hot throbbing maleness.
It felt so gooood! It felt ten thousand times nicer than all the second-best things she had experienced in fifteen years of womanhood. It felt like he was going to split her right in two each time she felt it begin once more: that slow, sensual slide into the depths of her being, pushing her viscera this way and that to make room for the great thumping, throbbing lump of maleness that was stretching her tiny twat to the effable edge of ecstasy.
And it was wrong! Pat knew she ought not to be doing it-not with him! Why on earth had Momma-Maman ever sent her off to spend the summer here? Had her mother ever imagined what was going to happen to a fifteen-year-old girl in this unbelievable place? Guy! It was creepy-just like those stories she used to read only when they got to this part those old stories always used to dissipate into three dots at the end of a suggestive sentence.
Pat wished she could do it that way-just dwindle off into three dots. Instead, she was getting something hot, hard and male deep inside her, seemingly deeper with each slow deliberate stroke. It would be horrible if it didn't feel so gooood!
And what on earth was happening to her? She lay alone on her bed in the sultry night, without even a sheet over her but she was alone and was she remembering or was she anticipating or was she hallucinating or was she just wishing so hard she could practically taste it. Now that was a funny thing to say or even to think. She had tasted a mushroom but she didn't have this hot throbbing male mushroom in her mouth, thank god. She had it somewhere else and oooooohhh guy, there he went again putting it in deeper and this time he was pulling it out a little faster and she could feel her insides give a little fillip as everything settled back in place once the one-eyed worm that invaded her innards beat a temporary retreat and left her for a blissful restful moment of emptiness.
It isn't happening, she told herself. I'm just lying alone here in this tiny room just under the eaves and in spite of having nearly frozen to death in that cave and in spite of letting a strange man undress me, I'm still a virgin and I may be for the rest of my life unless I can get out of here and back to the city where things happen. Guy, is it ever hot!
She lay supine, staring up in the darkness and realized after a moment that her eyes had adjusted and that she could actually see her reflection in the mirrored ceiling. Idly, she drew up her knees and began fanning her thighs open and shut in an effort to get some air to that part of her body which seemed most in need of cooling off.
Her mind dwelt on that magic instant when she had actually felt the back of his hand rub over one tiny but marble-hard nipple, how her slight body had suddenly given a great leap forward into full-fledged womanly desire. There was no delicate way to put it, Pat decided. After despising all those uncontrollably stiff-pricked boys in her class, here she was getting just as uncontrollable as they were totally unable to stifle her just-maturing body's instinct to-there were other words for it but Pat suddenly realized they didn't really mean the same thing. Make love! Shit! She didn't want to make love. Pat wanted to fuck.
The night was over and she was sweaty and sticky and she awoke to the realization that her neck was slightly stiff from having slept all night naked and without a sheet. Then she discovered the real reason for the slight stiffness in her neck was that she had slept without a pillow and no, that wasn't exactly right either. She had been sleeping with a pillow but somehow it had ended up between her legs instead of where it belonged.
She gave a little shudder and looked for her peignoir. After the careful ritual of hanging it over the keyhole she showered, noticing for the first time that the ceiling of the bath was mirrored just as was her bedroom. She glanced up and through the rising steam, catching another foreshortened glimpse of her taut little body, tits sticking out like twin headlights as she raised her arms to rinse off.
So what time was breakfast? Her watch must be on the fritz, she guessed. Back in her room and standing indecisive in blouse and no bra, she studied it and knew it could not possibly be ten-thirty. She found a pair of pink nylon bikini panties and climbed thoughtfully into them. Hadn't he said something about horses? She was supposed to dress for riding. If he thought she was going to wear a bowler hat and a hacking coat in this kind of weather....She rummaged through the shallow depths of her single piece of luggage and found a pair of levi's which ought to be enough concession to the world of equestrianism.
The levi's had been bought almost a year ago and Pat had finished filling out in the interim. Also in the ass, which made it nice to see her go, she decided. She struggled and finally managed to get the skintight denim zipped firmly around the full firmness of her thighs.
Finally the mirrors on door and ceiling assured her she was ready to face the world no matter what weird corner of same she might be in. She was even ready to face him, secure in the knowledge that the wind was never going to raise her levi's over her head at possibly the most embarrassing moment. If ever he wanted to get another look at her in the altogether, Pat resolved it was going to be on her terms-when and where she felt like lighting up his solemn eyes and not whenever he felt like sticking a hand up her skirt or into her bed. Damn him!
Downstairs the dining hall was empty. She explored the dimly-lit house and finally found the kitchen which was also empty. Pat was frying herself a couple of eggs and toasting whole wheat bread when the grim-looking housekeeper came in. For a moment Pat was afraid the older woman would resent somebody else in her kitchen but the housekeeper's silent greeting seemed friendly enough. Pat guessed the apprentice witch had decided it was easier to clean up after a stranger than to be fixing meals at all hours. But just to stay on the safe side of the help-if there was any safe side in this bewildering establishment, she was careful to wash her cup and plate and put the clean frying pan back in its proper place on the rack above the huge old stove.
God damn him! Where was he? After all the sleep he'd made her lose last night he might at least be around somewhere to say good morning or ask how she'd survived the night or something....
Pat checked the kitchen and guessed she'd put everything back where it belonged. She thought about going back up to her room but by now it promised to be hotter than her dream world up in that tiny attic cubicle. Finally she thought of what should have occurred to her in the first place. He had mentioned horses. She wasn't going to find them in the living room.
The stables were down toward the edge of the diminished lake, a hundred yards beyond the high-and-dry boathouse. As she left the great house she could hear the frantic whinnying of a horse somewhere in that direction. She looked over her shoulder and sneaked a final glance at the well-filled seat of her levi's. If he didn't like what he saw, there had to be something wrong with him. And if he didn't like it-so much the better, she thought. It was absolutely and totally wrong for him to be thinking those kinds of thoughts about her in the first place. In any other place, she amended.
There seemed to be a tremendous racket coming from the stables. She wondered if horses were fond of fighting. It sounded as if a horse was trying to kick the wall of the building out. Cautiously, she rounded the corner and saw-him.
At first Pat didn't know what on earth was going on. It looked as if he were trying to provoke a fight between two horses. He held one rearing, whinnying horse by a lead rope and was encouraging it to attack another horse who looked nervously over its shoulder, showing the whites of its eyes. It wasn't until one horse was atop the other that Pat finally realized they were not fighting.
The horse on top shot out a half-yard of cock, black as sin and thick as a baseball bat. And he ... Pat stood aghast as he worked his way under the plunging horse, heedless of his own safety as he dodged flying hooves to grasp that half-yard of horse cock in his fist and guide it straight into the waiting mare.
CHAPTER FIVE
As a little girl Pat had giggled and pretended not to watch as dogs managed their hang-up thing and yipped and howled with unrelinquishing abandon. She had never seen horses do it before. The studhorse humped and whinnied, pouring his tremendous black bludgeon to the willing mare whose eyes rolled as she felt the impact of a half-yard of Thuringer sausage being stuffed up her hind end.
He scooted out of harm's way once he was sure the studhorse had it in. With his back to her he stood watching the stallion's brief mating. Three solid full-depth plunges and it was over; the studhorse standing to one side, ribs heaving, his limp cock dangling like an Irish pennant beneath his sweaty belly. The mare stood quiet, her flanks trembling slightly.
And Pat ... Pat stood watching the silent tableau, watching him. He had not seen her. He seemed interested in the horses' reaction. After a while she realized he was waiting to see if the stud would want to try again.
Pat studied the horses, studied him. She ought to get away from here-come back later and pretend she had never seen it. But she stood rooted, unable to move. Some tiny sane corner of her mind told her neither stud nor mare were as shaken by their congress as she had been by watching it. Was she a closet voyeur? Pat thought she knew what the word meant. But did it apply to her?
While she stood watching he finally sensed her presence and turned. "Which one?" he called.
Guy, doesn't anything embarrass him? Pat wanted to sink down into the ground and die. How could she ever explain that she hadn't intended to watch, hadn't even realized what was happening until it was too late?
"Which one do you want to ride?" he demanded.
Pat wondered it' he was diplomatically pretending nothing had happened. More probably, she decided, he was so obtuse that it never even occurred to him that a fifteen-year-old girl might be embarrassed at what was probably an everyday activity for people who raised horses.
She stood, numb with embarrassment while he led the just-fucked mare into the stable and saddled her. She had still not recovered when he led the mare out. "Nellie's gentler than the stud horse," he explained. "Take her today and we'll see how well you ride." He hesitated a moment, studying her skintight levi's. "Uh, you able to ride in those?"
Still struggling vainly not to blush, Pat gave a mute nod. She approached the mare's left side with some trepidation, wondering if she ought to tell him she'd never been on a horse before. She remembered from somewhere that one always mounted from the left but she was, despite countless TV cowboys, not quite sure how to do it. He knelt and held out his cupped hands. She stared. Now what was he up to?
"Put your left foot here," he explained. Pat did and felt herself suddenly catapulted atop the quiescent mare.
"Swimming's nice on the other side of the lake," he said by way of farewell. Still the mare stood quiet. Pat gathered up the loose reins from the mare's neck. He gave the mare a pat on her broad rump and the mare obediently began moving away. "Uh, if you decide to get bucked off," he added, "try not to land in the poison ivy."
Pat wondered if he was joking. But mostly, she wondered how she was going to stay atop the lady horse's rolling back. By the time she was a hundred yards away from the stable she was getting used to the motion. She experimented with the reins and the mare stopped to look back reproachfully at her. "I'm sorry," Pat said, "but I don't know how to do it."
Indians were supposed to guide horses with their knees. But Nellie seemed too thoroughly civilized ever to have seen an Indian. Pat tried digging her knees into the mare's sides and got nothing but more reproachful looks. Finally, by some form of equine telepathy the mare managed to get Pat to experimenting with the reins until she fathomed the mysteries of neck reining. The mare veered from side to side as easily as a VW with power steering once Pat learned to pull the reins ever so slightly to one side or the other and without hurting the mare's sensitive mouth.
As Pat cantered gently toward the other side of the lake she was reminded of some ancestral memory-probably from a cowboy movie seen when she was eight or ten-about an old cowboy's admonition: "You got to know at least as much as the horse."
Pat became aware of another feeling inside her fifteen-year-old crotch. The constant forward-and-backward, up-and-down motion of the saddle was making her increasingly aware of a particularly sensitive spot in her firm little body. She had learned by now that she was not in imminent danger of falling off the gentle mare. She found herself talking to her soul sister. "You know how," she complained. "And everybody's willing to help you learn-even him. But how-" Her gentle complaint abruptly changed into a wail. "-How am I ever going to learn how?"
The mare looked back at her but offered no suggestions. Instead, she began once more walking around the shore of the diminished lake.
It's big and it's stiff and it's hard and it's black as that stud horse's and it's going into me and it's tearing me in two but it feels so good even if he would stop I couldn't make him and oooohhh Jesus, he's putting it in deeper now and he's going faster and it's going in so deeeeep! Oh guy, it felt so gooood but it was hurting and if he didn't pull it out soon she was going to die but when he pulled it out it felt even worse and please, wouldn't he hurry up and put it back in and do it again and oh guy, what would she do if he were to stop now? And then, just as she knew she was going to shatter and melt down into some new exotic and erotic shape he did stop.
Pat's eyes flew open and she saw that the mare had ceased its patient plodding and was looking back up at her for instructions. I'm going insane, she told herself. And then, with a surprising maturity for her years, she realized what was wrong, what had to be wrong with her.
Nothing to do except sit around and think about it. If I could just get some exercise, get myself tired enough to fall asleep at night instead of just lie there and wish for things I don't really want to happen....
She was sitting astride a blameless horse. After all, the mare had not invited her to look upon what is essentially a private pastime. She ought to be galloping wild up and downhill, covering the countryside. But Pat realized abruptly that she just didn't care that much about horses. She was already getting to the point where that delicious massage of her inner thighs and more intimate parts was bordering on the uncertain boundary between pleasure and pain. So this was what it was like to be saddle sore. And if it was like that for Pat, what must it be like for the satiated mare who was doing all the work instead of lying quietly in some corner of the pasture digesting all the lovely things that had just happened to her?
Pat sighed and then abruptly realized she was on the other side of the lake, far from the great house and far from any possibility of interruption. At the shore of the lake a thicket of trees had somehow survived the lowering water level. She studied the spit of land and saw that she was safe from interruption. The ground stretched bare and level for half a mile in every direction. She nudged Nellie and the mare plodded into the thicket.
Pat wondered if she ought to tie the horse. It would be cruel, she decided, to be tied up. She could walk back to the house if the mare were to wander off. She dropped the reins over the mare's head and they lay on the ground. Pat studied the quiescent mare and wondered if she had discovered something else about horses. Was this what cowboy novels meant when they talked about ground-tying?
Straight across the lake it was less than a quarter of a mile to the great house. Pat wondered if she could swim across. Not that she intended to; she didn't have a swimsuit. She gave Nellie a final glance, scanned the bare ground around the thicket and, certain for once that nobody was going to surprise her, began unbuttoning her blouse.
Over the water she could see the ageing housekeeper doing something in the yard behind the house. Dimly, she could see him still in the corral behind the stable doing something with the other horse-with Nellie's husband, she amended.
But here inside the thicket she was protected from the harsh overhead sun. There was a leafy bower of grass and ferns and here in the shade the vague hint of a breeze made it seem almost cool.
She gave a grateful sigh as the hint of breeze laved her just-starting-to-sweat chest and shoulders. Immediately, her tiny virginal nipples were rock-hard and thrumming under the tiny tickle of the breeze. Going to have to start wearing a bra no matter how hot it is, she reminded herself. She couldn't spend the whole summer running around with a sign on her chest proclaiming to every male in sight, HERE I AM READY AND WILLING-TAKE ME.
She stretched on tiptoe to peer past the brush and make sure she was still alone. There was nobody in sight. For once she would be able to undress without that squirmy feel that she was being watched. She undid the waist-button of her levi's and began peeling their skintight fabric from her bottom and thighs. There was a hint of dampness in the crotch of the levi's and she was reminded of the embarrassing and uncontrollable things that happened to her body when she sat astraddle a saddle and felt the workings of a great hairy beast between her thighs. Guy!
Finally she was out of sneakers and levi's, naked as the day she was born-naked as in all her dreams when he....She spread her legs and reveled in the delicious sensation of wind passing through her crotch, moving each silky hair, seeming to count them with zephyr fingers.
Guy! Just what she didn't want to do. This was sick to sit and stand around all day just thinking about doing it. She considered taking a running dive into the lake but there were two things wrong with that. She didn't know how deep or what kind of a bottom. With this crazy up-and-down water level she might plow straight into a submerged barbed-wire fence. And even if the lake were perfectly safe, Pat didn't want to ruin her hair-not until she was sure she was going to spend enough time swimming to make it worthwhile.
With a final look around to make sure she was still alone, she began padding gingerly barefoot out of the leafy nest in the midst of the thicket. If the housekeeper saw her from a quarter-mile across the lake, let her think Pat was wearing a flesh-colored bathing suit. And if he saw, well, to hell with any man who could look at her, feel her, put her to bed, and in all, treat her as if she were some sexless infant. He didn't seem any more interested in her body than he seemed in the horses whose love affair he had aided and abetted with one sinewy, hard-muscled hand.
She moved a little faster than she really wanted to, bending her knees and squatting until her barely-visible pubic hair was covered by the tepid water. The bottom was firm and not the sort of weedy goosh she had been expecting. Reassured, she plodded farther, gradually straightening up until she stood erect with the water barely tickling the thrumming pink tips of those tiny twin volcanoes that punctuated her girlish chest.
The tiny lake's sun-heated water was sharply stratified; warm as chicken soup for the first foot but several degrees cooler about her ankles and thighs. She stepped deeper into the lake and felt a sudden delicious tingle as the cool water reached her superheated, saddle sore crotch. Sighing, she spread her legs and began fanning cool water past her throbbing vulva. It felt so good she lost her footing and her feet came up as her head came down. She surfaced gasping and sputtering with the knowledge that like it or not, she had just wet her hair.
To heck with it. The water was nice and the lake was not the complete washout she had expected from the distant dock and boathouse. Across by the great house she saw the dour housekeeper still busy with something in the yard. A chicken's mortal squawk gave Pat a sudden insight into what the ageing woman must be up to.
She tried not to think about it. But she could no more stop thinking about it than she could stop . thinking about him-about his eyes burning down on her undraped body, his sinewy hands brushing her as he undressed her and put her to bed. Guy! How could any girl not think about it?
But she had to try. Pat arched her back and swam underwater, surprised at how clear everything was. She could see the whole lake bottom below her. As far in every direction as she could see there were regularly-shaped protuberances from the sand-mud. Curious, she surfaced and breathed, dived again and began scraping the silt away from one of the rectangles.
Guy! It was a tombstone! She was swimming on top of a submerged graveyard. She could almost read the inscription. She was starting to run out of breath. With the inscription still undeciphered, she came gasping and panting to the surface and the first thing she saw was him mounted on the stallion who had just serviced her mare. He was riding across the open ground, heading straight for the tiny thicket where Pat had left her clothes!
CHAPTER SIX
The sight of him riding straight toward her bower was enough to drive the sunken graveyard right out of Pat's mind. Guy! What was she going to do now?
One thing for damned sure, she resolved: She was not going to put on another free show for some old man who didn't even seem to be interested in the sight of her undraped body. To the devil with him!
She scanned the distance. He wasn't galloping or anything like that. Maybe, she equivocated-just maybe he was coming in total innocence, assuming any girl swimming would be wearing a bathing suit. After all, why wouldn't he believe that?
But Pat was not. Suddenly, even neck-deep in the tepid water she could feel herself blushing. What was she going to do? There was only one thing she could do. He was still two hundred yards away. Before he could draw within hair-counting distance she rushed for the shore and, stooping low, ran for the bower where she had left her clothes and Nellie. The mare waited placidly, apparently hypnotized by the reins on the ground. Pat was not hypnotized. With the speed of fifteen summers she scrambled into her skintight levi's, stuffed arms into her thin blouse, struggled to put wet feet into tennies, and was climbing atop Nellie before he was close enough to really be able to tell whether she had been naked or just wearing a flesh-colored swimsuit. Fooled you that time, she thought triumphantly as she urged Nellie out of the bower. By the time they met Pat had put a hundred feet between her and that snug leafy place where she had undressed amid leisurely erotic fantasies.
"Quitting already?" he asked as their horses came close.
"Yeah." Pat tried to sound casual about it. Nellie was acting odd, sidling about and not answering to the reins. She wondered what was wrong with the mare.
"Now cut that out!" he growled as his studhorse began capering. He began sawing on the reins, pulling the stallion up sharply. "Hot even for this country," he said to her when the animal settled down. There was an embarrassed silence as Pat hunted desperately for something else to say. Had he seen her? Didn't he really know she had been swimming in the altogether? Was he just coming over here innocently to cool off himself? After all, she told herself, he must have put in a hot and sticky morning at the stables and for a man around horses all the time it was not the mindblower it had been for her. After helping his horse get it into hers it seemed only natural that he might want to take a quick dip and wash the sweat and other things from his lean, sinewy body.
"Ooooohhh!" Pat shrieked in terror as his horse abruptly reared and for a moment all she could see was two immense, metal-shod hooves coming down toward her. He was swearing horribly and it took Pat an instant to realize he was swearing at his horse and not at her. She felt herself slipping across the smooth, slick leather of Nellie's saddle, sliding down to fall on the side away from the studhorse. She saw his horse, with him still atop it kicking and spurring, swearing words she had never even imagined could exist as the studhorse ignored its rider, preferring instead to concentrate once more on putting that black, baseball bat-sized length of horse cock into the willing and waiting mare. Pat shuddered at what would have happened to her between the two horses if she had not fallen off in time. And then, mercifully, she fainted.
Oh no, not again! Pat thought. She still had her eyes closed but she was flat on her back and she could feel the cool dampness of grass and she just knew she was back in that little bower where she had undressed the first time and there he was with her, kneeling beside her, loosening the waistband of her levi's, undoing the top button of her blouse. Guy! He was going to undress her!
What if I just lay limp like this and let him? She wondered what he would do. Would he just stand there and look at her like the last time? Or would he be emboldened by her lack of resistance and begin to do something else? Pat was tempted to try. After all, he had looked at her once practically naked. He had carried her back up from the cave and put her to bed-had actually undressed her once he put a sheet over her to preserve the appearances-or was it the non-appearances? But this time they were right out in the open, beneath the sun, hidden from the house by the surrounding trees and brush.
Pat gave a delicious shudder as she realized she was miles away from even the housekeeper-totally at the mercy of those sinewy hands that were undoing the waist-button of her skintight levi's.
And that shudder was her undoing. "Feeling better now?" he asked. "You could have been hurt bad there. Lucky you slipped off in time."
Disgustedly, Pat opened her eyes. He was no longer fiddling with her clothes. Had just loosened things up here and there like the first aid manuals instructed for fainting victims. Damn him! How could he handle her so casually? She wondered if he even suspected that just the touch of his hand was enough to turn her belly to jelly, her will to water.
"I'm sorry," he continued, totally unaware of her rigid nipples, her suddenly-throbbing crotch. "Should have known better than to let Caesar get that close to Nellie."
You ought to know better than let me get that close to you, Pat thought, but she did not say it. He moved out of sight and after a moment she sensed that he was unsaddling the horses. She gave a hopeful little start. At least he wasn't getting ready to drag her back up to that immense old oven of a house. But what was he going to do? Then as the sun no longer singed her she knew. He was rigging a shade from the saddle blankets.
"You're not even scratched," he reassured her.
"That was smart the way you slipped out of the way in time."
As if I planned it! She raised herself on her elbows and guessed she really wasn't exposed any. Her levi's were loose at the waist and her blouse could stand a couple more buttons but actually she showed much more every time she put on a bikini. But I don't put on bikinis alone in the bushes with a hard-muscled man.
"You are all right, aren't you?" he asked anxiously. "Sure. I do this two or three times every day," she snapped.
Abruptly he laughed. "Anybody that touchy's bound to have all her bones together." He hesitated a moment. "You know, I was on my way here to take a quick dip. Will you be all right here for a few minutes while I go wash off?"
Damn him! Practically undresses me and then he's going off for a swim and doesn't even ask me along! "I was going swimming too." It slipped out of her before she had time to consider all the implications.
He looked down at her, puzzled. "Why'd you quit in such a hurry?" he demanded.
Doesn't he know I was naked? She wondered if he thought it was all right for her to go swimming in the nude.
"Ooooooohhh," he finally said in long drawn-out understanding. "Sorry I came busting in on you. There ought to be a couple of your mother's old swimsuits around somewhere if you don't have one. I don't suppose they're in style any more after fifteen years but at least they'd do here where nobody's going to look at you anyhow."
"You can say that again!" Pat said bitterly.
He just stared at her. Finally he sat down again beside her, crossing his ankles. "Look," he said, "it isn't easy for me either."
This time it was Pat's turn to stare.
"You've got to remember I haven't seen you since you were a year old," he protested. "I remember how I used to think anybody this old was ready for a rest home-back when I was fifteen. But I'm not quite ready to give up the struggle," he continued. "And no matter what the law and the whole weight of society and tradition may struggle to tell me, all my body says is that I'm looking at a fifteen-year-old stranger who's wrapped in a very attractive little package. I don't know if you're understanding a word of this but I hope so. We're stuck with each other for the next few months and we've got to work out some way of living together without destroying one another." He sighed. "Isn't much of a place after the city, I guess, but I'd hoped to show you a little better time and not just scare you to death with a couple of amorous horses."
"I'm sorry," Pat managed. "I didn't know you uh-felt that way."
"I got news for you, kid," he said with a hint of amusement. "For the next twenty years there won't be a man on earth who can look at you and still go on thinking pure thoughts." He turned away as he stood up, apparently having some difficulty with his crotch. With his back to her he continued, "And now I'm going over in the brush and undress and have a swim. When I get back maybe you'll feel better and we can ride back."
Pat stared at his back. He had come riding blindly over to this-bower. No wonder it was so cozy, she realized. He must have been using it every day for a dip and a quiet bit of sunbathing. And she ... abruptly she realized that his visit was innocent. The trees were high enough to hide Nellie. When she had left he had been busy at the stables. He must have paid no attention to which way she rode off. He had come over here to be alone and she was practically accusing him of....
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know." He was moving off, threading his way through the brush and she wasn't sure whether he had heard her. He was going for a solitary dip and of course he didn't have any swimsuit on under his clothes any more than she did. "I'm sorry," she heard herself yelling after him. "Can I come too?"
He was suddenly not moving. Without turning around he just stood there for an interminable moment. "Guess so," he finally said. "After all, it's all in the family." He waited a moment and then added, "I'll go ahead and get in the water. When you're ready give me a war whoop and I'll look the other way." Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared into the thick undergrowth.
My god, Pat thought, I bet he thinks I do things like this all the time! What had ever gotten into her to act like that? As if she didn't know! He had treated her like a piece of furniture-handling her, undressing her, putting her to bed as if she were still a year old instead of fifteen I It served him right, she decided, satisfied at last that she had gotten some reaction, some acknowledgment of her existence from this strange, silent man with the work-hardened body and sinewy hands. Let's see if he ever tries to pretend he's not feeling anything the next time he tries to undress me!
Guy! she told herself. There wasn't going to be any next time. This kind of game could get out of hand and turn dangerous. But she had already committed herself to a skinny dip. If she didn't show up soon it'd be just like him to come tramping back here to ask if she was feeling all right. And maybe without any clothes on!
Pat wondered why she hadn't worn at least a bra and panties this morning. It would have been better than nothing. "She remembered how clear the lake water was. If he should turn out to be a good swimmer, able to open his eyes under water....She remembered how she had almost read the name on one of those submerged tombstones and then she remembered all at once that they would be swimming on top of a graveyard. Guy! Who would have built a dam and make a lake just to flood a graveyard?
Guy! If I don't hurry up he'll be back here. She could hear faint splashings in the lake already. Hastily, she got out of her equally hastily-donned blouse and levi's, aware with sudden tinglings that he had already helped her with some of the buttons. Then she was slipping quietly along the narrow path way toward the water, hands at the ready to cover her tiny breasts, ready to turn and run if he were to....
But he was swimming so far out in the lake that he wouldn't have been able to see her even if he'd been looking her direction. Feeling vaguely disappointed, Pat ran toward the water and launched herself with a shallow racing dive. When her head came out of the water again he was looking her way. She overhanded toward him and then they were facing each other, treading water a yard apart.
There was something nervous and strained about his smile. She remembered...."It isn't easy for me either." Guy! Was he-had he been thinking the same kind of crazy things about her that she'd been thinking about him?
"Race you to the shore," he offered.
Pat wasn't all that interested in racing in this tepid water but it beat floating here so close to him, in imminent danger of actually touching him any, moment and yet they both knew....She kicked around to face the shore and started swimming.
Behind her she sensed him following. She also suspected that if he were to push himself he would be in front and she would be watching him. She wondered how much of her body was showing. Was he admiring the firm roundnesses of her little ass every time she bobbed up and down? Was she showing her crotch with each kick?
She was halfway to the shore when she felt his hand touch her foot. He wasn't just touching it; he was hanging on. She stopped struggling and he let go. Then as her feet touched bottom she realized why he had stopped her. Another few feet and the water would have been so shallow they would both be exposed to each other. She stood with her feet on the firm bottom, her shoulders out of water, the tops of her firm little breasts showing just about as much as they would in a strapless evening gown. She felt him moving around to face her.
Pat remembered how frightened she had been when she saw two ironshod hooves coming down toward her. She had not been one-half so scared then as she was right now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
They stood a yard apart, facing one another in the shoulder-deep water. Pat's breasts were barely covered. If she kept moving just enough to keep the water rippling she hoped he would not be able to see through it and see every last detail and outline of her twin, rock-hard and throbbing little pink nipples. Guy! Why did they have to stand up like that and give her away?
Then she wondered if something-some part of him might not be standing up as stiff and hard as the stallion's, giving him away too. Yet in a way she felt relieved. At least it was out in the open now. They had talked about it. At least, he had. Pat knew how much courage that must have taken. She could never in a million years have said it. And yet, come to think of it, it had been her own peevish remark that had triggered the whole situation. They liked to look at one another. He admitted it so why couldn't she? But he knew even better than she did that looking was as far as they ever dared let it go. There were some things, with some people, that just couldn't ever be done no matter how much one might sigh and pant and sweat and lust and....
They stood facing each other in the water and Pat knew she had been standing stock-still, probably letting him see clear down to her navel. Guy! He was moving toward her. Ooooohhhhh guy! She put her hands out to fend him off. He grasped her hands and there they stood like a couple of idiots, naked in the water, holding hands, standing even closer now.
"You're a virgin, aren't you?" he asked.
Looking in his eyes, staring into his unsmiling face, Pat couldn't lie. Mutely she nodded. Couldn't lie; guy, she couldn't even stand up!
"Nothing to be ashamed of," he was saying. "Been so long I feel like one myself. Country's nice and all that but there are some things you can't grow in a backyard garden."
"You don't-you haven't-" Pat interrupted herself, knowing it was a foolish question. After all, she was here, wasn't she?
They were still holding hands and facing one another but their arms were spread wide apart and this had the effect of drawing them nearer to one another until, even under water, Pat could feel the animal magnetism of his body radiating, suffusing her with a warm glow of-Guy! she had to break this off somehow. She tried to let go but changed her mind. If she were to let go of his hand where might it end up next? She held on and they were even closer together and he was towering over her, ever so much taller than she was and he was looking down into her eyes and she was looking back up and she didn't want to look in his eyes and he had such a strained, hurt look and they were still holding hands and then they were closer still and they were almost touching and his face was coming down closer to hers and she knew what he was going to do and it was wrongwrong to do it when she was feeling this way anyhow and probably no matter how she felt it would be wrong but fathers and daughters did kiss and even if she hadn't kissed him since-she was a year old she had to learn to do it some day if they were going to spend the whole summer together and they were still holding hands and facing each other and the whole lake seemed to get warmer and she was practically boiling even up to her tits in lake water and guy, he was strong!
He wasn't forcing her or anything like that and Pat knew if she were to move or struggle he would let go immediately but she couldn't and he seemed so vulnerable in spite of his strength or maybe because of it and she didn't want to hurt him and all the time they were drifting dangerously closer to one another and it was just as if there were a big magnet pulling them together and he was no more capable of stopping it than she was and ooooohh guy! She could feel the front of his body actually brushing against the front of her tiny, tingling, totally-naked body and it felt so gooooooood!
It felt so good and her heart was pounding so hard and fast that it was clanging just like a bell and she wondered if this was how Nellie had felt when she knew the studhorse was going to put his great black thumping thing inside her and guy, she was going to faint again and her heart was pounding and clang-,ing and it sounded just like a bell and-guy! It really was a bell!
Somewhere past the edge of her consciousness a bell was clanging away and the pounding was in time with the pounding of her racing heart pumping blood to her.
"Shit!" It was so totally unlike him to lose control or to say anything at all that Pat was shocked back into awareness. He was looking over her head toward the big house. She turned without letting go of his hands and the movement brought the fronts of their lusting bodies into total contact. She could even feel something as big and hard as the stud horse's standing out stiff against her belly.
But the magic moment was gone. Neither of them had their minds on business any longer as both listened to the clanging of a bell up near the great house. Pat blinked and the passion-fog left her eyes. In the back yard dimly she could see the housekeeper pulling lustily at a rope which rang the bell. Was she calling them to dinner?
A moment ago Pat would have been so overcome she couldn't even think of enunciating such a question. Now, totally naked, her slim body still rubbing against his nakedness, she asked what the bell meant.
"Something's come up," he said. "You can take your time; finish your swim. I've got to get back." Without so much as a kiss or caress, he dropped her hands and began marching stolidly through the water and up the bank. She saw the rear of his lean, sinewy body and her suspicion was verified: there was no white strip across his tanned buttocks. He must be in the habit of coming over here for a skinny dip every day.
And now he was leaving; leaving her high-and-dry if it was possible to leave high-and-dry a lusting fifteen-year-old girl up to her tits in tepid lake water. Pat watched his departing body. He disappeared into the brush to one side of what she had come to consider 'her' bower and a moment later, still stuffing his shirt into his trousers, rode off on the stallion.
She didn't have any idea what could have gone wrong that required his immediate attention. She didn't care. God damn it, she thought with uncharacteristic violence, why did it have to happen just then? A minute earlier, a minute later, would have made no difference in her young life. But right at that moment, just when, after fifteen years of waiting something was finally going to happen!
Tears of disappointment, frustration, rage flowed down her cheeks to mingle with the lake water. Still tit-deep, she sobbed deep, wracking angry sobs. Damn him! Why couldn't he have ignored the bell for just one more moment? Why couldn't he have been caught up in a lust as blind and all-pervading as she? It just wasn't fair! Every time she looked at him, thought of him, her whole body turned to jello. And he just stood there like a telephone pole, looking at her.
Then she remembered that his telephone pole stolidity had been belied by the presence of a smaller telephone pole down there poking at her navel. He had been aware of her after all. The only difference was he was older, more experienced, able to keep some perspective even at the worst-or was it the best moment?
But it was all over now. He had his own excellent reasons for never letting himself get that close to her again. And so did she, Pat realized. It was wrong. No matter how much she might want it, it was just plain wrong! People didn't do things like that. No way!
Gradually, her sobbing subsided and Pat managed to sour-grape herself into believing it had all been for the best. Guy! With him! With her own father? She caught herself wondering how Momma-Maman had ever been able to give up the thought of this wonderful sinewy hunk of hard-muscled man with the hard-muscled thing sticking out from his crotch. Guy! Momma had been married to him, had been possessed of the legal and moral right to have that great thumping lump of meat stuck into her every night, every day, a dozen times a day. Guy! And Momma had let it all go....
And now, just because Momma had seen him first, because Maman had gotten first-fruits from the marvelously firm limb of his tree-because Pat happened to be that particular fruit....It just wasn't fair! For the first time in her life she'd found a man she could really like, a man she could go for and, she abruptly realized, a man who could really go for her. And Momma, who was insisting that Pat call her Maman-god damn her! Momma was off in Paris getting fucked silly by some man who wasn't half so nice, so lean and hard-muscled as this man she had left behind-left behind and totally spoiled so that he and Pat could never fulfill their need for one another.
Still standing in water up to her perky little tits, Pat was so overwhelmed by the injustice of it all that she started crying again. She was dabbing water at her eyes, knowing she would be red-eyed and horrible this evening at dinner-if ever they were able to face one another again.
Finally her crying jag was over and she came to the abrupt realization that it was suddenly darker, that the sun no longer shone. She studied the sky and, even for a fifteen-year-old girl with hot pants and a city background it was evident that Mother Nature was about to pull one of her nastier tricks.
She couldn't get much wetter than she was now but it wouldn't be particularly pleasant to ride or walk home in a downpour and get everything soaked. And she suddenly remembered reading somewhere that in the water was not a particularly safe place to be during a thunderstorm.
Absolutely sure for once that nobody was watching her, Pat came out of the water and went into the bower where, so short a while ago, he had been kneeling beside her, loosening her blouse and waistband. Damn him! She struggled once more into her damp blouse and levi's, forced her wet feet into sneakers and looked for Nellie. To her surprise he had taken time out from his urgent business to re-saddle the mare who waited patiently, head down. She mounted the mare and began riding around the lake. The wind was starting to come up.
By the time she had reached the stables and un saddled the mare the wind was no longer coming up. It way there, stripping leaves from trees, tearing loose shingles from the stable roof, shrieking like an actress who's just discovered her new husband doesn't have a cock.
And then just as abruptly there was dead calm. Not a leaf stirred as Pat dashed under leaden skies from the stable to the great house. She was feeling sticky already from the intense heat. She moved slowly upstairs and gained the sanctuary of her tiny attic room.
The window was open and it was not so stifling as she had expected up here. She kicked off her tennies, peeled off her blouse and levi's, and sat on the edge of her bed. There had been no sign of the housekeeper as she arrived. Nor had there been any sign of him.
She sat on the edge of her bed, reveling in the faint breeze which played over her nude body, feeling a sudden let-down after all the tension that had filled her day. I'll get up and take a shower and put on some clean clothes in a minute, she told herself. But instead, she lay on her side and tucked her feet up onto the bed. Before she had time to realize it, she was asleep.
While she was dozing off the eye of the weather cell passed over the immense old house. The leaden clouds became even darker and more foreboding as the second and more violent half of the storm system passed overhead. The wind picked up again. Great, spoon-sized drops of rain came rattling down on the roof. Lightning flashed and there was a distant rumble of thunder.
These sensations were immediately transmuted by the fifteen-year-old's subconscious which struggled desperately to interweave them into the structure of her dream. He loomed over her and instead of hands he had steel-shod hooves. His lustful bellow rumbled like thunder and her whole body thrummed in unison as if she were a string tuned to his rumbling frequency.
She knew he was going to destroy her but she wanted to be destroyed, was overcome with a wish for self-immolation at the hands-at the hooves of that marvelously male, long-black-cocked essence of masculinity and rut which threatened to spit her slight body on the horned altar of lust.
He was going to turn her into an erotic shish kebab, trot about the universe like some colossal satyr with her dead and drained body still dangling from his demanding dong, still needful of his presence even in death as he bellowed and roared his need for fresh victims.
It hurt but it hurt so goooood she could feel her tiny body yearning for more, harder, faster. She knew she was wailing and shrieking her need. It was totally unlady-like but ladies didn't fuck anyhow and Pat didn't want to be a lady. She just wanted to fuck.
Even if it was going to destroy her like this great thumping thrumming hunk of lance that was skewering her on her own uncontrollable weakness-no matter what it cost-even if it killed her Pat knew there was nothing else ever that she wanted to do if she could not first feel the lovely pleasure-pain of this thrill drill boring a hole in her belly, up through her belly and clear up into her lungs. It hurt but oooooohhhhh guy, did it ever hurt niiiiiiice!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Meanwhile the world around her was suffering from its own cataclysm as the thunderstorm moved directly over the huge old house. Lightning and thunder came closer together as the distance decreased and finally the flash and the bang were simultaneous as lightening split a sycamore a hundred feet from Pat's open window.
Still her subconscious struggled to integrate all these distractions into her dream sequence and allow her to sleep, her idiot id mind telling her all that racket was him plowing through the underbrush, tearing his pants off as he ran, raging rampant toward her, cock-first to pin her to the soil of that leafy bower where first he had sunbathed and secondly she had come along to discover and claim a male sanctuary for her own.
The wind was shrieking and she was doing her sleeping best to help it out, making exotic strangling sounds as she twisted and her naked body thrashed on the narrow virginal bed of her open-windowed room. The curtains billowed inward like the drapes of some Victorian ghost and her half-opened eyes managed to convert them into the banshees and erinnyes of an outraged society which would devour her and cast her bones to outer darkness if ever she were to let happen the one thing she needed, the only thing she needed to make her life worthwhile.
And it was all so unfair. He had it in her now and after all these years of wishing and waiting and wondering what it would be like now she knew and the heavens were raging and the earth was trembling and her belly was rhythmically contracting in time to the roaring thunder and it felt so goooood she knew she was dying but it was such a nice way to go and oooooohhh!
Her whole body had twisted and twined itself around a phallic flagpole of lust and it wasn't a flagpole; it was a lightning rod and he was feeding electricity into her from their plug and socket connection and oooohhh, her whole body was jumping and twitching and he still was pushing it deeper into her and oooohhhhhh, what was that?
That was a cataclysmic explosion of total noise as lightning struck the ridgepole of the house, only feet above her tiny room. The charge bled harmlessly down the lightning rods but the air crackled, her every hair stood on end for a moment, her idiot id finally surrendered, and Pat woke up in the throes of her first full-fl-edged orgasm.
She was twisting and straining, writhing in a delicious agony as her naked body struggled to wrap itself around a cock that was not there. As any knowledgeable woman has discovered, orgasm around a hot throbbing cock can be a very pleasurable sensation. But orgasm with one's belly straining and squeezing against a figment of the imagination, striving to milk and squeeze a dream-cock that isn't really there-a woman's analogue to what a man would call a wet dream-that can turn into one of the most exquisite mixes of pain and pleasure this side of a confessional.
And thus it was that, for the first time in her brief fifteen-year-lifespan Pat was experiencing the full-fledged agony and ecstasy of orgasm, her whole body melting and flowing, recombining into strange new erotic and exotic shapes as the thunderstorm became transmuted into the sensation of him giving her his hot hammering masculine all.
With the thunder still rattling every panel, door and window in the old house, she came suddenly and abruptly awake and it wasn't just a dream-he was there! She was still shrieking, giving weird strangled deaf-mute cries as she came awake and then she realized he wasn't really fucking her. He had all his clothes on and-and once more she didn't! Was she going to spend the rest of her life exposing herself to him?
Damn him! What was he doing here in her room looking down on her naked body? Then she realized that once again, it wasn't really his fault. She must have been screaming her head off. He thought she was frightened or maybe hurt by the lightning. Of course he hadn't just knocked on her door and genteely waited for a reply or for her to dress. He had torn through the unlocked door like any anxious father to see what was wrong with his little girl.
As if he didn't know, couldn't guess what was wrong with his little girl! OOoooooohhhh god daaaaaaaamn him!
"Are you all right?" he demanded. He didn't even seem to be noticing that she was naked. But he would in a minute, Pat knew. What could she do? She was still half-paralyzed from the vivid reality of her dream. With half her mind she still expected him to pull out something big, black, hard, as long and threatening as the stud horse's, expected him to pull it out and spread her trembly legs and stick it into her before she could find the breath for a strangled "no."
But he didn't. Instead, he came closer, sat on the bed, gripped her shoulders and said, "You're all right now. You've just been dreaming."
Without consciously thinking about it, Pat did the only thing she could to hide her nakedness. She came straight up off the bed, threw her arms around his neck and drew tight to him. Half of her mind was still thinking, God damn him, let's see if he can still go on pretending I'm just a baby, that I haven't grown up into a woman. Let's see him pretend he doesn't want me as bad as I want him
But with the rest of her mind she was analyzing, wondering what else she could have done? Grabbed a blanket? The bed was neatly made beneath her. It would have taken god knows how long to tear it open and jump in, meanwhile giving him beaver shots from every possible angle. Grab her clothes? She had kicked her levi's off into some corner and as mind-blown as she was at this moment she would probably have ended up with both legs in one hole or some such Laurel and Hardy nonsense.
But now that she had wrapped her naked little body all over him, what next? She couldn't just dangle here forever. He was patting her bare shoulders, making the same meaningless noises men use to calm frightened horses. He was, she abruptly realized, treating her exactly as he must have treated Nellie as he soothed and calmed her and got her ready to receive the stallion's eighteen-inch offering.
The memory of that black baseball bat of hot throbbing maleness was enough to make her shudder again and once more he redoubled his efforts, holding her close to the rough-textured front of his work clothes. Abruptly she realized that he was just as frightened as she was, that he too didn't know how to break this clinch for, once they broke apart, not only would she be exposed to him-he would be exposed to her and even if he were fully-clothed, there would be no way to conceal the naked need, the lust for her tender flesh that must be drawn in naked relief on his straining face. Guy!
What was she going to do?
They couldn't stay like this forever. He was still patting her shoulders and murmuring soothing nonsense just as if she were a fidgety mare. Guy! It was humiliating. Didn't he know what he was doing to her just being here, just letting her naked body rub against him? Didn't he care? Didn't he want to pull his clothes off and take up where they had left off in the lake?
Apparently, he did not. Already he was trying to cool it. "You all right now?" he murmured. "It was just the storm must have frightened you in your sleep."
"Of course it was the storm," she managed into the rough front of his work shirt. But was he too torpid to realize what kind of a storm it had been that wracked her virgin body, what kind of inner torment had had her writhing and twisting, struggling to force the exterior of her body into some semblance of the turmoil that was tearing her belly into tiny erotic bits?
"Can you cook?"
It was like pouring a bucket of ice water over her. "What?" Pat demanded. Was she hearing right?
"Housekeeper," he was explaining. "She rang that bell to tell me she got a call from upstate. Her brother's been dying for the last ten years. This time it seems as if he might actually make it."
"Oh," Pat managed.
"She took the station wagon down to catch the train. We'll have to ride in tomorrow and one of us can drive it home while the other takes the horses home. Could turn into an all-day trip but we've got to have the station wagon here in case of a real emergency."
"What does this have to do with cooking?" Pat asked and then realized the answer to her question. Perhaps there were times of year when he was not busy but this week didn't happen to be one of them. "I can try," she amended. "I used to fix my own breakfast all the time but you'll have to show me how to make a fire in that big black thing in the kitchen."
Big black thing! Suddenly once more she was thinking of something attached to the stallion that had nearly killed her. Suddenly once more she was aware that she was naked, was pressed against him so that he could not see so much of her nakedness. And now that the housekeeper was gone they were absolutely and totally alone together, just the two of them with nothing but horses and chickens and miles of solitude and even if she were to shriek her head off there would be nobody to hear her!
"Get dressed and come downstairs and I'll show you how to light a fire," he said.
You've already shown me how to light a fire! I just wish I could light a fire in you, you big son of a bitch! But wisely, Pat refrained from saying this out loud. He was getting ready to break clean from the clinch-clean where he could have an unobstructed view of her undraped frontage. Abruptly she realized that despite all their unplanned intimacies he had never actually seen her naked before. He had caught her sleeping in bra and panties. He had undressed her blindly beneath a sheet. He had skinny-dipped with her but not until now a few minutes ago in the midst of the still-abating storm-not until just a few minutes ago had he managed actually to see her naked in the altogether. She wondered if he had been impressed with what he had seen. He must be, she decided, for he was certainly taking great pains not to see it again!
As he broke free from the clinch, he turned away before there was time to get a good look at her firm little jugs. Without so much as a glance toward her just-hairing crotch he turned his back and strode out. "See you downstairs in the kitchen," he said as he closed the door and clumped off down the hall.
Pat lay naked on her bed, wondering whether she ought to be relieved or outraged. After all, he was her father. He was trying to do the right thing. Why couldn't she get her head out of her girlish little ass and help him stay on the straight-and-narrow?
But then, why did he have to look so sexy, so lean and hard-muscled, so young, so male? And why did he have to go on playing strong and silent all the time?
He hadn't, she suddenly remembered. Back there at the lake he had admitted that she turned him on. Abruptly, Pat realized she was playing with dynamite. There were deep currents in this strange, silent man who was struggling to control his lust. Currents that could catch her, take her over her head, drown her.
Suddenly she caught herself wondering what had really gone wrong between him and Maman. Momma, she realized, was not cut out for country life. A week here would have Momma going up the walls, shrieking for the solace of a nightclub. Pat . ... Abruptly Pat realized she could be very happy here amid the horses and chickens and cocks and-she could be happy in hell, Pat suddenly : knew-as long as she had the solace of that sinewy body with its overwhelming maleness-as long as he would promise to stick it in her at least six times a day.
Guy! What was she thinking? He was her father. He could never do that. And if he did, they'd probably both end up in jail. And if he didn't, they'd both end up in a padded cell. What was she going to do?
,Get down to the kitchen in a hurry, she realized. No matter what else he might want from her, he had put in a hard day and he deserved a decent meal on the table. And she too, she abruptly realized, she had put in a long day and had more adventures since breakfast than she had had in the rest of her brief fifteen years all put together. Hastily, she found a halter and a pair of shorts. It might not be the best thing for hot, spattering grease but she couldn't face the thought of a hot kitchen in anything heavier. Besides, her blouse and levi's were all wet and sweaty with horse odor.
"Fire's already lit," he said when she appeared in the sweltering room. "The woodbox's over there. Every twenty minutes or so, open this door and put in a couple of sticks of wood." He went on to explain arcane matters of drafts and dampers and which levers to pull to make the fire burn hotter or cooler. When Pat had finally decided she was totally confused and would never understand any of it he finally left her alone.
It could have been worse, Pat decided. The squawks she had heard while swimming had been converted into two chickens browning in the oven along with baking potatoes and several other mouthwatering possibilities. The only thing she had to do was set the table and keep the stove going long enough for the meal to finish cooking.
Clad only in halter and shorts, she soon knew this was no way to dress in a kitchen. Every time she opened the fire box to put in a piece of wood she could practically feel her skin scorching. She found an apron hung on a peg and put it on. With the apron on she was fully covered from the front but from the rear she looked like an absent-minded professor or-she decided, more like the cuties on one of those calendars usually found on garage walls.
She straightened from stooping over to stuff more wood in the stove and discovered that he was standing in the doorway silently studying her southern exposure.
CHAPTER NINE
She was already so pink from the heat that he could never tell whether she was blushing or not. But suddenly Pat felt more exposed in this ridiculous hoover apron than she had felt totally nude. It was funny how clothes-at least the wrong kind of clothes-could draw attention and make for an even more excitingly forbidden exposure than nothing at all but smooth, taut, fifteen-year-old skin and barely visible silky pubic hair.
"Finished up in the stable," he said. "Need any help?"
"No!" she snapped, knowing she needed all kinds of help but too embarrassed from the way she had been flaunting her ass at him to want him around at just this moment.
"Fine," he said equably. "Gives me time for a shower and change." Just as if he hadn't been staring at the firm outlines of her little ass out-lined in short-shorts as she bent over the stove, he turned and disappeared. Pat wanted to throw the plate she was holding against the wall but she knew there would be nobody around to pick up the pieces.
Pick up the pieces ... who was going to pick up the pieces of her life-of his life? If things went on this way they were headed for rip-roaring disaster. What was she going to do?
Set the table, she guessed. She gathered up an armload of silverware and plates, cups, saucers, and balanced her careful way up the stairs. She was coming up with the second load when he appeared in clean chinos and T-shirt. "There's a dumbwaiter," he said.
"A what?"
"Dumbwaiter."
"What's that?"
He led her to a wall of the dining hall and opened a cabinet door, explaining how this cabinet was a tiny elevator and she could load it down in the kitchen and pull a rope to bring everything upstairs without balancing and tripping on the stairway. While she stood mind-blown at this simple device he went downstairs, got the meal from the oven, arranged it on a platter, and winched everything upstairs.
Bemusedly, Pat peeled off the apron and then she was sitting beside him, wearing only a white halter and white short-shorts which displayed her tan skin at its taut, fifteen-year-old, clear and tiny-pored best. They both struggled to pay attention to the food.
It was a surprisingly good meal the housekeeper had left in the oven and Pat's appetite improved with a glass of white wine. Still, it was a sweltering evening and even here away from the heat of the kitchen the house was oppressive. Once she looked up and caught him looking at the gentle bulge of her halter. This time it was not Pat who blushed.
Guy! she thought in involuntary female triumph. Even if he is my father, he knows I'm a woman now. I'll bet he never tries to treat me like a baby again! But all the while she was thinking these essentially female thoughts the air between them was becoming charged until electricity lay as heavy in the dining room as it had this afternoon when he had burst into her room and found her writhing and shrieking in what-if he were observant enough to realize it-in what had been her first full-fl-edged experience of womanhood, her first real orgasm. And what, she wondered, would it feel like to have all that happen not just in a dream but in actual hot-hard reality with a man's hot thumping hardness pounding its life out inside her tiny, never-penetrated belly? She glanced up and he was looking at her again.
"My god, I'm hot," he sighed.
It was at least something they had in common. "So'm I," she said in grateful agreement.
He glanced at the table. "What'd you rather have for dessert?" he asked. "Ice cream or a swim?"
Pat was about to say ice cream when she realized this would brand her as the immature child she was so anxious not to be. "Last one in's a rotten egg," she said with forced gaiety. But neither of them hurried. Instead, they cleared off the table in companionable silence and put things in the dumbwaiter and then down in the kitchen he showed her how to dip hot water for dishes from a tank built into the side of the stove. "A reservoir," he explained, "but country people always pronounce it rezzervoy."
She washed and he wiped and it was stifling in the kitchen and she felt herself starting to sweat and there was a glistening sheen on his face when finally they were through for the night. "Meet you on the back steps in five minutes," he said, "And this time no skinny-dipping. Promise?"
Pat nodded dumbly. She wondered if she ought to ask him for one of Momma-Maman's old bathing suits when he remembered. "Up on the top shelf of the closet of your room," he said. "Ought to be something there that'll fit well enough for after dark."
Once more Pat gave a dumb nod and went off upstairs. She was tempted to go swimming in the halter and shorts she was wearing but she didn't have that many clothes and she didn't want to ruin the few she had. She climbed on a chair and rummaged and sure enough, there were some ancient lastex swimsuits there. Guy! One-piece! They looked like the things Olympics swimmers wore and covered up as much as a pair of overalls. Oh well, she told herself. What difference would it make? He had already seen her in the altogether. Let him look at this and wish he'd dared to suggest they go skinny-dipping again. It served his puritanical old soul right!
She slipped out of shorts and halter and held up one of the suits. Either the elastic had rotted or Momma had been bigger than she was. She held up the other, which was bright-orange of all things, and it was better. She turned it inside out and shook it in case of spiders. Finally, feeling distinctly creepy, she pulled the ancient garment over her smooth, unblemished body. Guy! It must be years older than she was!
There were faint snapping and cracking sounds as she pulled the straps over her shoulders. She stretched and wiggled until the ancient fabric was comfortable around the supersensitive tips of her firm little jugs. She arched and preened before the mirror. It covered up a lot more of her than the shorts and halter-she had worn to dinner but-after all, it was after dark and they were going swimming and he wouldn't be able to see her anyhow.
Forebodingly, she remembered an after dark swimming sequence from "Jaws." But this wasn't the ocean. There might be tombstones at the bottom of the lake but there surely wouldn't be any sharks. Going down the stairs, she wondered what he would be wearing.
She had supposed they would go around to the other side of the lake but when she got to the back door of the huge old house she realized this was unnecessary. It was pointless to saddle horses or slog through the dark when there was a makeshift dock down at the edge of the shrunken lake only a hundred feet from the back door. He was already down there doing something. Suddenly lights came on.
Pat didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed. It was dark but the storm had passed and she could see stars and a rising moon. Still, she supposed it would be safer to take a nocturnal dip with enough light around for help just in case somebody were to need it. And what with the way she'd been falling off horses and fainting and having nightmares, maybe he was justified in being just a tiny bit worried about her ability to take care of herself.
With every step she took the ancient swimsuit made tiny snapping, creaking sounds. The fabric felt-funny, creepy as it seemed to have a life of its own moving about her body just enough to tickle and make her thoroughly aware of those sensitive pressure points on the tips of her tiny tits, the pouting lips of her just-hairing vulva. Guy! Couldn't she think about anything else, not even for a minute?
She was halfway to the dock now and could see him in the stark overhead light of the single bulb. He wore some kind of loose-fitting shorts. Cut off trousers, she guessed. Before she got close enough for a really good look at his sinewy, hard-muscled body he dived cleanly off the end of the makeshift dock, making barely a splash. He came up some thirty feet away and turned, seeing her for he first time.
Pat guessed it was safe to dive. She walked carefully, conscious of his eyes upon her, knowing that for once, even if the swimsuit was older than she was, at least this time she was properly covered and not exposing herself like some nightmare before his unsmiling gaze. She walked proudly, shoulders back, breasts thrust forward, conscious of the allure in her small but perfectly-proportioned body.
Damn him! A moonlight swim ... it could have all been so dreamy-so wonderful ... and here he'd gone and turned on a harsh light that made them look like a couple of criminals trying to sneak out of the penitentiary. And it hadn't been enough for him to saddle her with this creepy stone age swim suit, he'd had to go put on a loose-fitting totally inelegant pair of cutoff trousers that made him look like some reject from Heehaw.
And then Pat was suddenly stricken with a thought wise beyond her years. This swimsuit she was wearing ... it might be stone-age for her. But for him? For him, she abruptly realized, this ancient garment of rotting lastex might revive memories of a time when he had been younger, when the fires o spring had coursed through his veins and the work had been new and a stiff prick had yet to make its acquaintance with a conscience.
If that was his game, let him look, let him wish let him suffer just like she had. She stood on the enc of the makeshift dock, posing beneath the light, wondering if, fifteen years ago girls had acted as they die now, piroueting, posing, raising her arms over her head in preparation for a infinitely-postponed dive, all the while aware of the way the ancient swimsuit clung to her firm little breasts. She could feel the fabric creak and snap with each movement and each tiny movement was one more tiny twinge of sensuality over the super-sensitized nipples of her firm little boobs, each faint tensing and relaxing of her tiptoed legs another lascivious massage of her just-hairing vulva where that ancient fabric creaked an( scratched.
Out in the water his head was motionless, his face in shadow, but she knew his eyes were open, that un smiling countenance drinking in every last curve and firmness of her spare young body. Burn, damn you, she thought. Burn just like you made me burn. I hope your thing is sticking out so hard it sticks in the bottom when you try to swim!
"Aren't you coming in?" he asked.
Abruptly, Pat realized her endless posing was dangerously close to making her look foolish. Like some ten-year-old dressed up in Mommie's old clothes, she suddenly realized. Under this harsh single bulb light he wouldn't be able to see it but she could feel it-a great wave of humiliation, a blush that started clear down in her crotch and rose like a pink-frothed wave up her trim torso, past her waist, up to suffuse her firm little tits, over shoulders and neck until she was blushing furiously clear up into the roots of her blond hair. Without hesitation, she dived.
Even as she hit the water she knew that in her haste she'd made an awkward splash, without half the class of his clean, almost silent entry into the lake. She let herself go until her hands touched the firm bottom, then came back blindly toward the surface and-bumped squarely into him!
Ooooohhhhhh guy! she thought, I bet he thinks I did that on purpose. Ooooohhhh guy, why does everything have to go wrong? She kicked away and something-it felt like a rag or a piece of old rope was wrapped round her legs. She kicked frantically, came up and caught a hasty breath and then in a moment of near-panic bent over again under water and got her hands on it. She tore the offending mass from her thighs and kicked it free. Only when it was gone and she felt once more safe did Pat realize what had been tangled around her thighs.
That damned stone-age lastex swimsuit! Fifteen years in the closet had done the elastic no good. She should have been warned: all those little snaps and crackles. Ever since she had put it on the brittle fabric had been breaking apart. Now her awkward splash of a dive had stripped the loosened straps from her shoulders, pulled the whole mass down her body and around her legs and she-Pat in her panic had finished divesting herself of her swimsuit. Now she was once more naked in the lake, naked with him! Guy! Couldn't she do anything right?
Before she had time to realize what was happening Pat had erupted waist-high out of the water in a frantic effort to breathe lest the phantom swimsuit drag her down. Unless he had been suddenly struck blind by all that naked splendor, she knew that once more she had afforded him an unexpurgated view of her firm, all-American, onward-and-upward-striving, pink-nippled and virginal tits. She wondered if it were possible to just clench up her toes, close her eyes tight, put her hands over her face and die.
But while she was wondering if it were possible to die of pure embarrassment, Pat heard the splash of a man's head breaking the surface behind her and then before this fact had time to register she felt a pair of sinewy hands closing around her waist.
CHAPTER TEN
Pat was too startled to react, too startled even to feel the little tingle she always felt just at the thought of those lean sinewy hands touching her bare body. He must be standing on the bottom, she guessed. He was taller than she was and for anyone to be able to grasp her by the waist and lift her clear out of the water, tossing and turning her simultaneously until her taut nude body was facing him-he had to have his feet firmly planted on solid ground.
Which was more than she had. Mute and helpless, she felt her naked body torn from the lake's covering embrace, felt herself being spun in mid-air to face him, to flaunt her firm little boobs in his face, to tantalize his sober gaze with the pouting profile of her just-hairing vulval lips.
And then just as suddenly she was back in the water again, up to her neck, her waist still confined in the grip of those sinewy hands. "My god," he said. "What happened?"
"I don't know," she gasped. "It just came off."
Abruptly he released her and dived. It was a long minute before he came up, breathed deeply several times, and dived again. It took her a moment to realize he was looking for the swimsuit she had kicked off. Fat chance he'd have of seeing it in the darkness. She lay on her back floating, with just her face, her toes, kneecaps, her just-furring mons veneris and the points and nipples of her firm little jugs extending skyward through the water, straight upward toward the glare of the single overhead bulb.
And once more without warning he surfaced right beside her, his face only inches from her firm, flat belly. "No use," he gasped. "Maybe tomorrow in daylight."
Pat had hastily jackknifed her supple young body and now exposed nothing but her face. Damn himl She wondered. From below, with the light shining on the end of the dock. No wonder he was always coming up at just the wrong spot. From below her body was silhouetted in merciless relief. He might have been lurking below her counting every hair in her crotch instead of hunting for that moth-eaten swimsuit. Damn him!
She really ought to get out of here and make as dignified an exit as she could back to the house. But how was she going to get out of the water without anything on? And if she did?
The house was still stifling and despite being in the tepid lake water for several minutes Pat knew if she were to go to bed now she would be sweating within thirty seconds.
Her dilemma was solved by that ever-resourceful man who seemed always to find some new way to annoy her. He swam lazily to the dock, climbed out, and fiddled with something. Suddenly the light went out. "OK now?" he asked. "Puts us on equal footing again, I guess."
"Oh really?" Pat wondered if it sounded as scathing as she meant it to. For an instant she was blind and then as her eyes got accustomed to the darkness she saw the moon. In a moment she could make out the stars and the dim profile of her companion still standing on the dock, still clad in those ridiculous baggy shorts. Only now, she could see, the front of those cut-off trousers stood out at a distinctly suspicious angle. A little thrill of triumph shot through her. She might be making a fool of herself the way she always managed to turn up naked at the wrong moment. But he too was having his embarrassing moments, losing control and feeling things he had no business feeling. He wasn't the great stone-face she had thought. He was a human being too and if she was suffering, so was he.
Served him right!
"What?"
What what? Then she remembered how she had taken a verbal swipe at him.
"Oh, of course," he said equably. "Sorry."
While she was wondering what next she suddenly saw what next. Without the slightest hint of embarrassment he was stepping out of his sodden cutoffs, not even bothering to turn his back. She wondered if he thought her fifteen-year-old eyes were taking as long to adjust to the darkness as his. Or was he deliberately offering her a glimpse of forbidden territory in return for all the free shows she'd been giving him? A sudden thrill of fear shot through her at the realization that she was totally alone with this silent, unpredictable man. Alone for perhaps the rest of the summer. The rest of her life?
Guy! The housekeeper was gone. She might as well never have been here for all the company she was, but now she was gone. Pat was alone with this brooding Heathcliffe of a man, alone and lost, miles from civilization if a deserted country railroad station could be called civilization. And she didn't even know which direction it lay across this confusing network of country roads. She was at her father's mercy!
Or was he at hers? While she paddled aimlessly in the tepid water digesting this new concept of .things he dived cleanly once more into the water. She caught herself wondering if the tiny snick of a splash was caused by one part of him that obstinately refused to bend down and streamline itself.
Guy! She knew now that he was not a great stoneface. He had actually up and admitted that much to her this afternoon. He might not show it as much as she had, but he was just as uncomfortable, just as nervous and frightened of the possible consequences of a summer alone with a delectable, totally edible fifteen-year-old female as she was.
It would be fun, Pat decided, to have a mature and full-grown man with a full-grown thing-have him enslaved, in bondage, so hungry for her smile that he would do literally anything for her. What would she really like from him?
Guy! What did girls want from men who fell blindly and hopelessly in love with them? Mostly, she suspected, they just wanted to be left alone for most of the boys who fell into blind love or lust or whatever-they were all drips who gave their love objects the creeps.
But he was no creep. He was handsome and strong and silent and he had a lean hard-muscled body and sinewy hands and he could handle horses and he could handle women too, Pat guessed, with a little frisson at the memory of those hard, sinewy hands around her waist. Guy! It would be nice to make him do things but what if he were to put his hand in just the right place and turn her willpower to peanut butter, make her do whatever he wanted?
He was swimming in lazy circles around her, rolling like a porpoise, making no effort to conceal his crotch now. His thing, she observed in the dim moonlight, was no longer troubling him with an excess of rigidity. As he spun and rolled she could see only a confused mass of crisp black pubic hair. She wondered if he thought she could still see nothing in the abrupt darkness.! "Relax," he said. "We're stuck with one another whether we like it or not."
When Pat made no reply he continued, "Hasn't anyone ever explained to you about stolen apples-forbidden fruit?"
"What?" Pat was startled out of her snit.
He sighed and stopped swimming. Floating beside her, he mused seemingly to himself. "Back when I was only a little older than you are now I was in a nudist camp for a while. If you think your parents are weird, you should have seen mine."
Pat waited with a feeling as if she was in the middle of a mine field. Any minute now one of them was going to go off. Was he going to tell her it was all right, that they should both turn nudists?
"I don't know if you know anything about nudists," he continued in that same voice that made little quivers and tingles pass through her firm young body. "They've got more hang-ups than a Methodist bartender but I've got to give them credit for one thing."
"What's that?" Pat asked.
"They've taken the 'forbidden' out of all the fruit."
Pat didn't understand. But whatever it was, she suspected she wasn't going to like it.
"I didn't like it," he continued. "And I'm sure you don't either. It's one thing to do it alone with somebody you like but it's quite different to parade around in front of strangers with nothing but a straw hat and a pair of sneakers."
Pat felt herself cringing at the thought.
"Oh, it isn't embarrassing in the way you'd think-not after the first few minutes. But what you learn very soon is that most people, especially those over twenty-one, look much better with their clothes on. And the next thing you learn is that there's nothing on earth more boring after the first minute or two than looking at a bunch of naked people. That's the nudists' great secret: They've finally discovered a way to take all the fun out of the only worldwide and inexpensive pastime." He breathed, dived, and came up on the other side of her, giving her bare bottom a fatherly pat on the way.
"So now," he continued, "If you've had enough swimming for one night...." He ended on a questioning note.
Pat didn't know what to say. She was uncomfortable now that her first fine flash of rut had been cooled off with all his cold water and platitudes. But what would happen next-in the great house? She wondered if she was hearing him right. Was he trying to tell her it was all in her mind, that he was just an indulgent father playing with his little girl? Maybe. But she remembered that great bowsprit jutting from his crotch when he had first shed his cutoff shorts. Surely that had not been a fatherly feeling.
What was he trying to do to her? Guy! She was getting just a tiny bit tired of getting all worked-up, all tingly and steamy only to have him douse her with figurative buckets of ice water. He was lying now. She knew it. If naked bodies were all that dull to look on, why couldn't she take her eyes off him? Why was she always waking up to find him looking soberly and unsmilingly down at her?
But he did have a point, she guessed. Otherwise why would there be things like stripteases which she had never actually seen, except for a few innocuous bits in movies?
"You want to go first?"
Infinite possibilities for eroticism coursed through her mind before she managed to get that pink wave of rut under control. Guy! Even now she couldn't think about anything else. Didn't he have the slightest idea what he was doing to her? Did he sup pose she regarded him as some superannuated forty-year-old, too decrepit to excite a young and inexperienced girl's demanding body? When she could breathe again she realized he merely meant she should get out of the water first, that he would give her a head-start into the house and into some clothes before he came parading in with his great thumping thing sticking out in front of him.
Then she remembered it wasn't sticking out any more. Damn him! He was playing her like an organ, ringing countless changes, touching every note of her keyboard, and he was doing it deliberately, amusing himself at the way she blushed, gasped, turned on. It wasn't fair. He was getting his kicks too looking at her firm young body. She knew he was. She had seen his thing standing up when he thought she couldn't see in the darkness.
But he was right about one thing. Nudity did take all the fun out of it. Once a girl had all her clothes off, what more could she do to turn on a recalcitrant male? Pat swam toward the dock and, with her back to him, climbed up out of the water. Even though it was dark she could see perfectly well in the moonlight. She kept her back to him and walked back toward the house. As she was opening the back door she heard the dock creak once more as he pulled his lithe body out of the water.
She didn't know whether to be satisfied or disappointed. She had firmly expected him to catch up with her or perform another of that seemingly endless series of tricks he had for getting still another look at her firm frontage. Guy!
The things he did to her! It was time, Pat decided, to do a few things to him, let him know what it was like to be on the receiving end for a while. When she had come to this house at first she had been afraid of him. He was such a strange, silent man. There had been a streak of silent violence so close to the surface. But now she knew him better. He was gentle even with animals. He had never really done anything to her. She might have felt better if he had because now Pat had finally resolved to play dirty pool.
He had not really tried to seduce her. She wondered if maybe he believed all the platitudinous bullshit he was giving her about nudity killing desire, about its being all in the family, about generation gaps and whatnot.
But everything he did, every single movement of his lithe and sinewy body was enough to bring an answering tremor from her womanhood. In one day he had transformed her from a giggly girl into a predatory woman. She was still physically inexperienced, still a virgin, still waiting for the first feel of something hot, hard and male coursing into her, sliding slowly but firmly in and out, in and out through those just-furring lips that adorned that mystic spot where two long straight well-turned legs joined in holy matrimony to become one firmly-rounded and juicily-edible little ass.
Like Jimmy Carter, he had ravished her with his eyes, with his mind, with every part of his soul and body-even with the backs of those sinewy hands-everything but the one important part of him, that bowsprit that parted the night when he marched down the dock to join her in the lake.
Pat resolved that she was going to have that part of him too. He might cavil and try to squeeze out of it just as he had managed each time so far, leaving her high-and-dry, panting and lusting. From now on it was going to be different. He was going to pant and lust. He was going to beg for it and maybe-just maybe....
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hastily, lest he dream up some new surprise, she ran naked up the stairway to her room. She slipped into her peignoir and cinched up the sash, knotting it firmly. Only then did she consider her scanty, one-suitcase wardrobe. What did she have in the way of tools for the demolition she was planning?
It was going to be a demolition, she resolved. She was going to make him pant and suffer as she had. She was going to make him admit he lusted for her firm young flesh. She was going to make him grovel and beg and only then-maybe....But what was she going to wear right now?
Ought to go to bed, she knew. But that was probably what he was expecting. She could hear his footsteps as he monkeyed around somewhere downstairs, probably planning on another midnight peeping expedition to her room, maybe praying for another thunderstorm. Guy! What a fool she'd been to get all turned-on and keyed-up like that!
She considered her clothes. She had worn her one good dress. He had seen her in levis. He had seen her in her white halter and short shorts. She had one other dress which was as near to a cocktail dress as Momma would let her have-and as near as was available in junior miss sizes. She studied the backless, low-fronted dress and decided against it. What was she going to wear?
She had to knock his eyes out with the first shot or her campaign would fizzle just as had all her other efforts to make him do something besides moon about and sneak looks at her and brush the back of his hand over her or some such thing under the guise of being "fatherly."
Then suddenly she knew. If she had her hang-ups, so did he. He had been touching her secret triggers, working her like a marionette. Unless Pat was guessing wrong, unless the intuition that inhabited her trim, smooth-skinned taut little body was wrong, she knew where one of his triggers was. Why would any man alone in this big house let junk accumulate all these years? Surely he wasn't expecting Momma-Maman to come back and revive a fifteen-year-old past. She wondered if ever he had inveigled some other young lady into playing at his little masquerade.
One suit was on the bottom of the lake and she knew with dead certainty that tomorrow he would dive in daylight until he found it, would sew up and tighten here and there and would move heaven and earth to get her to put it on again. But where was the other one?
She stood on the chair and stretched and managed the back of the closet's top shelf. When she got it out, she tested the fabric carefully, pulling and stretching. This one did not have any rubber in the fabric to rot. It had a little tutu skirt which would make her look like a ballerina. She wondered, if she dare try it with pantyhose.
Why not? What did even the most knowledgeable of men know about women's styles? Carefully, she began dressing, putting on more clothes than she would normally wear in a week. She was beginning to feel the heat up here again. Guy, but it was humid! Working slowly and careful not to break into a sweat, she fixed her face, her hair, painted toe and fingernails, spent an extra half-hour grooming.
She was making no noise and at first she was puzzled when he didn't find some excuse to open her door and find her once more naked on her bed. She could hear him plodding about doing something downstairs. Periodically doors opened and closed. Then she realized that all he had to do was step out the back door and immediately he could see whether the light was on in her attic room. And come to think of it, why was she way up here in the heat? Tomorrow she'd have to demand that he put her down a couple of floors where it was cooler.
She gave herself a final check in the mirror, turned out the light, and started downstairs. Against all expectation she didn't bump into him hurrying upstairs. She didn't find him in kitchen or dining room either. She wondered. She wasn't sure which was his room and anyway, that would be too gauche for openers. She wandered silently down the hall and saw light leaking past a barely-opened door. She peeped through the crack and there he was, trouser legs peeping from the bottom of a maroon dressing gown, foulard visible at his throat. He had stopped pacing and now sat in a heavy leather library chair reading. She opened the door wider and it creaked.
He looked up, caught a full-length glimpse of Pat standing at her most seductive in the doorway. She had spent some time practicing before a mirror and knew exactly how to place her feet for a devastating, three-quarter view, with one of her firm little knockers pointing straight toward him. through several layers of clothing.
"Wow!" he said, struggling to be casual about the sudden widening of eye that gave him away. Pat wondered what he had been reading. Some kind of dirty book, she hoped. But it was leather-covered and dark and she couldn't see the title. Anyway, it was in French. He put it down and gestured at the deep leather chair beside his. Standing, he gestured her into it.
Pat sat, still clad in her peignoir among other things. She crossed her legs and allowed exactly the right amount of calf and ankle to show. No matter how casual and jesting, his sombre eyes were taking it in.
"Drink?" he asked, and she saw glasses and a brandy decanter. She didn't really want a drink but she needed some excuse to sit down and give the magic time to work.
"I suppose you couldn't sleep either?"
It wasn't like him to be chatty. He was nervous. With a sudden thrill of triumph Pat knew that no matter how many setbacks she might suffer along the way, if that old biddy of a housekeeper would just stay away long enough, she, Pat was going to win this game. She was going to make him grovel, make him pay for every glimpse of forbidden fruit that he had ever sneaked from her innocence. She was still a virgin but she had acquired a liberal education in the last couple of days.
Smiling, she accepted the balloon glass with a double shot of brandy rolling around in its bottom. He poured himself another and sat down. Their chairs were not exactly side by side. They faced each other at forty-five degrees, giving him an opportunity to sneak an occasional look when he thought she wasn't looking. Pat didn't give him another opportunity. Instead, she sipped her brandy, being careful not to swallow any. Gravely, her eyes studied him over the rim of the glass.
"What was it really like growing up in a nudist camp?" she asked.
"Dull," he said unhesitatingly. "Boy goes in one, his eyes work overtime for the first ten minutes until finally he understands it's all really there, not going to disappear, and then after ten minutes or so, you actually start forgetting people aren't dressed."
Seeing her fishy look he continued, "Honestly, it's more interesting, more piquant just to sit here and look at your fresh young loveliness clad from chin to ankle. But aren't you hot?"
Still looking at him, smiling her enigmatic, fishy smile, Pat shook her head. After a moment of silence she said, "No more than you" with a glance at his foulard and dressing gown. Then abruptly she realized that this room was cool. She listened and could hear no hum of air conditioning. Then she realized what had happened. That cool cave where he grew mushrooms ... somehow back when this house was built, before anyone had invented air conditioning the master of the house had piped that cool air up to certain rooms-rooms for himself and to hell with the servants. How many more tunnels and secret passages?
"Do you enjoy reading?"
Still Pat just smiled and looked at him. He was getting more nervous by the minute. For the first time since she'd been sent to this weird old house Pat was beginning to feel in control of her own destiny. She was beginning to enjoy herself.
"What do you enjoy doing?" he probed.
Still Pat smiled. She let him sizzle for a moment and then offered, "Sometimes I play games."
"Cards?"
She shook her head. The last damned thing she wanted was to. get involved in some stupid old card game.
"Chess?"
Guy! What did he think she was? "Maybe checkers?"
She was about to accept when she realized that there was no TV in this house, that the nearest movie might be miles away. He might be able to play rings around her at checkers.
His discomfiture was growing by the moment. It was one thing to play games with a jittery immature teenager. It was, she saw, quite another thing for this silent and self-possessed man to play games with a poised young lady who seemed to know something he didn't. "Want to shoot craps?" he asked desperately.
Pat wasn't sure whether she knew how. She didn't want to play any game that involved some skill she might not possess. But if she could just get a game of chance with even odds Pat knew she could use it to win the bigger game she was playing for keeps with this suddenly unsure man.
"Do you have a parcheesi board?" she asked.
"I think so-" He was standing already.
"Just the dice and the cup part," she said. "I don't want anybody breathing on them. And I don't want to roll for points either." She wasn't quite sure how to roll for points and she wasn't about to display her ignorance.
Plainly mystified but grateful for any chance to escape that unblinking stare for a moment, he rummaged about and found the dice and leather cup. He drew a low coffee table in front of her deep leather chair and pulled his own around until they were facing one another.
"It's a long game I'm planning," Pat warned. "It may take all summer."
"What are the stakes?" Suddenly his eyes were glittering in the dim light and he seemed no longer nervous. "I don't imagine either one of us has much cash lying about. Do you want to play forfeits?"
Pat didn't know the meaning of the word. Rather than display her ignorance she put on that sphinx smile that seemed to unnerve him. But this time he saw through it.
"Like strip poker," he explained. "You know; the loser has to give up something-whatever the winner demands."
Still she smiled that enigmatic smile and the nervousness that was beginning to assault her as she realized the infinite possibilities of this game-why she could make him do anything. Or he could possibly win and make her. She fought mightily and kept the smile in place, passing the nervousness back to him.
"Strip poker?" he asked timidly. "Loser has to take something off?" He gave a nervous chuckle and added, "As if we hadn't seen each other already." He gulped and tried again. "At least it'll teach you I'm right about nudist camps."
Still she smiled, pointing one firm little tit straight at him from beneath countless layers of clothing, showing just the right amount of calf and ankle from the gap in her floor-length peignoir.
He shrugged, struggling for a casual air. "Is that what you'd like to play, or shall we settle down and read?"
Still smiling, but with excitement welling inside her until she distrusted herself to speak, Pat nodded.
Mutely, he held out the leather dice cup. She took it, shook it, and tossed the dice. Their dots added up to six. "No points or craps or anything complicated," she said. "Just roll a bigger number or you lose." She handed him the cup.
Without looking at it, he shook the cup and spilled the dice onto the low table in front of them. He had tossed a four.
A surge of pink-flushed triumph suffused her. Not trusting herself to talk, she pointed at one of his slippers. To her surprise the man who had skinny-dipped twice with her, the man who had handled her, put her to bed, undressed her-that same silent imperturbable man was now blushing from ear to ear as he pulled off one of his slippers.
He straightened, took a sip of brandy, and handed her the leather dice cup. Pat sipped at her snifter and swallowed before she realized what she was doing. She shook the dice and tossed. A twelve! Let's see him beat that! Unthinking, she was sipping again while he tossed a miserable two. She pointed and, still blushing furiously, he was taking off his other slipper.
Pat would have been sweating from the tension if the room hadn't been cool. She reveled in all the layers of clothing she had put on in preparation for just such a denouement. Two throws and already he was demoralized. She was on a winning streak. This time she knew it. She picked up the snifter and had the tiniest of sips again while he tossed and stared sickly at a three. Silently he handed her the cup.
The room was suddenly warmer. She swam atop a pink cloud of triumph. This time she had him for sure. She tossed a four. She was pointing at his foulard when suddenly she was so sleepy she yawned right out loud, not even bothering to put her hand over her mouth. A moment later she felt herself being lifted, felt him carrying her upstairs.
God damn it, she thought, he's going to undress me and put me to bed! If only she'd left that damned brandy alone!
CHAPTER TWELVE
He was putting her on top of the bed. She struggled, forced her eyes open and herself into wakefulness. "I'm all right," she insisted. "I can take care of myself."
She couldn't focus clearly enough to tell whether he was relieved or disappointed. "We can play the game tomorrow if you still want to," he said by way of good night. He patted her hair and exited, leaving Pat alone on top of the bed and wearing more clothes than she normally would have put on all summer.
It was still hot up here. She roused herself and managed to undress. Buff-naked, she kicked everything under her bed and then, remembering his ways with a light, she pulled a sheet over her nakedness. Immediately, she was asleep.
And immediately she was dreaming.
And immediately she could feel it hurt. She could feel her tiny virginal pussy stretching all out of shape. She had wanted it-wanted it so bad she could taste it and now soon, she was going to taste it whether she wanted to or not. But how could she have known it was going to be so big, so hard, so unbelievably stiff and unyieldingly strong, so male? If only people would tell her things. Guy! Fifteen-years-old last week, practically an old maid already and nobody had ever told her how much it could hurt-how nice it could hurt. Ooooohhhhhh, he was doing it again and it felt so goooood every time she felt it slide into her....
But it was so big and so hard. It was splitting her right in two. And this was only the second stroke. She felt him putting it in the third time only this time he wasn't coming slow and easy. He had it clear out until the tip of his great whacking hammer was barely parting the lips of her bare-lipped pussy and then he was coming down, down, in, in splitting her right in two and it hurt but it hurt so goooooood! She heard herself screaming and then she heard footsteps running and guy, was the housekeeper home and then the door burst open and it was him and it had all been a dream, only it wasn't a dream now; he was here and she'd already had one nightmare today during the thunderstorm and oooooohh guy, what was she going to do now?
Shit! And she was going to be in control, going to make him grovel and beg for....
"What's wrong?" he demanded.
At least he didn't turn on the light this time, she thought. Maybe she'd broken him of that habit. He came to sit on the edge of her narrow bed but at least he left the light out and he wasn't trying to put his hands under the sheet or do anything beyond the bounds of propriety.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's all my fault. No wonder you have nightmares getting shunted off to this old barn with an old man who's lived alone so long he's nearly crazy too."
Pat lay mute beneath the sheet.
"Tomorrow early," he promised, "we'll saddle up the horses and go to the station and get the car and then I'll take you to the airport and you can go anywhere you want to go. I know it must be hell for you here. I wish I could show you a good time and make you happy but it's been years since I had anything to do with women and I never had anything ever to do with a daughter."
Suddenly she was sorry for him. She had been willing to give him the business but he really was trying to do his best for her. Why did she have to rub his nose in it? "I don't want to go away," she heard herself saying. "I like it here. I like you."
There was a long silence as he sat immobile on the edge of her bed. Suddenly Pat had a certain knowledge that if she were to turn the light on now she would see tears in his eyes. Guy! And she'd been mad at him, accusing him of doing all kinds of things just to make her suffer.
Then caution took over. In a moment his eyes would see her even in the darkness and if he was right about that nudist bit, perhaps the outline of her bare body beneath only a sheet would be enough to start them off on the wrong foot again. Feeling ashamed at her evil and suspicious mind, she tried to turn on her side away from him. "Oh, owl"
"What happened?" he asked anxiously.
Pat didn't know. "My ankle," she said. "It just gave me a twinge. I must have hit it falling off the horse."
She felt those hard, sinewy hands close over her ankle. "This one?"
"The other," she said. And then he was kneading and massaging her sore ankle. Guy! His hands were strong!
She felt herself relaxing, lazing in a golden glow of self-indulgence as his hands kneaded and rubbed the soreness from her ankle. It felt so goooood she wasn't even thinking about the only thing she had been able to think about ever since she had come to this weird estate.
Outside the moon was just making it past the corner of her window. As it edged past the window frame she could see clearly and guy! Right back on square one! He was as naked as she was. No wonder he hadn't turned on the light.
She realized what had happened. This time she must have really caught him by surprise, either in bed or just ready when he had heard her scream.
"All right now?" he asked. "Think you'll sleep ok?" Before she could answer he bent over the foot of her bed, the only place where her body stuck out of the covers, and kissed the ankle he'd been rubbing. He was halfway to the door when she asked, "How about the other one?"
She could see his shadowy form in the doorway. For an instant he stood stock-still, then he returned, backing toward her as if he suspected he was not quite invisible. He knelt beside her narrow virginal bed and bent over and then she felt him kissing her other ankle. "Like that?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
"Mmmmmmmmmm," she replied.
His hard-muscled sinewy hands were caressing her feet and ankles with an ineffable tenderness as he knelt in the darkness beside her narrow, virginal bed. She lay covered with the single sheet, with only her face sticking out of one end and her feet out of the other and he knelt worshiping at the altar of her inviolate body, kissing toes and ankles while Pat lay quiet, unable to move if she had wanted to, practically melting with delight.
Was he going to chicken out again? Leave her high and dry again? Pat didn't know. She knew that if she really wanted to get a handle on this situation she had to stop him before things went too far-leave him hungry. But Guy! After all the waiting and wishing, after all the pussyfooting around she finally did have him actually and literally kissing her feet. Guy! It felt so gooood she didn't even wiggle or complain when his supple sinewy hands began ranging ever so slightly up from her ankles, caressing and rubbing her calves until the feathery cloud of delight grew and threatened to engulf her in pink-foamed joy. Guy, it felt so goooood!
She lay quiet, trying not to stiffen. If she were to stiffen up or show any sign of fear or tension she knew he would be gone again like a spooked rabbit. She had to relax, let him know she was letting him, that he was pleasuring her and not abusing her or frightening her or doing something she didn't want him to do. Guy! for a strong silent man he was sure timid!
Timid or not, he had graduated to her knees. Now his caressing and kissing and petting ranged the full distance from her toes to her knees. Just as she was getting used to this familiarity the sheet moved slightly higher and oooohh guy! He was kissing the tender sensitive place at the back of her knee, the place that someday she would learn to call a popliteal fossa. At the moment she could only call it delightful.
It was also dangerous, she knew. If he were to keep on this way, inevitably he would arrive at disputed territory and Pat was unsure whether anybody actually did that sort of thing-even if she were to leave the sheet in place and somehow induce him to come in underneath it. Guy! Would he? Did she really want him to? She didn't know. He had a death grip on her calves as he twisted his neck to kiss the undersides of her knees.
Pat played it safe. She gave a quick flip and rolled over on her stomach. Now he was welcome to do whatever he wished.
What he wished seemed to be freedom of movement without a face staring and accusing. She lay, practically melting from joy as hands ranged up and down her legs and thighs, while he kissed every square inch of unblemished skin. Before she knew it he was no longer just kissing her thighs. He ran a burning line of kisses up one firm little buttock and down the other, circling lazily around her ass, up her waist and back, darting down to nip at her tender ticklish flanks, almost reaching the outer edges of her tender young tits whose more vulnerable portions were buried in the safety of her virginal mattress.
Pat wondered if she had died and gone to heaven. She was getting the best of it from all angles. She was reveling in the feel of those hard, sinewy hands caressing the flawless skin of her slight body. She was being kissed and caressed right out of her skull. She also was not really exposing herself, not committing herself to anything in case she should decide to change her mind. He was the one who was sticking his neck out, kneeling beside her in the semidarkness with his great thumping thing jutting somewhere into the darkness under her bed, with his breath coming in ragged gasps and his strong hands starting to tremble with passion.
He was kissing the back of her neck, her shoulders, her waist, her ass, her thighs and calves, rubbing, caressing, tickling, licking, kissing, giving the back of her thrumming body the full treatment and still she lay on her stomach, not really showing anything that she shouldn't. He had seen more of her taut little body every time he swam with her or on any of the countless times he had surprised her naked. But now he was touching no controversial territory. It was wonderful to be on top of a situation for once. She gave a deep sigh of joy and satisfaction.
But even as she sighed Pat suddenly knew this was not satisfaction. She felt a churning, straining pulling building inside her belly. It was like the crazy sensation she had felt during the lightning storm when she had awakened twisting and straining and screaming but that time everything had suddenly collapsed in a blessed release just at the moment of wakening.
Now there was no release. She lay on her belly still enjoying the attention of his roving hands, his lips, his agile and uninhibited tongue. Guy! All those bigger girls in gym who were always talking about doing it , ... why had none of these experts ever even hinted at how delightful it could be just to lie here and be kissed and fondled and licked by a lean, hard-muscled man. All they ever talked about was how big it was, how it hurt going in, and how quickly it was all over as some seventeen-year-old would-be stud managed to confuse frequency of orgasm with staying power.
She was enjoying it, shivering in shuddery ecstasy every time his hands or his lips ranged up and down her spine, their sinewy hardness belied by a touch as fluttery as a butterfly's kiss. It was wonderful; it was heaven. But it was also pulling her apart. She felt something inside her belly twisting, twining ever tighter as if somebody were tuning a violin an octave too high. It felt good but it was making a music of fatal sweetness inside her untried body. Those strings were pulling tighter inside her belly, making a heavenly music that was rising right off the scale, going beyond the bounds of possibility.
And still the pitch rose, straining her, stretching her, twisting her until she felt as if every nerve-end in her body were twisted into a knot and if those knots didn't come loose soon she was going to snap and when she snapped she wasn't going to shatter-she was going to melt right down into a tiny puddle of spent passion and she could feel moisture between her legs already and guy! What would he think if he knew that just his hands and his lips on her back were making her think all kinds of deep and forbidden thoughts and he wasn't even hinting about putting his great thumping thing into her but she was thinking about it and it was so nice to think about and every time she thought about it she could feel that carnal flower between her legs secrete another tiny drop of love's elixir and it felt all gooshy and she ought to get up and wipe herself dry before he found out what he was doing to her but she didn't dare move now because if she did he'd see the front of her bare little body and if he were ever to put his hand there she knew she would scream and faint or worse, she might even giggle.
She was trapped. As long as she lay on her stomach she was safe but how long could she stay here? She tried to be calm, to tell herself that he would get tired of this silly business before long. But no matter how long he kept at it, the only change she could see was that he was breathing harder, faster, his hot breath warming her with deliciously tingly little tickles that were winding that mainspring tighter and tighter inside her virginal belly and it felt so good but it was starting to hurt a little bit but it hurt so goooood that she didn't want it to stop and oooohhh guy, his hands were starting to slip under her, to cup right over her firm little tits and ooooohh guy, he was lifting her and he was turning her right over until her tits pointed right up at the ceiling and ooooooohhhhh!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was funny. She had always thought that when it came, doing it was going to be all soft and cuddly and giggly. She had never imagined it was going to get her all tied in knots with her body so wracked with passion that she was totally unable to speak. Yet here he was with those hard sinewy hands lifting her right off the bed and turning her over like a pancake that had been kissed all golden brown on one side and now he was going to scorch her other and more tenderly vulnerable front side and oh guy-if he were ever to put those hands or even kiss her thrumming tits Pat just didn't know what she was going to do!
Faint from joy? Scream?
Suddenly she found herself thinking incredible thoughts. It was wild; it was crazy but she found herself wishing he were not still down there on his knees kneeling beside her narrow virginal bed. If he was going to be touching and kissing and licking her in front she knew she couldn't stand just to lie here and do nothing. She found herself wanting him up in bed with her, where she could put her hands on his firm, hard muscled body, caress and cuddle and tickle him and maybe make him stop for a minute, long enough for her to draw at least one whole breath without having it turning into a ragged, passionate half-sob and half-giggle.
But guy, she was supposed to be in charge, in control. She couldn't go grabbing him, letting him know how much she was enjoying this. It would spoil everything. He needed her. She didn't need him. She was only letting him do this because she liked him, because she felt sorry for him and because he seemed to get so much fun out of it.
Like hell she was!
Those strong supple hands had put her back down on the bed now-put her down face-up without even a hint of a sheet between the lusciously-edible front of her firm little body and-him. She had lost control. Now she was totally vulnerable. He could kiss and nibble on any tidbit he pleased and all she could do was lie here and tremble and shake and feel great contractile waves of passion pass through her body, wracking her with the depths of a passion she had never known. Guy! And she had been going to make him crawl and beg!
He bent over her and buried his face in the firm yet yielding roundness of her belly. As he drove his tongue into her navel, augering it deep into her from unexpected new angles Pat felt her knees flexing and then her arms and legs were flailing wildly in the air as she struggled not to surrender her last shred of self-control to the delicious tickle that was going so deep into her it seemed as if he was sending an erotogram by direct wire from his tongue through her girlish belly button and right up her spine.
The more wildly and ineffectually she kicked, the deeper he drove his tantalizing tongue into her. It felt so gooooood and yet it was tickling the daylights out of her. She was giggling and whinnying uncontrollably. So much for being strong and silent and making him beg for it, she thought ruefully. Guy! What had she let herself in for?
Just when she knew she was going to die if he kept it up for another minute he finally got his face out of her belly and began running a slow-line of burning kisses up her belly, up her midriff until he was kissing lazy figure-eights around the bases of her jugs, over one, down between them, under the other, and back up over. As he continued his lazy-eight circling she felt herself slowly recovering from that deliciously unbearable sensation of a tongue drilling a hole clear through her to her backbone.
But she was still in trouble, Pat realized. This was a slower, more gentle kind of turn-on but it was just as insidiously habit-forming as anything else he had ever done to her. She knew she ought to be making him stop, trying to impose some order in her young life. Guy! He was doing whatever he pleased with her and she couldn't do a thing to stop him. Guy! If only it didn't feel so gooooooood!
He had been breathing raggedly, almost out of control but now she realized that it was she who was losing control. Still kissing lazy figure-eights around the twin peaks of her chest, he began gradually to scale the slopes, circling ever higher around those twin jiggling cones that had done so much to enrich her life since they had begun sprouting. Each time he kissed the upper surface of one of her tender young tits she felt a delicious tingle that ran clear down into her seething crotch. But each time he completed his half-circuit and dedicated his attention to one of the sensitively tender undersides of her firm young jugs Pat nearly went out of her fifteen-year-old skull.
Guy! Fifteen years old and nobody had ever told her how gooooood it was....She struggled and managed to stop waving her arms and legs in the air like some berserk centipede. She held her breath and bit her lip and managed to lie still, except for the deep tremors that coursed through her, starting clear down at her ankles where first he had kissed her, and running in delicate shimmering waves of desire up her calves, up her thighs, suffusing her virginal vulva with pink-flushed passion, making her smoothly-rounded belly ripple with desire as each warm wave of rut raced round her navel, past her midriff to run in lazy figure-eights along the path of his peak-climbing bussing of her firm little jugs.
It felt so goooood! It felt so good she could feel herself melting, actually changing shape as her mind and body fused into a single mindless desire for more, faster, deeper, harder!
And he didn't even have it in! Guy! She was thinking about something she had never done-something they couldn't really do because that was different. She knew she could kiss and cuddle and caress and play around all she wanted to and next morning she'd still be a virgin, no more unsullied than any other back alley and parking lot experimenter of her age. But to let him actually put it inside her ... especially him!
But even as she was dwelling on these thoughts of forbidden pleasures another concept was slowly building in her virginal mind. There were things that happened only once in a lifetime, things that were irrevocable and irreversible. If those stick-figure sex education courses had managed to teach her anything, they had taught her that virginity is a one-way street, that once she surrendered the flower between her long, well-shaped legs, there was no way ever to make that rose bloom again.
He was coming closer and closer to the tiny pink aureoles that surrounded tiny rock-hard nipples on the summits of twin pectoral peaks. Guy! Mothers had babies fastened to those things every day. Did nursing babies feel this nice?-Did mothers sit around with little shivers of delight running up and down their spines every time a mouth fastened over one of those nipples?
Pat lay rigid, teeth clenched, struggling not to move as slowly he kissed his diminishing lazy-eight circles around her firm little jugs, gradually scaling the slopes of twin pectoral volcanoes, moving ever closer to the super-sensitized tips of her rock-hard, passion-thrumming nipples. Guy, if he put his mouth over one she was going to faint, she just knew it. Or worse, she would lose her hard-won quietude and begin once more to kick and flail her arms. Only this time Pat knew she would be squealing, giggling, wailing and yodeling her delight at the sensation of a man's lips working their erotic way around the humming, thrumming tip of her tit.
But that, she realized, was not what was really worrying her. She had, so far, been a quiescent-victim?-of all these erotic exercises. It had never ever occurred to her that a girl could or should be anything but passive. Girls didn't fuck. They got fucked. As long as she lay quiet and did nothing Pat knew she could not be held responsible for what was happening. But abruptly she arrived at the disquieting discovery that she didn't really what to just lie here while he dished it out. It wasn't enough just to take it. She wanted to give.
Why should he have all the fun? He was diddling, kissing, caressing and tantalizing her to within a twittery inch of her sanity. And what was she doing to him? Nothing! It wasn't fair. If he could get away with tormenting her, with running his hard sinewy hands all over her alluring little smooth-skinned, and youthfully-firm body, why were her yearning hands empty?
But men's bodies were different from girls'. There would be no great thrill in running her hands over undisputed territory and after all men didn't wear bras. There was, she knew with passionate certainty, only one part of his lean, hard-muscled body that she wanted to touch. She had grown up without a father and had never learned to be comfortable around men. Always she had been just a tiny bit afraid or occasionally disgusted by the men Momma-Maman had brought home. And this delicacy had carried over in school, making Pat more fastidious than other girls who did not go all gaga and giggly at the thought of a male en deshabille lounging about the house within grabbing distance.
Pat had had no real experience in handling male bodies, having lived a totally man-less childhood without once ever experiencing the sensation of sitting on a daddy's lap or being bathed or put to bed by some accommodating male. Still, there was only one part of the lean, hard-muscled, sinewy-handed body beside her bed that really interested her. She wondered what he would do if she were to touch it.
Would it do the same thing he was doing to her? Would he go all uncontrollably giggly and start bucking and kicking and waving his arms and moaning if she were to touch it? She didn't know. And, she realized, as long as he remained kneeling beside her narrow virginal bed she was never going to find out. Meanwhile he was still licking and kissing his ever-ascending circles around the twin peaks of Pectoral Park, coming ever closer to those supersensitive triggers that were going to make her either scream or faint. She didn't know which would be worse.
She became so interested in the problem she almost forgot for a moment how devastatingly his lips and tongue were turning her on. Then his supple hands got back into the act too, running in light, caressing circles over her smoothly-rounded belly, fingertips occasionally exploring that cavity where his tongue had done its best to drill a hole through her. His hands caressed her belly, her thighs, slipped beneath her legs when she moved and were caressing and cuddling the firm twin-half globes of her buttocks.
And his mouth never ceased its gradual zeroing-in on her nipples. He was right to the edge of her pink-flushed aureoles now, seeming to progress no faster than an hour-hand as she burned and thrummed and trembled and quivered in the throes of passion deferred, waiting and wondering with a delicious impatience if she was going to faint or scream or just go bananas when he finally got around to putting his busy mouth over one of those twin trembling cherries on the tips of her ice cream sundaes.
But Guy! She couldn't just lie here forever and quietly go daffy while he played with her, played her like a violin, turning her on, turning her off at will. Guy! It just wasn't fair. She was supposed to be in charge, she reminded herself, was supposed to be giving or taking, making him beg for it. Instead, he was doing whatever he damn well pleased and she was-just letting him. What if he were to decide he'd gone far enough? What if he were just to quit right now with her pectoral summits still unsullied by the touch of his lips? Guy! She'd just die!
There had to be some way for her to get control, get a handle on this situation. There was, she realized, only one real handle on a man. But he was still kneeling on the floor beside her narrow, virginal bed, bending over her but exposing only the top half of his naked striving body. She could see clearly now that the moon had moved enough to shine squarely through her window. His body was just as groovy as it had been that afternoon when they had gone swimming just after the studhorse had done his thing and knocked her to the ground. She wondered if the mare-if Nellie had felt the way she was feeling now. Guy! Even the animals did it!
But she wasn't doing it. She was just lying here like a log and letting him feel her, caress her, kiss her, tickle her until she was ready to go out of her skull and she didn't have any way to control him, to make him speed up or slow down. She didn't have any way to make him keep it up if he were suddenly to decide to stop. Guy!
With the inspiration of desperation she began imperceptibly to move. It wasn't hard. She'd been squirming and twisting all the time, unable to endure the delicious agony of that busy mouth around her tender young boobs. Now with each squirm she edged farther away from his edge of the narrow bed, scooting toward the wall until he was having to strain farther and farther to reach her just-blooming body.
He wasn't about to let her out of reach. He struggled to pull her back but Pat resisted, not forcing his hands away or even hinting that she didn't want him to keep on doing all the lovely things he was doing with his mouth and with his hands. Finally her lover drew a logical conclusion from her maneuvering. It wasn't exactly what Pat had expected but she supposed it didn't make any difference in the long run.
Sensing the way she kept moving over to the far side of the narrow bed, he saw the space she was making and decided to get on the bed with her. He was climbing aboard-had one knee in the air when Pat realized that if he were to do this she would have even less control than she did right now. But there was one advantage to his awkward position. His handle was standing straight out, uncluttered and free for grabbing. She put out her soft, fifteenyear-old hand and got her first full, firm handful of manhood. It felt-funny.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Holding a hot, throbbing cock in her hotter little hand, Pat realized that she had been mentally prepared for something quite different. She had been expecting something rock-hard, unyielding as granite, stiff as a proverbial poker. It was all these things-and more. It was also hot, hard enough and yet-soft....Clutching it, she could feel his heartbeat, transmitted by the hot, hard thumping of engorged blood in his pumping penis.
Stiff as it seemed, there was still a faint yielding quality to it. It was like her tiny, passion-swollen and thrumming nipples, she realized. As her hand closed over it she felt his cock give a tremendous leap. He hissed in startled surprise, then gritted his teeth with an effort to control himself.
For the first time Pat realized that she was not the only victim of uncontrollable excitement. He might not be showing it as much as she-not kicking his legs and thrashing his arms but this quiet man was also very close to the breaking-point, ready for a cataclysm of some as yet undefined nature. She wondered what it was like for a man. Would he Shake and shiver and feel all melting inside like she had when she had awakened during the thunderstorm? Guy! Every time he did it?
It couldn't be that way, she decided. Nobody could stand that internal wracking more than once in a lifetime. But even now with her partner frozen in startled surprise, halfway onto her bed, one leg in the air in a frozen tableau of ecstasy, holding his breath while she held his cock, she realized that even now without his mouth touching the tenderly sensitive tips of her bazooms, she was still as turned-on as he was. More so, she realized, for even now when she had a respite, when common sense told her now was the time to call a halt and send him hungry off to his own bed and then the next time he appeared he'd really have to get on his knees and beg for whatever crumb of sensuality she could spare from the fleshy altar of her virginal body.
But even as she thought of it Pat knew she couldn't do it-wouldn't do it even if she could. Guy! Stop now? Stop now when he was just warming up on her lovely little jugs? The tips of her tits were the first truly forbidden territory he had touched, she abruptly realized. He had kissed and caressed her whole body but he had carefully refrained from zeroing in on the true triggers for her thrumming sensuality.
Now he was warming up, almost ready. He was almost in bed with her. She still held his cock in her eager grip, unsure what to do with it. He held his breath for a long moment, then slowly released it in a sigh like a tire with a nail in it.
While Pat was still wondering what next, she abruptly learned what next. The rock-hard thumping of that exotic piece of male meat in her hand was suddenly less. His cock was still hard, still ready and willing, but no longer in imminent danger of explosion. Now once more he dared move again-even with her soft little hand gripping his virility Pat discovered that she really had no control over him-he was as uncontrollable as the studhorse he had ridden that afternoon. Only this time she had played with a different kind of sensuality. This stud wasn't interested in her mare; he was interested in her.
Unbelieving, unable to think of what else she could do to stop him, she gripped his cock and felt him climb unperturbed into her narrow bed, right into the space she had so obligingly vacated as she scooted over. The only allowance he made for her still-firm grip on his gouge was in the way he positioned himself in the bed.
To lie down beside her in the proper position to do anything to her supple little body would be impossible because she was small, her arms were short, and he was neither. Instead of scooting in beside her and burying his face in her waist, he switched ends, leaving her to grip his still-rigid erection while he accommodated himself head-to-toe and once more began kissing the shuddery tips of her kneecaps.
Guy! Now what was she going to do? She lay on her side, crowded against him, her face rubbing against the hairy muscularity of his thighs, her fist still gripping that great thumping male thing that throbbed with each racing heartbeat, filling her hand with a tingling presentiment of joy to come. Each time she breathed, each time he breathed it seemed as if that thing had a will of its own, an instinct to seek feminine flesh. She struggled to hang onto it but his thing kept trying to slip out of her hand, trying to lodge its great bludgeon of a head in the soft valley between her firm little jugs.
Meanwhile, his lips were busily reviewing previously explored territory around her knees and thighs. While she struggled to grip that organ which, snake-like, struggled to elude her hand and lodge itself in the soft valley between her twin pectoral volcanoes he began spreading her knees and kissing the tender, super-sensitized, thoroughly turned-on surface of her inner thighs.
Oh guy! Pat hadn't ever intended getting in this deep. She had thought little girl-wise how nice it would be to give the orders and be obeyed by an adult for a change. Was that why they called it adultery? She had always assumed she could go so far and then turn it off. But no matter how slow and timid he might be getting started, she suddenly knew there was no stopping him now. Guy! What was he going to do next?
She had a pretty good idea, even if she didn't want to admit it, even to herself. Guy! He was running a line of burning kisses up one smooth sensitive inner thigh and down the other. With each excursion he was coming closer to that mystical spot where two straight, well-shaped long legs come together to form one firmly-rounded little ass.
Was he really going to do it? Did anybody really do things like that? What would it feel like if he were to do the unthinkable? Guy! Nobody ever really did things like that. Pat had heard the usual things one hears no matter how nice the neighborhood or how exclusive the school. Even nice girls managed to acquire all the ghetto vocabulary and Pat had heard words like cocksucker, muff diver, and other more pungently graphic terms. The only trouble was that, she had also heard terms like son of a bitch without ever knowing what bitch meant. They were just words people said when they were mad. Nobody took that kind of stuff seriously.
But while she was busy telling herself it wasn't going to happen, that ineffable, never-been-effed spot between the just-hairing lips of her vulva was making its own instinctive preparations for what every nerve-ending of her inexperienced body was expecting. It felt so funny. She remembered how she had awakened in the midst of the thunderstorm with this same deliciously twittery straining, stretching feeling that had abruptly ended with a churning turmoil that left her gasping and exhausted.
All the while she had been constructing and destroying behavioral theories his busy mouth had been edging ever closer to the drop zone. Guy! He was kissing his way right up to the edges now, spreading her trembling thighs ever wider to get his head up into cunt country. She wanted to stop, tried to stop, and didn't know how.
In desperation she struggled and managed to close her thighs. But it happened just as he darted his head up close to the drop zone instead of at the other end of his excursion. Milk-white thighs closed in an erotic scissors over his head and she felt the burning imprints of his ears branded into her sensitive skin. Guy! She had been trying to stop him but it only seemed to make him more excited. She felt his cock-guy! She still had it in her hand, had practically forgotten it.
But when she closed her thighs over his ears his cock gave a tremendous thud and grew even harder, thrumming and thumping madly in her hot little fist. Her eyes opened wide in astonishment and she saw that as he had scooted up to be able to reach her target area the movement had brought his cock up so that it no longer struggled to find lodging in the soft valley between her twin pectoral peaks. Now, instead of poking at her tits his cock was barely below her chin, pointing accusingly at her.
She studied it in the bright moonlight. It was long, elegantly thin-shanked but with a thick bludgeon of a head which reminded her of the mushrooms and stalagmites he had shown her in that cave-before he had carried her back up to this room and undressed her.
There was a covering of loose skin around the head of his hammer-something she would someday learn to call by its properly elegant name of prepuce. But now in his intense erotic excitement his cock was swollen to such thumping proportions that the bluntly-rounded head was struggling to exit from its protective sheath. Inside the tight-stretched tip of his foreskin she could see the blind single eye of his urethra, located dead center in the midst of the angry purple of his tumescent tool.
Behind the shank of his elegant hammer she could see the black ringletted bag of his scrotum. It was squirming madly in its blind struggle to accommodate its precious twin jewels. While she stared in fascinated and slightly cross-eyed contemplation a single clear drop of love's lubrication appeared at the tip of his straining tool.
Guy, she thought, he's doing the same thing I am! She knew because she could feel her young body straining for fulfillment, could feel the damp growing and spreading as that flower between her thighs strove for self-immolation.
And all the time he was coming closer. Now he no longer bothered to kiss his way up and down her thighs. Instead, he was kissing her lower belly, going between her widespread thighs to kiss the radiant cheeks of her firm little ass, ploughing erotic furrows through the just-growing thicket of her prominent mons veneris, coming ever closer to the drop zone.
She felt her whole body thrumming with anticipation, her thumping heartbeat pulsing in time to the raging throb of the organ of essential maleness which she still held in her bemused fist. He was kissing ever-tightening circles right around the twin pouting lips of her twittering vulva now, filling her with a yearning, straining tension she had never before experienced. Guy! This was a million times better than lying in the tub full of hot water and patting her pussy with her own hot little hand!
His cock was thumping and thrumming. What could she do with it? She didn't want to just hold it like a collared thief. Cautiously, she put out her other hand. She had been gripping it by the shank. Now she put a cautious finger to the swollen, vein-covered skin of his tight-stretched prepuce. The effect was astounding.
Without warning the purple head of his cock emerged from the foreskin. Glistening, glowering in purple magnificence, it glared at her with its single blind eye. She put out her finger again, touching this unsheathed weapon to see if there were any way she could reverse the process. It was smooth and slick from love's lubrication. Her finger skidded smoothly in a gentle loving circle around the bare head of his hammer.
She heard him gasp, felt his strong and sinewy hands grasp harder, fingers digging into her thighs as he spread her legs wide to expose her drop zone. Guy! He was opening her so wide it was starting to hurt a little. She could feel the just-furring lips of her vulva part to expose all the tender and normally hidden surfaces of her femininity. The air felt suddenly cool on damp membranes. And then it was burning flaming hot as without warning his mouth descended. His lips met hers squarely, sealing out the cold cruel world, warming her, filling her with a rosy glow of joy. Guy! He was really doing it, putting his mouth right there! She had thought she was going to humiliate him for the suffering he had caused her. She had thought of all kinds of weird and awful things she might make him do in return for the privilege of touching her smooth and tender body. And now he was doing it himself without her even hinting-doing something far beyond her wildest dreams of bondage and humiliation. Guy!
And the funny thing about it was that suddenly she knew there was nothing humiliating about this. He wasn't doing it because she made him. He was doing it because he wanted to. And, feeling those burning lips pressed to her nether labia, Pat suddenly realized that she wanted it too, had been yearning for it far more than she realized. She lay supine, thighs spread and knees flexed, shuddering with a delight she had never imagined possible this side of heaven.
She lay flat on her back, in classic missionary position, knees flexed and spread wide apart to make room for his head in her target area. The sudden assault on her erogenous zone was so overwhelmingly mind-blowing that she could think of nothing else. His hot, hard cock dropped from her nerveless hand as her arms fell to her sides. Melting with a delicious madness, she realized suddenly that all her fine virginal fantasies about fucking-they were all wrong. Guy! How could she ever have guessed it was supposed to be this way?
Still quivery, barely able to breathe, she lay savoring the feel of warm lips against hers, of a comforting bulk between her thrumming thighs. She managed weakly to close them, once more savoring the fine, flaming eroticism of a pair of ears burning their imprint in her lusting flesh. But she was still totally unprepared for what came next. What came next was his tongue, darting unexpectedly from his mouth. He licked a long, lascivious stroke across that tender membrane that separates girls from women. And then he came up to touch the tip of his tongue right on her rock-hard, supersensitized clitoral trigger. Guy!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was more than flesh could bear. She squealed, kicked, sent her lovely legs skyward, opening and closing with the enthusiasm of a ballerina doing entre chats, alternately capturing and squeezing his hot-eared head and releasing it. He did no such thing.
With the devotion of a true-believer, he kept his lips glued to the passion-swollen, hairless inner surface of her vulval labia. Each time her excess of passion promised to diminish he darted his agile tongue once more to that tiny trigger of eroticism just above where she had learned that the pee comes out. But it wasn't pee that was oozing from between her swollen throbbing labia at this moment. It was love's clear, slightly thick elixir, the lubrication of joy that flowed from her with each contractile wave of her burning belly. Guy! He must be drowning in it. But he wasn't coming up for air.
Instead, he was swimming, rooting joyously in her virginal vulva, licking and nibbling until she found herself wailing and whinnying with uncontrollable delight. His arms no longer gripped her. He knew now, she realized with a touch of rue, that she would not struggle to escape. She was struggling instead to draw his lovely head in deeper. His educated hands were tracing sensual tracks of delightful tickles around every square inch of erogenous zone not touched by his supple tongue. His fingertip fluttered up and down the tiny, tender strip of super-sensitized perineal skin between pussy and asshole, making her giggle shrilly to the point of madness each time he passed on this track to stop and knock at the twittery rosette of her fluttering entrance to the old dirt road. Each time his finger tapped there she felt her heart leap, her whole belly leap and throb in a contractile spasm of erotic delight.
His other hand was not idle. He had managed to slip it between their straining bodies, down where her firm little jugs rubbed against the hairy front of his flat, hard-muscled belly. There was a growing sense of something impending in the smooth roundness of her lower belly. Guy! Wasn't he ever going to stop? She wanted him to-almost. She sensed that something was going to happen soon but she was not sure exactly what. Whatever it was, if he were to stop now before it happened Pat knew she would just die!
Great shimmering waves of lust coursed through her belly, suffusing her with an incandescent glow of passion. It felt so good she knew she was going to explode, to fly into hundreds of tiny fluttering bits of lust fulfilled, to blow apart in so violent a cataclysm of eroticism that she could never ever get her firm little body back together in its proper shape. She was changed irrevocably, she realized. After this she would never be the same again, no matter whether he ever did anything else to her.
But he was doing something else, to her. He was getting his tree hand between their bodies again, twiddling her tiny virginal nipples between thumb and forefinger until they thrummed and throbbed so passionately she could actually forget for a half a second at a time all the lovely things his tongue was doing to her hymen-covered pussy. Am I still a virgin, she wondered?
Guy! She realized now that she wasn't really sure. Maybe the books were right about a man having to put his thing clear inside a woman. But guy! If that was fucking, then what was this? Was fucking supposed to be even more fun than this?
Fun ... what was fun? She remembered the innocuous pursuits of her childhood, how groovy they had all seemed. Every one of those childish pastimes, from dolls to phonograph records, had managed in time to be supplanted and abandoned by something newer, nicer, more grown-up. Was this the end of the road? Was she grown-up now?
Grown-up or not, he wasn't treating her like an infant any more. This, she knew, was the way of a man with a woman and she was getting the full treatment. Guy, was she ever getting it!
He was licking her harder now, deeper, his eager tongue plowing erotic furrows in her flower garden. His muscular arms went round her ass again, squeezing unmercifully as he drove his face deeper into her and the feel of those muscular arms alone was enough to drive her daffy with desire even if he hadn't been doing all those other lovely things. And then she discovered why those twin arms had gone round her ass. One hand was working at her pussy, spreading and everting her vulval lips so that his mouth could work at every wrinkle and fold of hitherto unexplored tissue.
Meanwhile, a finger was tapping gently on the twittery rosette of her anus, making her wonder if perchance she wasn't still getting it all wrong. Surely this was the only opening big enough for that great thumping thing of his to go. He was barely touching her asshole but that twittering tap in time to his thumping heartbeat was enough to drive her off her rocker with delight and anticipation. Guy! It felt so goooood!
And his agile tongue didn't stop for one second its persistent licking, laving, sucking at all the secret spots she had thought were hers alone. How could he ever have known all the nights she had laid alone touching those places, sure that she was the only person on earth afflicted with these secret desires? Guy! He seemed to know everything about her. Just as she was beginning to think of some new area for exploration and exploitation his hands, his mouth, his muscular body was already there rubbing her, kissing her, sucking, turning her into a tiny puddle of passion.
Ooooooooohhhhhh Guy! He wasn't just sucking any more. His mouth was once more locked squarely over her nether aperture, lips on lips, tongue on clit, sealing her away from the cold cruel world. Only now, instead of just licking and kissing and sucking, he was alternately sucking and puffing, first pulling her thrumming clit into his mouth, running his tongue around it in loving, lascivious circles, then expelling it with a little puff of warm breath that pushed that sensitive organ back into her with a little thrust very like what she had always imagined and hoped fucking was. Each little huff-puff and suck filled her with a yearning, churning, burning, passionate desire that spread through her thrumming belly in coruscating waves of erotic desire.
Still she felt her thighs opening and closing, his fiery ears burning their imprint on tender skin with each uncontrollable oscillation of her long straight legs. Guy! Why hadn't anybody ever told her it was going to be this much fun? Fifteen years old! All the years she had wasted playing with dolls and listening to records and all those silly things when she could have been doing this!
Still his tongue worked valiantly away at her, tickling and tantalizing her willing body into straining new shapes as her back arched and her ass rose, thrusting to meet his eager dive into her thrumming muff.
That building, stretching churning inside her taut belly was growing-growing uncontrollably and she knew that in another moment she was going to explode, to shatter into tiny shards of lust, to melt and flow right down through the mattress if he didn't stop all those lovely things he was doing to her.
And please, God, don't let him do that! She didn't know where things were going from here, didn't know what was going to happen to her but whatever, she certainly didn't want it to end now-not while her belly was filled with joy, radiating great rings of coruscating erotic burning through her whole little body, filling her with the joy that passeth all understanding, driving her right out of her fifteen-year-old skull as her body vetoed her brain with an older medullar wisdom that emanated not from her brain but from her womb.
Guy! What was he going to do next? She knew something else was coming. There was a-preparatory quality to all this, as if he were just warming up for the main event. She was afraid. Guy! She was nearly dead now and so far everything he had done to her had been ten thousand times more interesting, more exciting, more exhausting than the last. But she was on a roller coaster of eroticism, frightened, out of her mind with joy and pain and wanting to get off and scared stiff and wailing and shrieking and yet enjoying it all with such a supernal fullness of emotion that if it were all to end now she knew she would just curl up her toes and die!
What could come next? Probably he would put it into her somewhere. She studied his great thumping member. It still pointed at her chin, scant inches away, so close that she could focus only cross-eyed and blurry on that great purple knob that threatened her existence and her virginity. It was bared of its protective foreskin, glistening in wet, love-ready magnificence, waving gently up and down in time to his raging heartbeat. With each thump of his pulse she could see it grow slightly, glowering in swollen rage at all the sexual provocation and unfulfillment.
Abruptly it occurred to her that he wasn't really getting much out of this. He was doing all kinds of delightful things to her-things she would a minute ago have said nobody ever did or even thought of doing. And yet now he had his head right down there inside her, in a place where nobody ever did that kind of thing and oooooohhhh guy! It felt so goooood. She remembered how she had actually managed to trigger that dive into her crotch when she had run an inquisitive finger around the slick and slippery head of his hammer.
This must be as sensitive for a man as the place he was licking and sucking and kissing was for her. What could she do to make him-- What did she want him to do? Abruptly Pat knew what she wanted. It was the same thing she had been wanting ever since she had come to this weird old house, since the first time she had awakened practically naked and seen his sober gaze taking in every detail of her taut little just-maturing body.
She wanted him to suffer as she had-wanted him to lose control and make a fool of himself and feel as awkward, as gauche as she felt every time his capable, educated hands managed casually to brush against her, touch her secret triggers and turn her on while he just stood there solemn and unmoved, taking in every nuance of her discomfiture.
It was daring. It was revolutionary. It was awful.
A week ago, a day ago-even five minutes ago it would have been unthinkable. But in the last few minutes she had learned more of the amatory arts than she had managed to pick up in the previous fifteen years. She wondered if this was what people meant when they said "All's fair in love and war."
Which was this? She was enjoying, reveling, going out of her gourd with delight at everything this silent man was doing to her. And yet there still lurked in her lovely head thoughts of vengeance. He was making her suffer. He should suffer too. He was making her lose her cool. How could she make him lose his?
She put out a tentative finger-this time not to the slick, hot, hard head of his hammer. Instead, she got an exploring finger behind his scrotum, running a teasing fingernail over the back of his balls and down that sensitive strip of skin that runs from balls to asshole. She had no way of knowing if that piece of perineum were as sensitive in a man as it was in a woman. It was considerably longer in a man, she discovered.
It was at least as sensitive too, she guessed, for when she ran her finger up and down it his cock gave a great joyous leap and thumped harder, waving up and down like a loose antenna in a stock car race.
The other results were even more startling. He dived deeper into her seething pussy, licking and huff-puffing with a positive fury of eroticism. His teeth closed around her clit in a gentle nibble that bordered on the precarious edge between pleasure and pain and it felt so goood that Pat's mouth opened wide in an involuntary gasp of pleasure.
Ever afterward she was to wonder just what element of chance and what element of planning entered into what happened next. She had been looking for away to drive him up the wall, to make him suffer with the same embarrassment as she, to make him lose control and admit to himself-to her that she had made him lose control, that she could drive him just as far from self-control as he was driving her.
Was it accident or was it deliberate planning on his part? There were so many elements to analyze. Perhaps he wanted to lose control. In any event, he certainly did. He lost control even more spectacularly than she had. And it wasn't at all the way she had expected it to happen. She realized abruptly that all these rosy-hued waves of rut that passed through her belly in contractile waves that threatened to tear her into tiny bits of erotic waste-this was what the older girls had spoken cautiously of in gym class, in the sanctity of the showers. This must be what they called coming.
Guy! She had come so many times already and not even known what she was doing. Was she still a virgin after all this? Was it important? What use was it to be a virgin nowadays? She wondered if there were still men who expected to marry that combination of awkward and untested inexperience.
But even more she wondered if it was planning on his part or just a happy accident that made him give a tremendous lunge just as her mouth had opened in astonishment at the effect her tickling finger had on that tender strip behind his balls.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Even as it happened she realized that just such an act of reciprocity had been lurking inchoate in the lust-ridden corners of her mind. Guy! It was as if he was still reading her mind. Every time she was just starting to think about something, there he was already leading her down the primrose path of seductive eroticism, presenting her with a fait accompli such as this one. Before she had quite gotten used to the totally revolutionary idea of taking his tool into her body, there it was and not at all in the opening she had expected it to enter.
Guy! When he had given that tremendous lunge the bald knob at the end of his rampant rod had skidded wetly up her chin, past lips and teeth and right into her mouth!
She gasped, gulped and unbelievingly felt it slide smoothly into her virgin mouth, past lips and teeth, past tongue until the great thumping knob of his cock was pounding against her palate. Guy!
Guy again! He's looked at me naked, she realized. He's touched me all over, kissed me from head to toe, licked me screaming silly, put his face in my pussy, done everything a man can do to a girl, even put his thing in my mouth, and in spite of it all, he hasn't once kissed me the way men are supposed to with his mouth on mine.
She wondered abruptly if she was being raped. But rape couldn't possibly feel this good. If it did she wanted to be raped every night, three times a night and once in the afternoon every day for as long as she lived.
What was she going to do with that great thumping hunk of hot, throbbing maleness in her mouth? It tasted hot and slightly salty. For the first time she wondered what her passion-streaming pussy tasted like to his questing tongue. She moved her tongue experimentally and was rewarded by a sudden hardness and throbbing beyond all reasonable expectations for anything as already hot, hard and demandingly insistent as that great cockhead that pushed at her palate. She ran her tongue around it in a gentle exploration. Guy! That was funny. She had assumed it was round but on its top-bottom, she abruptly amended-he was upside down to her. Its bottom was split like a peach into two lobes. She twisted and contorted her tongue and abruptly learned that this split underside of his cockhead was even more hair-triggered and sensitive than the broad, smooth expanse of the upper side. Guy! He was moaning and twisting and wiggling almost as wildly as she had been a moment ago.
He was pushing it into her so hard, so deep she was choking. But she resolved that no matter how it hurt, if this was what it took to keep him happy, keep him keeping her happy with that educated mouth in her crotch the least she could do was tickle his balls and give his cock a licking promise.
But guy! He was going insane down there in her crotch, licking, kissing, suck-puffing, turning her little twat inside out and outside in so many times it felt as if she were being subjected to some berserk resuscitator. And it felt so goooood.
Suddenly it felt so gooood that Pat knew she couldn't hold out any longer. That blessed event she had been building up to ever since first he had put his hand on her unblemished body was now at hand. It was just like the dream she'd had during the thunderstorm-when she had awakened in the throes of a joyous seizure as pleasant as it was painful. More pleasant, she guessed, because she could feel it coming again and she didn't want to stop. She couldn't stop. She was on her way, taking off on her first full-fledged solo flight. Guy! Was she ever flying!
Great erotic waves of pink-foamed joy coursed through her love-wracked body, straining and tearing her, pulling her this way and that in a flowing flooding sea of orgiastic abandon. She was kicking, squealing, squirming, wailing, flopping like a freshly-boated halibut, totally out of control, joyously uncaring about whether she was winning or losing. If he could do this to her she didn't care how often she woke up and caught him looking at her. What difference did it make if he undressed her or put her to bed or did anything he wanted to her as long as his hard-muscled body could make her body forget itself like this. Ooooooooohhhhhh guy, it felt so gooood!
She was melting, twisting, flowing until she knew she would never look the same again. After this she would have changed shape permanently until anyone on the street could tell at a glance. From now on everyone would look at her and smile and nod and say to themselves, "She fucks."
But who cared? She didn't care what people thought or said as long as she could go on this way with him licking and kissing and sucking and puffing and ooooooohhhhh!
Meanwhile, he was turning on too, she guessed. What else could make him moan and squirm and twist just like she was? His great thumping cock was still in her mouth but now his pelvis was bucking just like hers as he surrendered to the demands of love. He was driving his cock into her, pulling it out, pushing it back in again past lips, past teeth, past tongue to assault her palate with the hot, hammering head of his prick.
She struggled to keep his cock in her mouth, not to leave him high and dry at this moment of truth lest he reciprocate and leave her suddenly alone and naked before the cruel world. His mouth was still there, still driving her daffy with all the lovely things he was doing and she hoped he was having as much fun as she was and guy, what was a girl supposed to do to a man's thing when he put it in her mouth? She put a hand around his lean, hard-muscled ass and began once more to tickle that sensitive strip of skin between balls and asshole. It seemed to be the right thing to do, for suddenly he was driving it right down her throat, past her palate and she was swallowing and trying to make it go down the rest of the way and of course it wouldn't unless she bit it off and she certainly didn't want to do that and then all at once she felt herself come apart as her belly exploded in a final spasm of orgasm and she was melting, flowing, dripping, her brains turned to peanut butter as her body obeyed an older wisdom and to hell with what people might think or say.
His cock was still down her throat and even in the midst of her joy she was retching and every time her throat struggled to eject that massive invader he gripped her by the nape of the neck and drove it in deeper, harder, faster and then suddenly her throat was slick with warm fluid and there was no place for it to go so she swallowed and then she swallowed some more and he was moaning and he was groaning and he was caressing her every place his hands could touch her smooth, hard little body and it felt so goooooood!
She came awake suddenly, not realizing when she had dropped off to sleep. He still lay entangled with her, their arms and legs in a crazy erotic jumble. Her leg pillowed his head and she had an ear cushioned on his lean, hard-muscled thigh. There was a funny puckery sensation around her mouth and chin and when she moved her lips it felt as if she had dried starch there. His cock was flaccid now, dangling limply from the mat of crisp black hair that adorned his crotch. Guy, she thought, I had it in my mouth!
She had thought she would be revolted, disgusted when it was all over. But she wasn't. She was still consumed with curiosity. He was either resting or asleep. She didn't know which. She was calm now, the spasm of orgasm over and she could pay calm attention to details she had been too busy to notice before. Guy, what a cock he had!
Even at rest it seemed to be at least five or six inches long. She wondered if all men had them this big. Guy! 'She'd never seen a grown-up man's before.
But she was seeing this one. She studied its flaccid length. His foreskin had come halfway down over the shrinking head of his satiated wand. She could still see the blunt purple cockhead inside dappled with flecks of white semen now. That must be what she had swallowed, she guessed. There was an odd, slightly salty taste in her mouth. Not unpleasant, she decided, just different.
What a wonderful thing. Studying it she could see the advantages to being a man. He could pee standing up. But there must be disadvantages too, she decided, studying the hairy sac that hung limp behind his flaccid dick. How on earth did men ever manage to ride horses and straddle motorcycles or fences or whatever it was politicians did?
Studying it carefully, she decided that overall, it was probably nicer to be a girl. There were so many ways she could turn-on. A woman's whole body, she abruptly realized, was an erogenous zone. Did men get any pleasure from any other part of their bodies apart from this odd collection of ill-assorted parts that dangled from between his legs?
She remembered from somewhere in one of those sex education courses a bit of randy gazoo about a man's balls having to hang outside his body where they could cool in the breeze lest he be sterile. But that was something she would worry about later. What interested her now was his recovery rate. How long would it take before that flaccid organ would revive and he would be ready once more to perform some delightful experiment with her willing body?
Guy! Couldn't she ever think of anything else? What if it took days or even weeks before he was ready again? She didn't know. Maybe he would have to stay in bed and rest-up for a week before he could try anything else. If only those damned courses with their silly stick drawings would just give some worthwhile information like how many times a night a healthy middle-aged man could come!
She was just steeling her courage to reach out and grab it again when she realized his eyes were open and that he was studying her lithe body with the same interest she was devoting to him. "First time you ever saw one close-up?" he asked.
She nodded, suddenly embarrassed.
"Looks nicer after a shower," he said in his usual laconic fashion. "Far's that goes, so'll you." Without further ado he began disentangling his hard-muscled limbs from hers. He got to his feet, helped her off the bed and, still naked they padded off down the hall to the shower where she had taken such care to cover the keyhole with her peignoir.
Guy! Here this afternoon she'd been turning her back on him to get out of the water and they'd been making separate entries into the lake and all kinds of randy gazoo to hide from each other and now he was helping her into the tub and he was getting in with her and he was drawing the curtains around them both and he was kneeling to fiddle with the water and then oh guy, he was soaping her all over, running his hands up and down her slippery body, sliding soapy hands over her firm little tits, around the burgeoning curve of her ass, between her legs.
Then just as she was getting used to being in the shower right in the bright light with a man he knelt before her to kiss and nuzzle her firm belly. With rivulets of warm water streaming from her, trickling from every projection, tickling the tingling tips of her tits, making each crinkly cunt hair snap in and out with erratic eroticism, she stood unbelieving as hot blood coursed once more through her and she felt the return of desire. Guy!
Unbelieving, she felt that fire once more kindle in her belly as he kissed her mons veneris, drove his tongue in her wet navel, bussed his way up to her firm little tits and kissed her thrumming nipples once more into rock-hard rigidity. And he was doing it right in the glaring unshaded light of the bath!
Guy! It felt-funny. It was crazy. In the moonlight where she had been able to see everything except perhaps the white of his eyes, which she hadn't been looking for anyway, she had been uninhibited. But now in the bright bathroom light she found herself blushing furiously beneath the jet of water. She was right out in the open now and she was looking at him and he was looking at her and it was all so different.
Suddenly he seemed to sense her discomfort. After all, they weren't exactly strangers and no matter how lovely it had all been, Pat knew it had been wrong and it had to end right here and now before something else happened. Guy! He might be a stranger to her and he might be the most thrilling male she had ever seen but he was also her father.
He was also shutting off the water, she realized and while she was struggling to find ways to tell him it was all over, that they really couldn't ever even think about this kind of thing again she realized with a sense of loss that he was no longer kissing her wet glistening body. Now he was patting and rubbing her dry with a towel and it scratched a little but when he put it between her legs and began carefully patting her damp pussy dry Pat decided she'd let him pat just a moment longer and then she'd tell him they had to stop.
Guy! He was kneeling in front of her again, nuzzling her firm little belly as he wiped first one foot and then the other, as delicately as if she were a skittish horse. He was caressing her all over, filling her once more with a pink glow of delight. Somehow he had managed to towel himself off while she was lost in daydreams or were they nightmares?
"And now what would you like to try next?" he asked.
She gasped and tried to remember what she had been going to tell him. Something about it being all over, that they had to quit all this funny businessbut while she was trying to form the words she felt herself being dusted all over with powder and then he was picking her up and she was still naked and he was carrying her, cradling her in his arms and she knew she ought to stop but guy!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It wasn't at all the way she had planned things. Now that she had enjoyed several minutes of partial sanity Pat realized that there actually still was time to turn back. She had done a lot of things she didn't dare ever confess even to her best friend but-technically....
She remembered now all the stories older girls had whispered and giggled over. She remembered Momma's constant reminders of the precious nature of that tiny membrane that separated a girl from a woman. And, despite all her adventures and terrors, despite the supernal never-imagined joys and thrills of the last twenty-four hours, she still possessed that magic membrane, her hymen, her maidenhead, her virginity.
. Her thinking had gotten fuzzy there for a while when she had been coming so violently that it was impossible for her to imagine that anything else on earth could possibly feel one half so nice as what he was doing to her with his super-supple tongue. But on due reflection Pat knew that whatever he had done to her, no matter how nice it felt, she had not been fucked.
She could tell him to put her down, let her go back to her room and get dressed, that it had been nice but now it was over, that it had to end because-well, guy! He was her father and girls just didn't do things like that with their fathers, did they?
She was composing a little speech of brittle sophistication like the curtain line in a Noel Coward play when abruptly he was no longer cradling her squeaky-clean, just-bathed-and-powdered body close in his arms. She felt him toss her effortlessly in the air and for a moment she spun crazily. When the darkened hallway ceased spinning she was slung over his shoulder, her belly cushioning her smooth, flawless-skinned body. Guy!
He was making just like a caveman, with her over his shoulder, his naked arm wrapped casually around her legs and he was so strong and it was so wrong and she had to make him stop but every step halfway shook the breath out of her and even if she hadn't been bouncing up and down on his shoulder she was suddenly so filled with excitement and anticipation that she didn't know whether she could even talk. Guy! He-wasn't taking her back upstairs. She dimly sensed that she was being carried past that library where this interlude had begun a few hours ago after their midnight swim. Now he was ducking to take her through a doorway down the hall and guy!
It was a strange room, with a fireplace that they wouldn't be using this time of year. In front-of the fireplace was a white polar bear rug and lots of cushions. There was no other furniture-unless you called the mirrors on the ceiling and on every square inch of wall and even on the front of the fireplace ... was that furniture?
Oh guy! Had she been planning to make him stop-here in this secret room whose every nuance shouted fuck at the top of its inanimate lungs....Pat knew she had to try. "We shouldn't-" she began in a weak and pleading voice but she couldn't tell whether he had heard because he was busy bending over and flipping her off his shoulder and putting her down full-length on the rug.
"We shouldn't-" she repeated doggedly but he was scooting down to lie beside her. From somewhere the lights subtly shifted hue and the whole room was faintly pink-rose-hued, she guessed. She looked up at the ceiling and guy! That must be a real plate-glass mirror up there. There was not a hint of distortion and she was so taken by the breathtaking beauty of her powdered and undraped body in this soft light that she almost forgot to say, "We shouldn't."
"Shouldn't what?" he asked.
Guy! After all this caveman stuff dragging her in here and everything he wasn't even going to do anything! He was just lying there beside her, lazily studying their side-by-side reflections in the ceiling. Guy! He could at least turn down the lights....
"Was it fun?" he asked, looking into her eyes via their mirrored images in the ceiling.
Guy! What could she say to that? She knew she didn't want it to happen again-at least she thought she didn't. But fun? It was more than fun, she knew.
If she were to put all the fun things in fifteen years of life on this planet together, stir well and boil down to a single delicious taste of honey, all the joy and pleasure she had known in all her previous life could not begin to compare with the mind-blowing bliss of the last hour. Guy! Was it fun? But she was abruptly reminded of something Momma-Maman was fond of quoting, that all the things she really enjoyed in life were either illegal, immoral, or fattening.
With even a fifteen-year-old girl's rudimentary knowledge of the law Pat knew that what she had just enjoyed was illegal. Immoral too. And there was the faint possibility as she remembered all the come she had swallowed-guy! ... maybe it was even fattening too! And then she was reminded of another more disastrously immediate way that experiments of this nature could be fattening, at least for the girls involved. "We shouldn't," she managed.
"I agree," he said. "We really shouldn't. But we did. And we shouldn't. It isn't harming me though. I liked it so much I'd like to do it all again right now." He lapsed into silence, still staring up at their side-by-side nakedness in the ceiling mirror.
Pat felt her body tingle at the thought of all the lovely things they had just done. Guy! Already he wanted to do it again? It was like all her secret dreams come true but....
He sensed her uncertainty. "Years ago," he mused, "when all the bulk of tradition and sexual attitudes were being formed there was no such thing as equal ity. There couldn't have been unless men had babies too."
Oh guy! He was voicing her secret terrors right out-loud!
"Have you ever wondered why you never had any brothers or sisters?" he asked.
Pat hadn't but now that he was on the subject....
"They talk about contraceptive devices and The Pill and all that stuff as if it were new," he continued in that same talking-to-himself voice. "The Pill is relatively new. But there have been other methods in existence for thousands of years."
"Oh?" Pat was startled out of her lethargy. "Like what?"
"One of the oldest is a tiny sponge soaked in vinegar," he explained. "The girl puts it in first and creates an acid environment which kills male sperm." He grinned and added, "It's also handy for other reasons. Girls who've been enjoying themselves instead of sitting around getting all inhibited saving it for a husband-oftentimes on a girl's wedding night a little sponge soaked in pigeon blood, plus some grunting and wailing can manage to suffice for counterfeiting the existence of something that's no longer there."
Abruptly Pat realized that he was no longer hinting or beating about the bush. He was talking baldly and plainly about fucking. They lay side by side on the bearskin rug, naked as the day they'd been born, but there was a curiously detached air to their intimacy. Side-by-side only inches apart and yet their bodies were not actually touching. She might as well be alone-except that every time she opened her eyes there they were in the ceiling mirror, in full view of each other without even the need to crane a neck. And no matter how she sought to avoid them, those serious, totally unsmiling eyes were looking straight into hers.
He was talking about fucking now. Unless she did something definite and something quick there was no doubt in Pat's mind concerning who was going to get fucked. Guy! She had to put a stop to this. But what else did he have to say on the subject? She had never even heard of contraceptive sponges. Guy!
"After a few centuries," he continued in that lazily pedantic voice, "virginity was no longer a life or death proposition for a new bride. After that the emphasis was not so much on concealment as it was on contraception."
"You mean not having babies?" In spite of herself Pat was drawn in.
"It finally came to be accepted that men have something to do with the subject," he grinned. "So that's why every drugstore now sells those little rubber things that're labeled 'sold only for prevention of disease' even though everybody knows they're for prevention of pregnancy-such being the hypocrisy of our churches."
Pat had never. seen one. She had heard about them, had seen pictures, had seen ads in magazines but she had never actually seen a rubber. "Do you have one?" she asked.
He shook his head.
A wave of sheer terror, blind and unreasoning shot through Pat. I'm pregnant! I'm going to have a baby! I'm ruined! I can't ever go back to school!
He saw her discomfiture and tried not to laugh. "Relax," he said. "I haven't told you about the best and only really foolproof method."
She stared at his face in the ceiling, unable to speak.
"Have you ever heard of a vasectomy?"
Pat hesitated. She'd heard the word but she didn't know what it meant. While she was trying to remember he put his hand on his now-flaccid cock and pulled his hairy scrotum up to expose its back side.
"Not that way; you're too far away." For the first time since he had deposited her on this white rug he actually touched her. She allowed herself to be pulled into a sitting position where she could squint down into the crisp black ringlets of glossy hair that covered his balls. "Look for two tiny scars about a quarter of an inch long," he instructed.
Feeling faintly embarrassed, Pat fingered his proffered scrotum until she found the scars.
"When it became apparent that neither your mother nor I were family-oriented, I went to a doctor one day and in about ten minutes time he did something simple, safe, and permanent. And from that day forward, there's no child on this earth can even think of calling me father." He gave her naked shoulders an affectionate pat and added, "You're my one and only." Lest Pat misunderstand the nature of his friendly pat on the back, he pulled her back down to lie beside him on the rug.
"You're right; it's wrong," he continued. "But so's war, murder, thievery, crooked politics and dirty pool." He sighed and after a moment continued, "I want you to be happy. I want the best for you. If happiness for you means never ever having to look at me or talk to me again, I won't like it but I'll do that for you too."
"What if somebody catches us?" Pat asked in a breathless little voice. "What if the housekeeper-?"
"Times aren't what they were thirty years ago," he said. "The housekeeper has her own problems and isn't all that interested in mine. In addition to which, I don't really believe she knows of the relationship between us."
"She doesn't know you're my father?"
He shook his head.
Guy! Pat felt her heart give a great leap. She could never get pregnant from this man-which was more than could be said for the stiff-pricked studs of her own age with their gauche, back-alley and backseat Chevrolet approaches. It was cool down here and she wouldn't ever have to return to that sweltering upstairs room unless she wanted to. Guy!
Guy! She looked at their images exposed full-length in the mirror and she remembered that a moment ago she had been handling his balls and his hammer hadn't even hinted at getting big and hard like she remembered it a while ago. Guy! Maybe her guess had been right. Maybe he was too old for her. Maybe she needed two or three men working in relays to satisfy her just-awakening sensuality. Guy! Maybe he was a normal man for his age. But was he?
Did all girls her age walk around thinking about doing it all the time? She had just undergone the most shattering, the most erotically devastating experience in her life with his mouth driving her up the wall, over the edge of a chasm of orgasm and already she was restless, wondering what else this lean, hard-muscled man would be able to do for her needful body. Guy! What was wrong with her?
She lay on the rug, ruefully aware that she was deliberately posing her nude little body at its best, presenting a sex-kittenish picture of desirability to those .sombre unsmiling eyes that looked upward into the mirror seeing everything, missing nothing as she moved, oozing sinuously this way and that extending her long straight legs, curving them, putting arms behind her head to thrust her firmly unsagging little jugs skyward toward the mirror, toward his sombre eyes.
"If you don't want to leave," he continued in that strange, neutral voice, "well, I don't know really what the future holds. Your mother has found herself a new toy and I suspect you might end up having a thin time of it if you go back there."
Pat waited, wondering what he was building up to. She remembered her horror when at first she had discovered she was doomed to spend a summer at this awful old place way out nowhere. "But what can we do?" she asked. "If you'd like to have me, I'd like to stay-for a while at least." Suddenly she was babbling, unable to stop herself. "I like it here; I like you. I know it's wrong and I shouldn't like you this way but I do and I want to stay and I want to do it again and I-ooooooohhhhh!" Suddenly she was wailing, sobbing. She felt his supine body rise and come over her and then his arms were around her and he was kissing her tears and patting her back and it felt so gooooood.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gradually her spasm of sobbing passed and she realized that the feel of his naked body against hers was more than comforting. It felt distinctly groovy and she could feel a tiny tendril of desire growing through her, driving away the tears and uncertainty as he kissed and caressed and patted until her freshly-bathed, freshly-powdered, satin-smooth body was no longer wracked with sobbing. He got her once more comfortable, supine, flat on her back staring at her reflection in the ceiling while he lay beside her on one elbow, looking quizzically down at her. She could see his crotch clearly in the mirror. His cock was large and elegantly slim, its long, lean shank topped with the golfball-sized knob of his glans penis. But it was not as hot-throbbingly hard and erect as she remembered. Guy!
"What are we going to do?" she wondered "Where do I go from here?"
"Well," he said with that same hint of sardonic amusement, "people's lives can go either up or down. Are you an upper or a downer?"
Pat didn't know. Until lately when she had seemed unable to think about anything except the burning, erotic itch in her blooming body she had always been an outgoing, cheerful sort of girl.
"You want to go up or down?" he repeated.
While she was struggling to formulate some brittle and brilliant reply to this question she saw him lie down beside her once more. But this time, looking in the mirror, she saw his lean, hard-muscled arm scoot out and slide beneath her waist. Then abruptly she understood the true meaning of his question. Up or down....What he had really been asking her, she guessed, was if she wanted to start out on top or underneath. While she dithered she found herself being passed through the air once more by those supple and unbelievably strong arms until she was placed face down atop him like a warm vibrant and living blanket. "Position is everything in life," he murmured as he released her.
Pat's doubts and sadness were suddenly displaced by a rosy glow of anticipation. Guy! Even as she lay atop his muscle-corded body she could feel that tiny tingle of joy begin to course through her still-virgin belly. More importantly, she could feel a revival of interest as his flaccid muffin-stabber began jerking to attention, rising between her thighs. She clamped her legs together and felt solid maleness between them. It felt gooooood!
"The thing to remember," he murmured, "is that you're on top. You're in charge. Any time you want to stop, all you have to do is say so." And without further ado, he sat up.
It was awkward for a moment until she managed to flex her knees and then Pat found herself half squatting, half-kneeling astride his lap, sitting high enough to look over his shoulder while he completed certain arrangements beneath her with his capable hands. And then before she was quite ready he was lying back again, leaving her astraddle his supine body. Hard insistent maleness was poking at her parted vulval lips, demanding entry.
As she posed, straddling his body she realized that he was in the loveliest of all possible positions for a man. Flat on his back, he lay relaxed, his cock pointing straight up at her descending bottom, his face far enough from her to view the lovely perfection of her taut young body as she posed, hands behind her head to throw her firm little jugs out to their best angle.
As his eyes took in the symmetrical perfection of totally non-sagging, tiny-nippled and virginal tits she felt a responding throb of appreciation from the great thumping thing he had with considerable care and skill deposited between the barely-parted lips of her vulva. Guy! She didn't know whether to be flattered or annoyed.
Man was supposed to be the aggressor, she had always believed. Women's lib to the contrary, men were supposed to fuck; women to get fucked. And here he was flat on his back, hands behind his head just looking, admiring the superb view of her firm young frontage while she squatted, her virginal pussy spiked in his spindle and he wasn't doing a damn thing to help!
It just wasn't fair! Here she was an innocent young girl and he was supposed to seduce her and instead, he was making her do all the work and if she was on top she couldn't very well ever tell anybody-not even herself that she had been overcome by passion, that he had swept her off her feet, that she had been unable to help herself. What was she going to do?
It took her a moment to decide but finally she did. Carefully, she scooted forward along his lean, hard-muscled belly until his reviving rod snapped free from its toehold in her touchhole. Then, with his cock waving free in the breeze behind her, she bent low over his face and began waving sideways like a nubile snake charmer. Only this time she was not charming him with snakes, but with the ceaseless hypnotic movement of her firm young tits swaying back and forth past his face only inches away where his eyes could focus on every tiny pore and fissure of her pink, hard-swollen virginal nipples, every tiny whorl in the pink rosettes of her aureoles, every square centimeter of flawless white skin on those twin tender mounds of delectable edibility.
Within seconds he was snapping at her swaying jugs, reaching for her back to draw her closer and then Pat felt a great pink wave of joyous achievement course through her as his arms went round her, his face went into her tits, her arms went round him and without removing his lips from her firm frontage he allowed their bodies to Toll over on the bearskin rug until they lay side by side and then a moment later as she encouraged him, the maneuver was completed. Now Pat lay on her back, knees flexed, thighs spread in classic missionary position as he knelt between her opened thighs, bending over her and still licking, kissing, sucking her firm little jugs, teasing her nipples into miniature erections as hot and hard as the suddenly-thrumming thumper she could feel banging wildly against the passion-flushed cheeks of her still-unperforated ass.
She felt her juices flow-not a trickle as the last time when he had licked and kissed and sucked her into a delirious agony and ecstasy of lascivious desire. This time it was going to be different, she knew-no more fooling and playing around, no more preparation. She could feel the blunt knob of his revived rammer pushing steadily against the portals of her pussy, parting the just-hairing lips of her vulva and stretching that tiny membrane that separates the women from the girls.
Guy! He was going to break her cherry! She gasped and tried to relax. All the older girls said it was important to relax, to try to pretend nothing was happening, that it would all be over in a minute and then the future would hold nothing but joy.
But how could she relax? She had never done it before. She didn't, know how. She wished she were back on top again like he'd planned. Maybe it would have been better for her to let herself down carefully, little by little onto his prurient prod. But guy! That would be like taking off adhesive tape a little at a time. Maybe it would be best this way if he'd just give a single magnificent thrust and then it would be over and he would be inside her and she would no longer be a virgin; she would be a woman and he would be fucking her and she would be fucking him and there would be no more fumbling beginnings and it was wrong and she shouldn't be here at all but guy! He had such a lovely, hard-muscled body; so clean and smooth and strong and he was so groovy and those eyes that went right through her, going deeper even than his cock could ever go and it was so nice to have him on top of her and know he liked her and he wanted her and he needed her just as much as she wanted and needed him and Guy! If the housekeeper didn't know he was her father and there wasn't anybody else around here to know anything and he had told her she wouldn't ever get pregnant as long as she did it only with him and guy! The whole summer together alone with him and they could do it all night and half the morning and then another quick one before lunch and then a swim in the lake and do it again over there in that leafy bower and then come home and dine in state by candlelight and play footsies under the table and go to the library to read some books about-guess what-and then when they were both so excited they just couldn't wait another second he would pick her up and toss her over his shoulder and take her in here and undress her and put her down on the rug and get between her legs and put his cock in between her smooth, pouting, just-hairing vulval lips and start pressing just like he was doing this instant!
The pressure against that delicate membrane was getting stronger and it was not yet lubricated with love's juices and it was still the most joyous thing that ever happened to her but a trifle painful. She had heard that some virgins were harder to get into than others-that some girls were doomed to eternal virginity just as was the first Elizabeth. But guy! She hoped she wasn't and then just as she was having! time to get really worried about it she felt something funny-something tear down there and then oh guy!
It hurt. She could feel her tiny virginal pussy stretching all out of shape. She had wanted it-wanted it so bad she could taste it and now she had tasted it even before she got it where she'd always wanted it. But even now after she'd had it in her mouth, how could she ever have guessed it was going to be so big and so hard, so unbelievably stiff and yet so unyieldingly strong, so male? If only people would tell her things. Guy! Fifteen years old last week, practically an old maid already and nobody had ever told her how much it hurt-how nice it hurt.
She felt his elegantly slim, round-headed erection slide deep into her, deeper than she had ever imagined anything could ever slide into her tiny belly. She felt her insides pushed this way and that to make room for the raging invader that was ravishing her virginal passage. She felt him drive unhesitatingly through the bleeding shreds of her hymenal membrane, past her shattered maidenhead and deep, deep into cunt country and then she knew that she was no longer a girl, no longer a virgin. As of this moment she was a woman and it felt so good and oooooohh guy! He was pulling it out now and it felt almost as good as when he had put it in, only the shank of his tool was still a little bit dry and he was pulling it out a little faster than she liked. The dry lips of her pussy stuck to it and snapped and fluttered and it hurt but it hurt so goooooood that all she could do was squeal and giggle. Ooooohhhhh, he was putting it back in again and this time it wasn't so dry and she could feel it go deep, moving slowly and steadily and even deeper than last time until he was straining and she could feel his crisp-haired pubic patch pressing, grinding against the blond ringlets of her scant-furred mons veneris. He was holding it in this time, holding his body close to hers, rubbing his chest against her tits, grinding his flat hard-muscled belly against the smooth roundness of hers and grinding his pelvis against her bony prominence. It was making the tip of his cock go round and round inside her belly in stirring motions and he was stirring her deeper than she had ever been moved before, melting her and he was stirring her and turning her whole body to peanut butter fudge and she was melting and she was flowing and it felt so good she knew she was streaming from every orifice as her body gushed the juices of love. He was still fucking her and he was pushing his cock into her deeper and pulling it out and putting it in again and suddenly he was holding it against her and gripping her tight with those strong arms and he was gasping and quivering and struggling to hold his breath. Pat was frozen too, afraid he might be having a heart attack and then he smiled and relaxed and once more he was putting his lovely lance in and out of her, in and out with a gentle steady rhythm that churned her insides, filled her tiny belly unto bursting, until it felt as if she'd just die if she didn't go to the bathroom right away and then before she had time even to complain he was pulling it out again and the blessed relaxation was so groooovy she couldn't wait for it to end, for him to put his great thumping thing back into her again.
So this was fucking ... one tiny sane corner of her mind tried to evaluate it, compare it with all the other new experiences she had undergone in the last couple of days. Guy! Less than forty-eight hours ago she had been totally inexperienced-a virgin in every sense of the word. Now-she had had her hands all over a man's body. She'd had a man's hands all over hers. She'd skinny-dipped, not with some pimply hair-trigger boy, but with a virile man strong and old enough to know how to use his strength. He'd kissed her whole body. He'd licked her, sucked her, had allowed her the rare privilege of doing the same to him. Guy! How many men would trust their most precious possession right inside some girl's mouth where she could do anything-even bite?
So this was fucking ... great erotograms of joy radiated from the busy tip of his rock-hard, thumping tool, suffusing her with the peace that passeth all understanding. So this was heaven. So this was the nirvana that the yogi freaks prattled about. Guy! All the things they had to do to achieve peace and joy and she was getting it all without any effort, taking six-inch doses of it repeatedly through the passion-flushed aperture to her belly. She could feel a slight stinging from the shredded remains of her cherry but in the sudden excess of joy as his deep-driving dong sounded her well once more she forgot it.
Great pinwheels of erotic fire spun through her belly, careened up her spine to ricochet about the emptiness where once she had possessed a brain and willpower. She felt her newly-invaded vagina clasping and unclasping around the shank of that maleness that was pumping and churning, filling her with a joy unknown outside of full-fl-edged fucking womanhood.
She felt the spasm pass and knew she had come. Already her body was building up, tensing and tightening for another still more intense spasm of orgasm and she knew next time it would be even better, more mind-blowingly lovely and guy!
He hadn't been doing it to her for more than half a minute. He might be good for half-an-hour. And no matter how long he was good for, Pat remembered suddenly that they had the whole summer-perhaps the whole rest of her life before them and guy! He was putting it in deeper now and harder and faster and it felt so gooooooood!
