Sesame Winifred Willoughby had the loveliest ass in Ascot Bay, New Hampshire (Pop: 972), and this was not just the natives' judgment. Everybody agreed in their estimation of Sesame's ass: visiting assorted sportsmen, commercial fishermen, traveling salesmen, lost motorists, and summer people. And skiers. Especially skiers, who are connoisseurs of asses, what with their stretch pants and all. Everybody. Sesame Willoughby had the loveliest ass in Ascot Bay, and if the Chamber of Commerce had had any balls, and something other than Prestone in their New England veins, they could have made something out of it.
If the Pop. of Ascot Bay had been 972,000 instead of 972, Sesame still would have had the loveliest ass there, and what made it more remarkable was the dearth of any halfway-decent asses at all in the village. Strangers noted that all adult females in Ascot Bay and environs were weighted with rear ends that were wobbly or otherwise grotesque and unappetizing in an astonishing variety of ways. Reasoning strangers, of course, knew that this was not a native condition caused by climate and diet. It was simply that any girl with a nice rear end just put it on a train, as soon as she got out of high school, and got the hell out of there.
Sesame Willoughby was unique in the village in other ways, too-her given name, among them. Her mother had been reading the Arabian Nights during intermissions between labor pains, and had been much taken by the Open Sesame episode: it was only natural that her firstborn was saddled with the name Sesame. It was much later, when she was sixteen, that the boys in high school started referring to her as Open Sesame. She deserved the affectionate term, and she earned it easily. Sesame had always been a forthright girl, a believer in direct action, and when she'd noticed that boys liked to look at her legs, and especially up under her skirt, she decided to make it easy for them, because she liked having them look at her. This was in the days before miniskirts, but she found ways to sit in class so at least one or two more of the boys had an unobstructed view of her mouthwatering, swelling and tapering calves, her perfect knees, her shadowy, warm white inner thighs-and sometimes, when she crossed her legs lazily, some of the delicious mystery even higher.
Then, in trigonometry class, she'd discovered that the afternoon sun slanted at her just right, and she'd excused herself and gone to the girls' room and removed her pants, her heart pumping with excitement. Two of the boys in the outside row, against the window, went bug-eyed then, as she went through her act with her skirt and elevated her knees slightly, and let the parted pink lips of her moist little pussy peep out at them, framed in her dewy-blonde nest of cunt-curls. After that, she always took her pants off before Trigonometry; usually right after History.
Outside, right after school, the boys would be gathered around the door, talking, and sometimes she'd hear them.
"Did you see Open Sesame in Trigonometry today?" they'd be saying. "Jesus."
And she loved it. But showing them wasn't enough, and in her forthright way she decided to take the bull by the horns.
But the horn of the bull she decided to take hold of was the slender stiff pulsing penis of Rodney Waldorf, a boy from down the road a piece, and Rodney was in the middle of pumping a load of warm jism deep inside her ecstatic, squirming, welcoming, clutching little cunt-she didn't call it that, of course, but she knew that's what it was-when her father walked into the barn. Then he took the bull, and Rodney Waldorf, by the horns; and later he took Sesame by the horns, or anywhere else he could get a good grip, and gave her the spanking of her young lifetime.
Sesame did no more horn-taking for a long, long time. For one thing, she lived at home, under the watchful steely New England eyes of both her father and her mother, and in the almost perpetual company of a treacherous, traitorous, spying younger sister named Benedictine, after Benedict Arnold, she was sure. Her parents were Revolutionary Period, in both their interests and their attitudes.
For another thing-just as realistic, and possibly more important-none of the males in Ascot Bay appealed to her, physically or in any other way. Not her high school classmates, and not the other, older men she had daily contact with after she'd graduated and gone to work, at Abernathy's Hardware Store, with the Hay, Feed and Grain sign faint and peeling but still clearly legible, high above the front entrance. Mr. Abernathy himself particularly had no appeal for her, although she managed to ignore it at first, his casual brushings against the yielding young roundness of her ass, his accidental touching of her bouncing, pert breasts. But one day when he pushed against her, hard, as she was on her way to measure out two pounds of twelve-penny nails, and she felt the stiffness of his hard-on poking into the almost welcoming crevice between the vibrant globes of her behind, she turned and slapped him, more out of surprised excitement than anything else.
He demoted her the next day-took her out of the front of the store, out of small hardware and appliances, and put her back in fertilizer, and after two days of that, she quit. Forthrightly, as was her way. She'd first arranged to go to work for Perkins' Apothecary.
She found that job much more to her liking, dispensing aspirin and vaginal jelly and prophylactics to the populace (The Pill had not yet taken a toehold in New Hampshire).
She stayed with that job for three years. But the strange yearnings and itchings and varied torments that possessed her both day and night became stronger with the passage of time. And one fine summer day, she knew it was time to take the bull by the horns again.
CHAPTER ONE
It all started the June day the two girls from the Bobcat Inn came into Perkins' Apothecary to have their prescriptions filled, their prescriptions for The Pill. Mr. Perkins kept a supply on hand year round, but purely for dispensing to summer vacationers and to skiers; the natives still looked upon The Pill with suspicion. In fact, the natives viewed everything with suspicion, including the summer people and the skiers.
The Bobcat Inn they viewed with special suspicion, and referred to it most often as "Tomcat Inn" or "The Riding Academy," the reasons for which escaped Sesame Willoughby, until that day. Bobcat Inn was a large resort not ten miles from Ascot Bay, up on Turtle Mountain; and now, looking at the two girls, Sesame was reminded that she'd also heard the Inn referred to as "Hump House."
Sesame kept looking at the girls as their prescriptions were being filled, not in awe or admiration, especially-they were not particularly good-looking girls-but with a kind of wonder. They were unmistakably from the Inn from the way they dressed, their un-bra'd breasts bobbing under their thin blouses, their skin-tight stretch pants clutching at the curves of their asses. But it was their faces that stirred something in Sesame-some glow of happiness and contentment that seemed to bubble up from within.
Then, just as the girls were tucking their prescriptions into their handbags, two tanned young men sauntered into the store, and it was obvious that they were all of a group, and it became just as obvious to Sesame what had been bothering her for a long time now. The tanned young men were wearing very short shorts, very tight at the crotch, and Sesame wasn't even aware of their faces. The crotch of each pair of shorts stretched tautly over a bulge that resembled nothing more than a large clenched fist, and Seasame felt suddenly faint.
All they wanted was shaving cream and after-shave lotion. Sesame had to bend down to a lower shelf to get the lotion, and by the time she'd straightened up, she knew it was time to take the bull by the horns again. Both the young men were looking at her and smiling broadly when she put their purchases on the counter.
"You're all staying at the Bobcat, aren't you?" Sesame asked, hesitantly. There was nothing hesitant about the way she felt.
"Yes."
The girls had joined them, and Sesame rang up the money and gave them their change.
"What's it like up there?"
"We have a ball," one of the girls said, and they all laughed.
"Lots of balls," the other girl said.
"You mean you've never been there?" one of the boys asked.
"No." Sesame was embarrassed to make the admission. "I don't think anybody from around here has ever gone there. Not even as a visitor. Surely not as a guest."
"Why not, for God's sake?"
"I don't know." She couldn't very well tell them that people called it Tomcat Inn and the Riding Academy. And Hump House. She suppressed a giggle.
"Well, you certainly ought to try it. Just for size." That was one of the boys talking; the girls weren't saying anything now.
"But what's it like? Aside from having a ball?"
"I think I have a brochure in the car," one of the boys said, and started for the door.
"Never mind," one of the girls said, but he was already out the door. He was back in seconds, and handed her a brochure. It was in full color, and felt heavy and slippery in her hand.
"Of course, that won't tell you everything about the place," the boy said. "It'll just tell you about the facilities. And the surroundings."
"And the organized activities," the girl who'd told him to never mind about the brochure said. "Let's go."
"You ought to try it," the brochure boy said.
"Maybe I will," Sesame said, thinking fast. "I have a vacation coming up in two weeks."
"We'll all be gone by then," the anti-brochure girl said.
"I'm not so sure about that," the brochure boy murmured.
Sesame smuggled the Bobcat brochure into the house that night as if it were something salacious; she carried it tucked between the pages of Modern Photography and took it directly to her room.
After supper that night, she went directly upstairs to her room, closed the door, and went over the brochure, page by glossy page, word by exciting word. The full-color photographs she scrutinized with magnifying glass eyes. The girls, all teeth and tits and tan, on water ski's, on horseback, on tennis courts, climbing out of swimming pools, diving back into them; running, hiking, dancing and laughing. Always laughing. And the men, doing the same thing. All young men, tanned, muscular, and if no bulge happened to show at the crotch, Sesame's mind put the bulges in.
She was conscious of a mounting, tingling excitement in her own crotch, and put her hand there, to quiet the excitement. It didn't work. The excitement got worse. Sesame fought a battle with her conscience for a minute, and lost. She'd known she would.
Sesame sighed, raised her hips, and slipped off her pants. Her knees fell apart on the bed, all by themselves, and her hand found its way down across the soft, gentle swell of her lower belly. Her middle finger moved stealthily, like an Indian on moccasined feet, through the soft, tangled undergrowth of her blonde bush, slid into the dampness of her moist, tingling slit, and began to move, slowly at first, then faster and faster, with increasing pressure, across the lively little worm of her clitoris.
Her hips moved, but she kept the movement under control, to keep the old bed from creaking. Her breath came in gasps, but she controlled that, too, out of long practice, and reached her orgasm in silent, lonely, trembling agony.
Two weeks, she thought, as the spasms began to subside. Two weeks, and she could be part of the swimming, diving, dancing, the laughing people. Always laughing. Amongst the bulging male crotches.
She'd try it for size, as the young bulger today had suggested in the store.
Two weeks, she thought, lying back against the pillow, bringing her legs together. Two weeks. A long time.
But she could wait.
She'd waited almost five years.
* * *
During a slack period at the drug store in the morning, she phoned the Bobcat Inn from the booth next to Dental Needs. Even the voice that answered was laughing.
"Do you have any rooms available starting two weeks from today?" Sesame asked. Once her mind was made up, there was no hesitancy about anything she did. Her voice was firm. She brooked no nonsense, even from happy laughing desk clerks.
"Single or double occupancy?" the voice laughed.
"There's only one of me."
"All our rooms are double occupancy. So you'll be sharing a room with another girl. Your name, please?"
"I don't want to share a room with another anyone. I want single occupancy, or whatever you call it."
"There's no such thing, unless you pay double."
A note of shrewdness crept into Sesame's tone.
"And you have a full house, all season long?"
"Well, not exactly."
"What I'd like is a big old room with a double bed, all to myself. I like to be alone."
"Oh, well," the voice said, not laughing now, condescending, "We have a few of those available, in the old wing. But they're without bath. Bathroom's never more than a few doors away, though."
"That'll suit me fine," Sesame said. "How much, for a full two-week stay?"
The clerk told her. The figure didn't faze her at all. She had plenty in her savings account, even after buying her Corvair with only 17,000 miles on it. And she didn't go on vacation often. Once in a lifetime, she thought, and smiled.
She had to spell her name twice for the clerk, and promised to mail a money order for a deposit to hold her reservation, that very day.
Mrs. Ellison at the post office was very curious about where Sesame was sending her money order, but she didn't tell Mrs. Ellison anything. You never did, if you knew what was good for you.
She was excited for the rest of the day. And for some reason, the excitement seemed to center in the area of her crotch. She felt that she was carrying a moist tropical climate between her legs, right here in the mountains of New Hampshire.
At the supper table, her family took her announcement with stunned silence.
"What?" her father said finally, putting down his fork. "You're going where for your vacation?"
"The Bobcat Inn," she repeated distinctly.
"You-are-not," her father said.
"Nobody from Ascot Bay ever goes to that place," her mother said mildly. Her sister Benedictine was all eyes.
"Then I guess I'll be the first."
"Not by a damn sight, you won't," her father said.
"Yes by a damn sight, I will," she said, and all the forks dropped to the table. No girl had ever talked like that, in all Willoughby history. At the supper table, at that. After grace had been mumbled.
"I'm over twenty-one," Sesame said quietly, and she had them there. She'd had them there for three months now, and had never brought up the subject.
Nobody else at the table seemed to taste the dessert. But Sesame, for the first time in her life, found that she actually liked the taste of rice pudding.
* * *
The next two weeks seemed more like two years, to Sesame. She killed most of one Saturday shopping over in Conway for a new bathing suit and some clothes she thought would be appropriate for the Bobcat Inn, but would have got her stoned out of the village of Ascot Bay.
When she got home, she tried on the clothes in her room, in front of her mirror, with the door locked. She was deeply satisfied with what she saw, but refused to put on a fashion show of her vacation wardrobe for her mother, even though she asked twice. Her sister begged her constantly to let her at least look at the clothes, in the box, on a hanger. For two whole days, Benedictine begged, and Sesame refused, until Benedictine stopped talking to her. Which suited Sesame fine.
But after two weeks of excited anticipation, on the morning of her next-to-last day at work, a tiny gnawing fear began to make itself felt, to mar the perfection of her happiness, and as the sun climbed higher, her fear grew.
And the seed of her fear was simple: her ignorance, her almost total lack of experience for the feast of pleasure she was preparing to taste, to sample, to explore, to enjoy. The one male in her life had been a sixteen-year-old neighbor named Rodney Waldorf. The one and only pecker to enter her pussy. One time. And the memory of her father as he walked into the barn that day long ago still made her shudder.
Forthright, Open Sesame decided once more to take the bull by the horns, and practically immediately. Before sunset, anyway.
The bull whose horn she selected this time was nineteen-year-old Charlie Brisette, a tall, thin polite boy who made deliveries and was an all-around help in the store. He'd had eyes for her, she knew, from the very beginning, but aside from a few stammering attempts to ask her to go out with him, he'd never done anything about it. In the social mores of Ascot Bay, to Charlie she was an Older Woman. Two big years Older.
Feeling wicked, she ran a finger along the back of Charlie's neck as she was on her way back out front with a prescription from the pharmacist's counter.
Charlie reddened, but looked at her with yearning eyes.
"I'm going on vacation after tomorrow, Charlie."
"I know. I'll miss you."
"Well, I'll miss you, too. And there's something I want to talk to you about."
"What?"
"I can't tell you now."
"When, then?"
"It's my night to lock up the store. Can you stay with me a little while after six?"
"Sure." His eyes were big. She wondered if anything else was. She knew it sure enough would be if he knew what she had in mind.
After the pharmacist and the other girl had left, at six-Parker Perkins III always left at five-Sesame locked the front doors and turned off the window lights, and walked back through the store, turning off lights. Charlie was waiting discreetly for her in back, in the partitioned off apothecary section.
She smiled at him and jumped up to sit on the pharmacist's prescription-compounding counter, swinging her legs. She glanced down, approvingly. Her smooth tanned young thighs were almost entirely exposed, her miniskirt reaching only an inch or two below where her panties peeped through at the crotch. She made no attempt to pull the skirt down. She looked at Charlie's face. He wasn't missing a thing.
"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked, wrenching his eyes up to her face.
Suddenly she was terribly embarrassed. She looked down and tugged at her skirt, wriggling, but the hem didn't move down more than an inch.
"I don't know how to begin, Charlie," she said, without looking at him.
"Try," he said. He seemed suddenly less shy. Less young.
"Well," she said, "you know I'm going away on vacation day after tomorrow."
"Yes, of course."
"Do you know where I'm going?"
"You haven't told me that."
"Bobcat Inn."
Charlie got up off his stool as if 10,000 volts had just jolted him.
"Holy mackerel!" he said. "You." And he stood there, looking at her, his mouth partly open.
"Why is that such a shock?" she said, with a show of innocence.
"You mean you don't know?"
"No."
"Well if you don't, I'm not the one who can tell you."
"I guess I have some idea," she said, deciding that the innocent act might get too thick. "Tomcat Inn, they call it, don't they? And the Riding Academy? And Hump House?"
Charlie flushed.
"You know, then."
"And that's what I wanted to talk to you about." She looked at him, triumphant.
"Why me?" he asked. It was his turn to be innocent. "I've never been there."
"You don't understand," she said. "I wanted to talk to you because I think I can trust you. You won't tell anybody in this town what we say tonight, will you?" She almost added, "or do," but held her tongue.
"Cross my heart," he said, crossing it. "I'm no gossip."
"Or a kiss-and-tell-er?"
"A what?"
"You wouldn't kiss and tell on a girl, would you?"
"Never."
"Then kiss me, Charlie. Please."
He stood directly in front of her, the front of his pants against her knees, and leaned over awkwardly and kissed her. She opened her mouth and let the tip of her tongue steal forward and touch his. She felt something stir and swell against her knees, and let them come apart slightly, then squeezed the hard throbbing there. She pulled her mouth back and broke the kiss.
Charlie straightened up and backed away slightly, looking confused.
"What I have to tell you, Charlie," she said, "is that I'm practically a virgin."
"What's that mean, practically?"
"One time, in the barn, when I was sixteen."
"With who?"
"Never mind," she said primly. "Anyway, my father caught us, and there's been nothing since."
"Nothing?" Charlie asked, his mouth open again.
"Nothing."
"Jesus," Charlie said.
"So you see why I wanted to see you tonight? How would it look for a practically virgin to spend two weeks at Bobcat? I'd be the laughing-stock of the whole place."
"No you wouldn't," Charlie said gallantly.
He came toward her again and leaned forward, his hands reaching for her waist, but she pushed him away, gently, and slid to the floor.
"Just a minute, Charlie," she said. "I forgot something."
With one deft motion, she reached up under her skirt, slipped her panties down to her ankles, and stepped out of them. She dropped them neatly on the counter and hopped back up, giving Charlie a brief glimpse of her blonde framed twat twinkling pinkly up at him.
"Now," she said, with satisfaction. "That's better."
"It sure is," Charlie said, and leaned forward again.
Her open mouth coupled with his, with a sudden hot suction that welded her to him, seared away self-reliant, self-controlled, self-contained Sesame. Her tongue, against the in-driving demands of his, was a lively wet writhing young snake. Her arms went around his hard young back, pulling him down, to the opening embrace of her thighs. The fabric of his pants had a foreign feel against the warm, vibrant flesh of her inner thighs, and she turned her head sideways, breaking the tight fitting of their kiss with a soft wet sucking sound.
"Jesus, Sess," he said into her ear, "if you knew how long ... how much ... "
"Never mind," she said, urgently. "Your pants. Drop your pants."
He stepped back from her and unbuckled his belt, fumbling, and then pushed his pants and undershorts with hooked thumbs down to his ankles. He stepped out of them, stumbling, and stood straight.
Sesame stared, in hungry fascination. His bone-hard cock poked upwards at her, the tiny vertical eye in the center of the head squinting in the bright glory of her sun kissed open thighs, the warm pink wet welcome of her little love-starved craving cunt. The only penis Sesame had seen before in that condition had been Rodney Waldorf's, so long ago, and Charlie's was much longer, and thicker. It seemed to grow out from the black bush of pubic hair like the strong round trunk of a white birch tree, branchless and unflawed white out to the swollen, triangular, dusky-pink shelving head.
She reached out, shyly, and touched it. Tentatively, at first. Then she let her hand go around it, feeling the velvet softness of the skin of its sheath, the iron-hardness of the muscle-rod inside. Iron rod, she thought inanely, in a velvet glove. She held the neck of it, just below the glistening hard head, lovingly, tenderly, between her thumb and forefinger, as Charlie leaned forward and kissed her again, deeply, his tongue urgent.
Her own tongue licked the underside of his, and then she wanted that rod inside her. Right now. Immediately. If not sooner. Five years sooner.
Charlie didn't have to be told. Guided unerringly by the love in her fingers, the tip of his cock-head touched the tenderness of her pouting pussy-lips, found its way into the moist, soft hello of her quivering, grateful love entrance.
Sesame's legs were around his hips, her heels urging him on; her inner thighs, sensitive as an insect's antennae, feeling his whole body quivering as his hips hung in eager balance. He held himself that way for a long moment, arched like a bridge across a river in a high winter wind. His trembling increased. His body was a hickory bow, stretched to the limit, or beyond.
"Go, ahead, Charlie," she whispered. It was hard to squeeze out words. "All the way. Deep."
The bow sprang. Charlie's hips drove forward, and she felt the plunging shaft drive deep into the silently screaming welcome of the slippery-glad inner walls of her long-waiting, girl-tender cunt. Her hips responded in a joyous surge as her too-private innermost cunt-cavern engulfed his stiff probing prick in an ecstatic welcome. Where have you been, all my life? Her cunt was doing the talking. Her cunt had taken over.
But Charlie had gone mad, his plunging prick had gone completely ape. He pumped it into her in an erratic, mindless ecstasy, without any recognizable rhythm for her willing hips to respond to. Charlie, snorting like a young stallion, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a taut contorted parody of a grin, was totally out of control. As Sesame's cunt had taken over her whole being, so Charlie's pulsing prick and pounding hips had taken over his.
"Slow, Charlie, please Charlie," she kept saying in a squeezed tight voice, but it was no good. Nothing could stop Charlie now, and as her sensation of delirium rose, she felt Charlie come to his peak and spurt inside her, quivering, moaning. She thought she was going to cry.
"Aw, Charlie," she said in a tiny voice, her legs squeezing him close. "Aw, Charlie."
"I'm sorry, Sess," he said, in crushed embarrassment. "So sorry. It's just that I've wanted to do that-to you, I mean-so long."
"I know, Charlie," she said. "I know."
His hardselved bone was pushed tight against the wet swollen lips glued against it by the fierce pressure of her heels behind him. In the deep yearning well of her cunt's desire, little newly-stirred wavelets of thirsting lust were lapping around the slackening length of his diminishing dong.
"Stay there, Charlie, can't you?" she asked him. She was pleading. Imploring. He couldn't leave her like this. He couldn't.
"Sure," he said. "Forever."
Her hips were making shuddering, twitching motions, all by themselves, and it seemed that her cunt had taken it upon itself to suck him in, to embrace and clutch and hold what was left of his limp, young cock.
Keeping his pelvis glued against hers, he leaned forward and kissed her. Tenderly. Like an uncle, she thought. Who needed an uncle, at a time like this? She had a thought.
"Take my sweater off, Charlie," she said. "It's too warm in here."
He reached out as she raised her arms, and pulled the sweater off over her head. Her thighs and tight encircling legs held his hips in a vise of warm yearning flesh.
"My bra," she said. "It's still too warm."
She raised up enough for him to unhook the bra behind her, then held her arms out as he slipped it off and dropped it to the floor.
She glanced down. Her full, pert, snowy breasts pointed up at him, the nipples taut and wrinkled and hard, two tiny pencil-slender columns, darker than the surrounding pink. Like two angry-red mini-erections, she thought.
"Wouldn't you like to kiss them, Charlie?" she asked.
He didn't answer, but his mouth opened. She kept his hips tightly imprisoned in the manacles of her locked legs as he leaned forward and began to suck her nipples, first one, then the other. The uncontrollable motion of her hips became more pronounced. Oh, God, she thought, make something happen to him. She hadn't prayed since she was a little girl in Sunday School.
As Charlie licked and sucked and nibbled at her nut-hard nipples she had the feeling that her inner juices were flowing in a great stream, a stream that would drown the helpless member floating in the aching, quivering chasm of her cunt. Cunt. She'd never said the word out loud. Now she wanted to scream it. Her cunt. Her love-sheath. Her fuck-mouth. It was a mouth, too, with lips and a tongue, and a soft palate. A very soft palate. A very wet soft palate.
All at once she became aware that her fervent little prayer was being answered. Inside her cunt-mouth, she felt the tired white-birch sapling stirring, rolling, raising itself. Swelling. Stiffening.
She felt hope rising in her, along with Charlie's cock. Then joy. A joy she'd never know before. Her hips rejoiced, in a series of little flutters.
Charlie straightened, and smiled down at her. Slowly, he withdrew his now-rigid granite obelisk until only the head remained in the drowning embrace of her swollen, outer twat-lips.
She smiled back up at him.
"Now, Charlie," she said. "Teach me right."
She found right then that she needed no teaching. Her hips rose spontaneously, raising her welcoming cunt to meet his long, descending thrust. He fucked her slowly, deliciously, and she met every thrust with the exquisite balance and timing of a fine watch. A watch with a heart. A watch with a cunt.
She'd never know there was so much capacity for pure pleasure, so much nerve-shouting joy, in one body. She rolled and squirmed and jerked, not feeling the hard surface of the pharmacist's counter beneath her, not feeling anything but the in-pounding slow drives of the hard, pulsing cock that had transported her into a world far removed from any she'd ever known, further out from herself and at the same time further inside herself than she'd ever been.
As the tempo of Charlie's fucking increased, she found herself building to a crescendo of delirious sensation, a climax of joy she wanted to hold off, as long as possible. She gritted her teeth, and gasped, and moaned, to tear her mind from her all-being cunt, but it was no use. Her cunt was in complete control, and she heard herself screaming, as she came to her orgasm, in a series of pounding waves.
She felt Charlie spurting hotly inside her, and clutched him tightly in the loving, grateful circle of her legs.
"Why did I ever think of leaving ho-ho-ho-ho-home?" she groaned weakly, and was suddenly, sickeningly aware of another presence in the doorway.
"Oh my God," she said, and rolled away from Charlie and to the floor, tugging at her pitiful little skirt.
Parker Perkins III, in the doorway, was pale and shaking with righteous New England wrath.
"Rape, Charlie," he was saying, his voice high and tight. "We're going to the police right now."
Rape? Sesame thought. The man's a maniac. Or he had only a split-second glimpse. She took a deep breath, and was glad to find that she had a voice. "No, we're not. Not going to any police."
Charlie looked at her numbly. He was trying to get into his pants, with a look on his face like that of a mortally wounded deer.
"You've been raped, child," Mr. Perkins said. "And I'm going to see that Charlie pays for it. To the limit of the law."
"Don't call me child," Sesame said sharply, slipping into her sweater. "I'm over twenty-one. And Charlie isn't going to pay for anything. I wasn't raped at all. If anything, Charlie's the one who was raped."
"Never mind, Sess," Charlie said. "Don't say any more."
"You shut up," Mr. Perkins said. "What do you mean, Sesame?"
"The whole thing was my idea," Sesame said, raising her head high. "I seduced Charlie."
"You're in a state of shock," Mr. Perkins said. "I'll take you home."
"Charlie can take me home." She'd gotten a ride into town that morning, and had left her Corvair home in the driveway.
"No, Charlie can't," Mr. Perkins said. He turned to the boy. Charlie had his pants on now and there was a little color in his face. "I don't want to see you in this store again. Ever. Even as a customer."
"You're firing Charlie?" Sesame asked.
"Of course."
"Then I quit. Right now."
"Now, wait a minute, Sesame."
"No wait a minute. If you fire Charlie, I quit. None of this was his fault. It was all mine."
"Well ... "
"See you here in the morning, Charlie," Sesame said, feeling suddenly very powerful. "You can drive me home, Mr. Perkins. If there's anything you want to talk over, we can talk on the way."
Mr. Perkins hesitated, then shrugged. He looked very unhappy.
"See you in the morning, Charlie," he said tightly.
Charlie left the store. Swiftly and silently.
"I think you're out of your mind, Sesame," Mr. Perkins said, as the front door closed.
"Just drive me home, Mr. Perkins," Sesame said, with dignity. "You can tell me what you think on the way."
Parker Perkins III followed her out silently, locking the store behind him. The barn door, Sesame thought, with a trace of glee, after the horse is stolen.
She didn't feel even a little bit guilty.
She felt wonderful.
CHAPTER TWO
Parker Perkins III drove a 1928 Buick that his father had bought during the month Parker was born, and people in Ascot Bay claimed that Parker was unaware that any automobiles had been built since then, which was untrue on the face of it, since his wife drove a 1939 Dodge. When he was eight years old, Parker Perkins had slipped on a grape and broken his fiddle case, people said, while he was on his way to his violin lesson, and he had hated music and been opposed to wine ever since.
Everybody knew about his abhorrence for wine and song, but no one in Ascot Bay knew for sure how he felt about women. His wife was a woman, technically, and she wore skirts, but she had no other discernible female characteristics. The Perkins' had no children. There were rumors that PeePee the Third, as he was known, had been sighted skinny-dipping in the moonlight, but the rumors were totally unconfirmed. He did raise giant dahlias, and with them had won two first-and one third-place prize at the county fair in Conway.
On the first up-grade leaving the village, Mr. Perkins shifted the antique Buick into second gear, and Sesame squirmed at the high grinding whine of the transmission. Mr. Perkins always shifted into second on every grade, either up or down, and everybody in town knew by the sound when the high, green, vintage monstrosity would crawl into view. To Sesame, riding right along for the first time with that keening insult to the eardrums, the sound was akin to fingernails along a blackboard, magnified many times. She tried to make conversation, to tear her mind away from the head-splitting protest of the gears.
"What brought you back to the store, Mr. Perkins?" she asked. She almost said, "You couldn't have picked a worse time," but thought better of it. She was still his employee, to all appearances, anyway, and tomorrow she picked up her salary check and her two weeks' vacation pay.
"I forgot my glasses."
"Did you remember to pick them up now?"
"No," he said, looking over at her. "But it doesn't matter. I'm too upset to read, tonight."
She wondered what he read, when he did read. The Reader's Digest, probably, and the Bible. But not the Old Testament. There was too much dirty stuff in the Old Testament. Lot and his daughters, for instance. PeePee the Third would hemorrhage over that. He didn't have any daughters.
"You shouldn't be upset about what you saw at the store, Mr. Perkins," Sesame said. "I'm not upset."
"You certainly should be."
"Why? What you saw was only natural. The only unnatural thing was where we were doing it. And you coming back to the store. That was unnatural."
"You think what you and Charlie were doing was natural?"
"Yes."
"You're a wanton, headstrong girl, Sesame," Mr. Perkins said. "Perverted. And to think I never suspected it before."
"Neither did I," Sesame said. "But I'm not perverted."
"Yes you are. And I'm going to have a talk with your father."
He was looking straight ahead at the road, gripping the wheel tightly with both hands. They were near her house now. It was just over the hill and around the bend. With a spasmodic motion, Sesame reached for the door handle, then stopped. For just a second, she'd meant to jump out of the car.
"You're what!"
"I'm going to have a talk with your father."
"And tell him about Charlie and me, tonight?"
"Of course."
"You wouldn't."
"Yes, I would."
"Then I'll be leaving this town first thing in the morning. I'll never work for you again."
"Be that as it may," Mr. Perkins said, but he slowed the car before they got to the hill.
"You don't want your father to know about it, do you?" Mr. Perkins asked, glancing over at her.
"Of course I don't. He'd horsewhip me, twenty-one or not. He ... " She caught herself in time. She'd started to tell him about the Rodney Waldorf episode.
"He what?"
"Nothing."
"Then I guess you wouldn't want the whole town to know about it, either."
She looked at him quickly. He was staring straight ahead. He had pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped.
"I certainly wouldn't want anyone else to know about it. Having you know about it is bad enough."
"It could be worse. Much worse."
"What do you mean?" She had an awful feeling she knew what he meant. He wasn't leading up to skinny-dipping.
He turned on the seat and leaned toward her. Even in the dimness of the glow from the dashboard, she could see his gaunt face working, his normally taut lower lip trembling.
"Sesame, I have to confess something."
"What?"
But she knew. All at once, oh boy, did she know.
"I've been lusting after you since the first day you came to work at the store. It's been awful for me. You don't know how awful."
"That's nothing," Sesame said, trying to sound bold. "I guess lots of the fellows do. That's natural too. I'm a girl."
"Not like this," Mr. Perkins said, his voice breaking. "And seeing you that way with Charlie ... it was just too much for me to take." For a bad moment, she thought he was going to cry.
"Now, now," Sesame said. She was confused. It was one of the few times in her life when she just plain didn't know what to do. Or say.
Mr. Perkins straightened that out in the next sentence.
"You can do something for me," he said. He straightened in the seat and seemed to get some kind of grip on himself. He was all business.
"What do you mean? Do what?"
"The same thing you did for Charlie."
There it was, Sesame thought, right out in the open. Blackmail. She'd heard of policemen doing this kind of thing, when they caught couples fornicating in cars. Policemen. But not drug store proprietors. Not fartherly-type bosses.
"No," she said.
"Why not?"
"I just couldn't."
"Don't you like me?"
"Liking you has nothing to do with it," Sesame said, sidestepping neatly. She had only disliked him before. Now she hated him.
"Then why not? You did it with Charlie. I saw it with my own eyes. You certainly fucked for Charlie."
She stiffened and reared back at the word, as if she'd been slapped.
"Don't talk like that," she said, fiercely.
"You don't like that word?" He was leering at her in the darkness. "You don't like the work, but the act itself is just natural?"
"I don't like to hear anyone talking dirty."
"But you do like to fuck."
She put her hand on the door handle.
"I'm getting out of this car," she said. "I'll walk the rest of the way home."
"You're forgetting something."
"What?"
"I can still drive to your house and talk to your father. I can still talk to people tomorrow. It'll only take one or two. I won't have to tell the whole town."
He had her. There was no question about it. She stopped reaching and put her hand back in her lap.
"Drive up the hill a little way," she said. "There's an old wood road off to the right. You can pull in there."
"That's better," he said.
She knew what to do, now. She'd take care of his, what was it he called it? his lust. What the girls did on early dates in high school, when the boys got too eager and the girls didn't want to, for some reason or other. What she'd done herself, more than a few times. She'd take care of him with her hand. A palm job, the girls used to call it. Mr. Perkins didn't know it, but he was in for a palm job. And he'd settle for it. She knew he would. The old beast.
Mr. Perkins found the old, rutted overgrown road into the woods, pulled in and bounced along slowly for fifty feet, and turned off the ignition and switched off the lights.
He turned on the seat and reached for her. She held him away.
"I can't do exactly what you want," she said.
"Why not?"
"I'm too sore." It was a spontaneous lie, but what could Mr. Perkins know about practically virgins?
"Then just what do you plan to do for me?" he asked, sitting rigid behind the wheel. "You can't leave me like this." His eyes dropped down involuntarily toward his lap, and she followed his glance.
His posture, she saw right away, was not the only rigid thing about him. His left pants leg bulged and poked upward. Prize dahlias, indeed. Old PeePee the Third had other interests in life after all.
She reached out and touched the hardness in his pants, lightly, with the back of her hand. The protuberance seemed to swell, to grow, to raise its head and look around, like someone waking up in a strange hotel room.
She let her fingers explore the length and thickness of the shaft, then got most of her hand around it, through the inhibiting fabric of his trousers, and gave it a squeeze, just below the head. It would have been an affectionate squeeze, except that she hated him so.
She reached for his zipper. What had to be done, had to be done. When she decided to leave Ascot Bay, she wanted to leave because she wanted to, not because she had to.
As she struggled with the stubborn zipper, she felt his hands go around her, under the sweater, and cup her breasts. Her bra was in her handbag, along with her pants. She should have thought of them earlier, but it was too late now. His hands were squeezing, kneading, fondling her firm young globes, his fingertips teasing the twin-antennae of her nipples.
Despite herself, she felt her nipples constricting, tightening, poking up. Raising their little heads like old Pee-Pee's pecker. She had it out now, in full view, in the glow from the odometer. She studied it carefully, making mental comparisons.
It was not as long as Charlie's, she decided, but discarded the idea of measuring it with the span of her thumb and forefinger. It would be impolite, like studying the imprint on somebody's table silver when you're a guest in the house. But it was thicker than Charlie's, she could tell that when she put her hand around it. The shaft seemed to be mottled in hue, and the big knobby head was very dark in color. Probably deep purple, but in that light it was only a guess. She felt Mr. Parker's head move down below her pushed-up sweater, his tongue teasing the taut tips of her tormented swelling tits.
She ran her fingertips gently up and down along the underside of Mr. Perkins' erect pulsing prick. He began to moan, deep in his throat, and lick and suck on her eager, poked out, undiscriminating nipples. She squeezed her legs hard together, trying to think of other things, and put her whole hand around his hickory-hard cock and began to jerk him off with slow, firm, warm-clutching strokes, bringing the soft folds of skin up over the dark boulder of his prick-head at the top of each motion.
Mr. Perkins was shuddering, but the shuddering didn't interrupt his sucking at her nipples. One of his hands had found its way between her legs, and a finger had found refuge in the warm, wet stickiness of her slit. She squeezed her legs together tighter, but the finger stayed there. If she could only stop the juices from running. But she couldn't, and it would seem to Mr. Perkins like a dead giveaway. He'd be thinking she wanted him in there, that she wanted him to fuck her, to use his word. And she didn't. Not at all. She hated him, she reminded herself. And she hated his using that word, fuck. She promised herself right then that she'd never use that word herself. At least not where anyone could hear her.
Then, to her horror, she found that her hips were undulating gently, responding to the probing finger. She increased the pressure of her hand around his pulsating cock, and speeded her up and down motion. Let's get this over with, she thought, before he tries to make me do something rash.
But she was lucky. Mr. Perkins had other ideas, even while his hips were thrusting up to meet every downward stroke of her warm squeezing hand.
"In your mouth," he said.
"What?" Sesame was horrified. She knew what he wanted, of course. He wanted her to-what did they call it?-suck him off. She'd heard of it. She hated the idea. Just the thought made her a little sick. Now, if she'd liked him, maybe. Or if it had been that lovely prick of Charlie's, but Charlie'd never ask such a thing.
"Take it in your mouth," Mr. Perkins said.
"No." She stopped the up-and-down motion with her hand, and Mr. Perkins' hips arched upward.
"Please, for God's sake," he said. "I'm ready to come."
"No."
"Do you want the whole town to know? About you and Charlie?"
No, she didn't. He had her there. And she couldn't think. It was better than letting him get inside her. She bent over and opened her mouth.
"Aah," Mr. Perkins said, as the tip of her tongue touched the tender tip of his swollen prick-head. "That's a good girl."
With a conscious effort, making her mind go blank, she let her lips slide down over and around the apple-hard head. She opened her mouth wider, and engulfed the entire smooth swollen knob, her lips encircling the soft shawl of skin on the shaft below it. With her hand around the lower shaft, squeezing and pumping up and down, she began to lick and suck the foreign-feeling member in her mouth. Once she took it in deep, to the back of her throat, and almost choked, but aside from that she was surprised to find that the feeling of having that hard live thing in her mouth was not repugnant. It didn't taste bad; it didn't really taste at all. Only different. Strange. She felt a kind of excitement building in her, as Mr. Perkins' hips pumped spasmodically.
"Oooh, lovely," she heard him saying into her bobbing ears, "ooh, wonderful." His breath was coming in audible, erratic rasps.
And then there was a warm, musky-tasting stream jetting into the back of her throat, and she swallowed involuntarily. The beast, she thought. The pig. She was suddenly infuriated, and took her mouth away and sat bolt upright. The murky-white jets from the head of Mr. Perkins' hose spurted onto the fuel gauge, dripped in a lingering stream to the floor.
She had a sudden, blinding mad thought. She bent again and caught the last of the diminishing stream in her mouth, took his whole cock in, as deeply as she could.
"That's a good girl," he breathed. "You're a good girl, Sesame."
Then she bit him. Hard. And released the fat furious pressure of her teeth quickly and sat upright again, before he could do anything. Except scream. He screamed very loud, then stopped the scream and gave a shuddering moan.
"Now you've done it," he said. "The whole town will know about you."
But Sesame had her wits about her now. She was in control of herself again, in control of the whole situation. Where had her mind been, before?
"And the whole town will know about you," she said, "if you say just one word."
"What do you mean?" He sounded frightened.
"If I find out that you've mentioned Charlie and me to anyone, even one person, I'll tell everybody what you made me do."
"You wouldn't."
"Just try me. You made me do something perverted. Blackmailed me into something I think they call sodomy."
"Oh my God," Mr. Perkins said.
"I'll take you into court," Sesame said. "I'll make you show the judge the tooth marks."
She had to giggle, then. But Mr. Perkins wasn't laughing at all. He was quiet for a long time.
"I won't breathe a word about you to anyone," he said, finally.
"Then I won't either," Sesame said. "You can drive me home, now."
Mr. Perkins started the engine, released the brake, put the car into reverse, leaned his head out the window, and began to back the car out to the road.
She'd have him backing up just as long as she wanted to, now, Sesame thought.
She felt very satisfied with herself.
CHAPTER THREE
On the drive up to Bobcat Inn Saturday morning Sesame was filled with excitement, devoid of regrets. Phrases, sentences, whole paragraphs from the Bobcat brochure kept running through her mind.
For a varied vacation, Spring, Summer, Winter or Fall, the brochure said. The "varied" part Sesame liked, but she wasn't interested in Fall or Winter, or Spring either. 1,000 acres, secluded, private-she liked that part-hiding in the shadow of Turtle Mountain. Hump House. Sesame laughed out loud. Hump House. She hoped so.
Less than 4 hours drive from Boston, the brochure said. Cornerstone of New England resort pleasures. Easy escape from traffic and tension, soot and smoke-what traffic and tension, what soot and smoke?-to trout fishing in clear mountain streams, hiking on exhilarating mountain trails. How about exhilarating fucking under clean mountain laurel bushes? There. She was using that word. But it was all right, she decided. She hadn't said it out loud.
It was the brochure paragraph about Wildcat Summer she like the best. "Summer takes the evening off," it said. "Clean, cool, refreshing mountain air makes the evening perfect for outdoor barbecues, badminton games, putting practice"-putting practice!-"and long leisurely walks to top off the warm, sparkling days." What do you do if it rains? She knew. She hoped she knew. And she hoped it rained, sometimes. "Take a horseback ride along a mountain trail, flanked by pines, birches, oaks, hickory, ash and maple trees, all alive with bright greenery." There was that mountain trail again. You'd have to come back stained green. "Or maybe you'd like to watch a perky trout dance at the end of your line." She knew what kind of perky thing she'd like to see, never mind dancing. "Wade barefoot in a valley stream." I wonder what it's like under water? Probably too cold. Take all the starch out of a stiff pecker. Shame on you.
"Golf. Tennis. Swimming. Diving. Water Skiing. Shuffleboard. Bicycling. Hiking. Trap and Skeet Shooting. Steam Bathing. Riding. Fishing. Just plain all-around fun, all around the clock! And gala entertainment till the small hours of the morning!"
Sesame felt suddenly very tired, thinking about that brochure and its hyperactive thyroid; and she was still at least three miles from the place.
The brochure hadn't said a thing about lying down on your back. She guessed you had to read between the lines for that.
* * *
With a sense of elated anticipation, Sesame drove through the massive field stone gateposts and along the clean graveled drive, lined with awesome, thick Norwegian spruce. She put her car in the spacious parking area in front of the main building, a large rambling structure of cedar logs, and walked into the rustic-looking lobby, carrying only her handbag. She was sure there'd be somebody to carry her luggage in later.
As she approached the desk, a young man was waiting for her, watching her, his hands flat on the counter. He was smiling. She wondered if it was the same smiler she'd talked to on the phone.
"I have a reservation," she told him, and gave him her name.
"Yes, Miss Willoughby," he said, and started to go through a box of file cards. It had been a long time since anyone had called her "Miss Willoughby." He seemed to sense what she was thinking.
"We really don't stand on formality much around here," he said, smiling even more broadly. "After the first few minutes."
"People call me Sess."
"I'm John. Here's your card."
He pulled the white oblong slip from the file and his smile left him. He frowned, slightly.
"There's some mistake," he said. "They've put you in the old house. Nobody stays there except by special request."
"I made a special request," she said. "I want a room to myself."
"Oh," he said, and looked at her lingeringly. "Well."
He pushed a register toward her, and she signed it.
"I'll bring in your bags for you," John said. "We're short of help."
"That's good of you."
"Nothing's too good for a new guest," he said, looking at her almost hungrily. His smile seemed to take on a new meaning. A new dimension.
As they walked out to her car, Sesame noticed for the first time that the parking lot was not crowded, as she'd expected it would be, on a summer week-end. It was, in fact, only about half-full.
"There aren't as many cars as I expected," she said to John, as she unlocked the trunk of her car. "Unless you have a much bigger parking space than you need."
"It's full," he said, lifting out her bags, "when we have a full house. But we don't often have a full house any more, except maybe on Labor Day week-end, and sometimes during skiing season."
He let her take one of the lighter bags, and carried the rest.
"You say 'anymore,'" she asked him, as they walked. "Have you been here long?"
"About four years," he said. "And we seem to be getting fewer and fewer guests, every year. And the balance is changing."
"What balance?" They were walking around the main building, out past the swimming pool toward a big old two-story barn-red building that looked very homey to her, against the awesome dusky-green backdrop of steep craggy mountains.
"The balance. The ratio of male to female guests."
"How is it changing?" she asked. She had a sinking sensation, inside somewhere.
"More women than men. Or more girls than boys, however you look at it." He glanced at her quickly then, and grinned. "But you won't have anything to worry about."
They were passing within fifty feet of the swimming pool, and she saw men's heads turning, to look at her. At her, in her simple blouse and mini-skirt, with all those girls draped around the pool in their bikinis. Most of the men wore very brief trunks, she noticed. And sure enough, they bulged at the crotch.
She was filled again with elated anticipation. It would be a fine vacation, she was sure now. As they walked on past the swimming pool, she let her hips swing a little more jauntily than was absolutely necessary.
When they reached her second-floor room, John threw open the windows, leaving her bags on the bed, where they'd be easy to unpack. She debated with herself, then tried to give him a dollar, as she would a bellhop, but he waved the money away.
"My pleasure," he said. "You'll just have time to change before lunch, if you want. Although I don't know why you'd want to change." He eyed her lingeringly again, from her mouth down to her ankles and back up again. He seemed as fascinated by her mouth as the natives of Ascot Bay were by her incomparable ass.
"Thank you, then," she said, dismissing him. "I'll see you later."
"There's a dance tonight, you know," he said. "Every Saturday. Live band."
"Do you go to those, those ... functions?"
"Absolutely," he said. "Part of my job. I mingle."
He smiled some more and left, finally, closing the door softly behind him.
She looked around her. It was a big, airy old country room, with old-fashioned maple furniture, and a large double bed with an ornate carved headboard. She sat on the bed and jounced up and down, but it didn't squeak. And it was softer than her bed at home.
But there was something unusual, unfamiliar about the room. The bed, for one thing. There was no board at the bottom end, to match the old-fashioned headboard with all the fancy carved mohaskedines. It had been removed, on purpose, apparently, and the spring and mattress of the bed were at the foot supported by short simple legs, like a plain mattress-and-spring studio couch, giving the bed's lower end a "Hollywood bed" effect.
And then Sesame was suddenly aware of the other unusual feature of the room, and knew at once that there had to be a connection. On the wall facing the foot of the big double bed was a large, wide, full-length mirror, extending to the floor.
She swung around and sat on the foot of the bed, facing the mirror, looking directly into it.
She regarded her image with some solemnity. What she saw was a serious-looking, serene girl with an aura of quiet composure. Not a beautiful girl, in the classic or movie-star sense, except for her remarkably lithe, sensuously-symmetrical body; but she exuded an aura of enormous health and well-being, a sense of vitality and high spirits, that transcended and made trivial any consideration of ordinary beauty.
Sesame was immensely satisfied with what she saw, and her solemnity ceased as her sense of mischief transformed her face with a wide, white smile. Open Sesame, she thought, remembering her Trigonometry class in high school, and the looks on the faces of the boys across from her. She studied the stunning perfection of her knees and calves and ankles in the mirror, then let her legs come wide apart and crossed them in a slow, carefree, abandoned way, just like in high school, only more so, and watched to see what it was that had so fascinated the boys in school.
She saw, sure enough, the wide white velvety welcome of her inner thighs, the shadowed mystery between them. But the white hint of her panties spoiled the effect. She stood up abruptly, took them off, and sat down again.
Now, letting her knees come apart, looking into the mirror, she saw how she'd earned the name "Open Sesame." Her blonde-framed pussy peeped pinkly back at her from the mirror, seeming almost to smile. One tiny tender bright-pink fold protruded minutely from between her dusky-hued cunt-lips, like the tip of an exploring tongue.
Her legs spread further apart, and her hand strayed down toward the wet welcome of her crevice. But she stopped her hand, with a conscious effort. Enough of that schoolgirl stuff, she told herself. She had better things to do now.
Like eat lunch. And meet people.
She stood up, straightened her skirt, and started for the door. But as her hand touched the knob, she remembered something, and came back and put her pants back on.
Lunch time, she thought, is no time for the Open Sesame game.
Not yet.
* * *
People were sitting down, six or eight to each big round table, in the wide, log-beamed dining hall when she got there. Like the parking lot, the dining space was less than half-occupied. Most of the people appeared to be young, not much older than herself, although here and there she spotted gray or thinning hair and the beginnings of a paunch, among the men. The female guests had ways to disguise age.
She looked around uncertainly, wondering where she should sit, and a man sitting at one of the tables stood up and pulled out a chair. He'd spotted her uncertainty in that two-second interval, she knew, and it was kind of him. He was one of the older ones, with the forehead advancing backwards.
"Won't you join us?" he asked. "We need a fresh presence, in this jaded group." There were three girls at the table, along with one other man, and the girls didn't look as if they needed or wanted a fresh presence at all.
"Thank you," she said, sitting as he held the chair for her. "This doesn't look at all like a jaded group to me." Remember your manners. Her mother's last words to her as she'd driven away.
"Lew and I," the man said. "We're the jaded ones. Not the girls, of course." He introduced them, one by one, but she didn't retain their names a second after she'd heard them. It wouldn't matter. The balding man's name was Phil.
"Are you from New York, Sess?" one of the girls asked, poking at her fruit cup.
"No." She laughed. "And if you'd heard me say anything, you'd know it right away."
"Boston?" the man named Lew asked. "Most of the people here are from New York or Boston."
"Neither. I'm from Ascot Bay."
"Labrador," Phil said. "Famous for its seal hunting."
"Ascot Bay, New Hampshire," Sesame said, smiling at him. "About ten miles from here."
"Well, I'll be a sonofabitch," Lew said, putting down his fork and looking at her. "Excuse me. I guess that isn't a New Hampshire-type expression. But you're an honest-to-God native?"
"Honest to God. Born and raised in Ascot Bay."
"That's practically unheard of," Lew said. "A guest who's a native."
"Unheard of?" Phil said. "It's unprecedented. Like a virgin in a lumber camp."
"I'm not ... in a lumber camp," Sesame said, starting strong but trailing off lamely.
Everyone laughed.
"You're a good girl, Sess," Phil said. "You'll get along fine with this goofy bunch."
"But you're right about it being unprecedented," she said. "The people in Ascot Bay think it's scandalous, my coming here on vacation."
"Why?"
"They disapprove of Bobcat Inn."
"Haven't they read the brochure?" Phil asked.
"Haven't they read about all the wholesome outdoor activities?"
"If they have," Sesame said, "they've read between the lines."
"Between the sheets," one of the girls said.
"Evelyn!" Lew said.
"I guess you're a girl with a lot of courage," Phil said, leaning back to let the waitress take his empty fruit dish. "What brought you here, if you don't mind my asking? Simple curiosity?"
"Curiosity, partly, I guess. But not simple."
"I didn't mean that," Phil said.
"And I wanted to meet some people. Some other young people."
"Well, excuse me," Phil said, but he smiled when he said it. He was all of thirty.
"What's wrong with the young people in Apple Bay?" one of the girls asked.
"Ascot Bay."
"Ascot Bay. What's wrong with them?"
"There's nothing wrong with them. There's nothing right with them, either."
"Well, you'll be meeting a lot of young people here," Lew said. "But nobody else from Ascot Bay, I'm willing to bet. Phil and I are from New York."
"And we're from Boston," the girl named Evelyn said.
"Girls from Boston are supposed to be cold," Phil said, looking at the girls fondly. "But they're not. Only their noses."
"Fuck you, Phil," Evelyn said sweetly.
Phil beamed.
"You're lovely," he said.
So that word was all right, after all, Sesame thought.
"Do you work in Ascot Bay?" Lew asked.
"In a drug store."
"You must sell a lot of aspirin," Phil said.
"I do."
"And a lot of more interesting things, too, I bet," Evelyn said.
"That too."
"Maybe you could get us a discount," Lew said.
"You're from New York, all right," Evelyn said.
Back in her room after lunch, Sesame's sense of neatness and order took over, and she spent almost an hour unpacking and arranging her things in drawers and in the closet. It was a warm day, for the New Hampshire mountains, warm even in Sesame's big breezy corner room with windows open on two sides. Her new bathing suit was the only garment she didn't put away, but left spread on the bed while her flurry of neatness wore itself out.
When she'd closed the last dresser drawer, satisfied that everything was in order, she undressed, hanging her skirt and blouse in the closet, and got into the bathing suit she'd had on only once, in the privacy of her room at home. She surveyed herself full-length in the suit for the first time, in the big floor-length mirror.
The suit was even more sensational than it had appeared before. It was an off-white, almost translucent shade, cut high at the thighs, low V-d in front, so the bottom of the V was halfway between the bottoms of her breasts and her naval. Its fit approximated the snugness of her skin, and the subtle tailoring in front pointed up the pertness and even the pinkness of her eager, anticipating nipples.
Sesame didn't like bikinis, thought they were unflattering, the way they broke up the natural flowing of her body; but this suit seemed infinitely more sexy than any bikini she'd ever seen. For a moment, she wondered if she had the courage to wear it to the pool, while all those people were still strangers to her. She had her old suit with her, in the event she needed a dry one for an evening dip.
But she decided once again to take the bull by the horns, to stay in the shocker she had on.
"It's very-ah-revealing," the saleslady had told her, "when it's wet. In fact, most girls who wear this suit are careful never to get it wet."
She'd get it wet, all right. She liked to swim. And how more-ah-revealing could it get? It revealed practically everything she had the way it was.
Male heads started turning when she was a hundred feet from the pool.
"Jesus Christ Almighty," she heard a man say, in a tone of prayerful awe as she got closer. "I'll swear off everything. Booze. Horses. Other women. Cigarettes. I just want to go to heaven. With that."
Sesame tried not to smile, and kept on walking, toward an empty chaise at the end of the pool near the diving board. Other voices joined the first.
"My mother never told me about things like that."
"One picture is worth a thousand words."
"I'd climb a thousand stairways to watch that girl take one step."
"Just think of all the poor kids, getting their kicks from pot and LSD."
"Now there's a trip that would be really worthwhile."
"You'd never come back."
"I'd never want to."
Sesame settled down and looked around for the first time. She had been afraid she'd break up if she'd looked at any of them while she was walking through the gauntlet of compliments.
Phil, from the luncheon table, was smiling at her from a chair on her left. She looked the other way. Lew sat grinning in the chair on her right. She looked back at Phil.
"I'm surrounded," she said.
"I've been saving that place for you," he said. "Beating the women off with a stick."
"How did you know I'd sit here?" she asked.
"We were made for each other," he said. "We're like magnets to one another."
"Also it was the only empty place at the whole damn pool," Lew said, from the other side. "Would you like a drink?"
"Sure," she said. "Where do we have to go?"
"Right here," Phil said, raising a large frosted aluminum cocktail shaker. "You don't have to move a muscle."
"Although it's a delight to watch you moving a muscle," Lew said.
Phil produced a clean squat glass from under his seat, and poured. He handed the glass to her, and she leaned back and sipped. The taste was unfamiliar, but she'd never fight it.
"Daiquiris," Phil said, "for the daytime."
"And nookie at night," Lew murmured. Phil frowned at him across Sesame's recumbent form.
"Lew," he said, "try to remember your manners."
Her mother's own words. She changed the subject. Or tried to.
"Where are the girls?" she asked. "From lunch, I mean."
"Resting," Lew said. "They rest a lot."
"More likely plotting your downfall," Phil said.
"Why? They seemed to be very nice girls."
"Sure they are"
"But they don't like competition," Lew said. "No competitive spirit."
"I think I'll go in for a dip," she said, draining her drink and standing up. "Will you join me?"
"I'd rather watch," Phil said. "Maybe Lew will."
"Maybe Lew won't," Lew said.
"The cold water will do you good."
"I don't want anything to do me good. I like it the way I am."
"See you later," Sesame said. She sauntered to the edge of the pool and dove in. No toe-dipping. No hesitation. She dove and swam the way she did everything else. Taking the cold water by the horns.
When she emerged from the pool, using the ladder at the shallow end, away from the diving board, and started walking back to where she'd been sitting, she heard a low murmur of male voices, less clearly audible than the earlier comments.
"Jesus come into focus," she heard one man say.
"Hold me, somebody."
"What's the penalty for rape, in New Hampshire?"
"If I'm dreaming, don't wake me."
"Eating stuff, if I ever saw it?"
Eating stuff? She'd never heard that expression before, and wondered fleetingly what it meant. As she got back to her spot between Phil and Lew, she glanced down, and realized for the first time what the swim suit saleslady had meant by "revealing."
Her wet suit, translucent before, was transparent now, and glued tight to her every flowing curve. Her nipples poked out pinkly, boldly, at Phil's taut face as she let herself down. The dark-blonde hair bulged, beckoning, at the mound of her pelvis, and even the pinkness of her pussy showed through, shadowy but inviting, as she opened her legs briefly to straddle the chaise and sit. She should have been in a state of horrified shock, she knew, but instead all she felt was a warm glow of satisfaction.
"Looks like you lost your swim suit," Phil said, shakily pouring her another Daiquiri.
"Why boys leave home," Lew said.
"This is what's been keeping 'em down on the farm," Phil said. "Who wants to see Paree?"
"I guess this suit is a little daring," she said. "For New Hampshire."
"That suit would be daring on the Place Pigalle," Lew said.
"Where's that?"
"In Brooklyn," Phil said. "Near Prospect Park."
"Oh," Sesame said. "I've never been in Brooklyn."
"Brooklyn isn't ready for you," Lew said.
"I am," Phil murmured. "Oh, Jesus."
Sesame turned her head and looked at him, letting her eyes drift down to the crotch of his tight black trunks. The bulge there was twice as big as the bulge she'd noticed when he poured her-her first Daiquiri, and it seemed to swell and grow bigger as she watched it. She tore her eyes away and crossed her ankles, hooking her feet together to give her leverage as she squeezed her thighs together, to quiet the suddenly demanding itch between her own legs, to try to conceal the urgent lust of her own that seem to be streaming out under the opaque V-shaped display window at the taut, teasing termination of her swim suit.
She tried to look at her own feet and to think pure thoughts, but her gaze would not stay riveted where she wanted it, on her wriggling toes. Instead, she felt a compulsion to look over at Lew, and as her eyes zeroed in on Lew's center of attraction, she drew her ankles up in a spasm of excitement. And fright, almost.
Whatever kind of supporter arrangement Lew had in his boxer-style trunks was doing nothing to inhibit his erection. It made a cockeyed, drunken tent of his loose shorts. His cock had to be enormous, she thought, to make that kind of a grotesque pulsing live thing of his trunks. Lew caught her glance, and was visibly embarrassed. She'd never have thought it, of Lew.
"Is that water cold?" he asked her.
"Pretty cold," she said, staring. She couldn't tear her eyes away from that monstrous, throbbing beast, caged in flimsy fabric that looked on the point of tearing. I wonder, she thought, feeling giddy, if he feeds it raw meat?
"I hope it's very goddam cold," Lew said, following the direction of her gaze. "If it's cold enough maybe it'll have a quieting effect."
"It's cold," she said, not knowing what else to say.
"I'm sorry," Lew said, looking at her in small-boy embarrassment.
"I guess it's the fault of this bathing suit."
"It's what's inside the suit," Lew said. "How'm I going to get to the damn water in this condition, with all those people watching."
"They've all seen a hard-on before," Phil said. Sesame noticed that he'd dropped his pretense of polite formality. It's this swim suit, she thought. An ice-breaker, if there ever was one.
"I know," Sesame said. "I'll stand up and put on my robe." She'd brought her terry cloth robe with her, draped over one arm. "I'll flail around with it and you get up and run to the edge and dive in, without straightening up. Nobody'll notice a thing."
"Not much, they won't," Phil said cheerfully. "They wouldn't notice a fire engine driving up, either."
"You're a big help," Sesame said, starting to get up off the chaise, clutching her robe. "Try it, Lew. Now."
She stood straight and swung the robe around her as Lew groaned and ran, bent over, to the edge of the pool and dove in. He made a loud splash but there was only a slight ripple of sound from the assembled guests.
"You see?" Sesame said. "Nothing to it."
"The men were looking at you," Phil said. "I guess the girls got an eyeful of Lew."
"It's quite an eyeful," Sesame said, and bit her lip. There was something about this place, something that seemed to wipe away her Ascot Bay inhibitions.
"It's more than just an eyeful," Phil said, looking at her to get her reaction. She suppressed a smile.
"To tell you the truth, it scared me a little."
She was talking to Phil as if he were her oldest friend. And she'd known him less than three hours.
"If it scared you, don't you think you ought to get away? While it's still in the cold water?"
She looked out at the pool. Lew was swimming from one end to the other, with long lazy strokes. She wondered if he was steering with his great rudder. Or just trailing it.
She could feel Phil's eyes on her. She had her robe on now but Phil's eyes seemed to burn right through it.
"What do you mean, get way?"
"Get away from all this. Have a drink with me. In the quiet of my room."
"Don't you share it with Lew?"
"Yes, but he wouldn't come back if we left now."
It was too obvious, too quick. Yet she wanted to. Very much. What was she hesitating about? This was her vacation. What had she come here for, anyway?
"My room would be better," she heard herself say. "I have it all to myself."
"Wonderful," Phil said. "But where is your room?"
"In that big old place." She made a clandestine point with her forefinger, without raising her hand from the arm of the chaise. "Over there." You could see only fragmented sections of the barn-red front through the screen of old elms and evergreens.
"The Annex."
"Is that what they call it?"
"Yes. What's your room number?"
"Twenty-three. Second floor, in the front corner."
"Maybe you better leave first. I'll follow in a discreet five minutes. With the Daiquiri pitcher."
"What'll Lew think?"
"Never mind Lew. He's still in the water."
"What if he comes out before you leave?"
"Lew never asks questions. Neither do I."
"Nice arrangement."
"Isn't it? Boy Scouts together. Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent. And unquestioning. Thirteenth major virtue."
"And horny," Sesame said. "That makes fourteen." What had gotten into her, talking like that? Phil grinned.
"Always," he said.
She stood up, belted the terry cloth robe around her, and picked up her sunglasses and sun tan oil.
"See you later," she said, and started walking away slowly, casually, toward The Annex. Her heart was pounding in direct contradiction to her leisurely pace.
What has got into you, girl? she kept asking herself. More than just Charlie's advance-scout of a prober. Much more than that. It must be the atmosphere of the place. Bobcat Inn. Tomcat Inn. The Riding Academy. Hump House.
No, it wasn't just that. It was much more than that. It was herself, and that crazy frozen New England life she'd been leading, in fear of her family. All her natural lusts and desires had been bottled up tight all these years. Up tight, that was a good expression for it. Bottled up. And now the lid was off. She was ready for anything and everything. Charlie's stiff bottle opener had just pried off the lid and taken out the first olive.
Anything and everything. But not anybody and everybody, she told herself sternly. Not every Tom, Dick and Harry. But this wasn't Harry or Tom or Dick. It was Phil. She liked Phil. She thought of his bulging trunks, and started walking a little faster, to placate the itch in her puckering little pussy.
Then she thought of the monstrous rod she'd raised on Lew, and she shuddered. But it was a happy shudder. An anticipatory shudder. She wasn't ready for that yet, not by a long shot. But it was nice to think about. Maybe she'd do some growing up in two weeks. She had a lot to look forward to, here at Bobcat. A whole lot.
When she'd climbed to the second floor at The Annex she took a big towel with her across the hall and stepped into a quick shower. It did nothing to dry up the insistent moistness just inside her parted pussy-lips, but it made her feel clean all over, ready for anything. Especially ready for Phil. Nice man, Phil. She'd been lucky to meet him, so quickly. From the looks of them, some of those tensed-up secretaries from the cities hadn't met a Phil yet. Hadn't fucked a Phil yet. Oops. There I go again.
For a fleeting moment, rubbing herself dry with the rough warm bath towel, she felt sorry for Charlie. He'd been so nice. So wonderful, in fact, before that bastard PeePee the Third had showed up. She'd have to be very nice to Charlie when she got back. Very, very nice. And nice to herself, too. Living at home, with her family, in Ascot Bay, seemed like another world now, far removed. Like a world she'd left behind.
Back in her room, she hung up her robe and debated about what to wear. She couldn't greet her guest naked. That wouldn't be ladylike. Also she was in no big hurry, now that she was back in her room and her pleasure was all planned. Laid out for her. That was a good phrase. Laid out. She took a short cotton shift from a drawer and slipped it on over her head, with nothing underneath. There. Perfect. Nothing to get in the way or slow things up much when the time came, but neat and ladylike and demure, at the same time. She congratulated herself. She was practical.
She had just lay back on the bed with her knees bent up, slightly apart, and was looking in the mirror at the image of her white velvety V, wondering what the dusky-pink parted pussy at the point of the V would do for Phil and his bulge, when there was a gentle tap at the door.
"Come in," she said quietly.
Her Bobcat vacation had started.
CHAPTER FOUR
She was sitting demurely on the edge of the bed with her knees pressed primly together as Phil came into the room and closed the door behind him. He was wearing a terry cloth robe of his own and carried the beaded frosty cocktail shaker triumphantly aloft, peering around it like Diogenes with his lamp. Looking for an honest woman, Sesame thought, by the reflected light of a cocktail shaker.
"Had Lew come out of the pool when you left?" she asked. She had Lew on her mind, for some reason. Phil righted two down-turned glasses on the dresser and poured them each half-full before he answered.
"He had," he said.
"Was he sore about you leaving?"
"Not about my leaving. He wanted to know where I was going with his cocktail shaker."
"And?"
"I asked him was he a cop or something, asking questions like that? Anyway it's my rum and my lemons in the shaker. He had to admit that the rum was more important than the shaker. He didn't have a leg to stand on."
"But he knew where you were going. Or coming." Whoops. But Phil hadn't noticed her brazen slip, or pretended not to. He seemed to be such a gentleman, most of the time.
"Well," Phil said. He was honest, too. Oh, well.
"I suppose it doesn't really matter," she said. "It seems to be one big happy family here."
"You're getting the idea," Phil said, and sat beside her on the bed and handed her a glass. She got up and moved to a chair beside the bed and raised her glass. She was in no hurry at all, now. This should be fun. She should make it last.
"Cheers," she said.
"Bottoms up."
"Don't talk dirty," she said, but he smiled when she said it.
"To you, and to that bathing suit," he said, sipping. "Greatest event at Bobcat since Repeal."
Facing him in her chair, she crossed her legs, not quickly and not slowly, giving him only the most fleeting glimpse between the velvet softness of her upper thighs. Let him guess for a while, she thought. It wouldn't hurt to tease him a little. It wouldn't hurt at all.
"We're so formal," he said. "Would you mind if I got out of this robe?"
"Of course not." He got up and slid out of the robe and tossed it across the foot of the bed. He did a double take when he saw the mirror. She looked at his trunks, trying not to be obvious. Sure enough. He was starting to bulge already.
"That's a pretty exotic touch, that mirror," Phil said. "Reminds me of some of those places in Paris."
"What kind of places?" She knew, of course, but she wanted to see how he'd answer.
"You know," he said evasively. "Places."
"But you've been to Paris?"
"A few times. You?"
She laughed.
"Hardly. I've been to Boston, though. And New York, once."
"Bet you didn't see any mirrors at the foot of the bed in Boston and New York."
"No. What's it for, anyway, the mirror where it is?"
"I don't know what it was for originally. I know what it's good for now."
"What?"
"Are you really that naive?" He looked at her quizzically, sipping his drink.
"I guess I am. They don't have mirrors like that facing any beds in Ascot Bay."
"Do you know a lot of beds in Ascot Bay?"
"No," she said, flushing. She didn't like that question. "Only my own."
"Well," he said, putting his drink down, "it's good for watching yourself. And whoever you're with."
"So's any mirror."
"While you're at play," he said patiently. "It's kind of exciting, watching yourself."
She felt that oozing tingle in her twat again, and squeezed her legs together, helplessly.
"Come sit over here," he said gently, "on the foot of the bed. Where we can both see you in the mirror."
She hesitated a moment, then did as he asked. The bulge in his black satin trunks was very pronounced now. She thought she detected a faint throbbing in the great mound.
The hem of her shift was up close to her hips when she sat down, but she did nothing about it. Phil was looking not at her, but into the mirror. He put a hand on her shoulder. His touch was almost brotherly. Almost.
She looked with satisfaction at the exquisite perfection of her knees, and let them come apart slightly. Her calves swelled gloriously against the bottom edge of the mattress, tapering symmetrically to the slimness of her ankles, her neat, bare feet. She noticed that her toes were curled. Her toes had always curled when she was excited. Or anticipating something. They used to stay curled all night, she remembered, when she lay sleepless listening for Santa Claus.
But Santa Claus now was in the form of a hard squirming black satin mound only inches from her right ear. She stared fascinated at the reflection of that mound in the mirror.
"God, you have gorgeous legs," Phil said, and dropped to the carpet by the foot of the bed. "And those knees look good enough to eat." He leaned over.
"Do you mind?" he asked softly. With gentle fingers, he urged her legs slightly further apart, then bent and kissed the soft velvety swell just above and inside her left knee.
She felt a shiver run through her, and she stiffened for a second, then relaxed. She'd never been kissed above the knee before. Or below it, for that matter. And she liked it. She didn't know exactly what was going to happen next, but she liked the feeling she had. Never mind Santa Claus. This was much better.
His mouth moved up her inner thigh, forming tiny soft sucking kisses on the tingling softness. His tongue traced a pattern of desire on her sensitive, responding girl-flesh, sending urgent messages of wanting along the myriad of minuscule, quivering nerves to her communications center, up at cunt-control.
Instinctively, without willing it, she spread her legs in wide abandon, watching in the mirror as Phil's head turned slightly to view the pink, glistening tenderness of the opening, welcoming folds exposed by her dusky parted cunt-lips, in their soft frame of dark-blonde moisture-matted pussy hair.
He broke the suction of his mouth's kissing, letting his tongue trace its way upwards toward the center of her sensation, licking and tickling every inch of the thigh-twitching trip.
"Lovely," he said again, but his voice was muffled this time, as his tongue licked upward at the burning, pulsing wet core of her yearning cunt.
She reached down with both hands, not thinking, not guiding her fingers with any conscious thought as they pressed against the back of his head, urging his mouth to engulf her panting pussy-lips, his tongue to probe deeper to quench her inner-thirsting fires. Her heels stroked his back with a gentle pressure, encouraging him to lick longer and deeper, to suck harder.
Her hands, her feet, her legs, her whole being, were now completely in command of her quivering nerve center, completely in the power of cunt-control.
"Oooh," she breathed, over and over. "Ooooh." She heard her own involuntary shuddering gasps of anguished delight, but couldn't stop the sounds, and didn't care to. She'd never known such exquisite torment.
But as her ecstasy mounted, she wanted more, much more, at a different, deeper level. She wanted the deep, satisfying probe of his prick, filling her need, cramming her cunt, plunging and twisting in her enraptured twat-depths.
"Phil," she made herself say, with one great concentration of effort. "Please stop."
His eyes rolled up at her and his mouth opened. His upper lip was glistening wet and three curly blonde hairs were stuck to it, like a teenager's attempt at a moustache, gone berserk.
"Wha'?" he said, his tongue still teasing her pink yielding ultimate tenderness.
"Get inside me," she said, looking at him in a fierce supplication. Still he licked, keeping his eyes on her face. "Oh, God. Fuck me."
The last words were a barely breathed whisper, she couldn't say them out loud, but he was able to read her lips. He grinned wetly, gave her parted pinkness one last long loving lick, and stood up.
Taking long, quivering deep breaths of air, Sesame watched him as he hooked his thumbs in the elastic tops of his trunks and stripped them from his lean hips to the floor. She stared in fascination as he straightened up, his thick cock standing straight out like the lower limb of the apple tree she'd had a swing suspended from when she was a little girl.
His joint was ruddy brown in color, as if he'd had it out in the sun, anointed with Coppertone, all summer long; and it looked as long, as thick, as hard, and as sturdy and strong, as her swing-supporting apple-tree limb. She thought fleetingly of telling him about it, wondering if it would be possible to swing on his jutting stiff cock, but swiftly against it. She was in a hurry, now, a big hurry. This was no time for conversation.
She pushed herself back up on the bed, lifting herself with her hands, until her head rested on the pillow; then she raised her knees and spread her thighs in a wide welcome. In the mirror, the reddened wet mouth of her cunt looked ready to gulp.
And Phil gave it a mouthful to gulp in. He was arched above her in a flash, supporting himself on one elbow as his hand guided his thick, angry-looking lance to her hungry, waiting wet twat-mouth. As her welcoming parted pussy-lips embraced the rock-hardness of his cock-head, he raised himself on his knees, as if preparing for a plunge.
And plunge he did. His great hard-wood shaft drove deep into her slippery, grasping, gulping cunt-depths, spreading the eager, ecstatic elastic walls of her ultimate delight, reaming to the heart of her sensation-seared soul.
"Oh, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!" she screamed, throwing her capturing, captivating legs around his straining hips. The sopping, sucking mouth of her cock-starved cunt gulped in the entire length of his skin-sheathed concrete shaft, the inner lips and walls of her love-sheath seeming to lick and lap around it.
He began to fuck her then with a slow, even, practiced rhythm, driving deep and holding at the end of each long delicious deliberate plunge, and her hips rose to help her gasping, drooling cunt-mouth glue itself around the base of his in-driving shaft, pasting her pussy-lips against his pelvic mound at the end of each stroke. She could hear herself gibbering, some kind of sound without thought, a sound only of sensation, deep in her throat, where the head of his deep-driving cock seemed almost to reach.
She was excruciatingly aware that this was no Charlie-fucking, no dear eager young boy-cock reaming the delight into her gushing grateful joy-crazed cunt. She was being fucked by a master, a man with a doctorate, a full professorship in the field of fucking. She let herself go, her hips, her twat, her whole being, in total abandon.
But it was a rhythmic abandon, her lips synchronizing themselves by some basic, carnal instinct with the steady, deliberate, practiced, masterful long strokes of his powerful oar. She wondered in her delirium of delight if he'd rowed stroke on his college crew; she'd read about that, during her omnivorous reading at the Ascot Bay public library. He certainly seemed to have the back muscles for it. Tireless. Unflagging. Determined. Driven by a will to win.
And she was very near the finish line herself, she knew. Sensing it, his tempo increased, and her thrashing pumping hips rose to meet his deep-pounding prick with a wild fury that matched his own.
"Can you make it now?" he was saying into her ear. "Can you make it?"
Make it? Good God, could she make it. She felt, rather than heard, a scream starting in her throat, replacing the series of shuddering gasps that had been going on for she didn't know how long. Her hands clutched at his hips, dragging along the skin, and her heels drummed against his pumping ass, as she drove her twat mouth tight against the base of his shaft, her inner cunt engulfing the entire length of it, gulping, squeezing, sucking.
She came to the crescendo of her delirium with a wild flurry of pumping hips and flailing legs, as the wild waves of ultimate sensation pounded and broke on the shores of her inner ecstasy. She was an inferno of flaming joy, deep in her cunt, and then she felt the soothing spurt of his juices bathing her private fires.
"Oh, God, oh, Jesus, holy mackerel," she babbled, as her own juices flowed to mingle with his. He lay flat, his entire weight on her welcoming body, and she hugged him close, clutching with both her arms and her legs, as the spasms of her cunt-contentment subsided to a deep, even, tingling warmth. Gradually, she felt his cock going limp, growing smaller, until finally it seemed to shrink and withdraw from her reluctant, goodbye-kissing pussy-lips all by itself.
Phil raised himself slowly from the bed as she let her lifeless limbs drop. He stood straight and looked down at her, smiling gently.
"So that's what it's all about?" she asked him.
"That's what it's all about," he said. "And you're wonderful. Just naturally wonderful."
"Apparently I take to it. Like a duck to water."
"Like a mink to fucking." She found that she didn't mind the word now. After all, she'd used it herself. Aloud. Very aloud.
"Did you ever watch mink do it?" she asked, sitting up at the side of the bed and lighting a cigarette. She'd watched the mink at it, at Swanson's mink ranch, just outside Ascot Bay, when nobody'd been watching her, of course.
"Do what?" he asked, absent-mindedly, lighting his own cigarette and lying down on the bed behind where she was sitting.
"Fuck." She didn't mind the word at all now. She liked the word. Not as much as the act itself, but she liked it.
"No, I never watched mink fuck. I never even saw a live mink. I thought they just came as coats. Grew up in the East Sixties."
"I've watched them. They fuck for twenty-four hours at a time. I never watched for the whole twenty-four hours, of course, but the man told me. When my father wasn't around, he told me."
"If they do it twenty-four hours at a time, how the hell do they make a living?"
"They don't. The owner feeds them."
"I'd like to be a mink," Phil said. "What does the man feed them?"
"Fish, mostly. I think."
"I wouldn't like to be a mink. At least not at mealtimes. I can't stand fish."
"You do all right," she said, and turned and leaned over and kissed him on the ear, "even without being a mink."
"Thank you," he said.
"Shall I pour us another drink?"
"Why don't you? Before it's nothing but ice water."
She poured two drinks and brought Phil's over to him. He propped himself up on one elbow.
"To the ever-loving mink," he said, and raised his glass and sipped.
"I'll drink to that," she said, and took a deep swallow. This vacation was going to be even better than her wildest dreams. And she'd had some wild ones.
She heard a soft tapping on the door, and looked over at Phil, startled. She put a finger to her lips as she formed the words, "Who could that be?"
Phil shrugged and looked at his drink. She waited, but he didn't say anything. The tapping had stopped.
"Wrong room," she whispered. "They'll go away."
But the tapping started again. Harder now. Insistent.
"Oh," Phil said. "It's only Lew. I guess it's Lew." His voice was low pitched, but she knew it could be heard outside the door.
"Don't let him in," she said, but she got into her bathrobe. "How did he know we were here? I mean, how did he know the room number?" She whispered it almost fiercely.
Phil shrugged again and got up. He stepped into his trunks and pat on his robe.
"He probably wants a drink," he said, in a natural voice, and started for the door.
"Don't let him in," she whispered again.
"Relax," Phil said. "You're on vacation."
He opened the door, and Lew stepped into the room, smiling. His trunks were damp, Sesame noticed, but at least they fit naturally now. No inside, poked-up monstrosities. She felt a little less outraged. A little more sociable. It was her vacation, after all. She'd come here to be with people. To have fun. All kinds of fun, not just lying-down, straddle-legged, horizontal fun. And Lew was fun. He and Phil were fun together.
"Is there anything left in that shaker?" Lew asked. "I was dying of thirst down there."
"Isn't the bar open?" Sesame asked. She was still a little annoyed. Phil should never have given Lew the room number. And Lew never should have asked, if he did ask.
"Sure the bar's open," Lew said, pouring his own drink. He drained the shaker. "But you can't go in-in swimming trunks. Indecent exposure, or something."
She thought of Lew with his hard-on practically poking through his trunks. It was indecent exposure, all right.
"Besides," Lew said, sitting down on the foot of the bed, holding his drink, "I was getting lonely."
"There's a whole crowd of people at the pool," Sesame said.
"That's one of the crowds you hear so much about," Lew said. "That's a crowd you can be lonely in."
"Maybe three's a crowd, here in this room," Sesame said. "Another crowd you can be lonely in." She was getting mad all over again.
"Now, Sess," Phil said. He was back on the bed. "One big happy family, remember?"
"I've had enough of one big happy family. All my whole life."
"This is a different kind of big happy family," Lew said. "Not as big, but happier than most."
"I'm glad you think so," Sesame said, and drained the remains of her drink.
"There's more rum in my room," Phil said, getting up. "And ice. And lemons. I'll be right back." He started for the door.
"Don't go," Sesame said.
"Why not?" He stopped, with his hand on the doorknob. "We could all use another drink. I said I'd be right back."
Sesame gave him a long stare, then glanced over at Lew. He was looking at Phil, not saying anything. Oh, what the hell, she thought. She was feeling the drinks now, and she did want another one. She'd always liked to drink, but had never dared as much as she wanted to. Now she was on vacation.
"All right," she said to Phil. "Hurry back."
He left the room, leaving the door open. Lew looked at the open door for a moment, then got up and closed it.
"What was that for?" Sesame asked.
"Nothing. Only you don't want people staring in here, do you?"
"They won't have anything to stare at."
"Of course not. But they might get the wrong idea. A man in your room, and all that."
"They'll get wronger ideas with the door closed."
"No they won't. They don't know I'm here."
"And I'm going to pretend you're not."
"What are you so mad about, Sess?"
"Nothing."
He held his drink toward her.
"Here. I'll share this with you till Phil comes back. I'm nothing to be afraid of."
She hesitated, then sat down beside him on the foot of the bed and took a sip of the preferred drink. He wasn't anything to be afraid of. Not much. She had a quick mental image of the grotesque protuberance in his trunks, and shuddered.
But he didn't touch her, close as she was. He smiled at her, took his glass back, and sipped.
She forced herself to relax. Leaned back on her elbows. Crossed her knees, and when her robe fell partly open around her upper legs, she made a conscious effort not to do anything about it. Lew looked into the mirror, and was quiet for a long time.
"You do an awful lot for that old mirror," he said. "Best thing that's ever happened to it, I bet."
"Thank you," she said demurely. "I bet you say that to all the girls."
"I don't say anything to all the girls," Lew said. "You're the loveliest thing in the history of Bobcat."
"You know what they call it in Ascot Bay?" She was beginning to like Lew again. Maybe rum did something for her.
"What do they call it in Ascot Bay?"
"Tomcat Inn. The Riding Academy." She hesitated. Oh, well. "Hump House."
Lew laughed.
"Hump House?" He sounded delighted. "And do you believe it?"
She wondered how much he'd guessed, about her and Phil. Probably everything. They looked liked very old friends, those two.
"I don't know yet," she said. "It's just talk, in the village. You know about small towns."
"I don't know about them. I've heard about them, and read about them, but I don't really know anything about them."
"You're not missing anything."
"I think I am. You, for example. You're a small-town product."
"Oh, well," she said, shrugging. But she was flattered.
"Are there any more at home like you?"
She thought of her sister Benedictine, and dismissed the thought immediately.
"You mean at home in Ascot Bay?"
"Yes."
"Not exactly like me," she said. "But there are lots of girls." Not exactly like her at all, she thought with satisfaction.
"Why don't you take me there someday next week? On a visit?"
Oh, boy, that was a thought. Lew, riding down Main Street with her, with his rampant flagpole of an erection sticking up out of her Corvair convertible.
"Maybe I will," she said. "We'll see."
She nodded toward his glass, and he held it up for her to take another sip. It was tasting better all the time. But as she leaned back, she saw a stirring in Lew's trunks. She shouldn't have had that thought about riding down Main Street in her car. There must be something to that stuff about mental telepathy. Or physical telepathy. Hard-on telepathy.
He saw her looking.
"I can't help it," he said. "It's what you do to me. Not only in that swim suit. It happened right at the lunch table."
"Nothing spilled," she said. She could have bitten her tongue, after she said it.
But Lew didn't seem to notice. He was gazing, with an expression of bemused detachment, at the now-throbbing ridgepole of his taut trunk-tent. Sesame looked at it, too. She couldn't help herself. The huge, tense, hidden flagpole taunted her imagination, had for her the hypnotic fascination of a weaving cobra.
"You could take a cold shower, right across the hall," she suggested weakly. But she couldn't tear her eyes away.
"You're a great believer in cold water," Lew said, "as an all-purpose cure-all for lust."
"It worked before, didn't it? In the pool?"
"For a little while. A very little while."
He was looking at her in the mirror, she noticed then, and for a brief second took her eyes away from the erect cloaked monstrosity to follow his gaze to the mirror, to look at herself.
The belt of her robe had come loose, and her robe was open in front, exposing the inner sides of her breasts and one pert nipple. The skirt of the robe lay wide, and her knees had drifted apart, giving Lew a clear view of her smooth curving inner thighs and the damp curled mat of her dark-blonde pussy hair, with the wet glistening pink folds of her ravished but still ravishing cunt smiling through. It was a wan, Mona Lisa smile, but a smile all the same.
In one swift motion, she drew the robe tightly around her, lifting the spread lower folds up around her legs and squeezing her knees primly together.
But she made her move too late. Watching her reaction in the mirror, Lew stood, with his back to her but facing the mirror squarely, and slid his trunks to the floor and stepped out of them. He stood straight then, and took a deep breath.
Sesame gasped.
"Oh my God," she said. "No!"
In the mirror, the giant red knob of his gigantic cock obscured her view of the rest of it, but as he turned to where she sat on the foot of the bed, the mammoth thick shaft came into profile view, swinging for all the world like the boom on the mast of one of the bigger sailboats in the Bay.
The shaft stood out at an absolutely horizontal angle, parallel to the floor. You could dance, she thought giddily, on that flat smooth surface along the top. If the music were right. A waltz, maybe. A fuck-waltz. There I go again, she thought. Despite her feeling of giddiness, she was frightened.
"It won't hurt a bit," Lew said, looking at her widened eyes. "You'll enjoy every inch of it."
"Oh, no!" she said. She shuddered. "It's just too much."
"I'll be very gentle," he said, moving slowly toward her. The enormity of his massive rigid shaft, as it came closer to her face, seemed to blot out all the light in the room. Or it was simply that she couldn't look at anything else, couldn't see anything else.
"I couldn't take it," she said, in a small voice. "I'm afraid it would kill me." A nice way to die, she thought fleetingly, but didn't say it aloud. She was genuinely terrified. She wanted to close her eyes, but couldn't.
Lew bent suddenly, tilted her head back, and kissed her. She kept her teeth clenched, and twisted her head away.
"No, Lew," she said. "Please, no."
"Just lie back," he said. "It won't hurt a bit."
"No."
"I told you, I'll be very gentle. I'll put it in a little at a time. You'll be surprised how easy it is. How much room you have for it."
"No," she said again. She had a thought. "Anyway, Phil will be back any minute."
"No, he won't," Lew said. He seemed confident. "He has to get ice and stuff. It'll take him a long time."
Oh, ho, she thought. So that's it.
"Just plain no, then," she said, looking up at him sternly. She was acutely aware of the hot pulsing hard mass that had brushed between her yielding breasts as Lew had straightened from his rebuffed kiss. The squinting vertical eye in the center of the gigantic swollen deep-red glistening head of his cock was winking up at her. The thick javelin of his shaft pointed directly at her, at chin level.
"But you can't leave me like this," he said tensely, looking down at her. There was an imploring look in his eyes. Beseeching. The words sounded familiar, and she remembered then where she'd heard them. In the old green Buick. Mr. Parker Perkins, the Third. She dismissed the memory, quickly, or tried to.
She couldn't take her eyes away from the rigid pulsating huge terrifying poised torpedo pointing at her.
Then she had a thought. A practical thought. She would defuse the torpedo. Take away its terror.
She reached up with one hand, hesitantly at first, and touched the velvet-soft base of the monument, feeling the granite beneath the satin-smooth sheath. She let her hand grasp it, going around as far as the fingers would reach. Her fingertips did not touch her thumb tip. Not nearly.
She reached up and grasped the shaft with her other hand, keeping her gripping hands close together. The apple-red, apple-hard glistening swollen head and a couple of inches of thick muscled shaft were still exposed.
Without hesitation, now, she leaned forward, extended her tongue, and snaked the tip of it under his cock head, along the soft shawl of skin on the bottom side of the neck of his pulsing prick.
It seemed to swell and grow even bigger, harder, under the gentle pressure of her gripping hands, the tender, teasing ministrations of her exploring tongue-tip.
"Oooh, you're a good girl," Lew said. "Let me lie down. You're making me weak in the knees."
She sat back, and he climbed onto the bed to lie down on his back, his knees bent over the foot, his feet touching the floor. His veined thick granite obelisk poked, pulsing, halfway to the ceiling. Or at least it seemed to, to Sesame. A fucking monument, she thought, shuddering. A good thing she'd thought of using her mouth on him. Her tongue, anyway. His cock was too big to suck, actually, but she could lick him off. A narrow escape.
In a burst of wild abandon, she flung off her robe, letting it fall in a corner of the room, and stood straight for a moment, sizing up the object of her mouth's devotion. Lew, seeing her completely naked for the first time, took a deep, rasping breath, and let it out slowly, an admiring sigh.
"Jesus," he said.
She leaned over the foot of the bed, placing her hands flat on either side of his recumbent hips, lowered her head, and touched the soft wrinkling of skin at the neck of the wrist-thick shaft, just beneath the taut, angry swollen head, with the tip of her tongue, then gathered the sliding folds between her lips with tiny sucking kisses. The only sound in the room was the agonized intake of his breath, rapid and irregular, as if he were in pain. Moving her tongue rapidly back and forth, she licked her way down to the base of the pulsing shaft, then back up again.
Reaching the straining head, she took as much of it as would fit into her mouth, sucking. Straining her jaws, thinking they might unhinge, like the jaws of a garter snake swallowing a mouse, she managed to get most of the head in, tightening her lips around it with an urgent pressure. Then she ran her tongue down the underside of the shaft again, licking backing and forth.
She put her hands under his arching hips, then, and moved her head back and forth like a feeding bird, tasting the moisture that was oozing into her mouth, her lips soft but tight around the stretched skin of his pumping cock-head, her tongue licking and smothering his under-prick. His hips pumped upwards spasmodically, as if he were fucking her mouth with just his prick-tip.
Lew was groaning now, so loud that she almost didn't hear the door open. She jerked her head up and looked, her mouth open, her tongue extended. Phil was closing the door behind him, grinning.
What difference did it make, she thought? What difference did it make now? She was very excited, despite herself, but she looked calmly enough at Phil, closing her mouth as she did so. Then another thought struck her, and she looked back, over her shoulder, at the mirror.
Her legs were spread, her feet planted apart, her snow-white, exquisite ass, the pride of Ascot Bay, pointed directly into the mirror. Her cunt, she saw, was completely exposed to view, as if on display. She had never seen anything look so vulnerable. The tender lips of her shining wet pink pussy seemed to gape open, the little hills and hills and valleys around her twig of a clitoris and inner lips soft, bright pink, damp and welcoming. It looked to Sesame like an open invitation.
It did to Phil, too. He was out of his robe and trunks, stark naked and pulsing erect, in a moment.
Sesame leaned forward on the bed and went back to her task of licking and sucking Lew's stiff, quivering lust-monument. She felt Phil's hands holding her hips as he lodged the head of his pulsing stiff rod between the open eager soft outer lips of her streaming cunt.
"Oooh," she tried to say, but the sound was muffled by the gag of stiff muscle in her mouth. She didn't try to straighten up or turn around. Just pushed back a little, helping to engulf Phil's probing prick deeper in the mouth of her cunt.
She felt the entire length of it sink in, in one long, sure, plunging drive, and heard as well as felt the lower part of Phil's belly slapping hard up against the cushioning globes of her ass.
She tried to scream, a scream of delight, but again her busy, sucking, sliding mouth was full. She groaned out her joy, instead, keeping her head bobbing up and down as she licked and sucked Lew's long, hard lollipop. But she was acutely aware of Phil's driving cock in the sopping delirium of her quivering cunt, as he fucked her from the rear with long, steady, machine-like strokes, sliding his rigid cock out almost to the head, then slamming it back into the joyous embrace of her pulsing, squeezing, slimy slit, his balls making small slapping sounds against the slippery white backs of her grateful thighs. She heard herself grunting and groaning with each in-plunging stroke of his fuck-machine, and began wiggling her ass with every long withdrawal as if to arrange her twat in a better fit. Phil never slowed his swift, even tempo, drawing his rod out to the head and pounding it home again with a rapid, sure, steady rhythm.
All at once, she thought she was drowning, as a gushing stream from Lew's throbbing fire-hose deluged the back of her throat. She swallowed all she could, but at the same time discovered that she was coming, herself, in a series of groaning, shuddering spasms. She fell forward weakly against Lew's stomach as Phil reached his own orgasm, pumping his diminished juices deep into her coruscating cunt-depths.
Then she fell forward, Phil sinking down on top of her, from the back, his cock still in place between her clutching cunt-lips, and she lay there, inert, not caring, between the two of them on the big bed.
When she got up enough strength to move her head and look up at Lew, she saw that he was asleep. Phil, with the tip of his limp weapon still in the clutch of her pussy-lips, was breathing slowly, steadily, without moving. She felt like a sandwich. A girl sandwich.
But she was suddenly too tired to do anything about it. Some vacation, she thought drowsily.
She slept.
CHAPTER FIVE
When she first wakened, Sesame didn't know where she was. Seeing the mirror over the hill of her sheeted feet brought everything back, slowly. Phil and Lew had left without waking her, stretching her out on the bed and drawing the sheet up over her. Nice of them, she thought. But the rest of it hadn't been so nice of them, if you stopped to think of it, at least the intent had been anything but nice. Never mind the end result.
Because it was obvious that Phil had told Lew where he'd be, and why don't you come up later? Looks like a sure thing. Or something to that effect. She should be angry at them, she knew. Never speak to them again. Well. She almost giggled, lying there, sprawled alone on the big bed. She wasn't angry with them at all. But she'd have to pretend to be, next time she saw them. After all. A poor defenseless country girl, innocent of the guiles of the guys from the city.
She liked that, and repeated it to herself. Guiles of the guys from the big city. When she sat up on the edge of the bed, she discovered that she could still feel the effects of the drinks she'd had. She looked at her watch, the only thing she was wearing. It was almost five-thirty. She'd slept more than an hour, but she was still a little tiddly from the rum. Let's see. Four Daiquiris. Four deep-dish Daiquiris. She liked that too, deep-dish Daiquiris. More than she usually drank, and unfamiliar booze, too. Usually she drank a little beer, on dates, or sipped a Tom Collins, or nursed a couple of long drinks with colors as exotic as their names.
But she'd always wanted to get feeling high, and it looked as if she was off to a good start. Five-thirty. That meant the Happy Hour was underway, in the Loafing Lounge. She'd seen the Happy Hour reminder on the bulletin board in the lobby, and somebody had mentioned it at lunch. She'd better get moving. She wouldn't miss her first Happy Hour at Bobcat, not for anything.
She'd just have to remember that she was mad at Phil and Lew. Remember that she wasn't speaking to them.
* * *
She wore tight bright-orange stretch pants to the Loafing Lounge, and the hubbub seemed to subdue itself for a minute after she'd walked through the archway into the big room. The atmosphere had bark all over it. Beams. Fireplaces. Moose heads.
But there was nothing rustic about the guests. They seemed to be an entirely different crowd from the bunch she'd seen at lunch. At lunch time they'd been reminiscent of a wax museum. Now they were all animation-faces, feet, hands, hips, pelvises.
She walked slowly but directly to the bar, or as directly as she could without bumping into any of the high-pitched little knots of people in perpetual motion. She let her hips sway a little, knowing what dismay her ass in those pants would have created in Ascot Bay, and was gratified at the way male heads turned, at the way male mouths hung open, at the way some of the men stopped in mid-sentence and forgot what they were about to say.
Phil and Lew were at one end of the bar with drinks in their hands. They were talking to three girls, one of whom was Evelyn, from lunch, and when they saw her they each waved a free hand in greeting. Keeping her face expressionless, she turned from them and asked the young man behind the bar for a Daiquiri. Apparently it was a popular drink at Bobcat. He poured her one from a large pitcher, already mixed. It was not as cold as the drinks from Lew's shaker, she discovered when she sipped, but it tasted just fine. She was glad. She intended to have a number of them. Drinks were on the house during Happy Hour. If you didn't drink your share, someone had said at lunch, it was your own damn fault.
"I've been wanting to meet you since lunch," a voice said at her ear. "But you kept disappearing, like some kind of figment of the mind. A wonderful vision, but only a vision."
"I'm real," she said, turning to look at the voice. "Feel me." She felt very bold. Or carefree. Or just plain happy.
"Well," the voice said. He was tall, as tall as Charlie Brisette, and not much older. But not as skinny. Very well-built, in fact. Well-built or not, he seemed to be blushing. She'd have to remember that all the males at Bobcat weren't like Phil and Lew. "Feel me," she'd said to this one. What a thing to say, to a nice boy. He was blushing.
"I didn't mean like that," she said, laughing. "I mean touch me, like my arm. To convince yourself that I'm not a mirage."
He reached out and brushed the smooth tanned skin of her bare upper arm with the backs of his fingers.
"You're real, all right," he said. "And you're lovely. That's really all I wanted to say."
"That's really quite a lot," she said, looking at him seriously. "Thank you."
"Would you like to sit down?" he said, indicating an empty table over in a corner.
"I would."
They walked over to the table, carrying their drinks, and he held a chair for her while she sat down.
"Most of them don't want to sit down," he said.
"I've been noticing."
"They seem to think they have to keep jumping around, to get their money's worth. Gives the place an air of, I don't know, impermanence."
"That's what most of us are here for," she said. "Impermanence." That was a nice word for it.
"You too?"
"I think so."
"So am I. It's the first vacation I've taken in two years. Since I got out of school."
"Which one?"
"Dartmouth."
She was impressed. It must have showed.
"Don't get me wrong," he said hastily. "I didn't graduate. I didn't just get out. I was kicked out, in my junior year."
"What for?" He was such a nice-looking boy. Or man. Dartmouth should have done everything to keep him.
"It's a long story," he said, sipping his drink. "Maybe I'll tell you, sometime."
"I hope so."
"I kind of hope not," he said. "My name's Pete Hayes."
"I'm Sesame Willoughby," she said, "of the Ascot Bay Willoughby's, ten miles from here." Get that "native" business over with, right away, she thought. She put out her hand for him to shake. She was very formal, now. Compensate for the afternoon.
He shook her hand and he surprised her. He didn't show surprise himself, or say a word about her being from these parts.
"I'm from Portsmouth," he said. "But I've been working and living in Boston since school. After Labor Day I'm going to get a job in New York. I figure I've served my apprenticeship."
"What do you do?" She was genuinely interested. There was something uniquely honest about him.
"Commercial artist," he said. "Or at least I work in an art studio. Nothing very artistic about what I do. I'd like to get a job as an art director in some small advertising agency. In New York, though. Not Boston. I've had it with Boston."
"I've heard a lot of people say that," she said. She had, too. Not a lot of people, but people.
"With good reason."
"I think I've about had it with Ascot Bay, too," she said. She laughed when she said it, but suddenly realized that she meant it.
"That's easy to understand. I've been there. Passing through."
"That's the way most of the people who see Ascot Bay see Ascot Bay. Passing through. When they're lost. They only stop long enough to ask directions at the Gulf station."
He laughed.
"It isn't as bad as all that. It's very picturesque, as I remember it."
"The picturesque part, the charm, wears kind of thin when you've lived there all your life."
"And you have?"
"I have."
"It's hard to believe. You just don't look as if you came from Ascot Bay."
"You mean these pants?"
"Well." He didn't blush, this time.
"I'm trying hard not to look like Ascot Bay. These stretch pants are compensation for six years of choir rehearsals."
He grinned.
"Next time you go to choir rehearsal," he said, "try wearing those pants."
"Too risky. No trouble with the sopranos and contraltos, but the bass section could be murder. They're all for grass stains."
"I can't blame them a bit," Pete said. "Let me get us another drink. Daiquiri?"
She nodded.
"When is choir rehearsal in Ascot Bay?" Pete asked, when he came back with the drinks.
"Do you sing?"
"Only in the shower. But I'd sure like to get into your choir."
"Now!" she said, but he hadn't meant anything. "It isn't my choir. I gave up singing in the choir almost six years ago."
"I bet it was risky even then. Even without the stretch pants."
"Well," she said, lowering her eyes. A little modesty seemed in order. After this afternoon.
"I bet it would have been risky for you even in a chastity belt," Pete said. He said it with sincere admiration, but she thought it was time to change the subject. For now.
"Do you like music?" she asked.
"Not church music."
"Me either. I didn't like it even when I had to sing it. Maybe because I had to sing it."
"I like classical music. And I like jazz."
"I like all kinds of music, practically. But there isn't much of it, in Ascot Bay. Not live, anyway. And the only radio stations you can get play mostly country-western."
"Then how do you ever hear music you like?"
"I buy records, whenever I get to a city. But that isn't often. Not nearly often enough."
"There's music here tonight, for the dance. Live music. It's moldy-fig night, and they have a Dixieland group. Also a square-dance caller for intermissions."
"I hate to admit it," Sesame said. "But I can do square dances. Most of them."
"Me, too. Ladies in the middle, gents in a circle. Do-si-do. They used to do a thing we called 'the basket,' where the men, two of them, joined hands and the women sat on them and they swung around like a bunch of nuts fresh out of the booby hatch."
"They cut that out of the square dances at Ascot Bay," Sesame said. "Too many hernias."
Pete laughed.
"Will you be my date tonight?" he asked. "For the dance?"
"I didn't know you had such things as dates at Bobcat. I thought it was all a free-for-all."
"It is," he said. "A big bucket of eels. That's why I asked you to be my date, sort of. Will you?"
"Sure," Sesame said. "Love to."
"I'll pick you up at eight. What's your room number?"
Sesame thought of that room, and the mirror.
"Never mind picking me up at the room," she said. "I might be late getting ready. I'll meet you here."
"All right. And how about sitting at my table for dinner? There's usually only three or four there."
"Love to," Sesame said.
Her mother would be proud of her, she thought. Right now.
She debated with herself for a long time, trying to decide what to wear to the dance. The stretch pants suited her fine, and put her ass on display to great advantage; but she finally decided a dress would be more appropriate, on account of Pete. Her date. He seemed like such a nice young fellow, but not stuffy, and not dumb. She just hoped he didn't get possessive. She hoped he hadn't been watching a lot of old TV Westerns, and decided he'd staked a claim. She wanted to be absolutely free on her vacation. But she'd have to remember that she wasn't talking to Phil and Lew.
Despite herself, she began to twat-tingle at the thought of them. Think pure thoughts, she told herself. How can you think sexy when you're doing anything as square as a square dance?
Pete was waiting for her at the corner table in the Loafing Lounge.
"Let's have a drink," he said, "before we go over to that madhouse."
"I'll switch to Scotch and water," she said. "What madhouse?"
"Where they hold the dances." He went away and came back with their drinks. "It's called the Barn, which is exactly what it used to be, before they tore out the stalls and stuff and put in the dance floor and bandstand. And a bar, of course. Most people bring their own jugs and get set-ups." He pulled a bottle of Scotch part way out of a paper bag he was holding carefully under one arm.
"I can't tell you how delighted I am," he said, "to find that you're a Scotch drinker."
"It's what's known as empathy," she said, "at first sight. Anyway, the place gets to be a madhouse, as the evening Watusi's along."
"What time do the festivities end?"
"Nobody ever seems to know. The band plays its last set around one-thirty, maybe. Its last official set, but there's nothing to keep the musicians from jamming, off and on, if they feel like it, until daylight. Or until they pass out, whenever that happens to be."
"What about that bar?"
"That has a closing time, too, technically, but nobody pays any attention to that. Least of all the bartenders, who drink. And, like me"-he raised his quart bottle of Scotch in its wrinkled paper bag-"most people have the foresight and the inherent sense of thrift to bring their own."
"Sounds like one big happy family get-together." She cringed, inwardly, down deep, in the lower extremes of her abdomen, when she said the words "big happy family," but she got over it all right. "You sound as if you know the place pretty well."
"I do."
"Have you been coming here a long time?"
"Since early puberty."
"That seems to be the ideal time to start coming to Bobcat."
He looked at her quickly, not saying anything.
"From what I've heard," she said. "But you've told me all about the irregular activities of the regulated side of the entertainment, the musicians and the drink dispensers. What about the activities of the unregulated? The guests. Like us."
"Well, for one thing," he said, "they're not like us, most of them, anyway."
That was a peculiar thing to say, she thought. Not like us. But he said it very seriously.
"Why aren't they like us?"
"You'd have to ask their shrinks."
"Their what?" She'd never heard the expression.
"Their head-shrinkers. Their psychiatrists."
"Oh." She felt for a second as if she were just rising from the primeval slime of Ascot Bay, with the drying mud still clinging to her. She tried to shake it off.
"So you think most of the guests here have been to psychiatrists?"
"Whether they needed them or not, especially some of the girl guests. The Horizontals, they're known as. They've spent half their waking post-puberty life on the couch. The analysts' couches, I mean," he added hastily.
"Why?"
"Some of them think they need it. Some of them think it does them good even if they don't need it. Some of them do it as a hobby. The couches, I mean. The shrinkers' couches."
This time he had to laugh. She laughed with him.
"How else are we different, you and I?" she asked. "Besides being virgins to Freud. Jung maidens." It was a stab in the dark, one she wouldn't have bothered with in Ascot Bay, but Pete got it. He laughed happily, and looked at her for a long moment, as if seeing her for the first time.
"Who said anything about being a virgin?" he asked, finishing his drink.
"Freudian virgins, I said. How else are we different?" She swallowed the remains of her drink, and he took the glass from her and stood up.
"Well, we're from New Hampshire," he said. "I'll get us another drink. It's more fun talking to you than going to any dance."
She was more flattered by his last sentence than she'd ever been in her life. All the compliments she'd ever had, spoken or unspoken, had been for the way she looked. Not for the way she thought. Not for the way she talked. She watched Pete as he walked back to the table, tall and easy-moving, carrying the drinks. What a nice guy, she thought. For just a moment she felt a twinge of regret about Phil and Lew.
"I'm still interested in what the guests do, at these dances," she said, after he'd sat down.
"They go ape," he said. "On land, sea and air, they go ape."
"How?"
"Well, you don't see it all. All you see is what goes on inside the Barn, in the corners and under the tables and on the dance floor. But that's only a fraction of what goes on. Like the visible fragment of an iceberg."
"I see."
"You don't see. Only some of it. Some splinter group always winds up in the swimming pool."
"Skinny-dipping?"
"The drunker ones sometimes fall in with their clothes on. Mostly they're balls-ass nekkid. Ooops," he said, and looked at her.
"That's all right," she said, smiling. "Anyway, there's nothing so crazy about going swimming after a dance."
"Who said anything about swimming?" he said. "Maybe they tread water, some."
"Oh," she said.
"Oh is right. I don't quite understand how they manage to do what they do, underwater."
She was intrigued by the whole idea, despite herself. A faint itching started, and she crossed her legs.
"It must be hard," she said, "if they do what you're trying to tell me they do."
"It can't be hard, in some cases, in that cold water. That's what makes everything so hard."
She let herself blush, and was pleased when it worked. He looked away. New Hampshire forever, she thought.
But he looked back at her. He was grinning.
"As long as we're on the subject," he said, "I've heard that elephants do it under water."
"Not in the swimming pool at the Bobcat Inn," she said. "People would talk."
"No, not here. But they have to go through the act of procreation under water."
"Well, I guess the water's warmer in Africa and India, so that part of it wouldn't be any problem. But why?"
"The male elephant is too heavy for the female, on dry land."
"Or in an elephant motel."
"Yes. So they get underwater, and the water supports some of the male elephant's weight."
"If I don't get anything else out of my vacation at Bobcat," she said, "at least I've got that."
"You can give lectures on the sex life of the elephant."
"It would be the biggest subject that's ever been explored in Ascot Bay. The whole Episcopalian choir would play hooky from rehearsal, just to hear me."
They had finished the second drink, and Pete looked at the melting ice in the glasses.
"Another?" he asked, hopefully.
She was still flattered, at his wanting to talk instead of going to the dance, but she shook her head.
"There'll be lots of time to talk, won't there be?" she asked, looking seriously at him.
"Sure."
"Then let's go to the dance. I want to see what's going on, with my own eyes."
"You think I've been lying to you?"
"No. I just want to see it."
They were walking toward the archway out of the big room.
"Maybe later," he said, looking at her sideways, "you'd like to try the swimming pool."
"Never mind," she said, primly.
"I've never tried it, myself," he said.
"Honest?"
"Honest."
"Well, you can try it tonight, if you like."
They were out in the open now, on the grass, walking under the stars, toward the growing sounds from the Barn. He stopped, holding her elbow.
"You mean that?" he said, looking at her in the hallowed light from the stars.
"You can try it," she said, "with somebody else."
"Oh," he said, and was silent as they walked toward the swelling hubbub at the Barn.
"It would be no good anyway, that underwater business," he said, as they reached the entrance. "No toehold, anywhere. It would be like voting Democrat, in New Hampshire."
"Oh, stop it," she said.
CHAPTER SIX
Just inside the open barn doors was a long narrow room, the width of the barn itself, partitioned off, or rather separated from, the huge dance floor that made up the rest of the original barn, by a low railing. Apparently the band had just finished playing a set as they entered, and a shrill, sweating horde of young humanity was pouring from the dance floor to the long narrow room, some to the bar at the far end, but mostly to the tables, with their clusters of bottles and glasses and pitchers and buckets of ice. People poured, not only through the opening in the railing, but over the low railing itself, boys and girls both, the males mostly in tight blue jeans, the girls in mini-skirts, vaulting with a great display of legs and crotch. The girls all seemed to be wearing panties under their mini-skirts, Sesame noticed. Evidently it was a formal dance. At least for this portion of the evening.
Every table seemed to have a claim staked on it, with bottles and buckets and glasses, but Pete didn't seem dismayed. He took his bottle out of the paper bag and set it on a corner of one of the less-cluttered tables, and came back with two fresh glasses.
Sesame noticed for the first time that the neck of the bottle carried a strip of adhesive tape. On the tape was lettered, in ink, "P. T. Hayes."
"Honor system," Pete said, seeing that she'd noticed the tape. He helped himself to ice from the bucket and poured two drinks.
"Does it work, the honor system?"
"For the first few hours. After that, nobody seems to care. Somebody pours drinks out of my bottle, I pour drinks out of somebody else's."
"How long can that go on?"
"Until all the bottles are empty."
"Then what happens?"
"The panic sets in."
"Fights?"
"Hardly ever. People start running for their rooms, coming back with more bottles. Or the bartenders can be prevailed upon, if either one of them is still on his feet."
"Then what?"
"After awhile, everybody's off somewhere, in the bushes, back in their rooms. Somewhere. Jumping into the swimming pool." He looked at her.
"But not us."
"Just as you say. Not us."
"That's good." She squeezed his hand. She was getting fonder of Pete by the minute. "Anyway, there are better things to jump into. Much better than swimming pools." She was low-down excited again. It must be all the liquor, she thought. She'd never drunk that much in one day in her life.
"What did you say?" he asked, through the uproar, looking down at her. They were still standing.
She sat down, and he did the same. There was no one else at the table. She noticed that the one bottle there, aside from Pete's, was empty.
"I said there are better things to jump into than swimming pools," she said, boldly.
Pete ran a finger down her spine, and she shivered. Happily.
"That's a good girl," he said.
"I didn't mean that exactly the way it sounded," she said, getting a grip on herself. Getting cold feet, for some reason.
"Then what did you mean?"
"I don't know. Nothing, really." She felt faintly embarrassed, and took a deep swallow of her drink.
"Just try to remember one thing," Pete said.
"What's that?"
"You're my date."
"I'll remember. You remember, too."
"I will," Pete said. "Nothing in this world could make me forget."
"And stay out of that damn swimming pool."
"Absolutely," Pete said.
* * *
When she heard the sound of the fiddle, she stood up, took Pete by the hand, and led him through the opening in the railing out onto the dance floor.
"He's playing our song," she said. "Turkey in the Straw. Square music for square dancing. For squares."
"You think I'm a square?" Pete asked.
"With some of the corners knocked off. Do you think I'm a square?" She leaned against him. She felt him drop one hand behind her and lightly run it over the contours of her ass. Under the mini-skirt, but nobody seemed to notice.
"Hardly," he said.
* * *
It was like no square dancing Sesame have ever done. The music was the same, with the fiddle and the piano, and the calling was familiar, even the caller, named Sammy Swift; he'd been at a dance or two she'd gone to, in Conway.
But the dancers themselves were different. Different wasn't the word. The folks at home would have dropped their back teeth, watching these dancers bounce through the intricate, traditional, archaic steps and patterns. Lots of the men wore beards and sideburns, for one thing, despite their exuberant youth, and they all wore bulges in the crotch of their tight pants. It was evidently part of the costume. Part of the whole atmosphere, for that matter.
And the girls, with their un-bra'd breasts bobbing and bouncing, some under sheer blouses, with the nipples poking through, proud and pert and pink. Sesame was tempted to take off her own bra, what there was of it, but decided against that. She was attracting enough attention as it was, with her skirt swirling about her hips, her gorgeous smooth tanned legs flashing. The men, she noticed happily, couldn't keep their eyes up. Her legs were attracting so much attention that she was self-conscious, at first. Then she got used to the stares. Began to enjoy them. Began to itch a little. And then, during one of the wilder swings, she felt that she was starting to ooze at the crotch.
"Let's sit down, Pete," she said, as the dance ended. "I'm out of shape."
"The hell you are," he said, looking down.
"Out of shape for dancing," she said, "is what I meant. But thank you."
He poured her a stiff drink when they got back to the table. There were three people there by then, two men and a girl. They watched Pete and Sesame, across the table.
"I'm Tony," one of the men, tall and thin, said. "This is Herman and Ruth." Herman was short and chunky. He had a mustache. So did Ruth.
"Pete and Sesame," Pete said. "You drinking Scotch?"
They nodded. He freshened their glasses.
"Weren't you wearing orange stretch pants during the Happy Hour?" Tony said to Sesame.
"Why, yes," she said.
"Nicest nether region in all New Hampshire," Herman said.
"In all New England," Tony said.
"Anywhere," Pete said.
The girl named Ruth didn't say anything.
"Would you like to dance again?" Pete asked.
"Not yet. Not till the square dancing is over."
She was enjoying herself hugely, sitting there, having the men talk about her ass. She finished her drink and held her glass out to Pete for another.
"Will you have the first dance with me, when the other music starts?" the man named Tony asked Sesame. She looked quickly at Pete, who smiled and nodded.
"Sure," she said.
"Ruth, the first one?" Pete asked the girl with the mustache. It really wasn't much of a mustache. She was really quite a handsome brunette, when you looked at her closely. Lean, but with high, firm, pointing breasts. Her slimness made her breasts look even bigger, more obvious. The nipples poked up, dark red and pencil hard, through the thin white blouse.
One dance, she'd have with Tony, she decided, and then back to Pete.
Before he got that big-titted brunette into the swimming pool.
* * *
But when she got back to the table after the dance with Tony, Pete wasn't there. She poured herself a drink, and waited for a minute or so, and Herman asked her to dance. When she went out to the floor with him, she kept looking around for Pete, but didn't see him.
And she found that she was caught up in the excitement around her, the gyrating bodies, the insistent, driving, happy beat of the band, the hum and howl of the here and now, that seemed to pulse all around her.
And Herman had a hard-on. That pleased her immensely. Both the sound of the words, and the hard-on itself. She brushed against it often as they danced.
"You're driving me crazy," he said, into her ear.
"That isn't what they're playing," she said. "It's 'When My Sugar Walks Down the Street.'"
"I'm not talking about song titles," Herman said. "It's you I'm talking about. You're driving me crazy."
His hard-on had added inches since they'd first come out on the dance floor. She brushed her belly against it, lightly. For old times' sake, she thought. She was feeling giddy. Very giddy. And she wanted a drink.
"Let's get one," she said.
"Sure," Herman said. "What?"
"A drink."
"Absolutely." He walked with her back to the table, and helped her pour.
"Do you usually drink this fast" he asked, watching her.
"No," she said. "Nor as much."
"Then why tonight?"
"Because I want to. Because I can do anything I want to do, for the first time in my life."
He stood close behind her as she sat in her chair. His hard-on throbbed, hard and insistent, against her back.
"Wouldn't you like to leave the dance for a while," Herman asked, "with me?"
"Not now," she said, and finished her drink. "Let's dance some more."
Herman groaned, but followed her out to the floor. She wanted it bad now, she knew. But it was Pete she wanted. Pete.
Where in God's name was Pete?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Pete was nowhere in sight, not at the tables, or at the bar, or out on the dance floor. The evening began to take on a hazy quality, for Sesame. She saw everything through a light, shifting, orange-hued mist, the people's faces, fading and reappearing, the dance floor, scuffed and vibrating and rolling a little, like the decks of ships she'd seen in the movies, even the dim distant cavernous barn-beamed-recesses of the under part of the roof. She kept closing her eyes, briefly, and opening them again, as if to catch the real scene by surprise, but the light orange mist stayed with her. She could even smell it. And taste it. Oranges.
She thought less and less of Pete, more and more of oranges. It must be those damn stretch pants she'd been wearing earlier, she decided. Got her into an orange mood. Seeing orange. Smelling orange. Tasting orange. Hearing orange. Even the music came through the mist with an orange sound. Feeling orange.
Only it wasn't an orange she was feeling at all, she realized. It was a super-stiff pecker, poking and prodding at her belly. She opened her eyes to find it was Tony she was dancing with. Tall Tony. They were doing some kind of old-fashioned, arms-around-each-other anachronism of a dance to the tune of "Way Down Yonder in New Orleans." She drew her head back and looked up at Tony. She had to squint a little to fuse his two faces into one.
"I'd like a quick one," she said, being careful to make her words very distinct.
"You're a doll," she heard Tony say. "And you've come to just the right guy."
He took her hand and led her carefully off the pounding, rocking, heaving dance floor, toward the outside door, past the tables. She took her hand out of his. The orange mist seemed to lift, clearing her head for just a moment.
"A quick one," she said. "I meant a quick drink."
"Oh. You mean a quick drink first."
"I mean a quick drink, period," she said firmly. As firmly as she could. Tony looked down at her and smiled. It was a kind, gentle smile. She liked Tony.
"Of course," he said. He took her elbow and guided her to the table where they'd been drinking. For an instant, she thought of Pete, but he wasn't there. Neither was anyone else, and she noticed, with dull dismay, that the Scotch bottle was empty.
"Sit down," Tony said, easing her into a chair. "I'll be back in a minute."
She sat very still, her hands resting on the edge of the table, watching the twitching heads and jerking, bobbing bodies tangled in one writhing, vibrating, pulsing mass, out on the dance floor. No one head seemed connected with any one body. They were communal heads, communal bodies, communal crotches. Especially crotches. Crotch was the keynote of the rhythmic, carnal celebration. Great, bulging, tightly imprisoned male crotches, wriggling and pumping and pushing into feverish air, imploring, beseeching, demanding. White, velvety, welcoming female crotches, opening and closing, bumping and teasing with a will-o'-the-wisp evasiveness. Despite the lifting and descending orange mist, Sesame felt a damp excitement churning downward in her lower belly, upward in the tingling juncture of her tightly-squeezed thighs.
Where was Pete, she thought abruptly, and just as abruptly forgot him. She couldn't hold on to one thought for more than a second. And didn't care to.
Tony was back at the table, carrying a full bottle. She knew it was Tony. The bottle of Scotch reminded her.
"I hope you weren't lonesome," he said, grinning at her, twisting at the neck of the bottle. Even in the fury of sound around her, she could hear the tiny resisting squeak of the cork. She found two ice cubes awash at the bottom of the ice bucket, put them in a glass, and held the glass toward Tony. He poured it half full, took the glass from her, and added a splash of water.
"Now, take it easy," he said, but she paid no attention. She took a deep swallow, and set the glass down, unsteadily, one rim touching the table ahead of the flat part of the bottom.
"It's delicious," she said toward Tony, having trouble with the word. She had trouble seeing him clearly. The noise made him seem blurry. He had a halo around him, she noticed for the first time, an orange halo. And not just around his head. The orange halo outlined his whole tall, spare body.
She finished the drink in one long, thirsty swallow. Maybe, she thought, it would help her see clearer. Get rid of Tony and his orange halo. Or at least get rid of the halo.
"Well," he said. "Shall we?"
"Shall we what?" She found that she could pronounce short words clearly. With dignity.
"Go up to my room."
"No. Oh, no."
"But I thought ... "
"You thought wrong. I said I wanted a quick one."
"That's right."
"I mean a quick drink."
"You've had a quick drink. Too damn quick." She saw that he was frowning. Under his all-around, all-purpose orange halo.
"I'll have another."
"You really ought to lie down a while. We'll come back to the dance later."
"I said I'd have another one." She sat up very straight when she said it.
"Whatever you say," Tony said, uncorking the bottle again, and shrugging. His halo shrugged with him.
"Cheers," she said, raising her glass and taking a deep swallow. It tasted even better than before.
"Cheers," he said.
His halo was starting to fade away. She was glad about that. But then, the way she felt, she was glad about everything. Fuzzy, but glad. She felt like singing.
* * *
Singing. It was the last thing she could remember feeling, when she woke up. Like singing.
She didn't feel like singing now. Anything but. She was naked, she knew that much, even without opening her eyes. And she was lying face down, on her stomach, her cheek flat against a pillow. She must be back in her room. Yes. She opened one eye, part way. No. She wasn't in her room. She didn't recognize the carving on the head of the bed. She closed her eye again. It felt better closed.
She became slowly conscious of someone beside her. She could feel the warmth. She could hear the breathing, faint but real. And there was a hand on her, moving slowly, back and forth, up and down and around, caressing the swelling globes of her ass.
She thought about opening her eyes again but decided against it. Too much work. And she liked the feel of the disembodied hand, moving slowly on the contours of her willing ass, touching, squeezing, kneading. Enjoying. Very evidently enjoying, every inch of the up-and-down, back-and-forth trip.
Pete, she decided. It had to be Pete. He'd been such an open admirer of her ass since the first moment they'd met.
The hand stopped, pausing in its sensuous journey over her soft hospitable hills. She felt a finger, the little finger, it had to be, the pinkie, investigating the shadowy crevice between the snowy mounds, insinuating itself into her privacy. She opened her eyes and turned her head to look at Pete.
It wasn't Pete, beside her.
It was Tony, tall Tony, although it took her a long moment to recognize him. He was lying on his side, his head resting on his crooked arm on the pillow. The other arm was extended in the direction of the hand that was gorging itself on the smoothness of her ass. She wriggled it, to show prim annoyance, even outrage, but the hand stayed where it was, stroking, as if it had found a home, with a fireplace.
The truth was, she liked the feeling. It was comfortable, and she knew if her ass could have purred, it would have, giving away her feelings. Tony was smiling at her, the same gentle, kindly smile he'd smiled at her before.
"How long have I been asleep?" she asked.
"Two hours, at least. You were drinking like there was no tomorrow, and I had to get you somewhere before you passed out. Or got sick. I don't think you're used to a lot of booze, and that's what I was really afraid of. That you'd get sick."
"Why didn't you take me to my own room?"
"I didn't know where your room was, and you couldn't tell me. Or wouldn't. You weren't making any sense at all. Talking about oranges."
"Oh," she said. She felt ashamed of herself, for the first time since she'd gotten to Bobcat. She did the best thing she knew to dispel any uncomfortable feeling or topic: she changed the subject.
"How come I'm all undressed?" she asked.
"I thought you'd be more comfortable. It's a warm night."
But he had to grin when he said it. A wide, cheerfully evil grin. Nothing gentle or kindly about it.
She was ashamed again. Ashamed to ask the question, but she had to.
"Did we," she asked, and couldn't say the word, to a stranger like Tony. "Did we, you know?"
"Make love?"
"That's what I mean." She had tried to use the word "fuck." She was glad now that she hadn't been able to.
"No, we didn't."
"That was very"-she looked for the word-"noble of you." It wasn't the word she wanted, but it would do. She was still a little drunk, and she knew it. But at least the orange fog had dissipated.
"Nothing noble about it."
"I think it was noble," she said, being stubborn.
"No. It's just that I think love-making is a team project. For mutual enjoyment."
"Well, that's good." She was beginning to like Tony all over again. But not enough to roll over on her back. Anyway his hand seemed perfectly happy where it was.
"However," Tony said. His hand was rubbing, pressing harder now. His little finger was more insistent. She started to tingle, where she didn't want to tingle.
"However what?"
"You're awake now."
"Yes. And I'm getting sober."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'd like to go back to the dance."
"What?" Tony was shocked. He was wearing only shorts. One leg of the shorts throbbed and pulsed. She was very curious about what the straining blue cloth concealed. But not too curious to tease him. Just a little. She didn't really want to be anywhere right that moment except where she was.
"I said I'd like to go back to the dance."
Tony didn't answer. He leaned toward her, supported on one elbow, and kissed her.
She kept her teeth tight together and her lips unresponding. But only for a moment. Then she rolled part way over, until she lay on her side facing him, and let her mouth come open. His tongue probed deep. Her own tongue licked it. His hand had traveled up from its preoccupation with the soft yielding globes of her ass, kneaded her breasts, squeezed the tensing rising hard, red tips of her nipples.
He broke the suction of the deep, searing, tongue-entwined kiss, and moved his mouth down to suck the hard, red puckering nipples. She quivered all over, and his hand moved slowly down across the swell of her lower belly. She moved around until she lay almost on her back, and opened her legs. His finger slid into the eager slime between her swelling, pouting outer cunt-lips, then probed and pushed up into her hungry wet cunt-mouth, diddling, tickling, shuttling in and out.
Sesame had forgotten everything now, everything except that insatiable swamp of desire between her legs. She spread her thighs wider, bold and beckoning, and Tony needed no further hints. He took his hands away from her body only long enough to strip off his under-shorts, and she looked down as he did so.
His throbbing prong stood out stiffly, pumping minutely with a pulse of its own. It was very long, very slender, very white. Virginal-looking, she thought, and reached out and took it in her hand, squeezing it gently, feeling the velvet softness of the white sheath of skin over the iron-hard slim rod of muscle beneath. She moved her hand up and down its length, slowly, lovingly.
"Jesus!" Tony said reverently. "Patience pays off."
He got into position, on his knees between her wide open smooth welcoming thighs. Holding the head of his pulsating, panting prick between thumb and forefinger, she guided it to the warm wet greeting of her cunt-mouth. She felt his hand replace hers, as he slipped the head of his rampant cock up and down in the saliva of her slit.
Then she felt him raising her legs slowly, his wrists under her knees, her calves on his forearms, until he'd lifted her legs completely up and her calves rested on his shoulders. She felt the hard slender pointed tip of his pulsing, probing prick slip downward, between her soaking twat-lips, down the entire length of her soft, slippery, yielding cunt-crevice, and out again at the bottom end.
"What?" she whispered. "What are you doing?"
He didn't answer. The small, diamond-shaped, diamond-hard head of his stiletto of a cock was now resting, pulsing, in the soft crack-canyon between the swelling high hills of her bud-tender buttocks.
"Oh, no," she said, between gritted teeth, and tried to pull away.
But she was too late. His hands were under her, hooked around her hips from behind, and she felt the steady, relentless pressure of his own hips, pushing, driving his spear into a territory that had never been invaded before.
The tiny puckered aperture of her asshole constricted, involuntarily, indignantly resisting the assault of the stiff, pointed, poking arrowhead. Then, in her excitement, something in her gave way, seemed to relax, and her asshole seemed to stop resisting, and she felt the determined point of his spear, lavishly lubricated with her own slippery twat-juices, make a sliding entrance into her ultimate intimacy.
Good God, she thought giddily, if the good people of Ascot Bay could see the violation that's being performed on their pride and joy, the beautiful rounded blue-ribbon ass of the Willoughby girl. Through no will of hers, her relenting hips rose upward, and she felt the long slender stiff shaft sliding deep, into the tight, constricting depths, through the smooth, rounded mounds that now twitched nervously but only served to welcome the invasion, rather than protest against it.
She felt Tony's fiat hard lower belly mashed tight against the yielding, resilient mounds of her ass, flattening them, and she heard herself utter a long, quivering moan, from way down deep somewhere.
She wrapped her legs around him then, giving herself up to him completely, putting her precious ass totally at his mercy. He began to fuck her up that proud ass, with a kind of furious precision, a controlled, strangely disciplined delight.
She was surprised, and a little horrified, to find that her legs were flailing wildly around his ears, her hips thrashing ungovernably on the bouncing mattress.
Then, in rhythm with his precision-fucking, he asked her a question, his lips drawn back in a taut grin.
"Do - you - like - being - fucked - up - that - glorious - ass?" he asked.
She only groaned. It was a high-pitched, reedy, almost-hysterical groan.
His grin widened, and he pumped his cock into the depths of her anus with renewed vigor.
"Please," she gasped, "Oh, please. Put it where it belongs. Fuck me in my cunt."
With a look of deeply-pained regret on his face, he slowly, lovingly, withdrew his slender spear from the tight puckered embrace of her violated virgin anus, and put it where it belonged, where she wanted it. As it slid deep into the starved, tortured love-sheath of her cunt, she gasped and locked her heels around him.
He drew back and began driving his long slim broom-handle stiff shaft into her with slow, even, relentless strokes. Aah, that was better, much better. Her back curved as her hips rose to meet his, and she fell into his rhythm immediately, surging upward and forward to meet every in-stroke, moaning happily, content at last. All at once, she felt like watching, and raised her head to look at his shuttling shaft sliding in and out of her clutching cunt-lips. The lips seemed to linger, to hang on, to suck and cling to the slippery shining sides of his cock with each withdrawal.
As he pumped his rod deep into her, he held it there for a long moment, imbedded, and she began a slow, sensuous circular motion with her hips, tightening and releasing the muscles around her inner twat-lips as she did so.
"Holy Christ!" Tony said, between tight teeth.
"You like that?"
She did it some more.
"Ooh," Tony said, withdrawing his shaft, then sinking it deep again, where it belonged. She was giving it a home, she thought, away from home. She made the tiny, nibbling contractions again, with her inner cunt-mouth.
"Where'd you ever learn that?" Tony asked, his head thrown back, his lips drawn away from his teeth, his eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling.
"Nowhere," she said, her cunt squeezing and teasing tenderly. "I never took a lesson in my life."
"You're a natural," Tony said, his voice tight. "A natural-born genital genius."
But all at once he was beyond conversation, beyond controlling his pent-up, pulsing passion any longer. And Sesame was glad, because she was reaching a crescendo, a tumultuous climax, to her own inner sex symphony. Drums were pounding, horns were blaring, as Tony pumped his sliding, jumping pecker into her, building sensation and slashing it to ribbons. His long, slender crazed cock seemed to be bouncing around the wet resilient inner walls of her cornucopia of ecstasy like a drunk in a spinning Fun House barrel.
Sesame reached up and took him by the shoulders, urging him to lie down full length along her body, and as he obeyed the pressure of her hands, she put her legs together, closing her thighs, squeezing her cunt tight around his slim pumping shaft. It seemed much bigger that way, she thought. Or, rather, she felt. She was far beyond thinking. She heard him groaning and gasping as he kept on pumping, in rapid, climbing hysteria, somehow in rhythm with the wild thrashing of her own hips, and she was aware that she was gasping, too.
"Now?" she could hear him saying, from far off somewhere. "Now? It has to be soon. I can't last any longer."
"Yes," she moaned, "yes. Now, now, now." She squeezed her hungry grasping cunt-lips even tighter around his slippery slime-covered shaft. "Now, now, now." She heard herself screaming, and in the last frantic flurry of pounding, quivering hips his berserk pecker slid out of her, somehow, and she felt the hot spurt of his juices against her lower belly.
But she was coming, and coming, and coming again, as if a giant with a huge hammer were pounding on the ringing, reverberating anvil of her innermost squirming ecstatic delirium.
He rolled away from her and lay on his side. In less than a minute, he was asleep.
She smoked a cigarette and watched him. He was smiling, in his sleep. She was smiling, too, but she was a long way from being asleep.
She wasn't even drowsy. She wondered what was happening at the dance.
Do - si - do.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She was surprised to find that the dance was still going on when she got back to the Barn. Pete was sitting alone at the same table, gazing at her over a sea of empty glasses. The bottle that Tony had brought was still in front of him, half full.
"Where've you been?" Pete asked, getting to his feet. "I've been looking all over for you."
But he looked guilty when he said it. The best defense, she remembered from somewhere, is a good offense.
"Where've you been?" she asked. "I looked all over for you, before I left."
"I was all around. Looking for you."
"I was feeling a little sick," she said. "I'm not used to drinking so much, so fast." A little bit of the truth, she thought, can go a long way. "I went back to my room and took a nap."
"You feel all right now?"
"Fine. I came back because I didn't want you wondering what happened to me. Letting your imagination run away with you." That was a nice touch, she thought.
"Never," he said. "Not where you're concerned. And I'm glad you did come back. I was getting worried."
She didn't pursue the subject any further. There was no sense pressing him for where he'd been. The lean brunette with the purple, poke-through nipples. Men. You couldn't trust them. That's what her mother had always told her.
The band was playing "Good Night, Ladies." They sounded drunk. The few couples out on the floor looked too drunk to notice. Why, Sesame thought proudly, I'm the soberest person here. Outside of Pete. Pete looked quite sober. New Hampshire, she thought. Good, trustworthy New England stock.
"Dance?" Pete asked. "Once around?"
"Of course," she said.
They made it around the floor, just once, before the music stopped. Not everyone in the band stopped together, but they stopped. In a fading, minor key.
"I'm sorry you were feeling sick," Pete said, guiding her back to the table. "The evening has been a total fiasco for you."
Fiasco, she thought. Oh, ho. That's a good way to spell it.
"Not a total fiasco," she said. "After all, I did find you again."
He looked down at her. Almost gratefully, she thought.
"I'm glad you did," he said. His quiet voice was out of place, in the hubbub around them. Voices, high-pitched and near-hysterical, clashed in a cacophony of sound she'd never heard the like of. Not in Ascot Bay. Not anywhere. Glasses fell, and shattered, and no one seemed to notice.
Around the bar, at the far end of the narrow room, was a twisting knot of bodies. Sesame spotted Herman, Tony's chunky friend, near the struggling crowd but apart from it, leaning against the wall with a drink in his hand, smiling at her. She couldn't tell if the smile was bemused, or Herman was nearsighted. She turned her glance away quickly.
"I think I'd like to leave," she said. "Something about the atmosphere here makes me nervous. It's like on the brink of some kind of disaster."
"On the brink of the swimming pool, is what it is," Pete said. "Would you like a nightcap? There's still Scotch in this bottle."
She hesitated for a moment.
"Why not?" she said. "But only one."
"That's what a nightcap is. Only one."
He made them two stiff drinks and they carried them out, under the peaceful stars. But only the stars were peaceful, outside. There was a loud splash from the swimming pool, then another, and a hoarse male cry. Then there was another splash, and a soprano shriek, and then the sound of shrill girlish laughter.
"Underwater sports," Pete said. "It's the witching hour." He sipped his drink, seeming somehow disembodied in the eerie light from the stars.
"Do you still want to go swimming?" Sesame asked. It was a mischievous question.
"No. Do you?"
"No. I'm really tired now, more than anything else. It's been an exciting day, for a country girl." He should know how exciting.
"I'll take you to your room." He carried the empty glasses back inside, through the milling multitude around the door, and came back for her.
They walked slowly toward her building, holding hands lightly, not talking. At the door to her room he kissed her goodnight. It was a polite, formal, hesitant kiss. Like two kids coming home from a strawberry festival, she thought.
"See you at breakfast?" he said.
"Of course."
"I won't sleep, thinking about it."
"You'll sleep, all right," she said. It was the first hint she'd ventured that she'd guessed about him and the lean brunette.
He didn't notice it. Or pretended not to.
Sesame was suddenly too tired to bother putting on pajamas. She was asleep seconds after she'd pulled up the covers.
* * *
When she awoke in the bright cool morning it took her a long time to figure out where she was. The mirror brought her abruptly to reality, when she finally saw it.
She lay in bed for a while, thinking about the day before. A full day. She had a hard time remembering the names, but finally got them straight. Chronologically. Phil. Lew. Pete. Herman. Tony. Pete and Herman didn't count. Oh, yes, Pete counted. Very much. But for the future.
And with her thought of Pete came another thought: she had been very foolish, her first day at Bobcat. She'd have to be more, well, discriminating in her choice of partners in the horizontal dance. She'd have to be harder to get. No more of this business of spreading her legs for every Tom, Dick and Harry. Or Phil, Lew and Tony. For Pete? Well. She'd see.
When she got to her feet to go to the bathroom, she felt a strange tightness behind her eyes, a faint fuzziness in her head, a taste like old socks in her mouth. It had to be what people called a hangover. She'd heard enough about them. Well, enough of that, too. From now on, she'd be Bobcat's most moderate guest. As well as its most chaste. Well, practically its most chaste. After all, this was her vacation. This was what she'd been looking forward to.
But she discovered, as she shrugged into her robe to go across the hall, that she was sore. Not just where she could be expected to be sore, but in her rear end, too. Her sphincter muscles had been stretched and abused as never before. That damn Tony. Never again, anything like that. Drunk or sober. But in the shower, her soreness seemed to disappear. Or at least her awareness of it.
She actually caught herself singing, and brought it to an abrupt halt. Somebody might still be trying to sleep. One of the swimmers, maybe.
Drying herself, she found herself wondering what that underwater fucking was like. Maybe she'd try it, before her Bobcat vacation was over.
But not with any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Or Phil, Lew, or Tony.
Pete? Well ...
CHAPTER NINE
As Sesame started walking across the dew-wet grass toward the main building and breakfast, she found herself directly behind a tall slender girl headed in the same direction for evidently the same reason. This girl needed breakfast, Sesame thought. She was definitely thin. Looked as if she could use a CARE package. Maybe she was here, Sesame thought maliciously, on one of those Send-This-Girl-to-Camp-This-Summer benefit programs; and immediately Sesame was ashamed of herself, for having thoughts like that.
In compensation for her quick guilt, she quickened her step and caught up with the girl. She was very tall, Sesame saw, as she drew abreast and glanced quickly sideways, smiling simultaneously.
"Good morning," Sesame said.
"Hi," the tall girl said, looking over at her and grinning a cheerful response to Sesame's greeting. She seemed to be infinitely more friendly than the rest of the girls Sesame had encountered since getting to Bobcat. The men had been friendly enough, God knows. But the girls ...
"I hope my damn roommates have saved me some breakfast," the tall girl said, falling into step beside Sesame. "I'm starving." Sesame resisted the urge to tell her she looked it. "But that's not my whole name, starving. I'm Leslie Mulligan."
Sesame told the girl her own name. She was much more friendly than any of the other girls she'd met here. And much more beautiful, now that she'd gotten a good look at her. She had one of the loveliest faces Sesame had ever seen, topping an incredibly long, slender swan's neck.
"Are you a model?" Sesame asked her, impulsively. "Because if you aren't, you should be."
The thin girl was not offended. She laughed, easily.
"You guessed it," she said. "That's what I do for a living. For high-fashion photographers. They like us to look this way. Undernourished."
"I didn't mean that," Sesame said hastily.
"Sure you did."
"No I didn't. I meant you have such a beautiful face."
"Well, thank you. But the bird legs and the general aura of undernourishment is all the clue most people need."
"I think you're lovely," Sesame said stubbornly.
"And hungry," Leslie said, laughing again. "I'm usually hungry. Like most fashion models. And jockeys. It's an occupational condition."
"I'm usually hungry, too, if it's any consolation."
"On you, it looks good."
"How many roommates have you got?"
"Three."
"All models?"
"No. Thank God. But all hungry."
"I guess that's a healthy condition," Sesame said. She saw Leslie giving her a long, sideways look.
"Not the way they're hungry. And me too, for that matter," Leslie said.
"What do you mean?"
"Man-hungry. Hump-hungry, you should pardon the expression."
Hump-hungry? At Hump House, here? For a fleeting moment, Sesame felt guilty.
"I don't quite know what you mean," she said.
"You wouldn't," Leslie said, eyeing her up and down. Sesame felt suddenly self-conscious about the lithe abundance of her graceful, exquisitely long-curving body, the swelling taper of her thighs and calves, exposed by her short-shorts. Leslie's legs had lovely lines, too, but they were so slim, so slender; a man would be afraid of breaking them when they were wrapped around him.
"You probably never noticed," Leslie said, and took a deep breath and sighed a mock sigh. Her breasts were small, high, firm and pointed, under the thin blouse. "There's a man-shortage here. They're outnumbered, by at least two to one. And my roommates and I are among the super-numeraries."
"That's hard to believe," Sesame said. "About you, anyway."
"You'll think the same thing when you see my roommates, probably. But it's a fact of life, up here. We face it every morning. Every single Bobcat day, and we've been here over a week."
It was a shame, Sesame thought. She felt very guilty, now. Her and her Phil, and Lew, and Tony. The first day.
"There must be something you can do," she said.
"What?"
"I'll think of something."
"It'll have to be pretty good. My roommates are hip-deep in a negative attitude. Defeated, is the word for it."
"When will I meet them?"
"Pretty soon. We're almost there."
As they were threading their way through tables in the dining hall, Sesame had one more question.
"How come you have three roommates? I thought they arranged for two in a room?"
"We've got one of the cottages, up past the annex where you're staying. Two bedrooms and a living room, and a kitchenette. Refrigerator. We're up to our asses in unused ice cubes. We wanted privacy, and boy have we got privacy. We're up to our asses in privacy, too."
"Such a waste," Sesame said, sympathetically.
"What're you going to do?" Leslie shrugged.
"I told you. I'll think of something." She had the beginning of a thought to think about already.
Then they were at the table where Leslie's three roommates were sitting. Sesame looked around for Pete, but he wasn't there. Just as well. She had a project in mind, now, and Pete would only be in the way.
"Sess," Leslie said, "Meet my roommates. Martha, Betsy, and Pat. The vestal virgins."
The three girls looked up, with little interest, and nodded in her direction. She sat down, thinking, They've lost hope. They look like this is their last breakfast before the firing squad lines up.
"I wish you wouldn't keep making those bad jokes, Leslie," the one named Martha said. She was an intense-looking, rather striking brunette, despite her glasses. "There's nothing funny anymore in this disastrous condition. This temporary accident of vacation chastity."
"Some vacation," the one in the middle said, gloomily. Betsy, her name was, and she looked as if her natural condition was anything but gloomy. She was a buxom, corn-fed blonde, carrying what looked like an abundance of good cheer and resilient, warm, generous flesh. Most men, Sesame thought, went for girls like Betsy. In a big way. There was no other way.
"Well, cheer up," Sesame said. "I'm sure there's still room for hope."
"For you, there is," Pat said. She was another slender one. Not as thin as Leslie, but very young-looking, with a bright gamin face. But she too, like Martha, wore glasses. Big, heavy, dark-rimmed spectacles. That was their real trouble, Sesame thought. They'd given up.
"For all of us, there's hope," Sesame said, abruptly allying herself with their cause.
"Where?" Martha said. "How? Call the national guard?"
"Let me get some breakfast," Sesame said, standing. Breakfast was a serve yourself operation. "Then I'll tell you."
When she came back and set her tray down at the table they were all watching her, curiously. She took her scrambled eggs and toast and coffee off the tray and set her breakfast carefully out in front of her before she spoke.
"You have all that room and all that privacy," she said. "Throw a party."
"We tried that," Martha said, "what we got was more girls. The few men that came, came with girls. We wound up with a lot of dirty glasses."
"Not that kind of a party. Invite only men. Tell them it's an invitation to stags only."
"They won't come," Betsy said, dolefully.
"Besides," Leslie said, "we don't know any men well enough to invite, with that kind of special invitation."
"I do," Sesame said. She was afraid for a moment that she was going to blush, but the moment passed.
"Well," Leslie said. "Then you'd have to do the inviting. And you'd have to promise to be there."
"Of course."
"You'll be the bait," Pat said.
"There's better bait than that." She played her trump card. "I'll tell them it's a topless party." She sat back, waiting for some kind of excited reaction. She got none.
"Ho," gamin-faced, slender Pat said, peering down at her adolescent-looking buds of breasts.
"Ho is right," Leslie said, also looking down. "They'll stay away in droves."
They gave up too easily, Sesame thought. She improvised quickly. It was a daring thought she had now, but these girls looked ready for desperation measures.
"All right," she said. "If you're game for it, I'll tell them it's going to be a bottomless party."
They looked at each other, before any one of them spoke.
"Well, I'm game enough," Pat said, "but I don't think I could go through with it. Walking out in front of strange men naked from the waist down."
"I don't mean that bottomless," Sesame said, patiently, as though talking to a child. "But no slacks, or shorts, or stretch pants, or anything like that. Just skirts. With nothing on underneath. Just the idea of it will tease them to death."
They looked at each other again.
"We're liable to have a panting multitude, if word gets around," Leslie said. "From no men at all to more than we can handle. Isn't there a happy medium somewhere?"
"I'll invite only three men," Sesame said. Phil, Lew Tony. Herman? Herman. "Four. I'll tell them to bring one friend apiece."
"Two," Betsy said, smiling.
"Two. But no more. That'll be twelve men, if each of the four brings the limit. That ought to be action enough."
Leslie smiled at her, fondly.
"You're a bright girl, Sesame," she said. "It should work. Break the ice for us, at the very least."
"At the very least," Sesame said. "Now, today is Sunday. Want to have the party today? At five, say? Drain off some of the men from the Happy Hour?"
"Why not?" Betsy said. "The sooner the better."
Sesame thought of something else.
"Today is Sunday," she said. "But I can get some liquor, in Ascot Bay, if you need it."
"We've got a good supply," Leslie said. "We expected to do a lot of entertaining."
"Cheese, and crackers, and potato chips, and stuff?" Sesame asked. She'd always been a good organizer.
"There's a store open near here," Martha said. "I'll take care of that." She was beginning to look interested, for the first time. Sesame made a note to get her to take off her glasses, before party time. Along with her pants. If she couldn't see without the glasses, she'd have to feel her way. More fun anyway.
"Okay," she said, sitting back, sipping her coffee. "If you'll take care of the refreshments, I'll take care of the invitations."
"The entertainment," Leslie said, "should take care of itself."
"I think I'll change all the sheets," Betsy said.
There seemed to be a glow in her cheeks, Sesame noticed. All her gloom had disappeared.
* * *
Sesame ran into Pete later that morning as she was on her way to the pool to find Phil and the rest and extend the bottomless invitations.
"I missed you at breakfast," he said. "But I was pretty early. Like I told you, I couldn't sleep."
"Guilty conscience?"
"What?"
"Nothing." She didn't want him to think that she was completely naive, about the neon-nippled brunette.
"I was thinking of you," Pete said. "That's why I couldn't sleep."
"Maybe you should have thought about me more earlier in the evening," she said coolly, "instead of disappearing. Maybe I wouldn't have drunk so much and felt sick. Maybe the whole evening would have been different."
This was the perfect time to make him feel guilty, treat him badly, make him unhappy. Cool his heels for a day. He'd be falling all over himself trying to please her by Monday. It was a time-tested female technique, and Sesame was quite familiar with it.
And, best of all, it would leave her free for the party, her social work, her Lonely Pussy Club.
"I told you, I was looking all over for you," Pete said, but he said it without any assurance. He was on thin ice, and he knew it.
"That's what you said. You were looking all over for me. Where? Under bushes? In random rooms? Between strange sheets?"
Pete was quiet for a long moment. He looked away from her, toward the distant mountains. He took a deep breath of the sparkling, invigorating air they told you about in the Bobcat brochure, and looked back at her. He didn't look properly repentant, she thought, and the thought disturbed her. He looked determined, more than anything else. There were knots of muscle at the corners of his jaw.
"All right," he said. "Let's start all over again. Let's say we just met today. There's a late-afternoon horseback ride over the trails today. With you ride with me?"
"Into the sunset?" she said. "No thank you." She knew about horseback riding and what it did to a girl. Made you horny. All that bouncing up and down on the beast between your spread legs. And she wasn't about to let herself get horny in Pete's presence. Not for a while. Not today, anyway.
"Why not?" He was persistent.
"I have a party to go to."
"Can't you take me along?"
"Not on a horse."
"Never mind the horses. I can finesse the horseback ride. Just me."
"No." She softened. No point in being too harsh. And she couldn't be downright rude. "It's an all girl party," she said. "I just made friends with them at breakfast." Some all-girl party. It better not be, or her days as a social worker were over.
"All right," he said, but the hurt disappointment on his face was so deep and so real she almost changed her mind, almost thought, the hell with the girls and their party. But Sesame wasn't that type. When she started something, she went through with it.
"Will I see you tomorrow?"
"Of course you will. If you look. And not where you looked last night."
"All right," Pete said. "You've given me enough hell about that. I'm really sorry about last night. Very damn sorry. I could cut off my arm."
"That's not what should be cut off," she said, before she could stop herself.
"What?"
"Nothing." But he'd heard her, all right. He tried to suppress a grin, but without any success.
"See you tomorrow," she said.
"You sure will."
She could feel his eyes on her as she walked away.
CHAPTER TEN
She found Phil and Lew at the swimming pool, right after she'd talked to Pete. They accepted her invitation to the girl's party with eagerness, and some signs of controlled excitement, somewhat noticeable in the area of the crotch.
"Just what do you mean, bottomless?" Phil asked, keeping his voice low. "The girls will be wearing nothing from the waist down?"
"Don't be silly," Sesame said, trying to appear shocked. "Do you think we're that immodest?"
"What, then?"
"Nothing on underneath."
"Well, hell, that's nothing," Lew said, leaning back in his chair. "That's cheating. You girls could wear slacks, or shorts."
"No slacks or shorts," Sesame said firmly. "Skirts or dresses. Short skirts or dresses."
"Now, that's worth while," Lew said. "I'll come bottomless myself."
Sesame was horrified.
"If you come parading that thing without any pants covering it, the whole damn place will be arrested."
"Not only that," Phil said. "The women will go berserk. They'll have to shoot them out of the trees."
"I'll walk backwards," Lew said. "I'll sort of troll with it."
"The party will become a stampede," Phil said. "Times Square on New Year's Eve."
"You wouldn't do anything so crazy," Sesame said to Lew.
"Not sober, he wouldn't," Phil muttered darkly.
"Drunk, either," Lew said, grinning. "I meant I'd come bottomless the same way you girls will be bottomless. Nothing underneath."
"Me too," Phil said. "Nothing to slow down the action, when the time comes."
"If there is any action," Lew said.
Sesame only smiled.
* * *
She caught up with Tony and Herman separately during the afternoon, and they both received the party news with enthusiasm. Tony said he'd bring two friends. Herman, one. She told them about Lew's plan to make the party mutually bottomless, and Tony and Herman went along with that too.
Great little ice-breaker this is going to be, Sesame thought happily, on her way back to the room to get ready. A red-letter day in the history of Hump House. A red-pussy day, she thought, and giggled aloud. She was getting awful. Something strange was happening to her here at Bobcat.
* * *
She walked up to the girls' cabin early, to give them a hand with the preparations, buy they were all ready, with hors d'ouevres out on plates and clean glasses inverted on folded towels and two frosted and beaded metal ice buckets full of cubes.
Like her, Sesame noticed, all the girls had chosen to wear thin sheer blouses and mini-skirts. And, like her, they were all bra-less. Nipples were everywhere in evidence, in varying degrees of pertness and pinkness, under translucent to transparent material.
But, Sesame noticed, as the girls moved around the room and bent over and sat, every one of them was wearing pants. So was she, but she'd considered the trip in the open too risky in the event of a breeze. Evidently the girls felt some sort of shyness or modesty among themselves.
"Nobody's going through with the bottomless condition of this party," Sesame said uneasily, as they sat around in silence, smoking and toying with their drinks.
"We will," Martha said. Without her glasses, and with make-up, she was a stunning-looking girl.
"It would be false advertising if we didn't," Sesame said. "The guests could sue for fraud."
"No fraud," Leslie said. "We'll take them off when the first guests arrive. You're sure they'll come?" She looked at Sesame, almost anxiously.
"They'll come, all right," she said. "In more ways than one, if everything works out according to plan." Stop talking like that, she told herself, but she had to smile. The others looked faintly uneasy, waiting.
But they didn't have long to wait. There was the sound of feet on the porch, and at the first knock, all the girls stood, Sesame with them, and in one swift motion, as if on strings held by a master puppeteer, they reached down and whipped off their pants, in a flash of assorted pussies, and tucked the pants away. In handbags. Under cushions. Behind the couch.
Sesame went to the door and opened it. After all, she was the one who had done the inviting. She was the only one who knew the guests. Or some of the guests, at least.
Phil and Lew were at the door, with their three friends bunched behind them. They made a small tight crowd on the tiny porch.
"Come in, you heathens," Sesame said, "and get religion."
"That's what we're here for," Lew said, grinning as he stepped into the room, followed by the others. "I missed church this morning."
Sesame introduced the girls. Phil introduced the men. Nobody on either side got any names straight, Sesame knew, but it didn't matter a bit. Lew and Phil were each carrying a wrapped brown-paper oblong that they handed to Sesame.
"A gift that gurgles," Phil said. "I can get more if you run out."
"Thank you," Sesame said. "You think of everything." He probably had thought of everything. He looked like a man with unlimited imagination when it came to a roomful of pants-less girls.
While Phil was making drinks, Tony arrived, with two more guests, and there were more introductions, and those introductions were hardly over when Herman arrived, with one friend. Herman looked faintly out of breath, which was understandable, since the girls' cabin was on the side of a hill. And Herman was hardly like a mountain goat. A goat, maybe, Sesame thought, remembering Herman's hard-on from the dance the night before, but hardly a mountain goat.
The room was filled now, and soon the hands were filled with drinks, but the men all looked a little uneasy, a little disbelieving, except for Phil and Lew, who would have looked perfectly at ease anywhere, Sesame thought, except possibly in heaven; and there was no danger of ever putting their poise to that test.
But a strained silence fell over the room, broken only by the muffled tinkle of ice in full glasses, and the occasional sound of swallowing. The girls were sitting with their knees primly together, looking faintly scared. Most of the men were standing, and with good reason. There was nothing left in the room to sit on.
"I think," Phil said suddenly. "I'll sit on the floor. No place else, you know." He grinned slyly as he said it.
Lew sat down beside him.
"Sometimes I think you're a genius," he said. "Best possible place to sit. See if this party's what it's cracked up to be. You should pardon the expression."
One by one, the other guests sank to the floor, holding their drinks carefully, and surveyed the circle of squeezed-together knees.
Something had to be done, Sesame thought. And it looked as if she'd have to be the one to do it.
Phil was looking at her, questioningly. She let her knees come apart slightly, and smiled at him. He touched the leg of the man next to him, who turned to look at Sesame. Two of the others, sensing something, looked at her, too.
She got cold feet. Instead of letting her knees come wide apart, and crossing her legs slowly, putting her pussy on display, she simply raised one knee straight up and crossed it over the other. But from where they sat, the men got at least a glimpse of hair, a hint of pinkness. At least they had some inclination that the whole affair wasn't a fraud.
"Did anyone ever call you 'Open Sesame,' Sess?" Phil asked.
She looked at him, startled.
"Yes," she said. "Whatever made you think of that name?"
"Just a thought," he said.
"In high school. I guess I was a little careless with my skirt."
"Careless?" Lew said.
"A tease. And for a while the boys did call me Open Sesame."
"You say for a while. What happened?"
"The teacher put a stop to it. Too many of the boys were flunking Trigonometry."
"Is that the subject with all the angles?" one of the men she didn't know asked.
"Every subject has a lot of angles," Martha said, shifting around on the sofa. But she kept her knees together.
"They'd call you Closed Sesame now," Phil said, looking at her crossed knees.
"Don't be picking on Sesame," Leslie said. "It's not her responsibility to get this party off to a flying start."
"Or some kind of an effing start," Lew said. He smiled when he said it.
"I think I'll change into something else," Leslie said, standing and moving across the room, almost regal with her slender tall body and model's grace. "It's this miniskirt costume that has everybody uneasy. Too much like a uniform. I'll be right back."
She disappeared into one of the bedrooms. And almost before anyone could say anything, she was back. The men stirred. The ice in the room began to melt.
Leslie was wearing a short translucent, almost transparent, belted white robe, obviously with nothing underneath. She did a model's twirl, to erase any doubts.
She was thin, there was no other word for it. Her long, slim legs were elegantly formed but seemed as delicate, as breakable, as fine china. Her breasts were high and firm, but small, hardly more than swellings. Her puckered nipples showed through the sheer fabric, purple and pointing. Her ass was nicely shaped, under the robe, Sesame thought, but flat. Compared to her own, anyway.
But the men's eyes were wide, almost bulging, and when Leslie turned toward her, Sesame saw why.
Despite the classic beauty of her face, atop that long willowy body, Leslie had one startlingly outstanding physical attraction, an attraction that was a magnet to every male eye in the room. The men stared, transfixed, at the eye-catcher that drew all eyes to center stage.
Leslie's snatch-or, at first glance, her snatch-hair, her bush. It jutted forth, seeming to blossom blackly, starting halfway down her flat white belly, actually pushing out the wisp of a robe in front of her. The thicket of dark hair seemed to have a life of its own. It seemed to sprout and grow, a living, luxuriant oasis, bubbling with hidden mysterious springs, for the quenching of any and all thirsts, crowding the room with its presence, it's very being. The men stared in silence, some with their mouths open, some gulping soundlessly, until Leslie turned to her chair and sat down, crossing her legs, hiding the life-giving oasis of joy between them. She smiled, innocently, at no one in particular.
Lew took a deep breath and let it out in a long, quivering sigh.
The ice was broken.
Martha crossed her legs, slowly, casually, letting her knees come wide apart, giving every man in the room who wanted to look a clear view of her pink, parted pussy-lips.
Pert, innocent young gamin-faced Pat simply raised one knee and draped it over an arm of the couch. Her petite pussy, framed in silken strands of long auburn hair, peeped pinkly out at the room, puckered, impersonal, tender-looking, and infinitely vulnerable.
Big blonde Betsy slid forward where she sat, letting her skirt ride back to her hips, and as her knees parted with seeming carelessness, her cunt opened like a cavern. A warm, dark, shrub-lined entrance.
The men guests were sliding and scuttling across the floor, like so many crabs, in the direction of one welcoming, opening door of flesh or another.
Without her knowing it, Sesame's own knees had parted, and she felt a hand caressing her calf. She looked down. The calf-caressing hand belonged to a tall blond boy, about her own age. She recognized him as one of the friends brought by Tony.
"Hello," she said.
"I'm Norman," he said, "if you didn't catch the name earlier."
"Pleased to meet you," she said. He was kissing the inside of her knee.
"And you're Sesame," he said, interrupting his kissing for a second. "Open Sesame, now." His mouth traveled further up her inner thigh. She felt her skin starting to tingle. She relaxed her legs, let them travel as far apart as they pleased. The blond boy named Norman seemed to know where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do. She let sensation take over, let her eyes wander the room, curious to see what was going on.
Leslie was directly across from her, facing her. Lew was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, looking at the thin girl in her diaphanous robe. Sesame could see only the back of his head, but she could hear him speak, clearly enough.
"You're being so formal," she heard Lew saying to Leslie. She was the only girl in the room who had her legs crossed, although her robe had fallen away to the hips.
"Am I?" Leslie asked, smiling, her lips spreading redly, her teeth flashing white. "Well, fuck formality." She said it sweetly, demurely, like a little girl at a garden party saying she liked vanilla ice cream better than pistachio.
Very slowly and deliberately, she uncrossed her slender white legs, opening a wide snowy V as she casually lifted one leg and let it hang, swinging, over one arm of her chair.
"Like that better?" she asked Lew, smiling almost shyly down toward him.
"A lot better," he said. Even from the angle of the back of his head, Sesame could tell that he was staring.
His eyes had to be bulging. Through the great dark bristling bush of dark cunt hair, the long dusky-pink lips of Leslie's twat parted, and a brilliant shining redness showed through, gleaming as though wet already. It was a sight to drive a calm man insane, and Lew was not the calmest of men, Sesame knew.
"You're still formal," Leslie said, looking directly at Lew. There was a lot of activity in the room now, but Leslie seemed unaware of it. So was Lew, with good reason. And Sesame kept her attention riveted on the two of them, only dimly aware of the awakening sensation caused by the creeping tongue high on her inner thigh.
"Yes, I am," Lew said, and stood up abruptly, dropping his trousers as he did so.
And he'd kept his promise, all right, about being bottomless. His gigantic branch of a cock sprang upward and out the second it was released. He was standing in profile to Sesame, and she caught her breath at the enormity of his prick, pulsing upward toward the ceiling. It looked bigger even than it had looked yesterday, but maybe that's because she was seeing it sideways, really, for the first time. Yesterday she'd been facing it head on.
But Leslie was seeing the monster for the first time, from any angle, all of it, from the full hanging ball-sack to the wrist-thick base right up to the throbbing, glistening-hard, deep-purple head.
"For God's sweet sake!" Leslie said, gulping, and was stunned speechless for a second. Sesame watched the numb expression on the exquisite, classic features of the girl with something like pride. Pride in her own discovery. Lew's lovely big lobber of a prick. Leslie got her voice back.
"Heaven help us," she said. "And this has to be heaven. I'd never have believed it."
As Sesame watched, fascinated-Lew was watching too, with more than simple fascination, she could tell by the angle of his head-the lips of Leslie's all-embracing cunt parted damply, much like a mouth hungrily ready to take in food.
"Well, now that we're not being formal anymore," Sesame heard Lew say, "I'd like to kiss you hello."
"What's that?" Leslie said. There was a look of astonishment on her normally cool, composed features.
"I'd like to give you a sort of cousinly kiss," Lew said. "A greeting, an affectionate salute, a warm respectful sort of hello."
"It seems like a strange request," Leslie said, looking perplexed. "I don't know quite what you mean."
"Let me show you," Lew said. Sesame watched as he stood up and crossed the room to where the slim girl was sitting with her snowy-white slender legs spread so casually in a wide welcome. Sesame saw none of the other activity in the room, only felt the tantalizing tongue between her own legs, as Lew knelt between Leslie's open legs and planted a deep, sucking, tongue-probing kiss on the hungry open mouth of her cavernous red cunt.
"Ooh, ooh, Jesus," Leslie sighed, shuddering. Her cool composure was a thing of the past.
Lew shifted his position, and Sesame got a glimpse of him looking up, smiling wetly.
"Well, Hello," she heard him say.
"Oh, God, you're too much," Leslie said, shakily. "Let's get that heavenly nightmare of a cock of yours into the bedroom, right away. I almost came, a minute ago, just looking at it."
She stood and headed for the door to one of the bedrooms, dropping her robe to the floor as she went. No one in the room seemed to notice her leaving. Everybody was too busy. The room was filled with the soft, wet sounds of licking and sucking.
Sesame stood up, past the gulping protest of the boy whose head was between her legs, and followed the tall thin girl into the bedroom. She had taken a seat in the chair next to the bed as Lew came into the room, preceded by the advance guard of his great throbbing red lance. The blonde boy came through the door after Lew, and took up his place between Sesame's automatically opening legs.
The bedroom had two three-quarter beds, close together. Leslie stood between them. There was something commanding about her cunt, reigning redly over the room. And something queenly and commanding in Leslie's manner.
"I don't want you to do anything," Leslie said to Lew, "except lie down on your back on one of the beds. I'll take care of all the action. Oh, damn, will I take care of the action."
Lew did as he was told. Sesame watched, in a state of high excitement, as he stretched out flat on his back, his hands under the back of his head, the pulsating pole of his monstrous pecker seeming to reach halfway to the ceiling. Leslie stepped up onto the bed and stood astride Lew, her great red glistening cunt seeming to flame in the middle of the dark jungle of her bush. Her pussy was suspended, precariously, it seemed, on those long slender white legs, directly above the straining tip of Lew's straining prick. That monster, Sesame thought. It's met its match.
Slowly, deliberately, seeming to tease herself as well as Lew, Leslie bent her knees and let herself down in one tantalizing but unhesitating descent until the wet open mouth of her hungry cunt engulfed the apple-hard head of Lew's cock. For a split second, Sesame experienced vicariously the sensation of that monster fitting itself into her own tight twat. She squirmed, breaking the suction of the blond boy's mouth on her cunt-lips. He looked up at her, reproachfully, then settled back to his work, sucking and licking with devoted enthusiasm. She put her hands behind his head, abstractedly, to encourage his efforts.
Sesame watched as Leslie's warm, wet, welcoming cunt made the long descent down Lew's thick hard crowbar of a shaft. Suddenly, Leslie seemed to go berserk. Completely ape. It was like putting a plug in a socket. Suddenly, through the outlet of her cunt, Leslie was electrified. She closed her eyes, tight, squeezed shut, and screamed, and gyrated her hips in a wild circular motion, as if to escape the impaling, up-thrusting spear, as her cunt, with a mind of its own, demanded a deeper, and deeper, and deeper penetration and exploration of her vast inner, demanding domain.
Sesame watched, quivering in her excitement, as Lew lay back, his hips arched and the entire thrusting length of his enormous prick at the complete disposal of Leslie's ravenous, gulping twat. Sesame could see that there was no possibility of his matching any kind of rhythm or stroke to Leslie's crazy, mindless grinding. Sesame looked at the thin girl's normally lovely face. It was unrecognizable-the eyes squeezed shut as if in agony, the mouth twisted in a grotesque distortion of a grin, issuing groans and squeals that had no resemblance to any human sound.
Leslie kept raising her hips, without stopping her circular grinding motion, and, before Sesame's astonished eyes, her cunt-lips would convulse around Lew's thick slippery shaft, clutching and squeezing the rock-hardness with a death-grip around the swollen neck and throat. Leslie's throat writhed, too, the Adam's apple riding up and down in a series of insane gymnastics triggered by the messages of hysterical delight sent up from twat-control. With her writhing, squirming, squealing, gyrating, grinding, pumping histrionics, the girl appeared to be in a state of perpetual orgasm, a pussy gone mad. To Sesame, Lew's solid oaken shaft of a cock seemed to be an interested participant, but not much else. Sort of a supporting member of the cast. Or an umpire at a ball game, a referee at a fight. But Leslie's electric, all-engulfing, devouring cunt was the spotlight attraction, the main show.
When God made this girl, Sesame thought, watching her go through her paroxysms around Lew's upright pole, he built a cunt. An ultimate cunt. A cunt to end all cunts. The rest of Leslie was just an afterthought.
Lew looked over at Norman and grinned. It was almost if he were a spectator, too. He noticed the bobbing blond head of the boy licking and gabbling Sesame's delicately pumping pussy, and his grin broadened.
"I bet she's never had anything like that inside her," Sesame said, but it was more a gasp. Lew put a finger to his lips.
"Be careful," he said, "You're liable to wake the baby."
"Fat chance," Sesame said, her hips undulating, her legs squeezing the blond head lovingly. "She's in another world. Or in the heaven she was talking about before."
Leslie was emitting a series of gasping shrieks now, as she made regular pumping trips up and down Lew's sliding shaft. His hips, Sesame noticed, were arched up off the bed now. Suddenly she wanted something inside her own cunt, something beside a tongue. She put a forefinger on the forehead between her legs, and pushed slightly. The wet mouth came up for air. The eyes were questioning.
"Fuck me," she said simply.
She'd come a long way, she thought. A long way in the ten miles from Ascot Bay.
She lay back on the vacant bed, with her legs spread wide, her knees raised, and the blond boy mounted her instantly. His rampant rod slid in easily, into the urgent slithery welcome of her hot panting pussy. Her legs enclosed his hips, and she drove her cunt up tight against the base of his pelvis, grinding. She'd give him the fucking of his lifetime, she thought. The fucking of his Bobcat vacation, anyway.
But it was over almost before it began. She began to come in a series of trip hammer spasms, and felt her burning, twitching inside bathed in the blond boy's answering, spurting balm.
More to come, she started telling herself, even as the waves of sensation were washing over her inner delirium. More to come.
Leslie's thin screams rang out, quivering in her ears.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They moved back into the living room together, as a group, Lew and Leslie and Sesame and the blond boy, whose name was Norman. They moved with the calm, mutual weariness of a foursome who had just finished a rubber of bridge and were headed for the kitchen to freshen the drinks. But their resemblance to bridge players was not complete: they were all totally naked. And both Sesame and Leslie carried unmistakable wet sticky streams, glistening on the inner sides of their just-invaded thighs.
Leslie and Sesame spied lust's residue on each other at the same time, and turned to the bathroom. When they got back to the living room, Lew and Barry were sitting on the floor, propped against a wall, with a full drink in all four hands, watching the scene before them with a kind of bemused tolerance. They handed drinks up to Leslie and Sesame.
"Thank you," Sesame said to Barry. Remember your manners, her mother had told her.
"Yes," Leslie said, turning and letting her back slide down the wall next to where Lew was sitting. "You're both so thoughtful. I never can think of anything, afterwards, for a while, anyway. Anything practical, that is, like a drink."
"That's because you go completely out of your mind," Lew said. "In a nice way, of course."
"That rapturizer of yours would drive any girl right out of her whole head."
"Now, Leslie," Sesame said. "Don't be vulgar."
"Never mind vulgar," Barry said. "Take a look at the scene in this room."
Sesame sat down beside him, against the wall, being careful not to spill any of her drink, and turned to take in the scene.
It was like nothing she'd ever dreamed, even in the wildest ones. It was a great, human bucket of eels, assholes and elbows everywhere, balls slapping, pricks slithering, hips pumping, mouths and tongues licking and sucking.
"And they used to talk about the old Romans," Lew said. "Them and their Coliseum and their Christians and lions and their no-holds-barred, all-purpose orgies. Jesus. The Romans could take lessons, right here in this room."
"I wonder what's going on in the other bedroom?" Leslie asked.
"Do you have to wonder?" Barry murmured.
"I'm going to take a look."
"Now, Leslie," Sesame said. "Let them have their privacy. It must be the shy ones, in there." It was her New Hampshire upbringing, she thought. She was really a prude, at heart. But only at heart. Nowhere else on her ever-loving body, thank God.
"Anyone for gin rummy?" Lew asked. "It looks like we're way past the strip-poker stage."
Sesame took a deep sip of her drink and all at once the scene in the room was more than she could stand. Too much, all at once. She felt a little dizzy, disembodied, apart from the whole sucking, fucking, squirming mass of tangled bodies. She stood up and took a deep breath.
"Excuse me," she said, to no one in particular, and went back to the one empty room, the bedroom she'd just left, and stretched out the bed, still now, that had just been bouncing under her. The room revolved, for a minute, then stopped.
She slept.
* * *
When she woke, it was dark outside. She was alone, on her bed, but there was a sleeping couple dimly entwined on the bed next to hers. She stood up, soundlessly, and felt her way back to the living room.
Someone had turned on the lights in that room, and the shaded lamps threw a soft glow over the slumped bodies. Everyone seemed to be asleep. There had to be others in the other bedroom, she realized, even without counting heads. Or pussies. Or cocks. She wanted a drink.
After she'd made herself a drink she came back and sat down in the one empty easy chair and looked curiously at the recumbent forms.
Slender young Pat, with her head propped in a halo of tumbled auburn hair against an arm of the sofa, was sleeping peacefully on her back, her tender pink vulnerable-looking young mouth slightly open. She was snoring, very softly, a lady-like little girlish snore. Her long, lithe, graceful legs were akimbo, and the fine silky hair of her bush was damp and matted almost flat, with here and there a single strand popping up. One tender, bright pink fold peeped forth between the pursed pussy-lips. Even in slumber, her slender white body seemed supple, pliant, ready to bend in any direction, willingly, for any pleasant reason.
Phil was sleeping on his side, his head between Pat's feet, on the carpet, propped partially against the front of the couch. His own feet had slid forward until his head had touched the couch, and there apparently his sliding motion had stopped. Phil looked very serene, in sleep, Sesame thought, even in that position. His cock hooked slightly to the right, she noticed; the hook was only apparent when his prick was limp, as it was now. Phil's mouth hung slightly agape, and he was snoring, too-a much louder, deeper snore than Pat's, an obbligato to the high, thin melodic line of her breathy tune.
"A drink?" a voice said quietly. Sesame turned. It was Lew, against the wall, a different wall than before, but waking up. Sesame held up her glass.
"I have a full one," she said, whispering. "I just made it. I just woke up myself."
"Then I'll make myself one," Lew said, padding toward the kitchenette. His balls swung loosely down between his legs as he walked. Fascinating, Sesame thought. So defenseless, like that.
When Lew came back with his drink, Sesame noticed, his limp cock had lengthened somewhat, and stood out from his body with a long downward curve. Like a rainbow, she thought, without the colors. It described a fascinating up-and-down arc when he walked. It seemed to be coming up a notch or two at a time, then dropping back a half notch, and Sesame felt a tiny twinge of disappointment with each half-notch down, a small surge of elation with the twitching upwards.
"I just thought of a wonderful way to wake Pat, there," Lew whispered. Of all the sleeping forms in the room, Sesame realized, the only one Lew paid any attention to was Pat's. And he knew her name, too. Something must have gone on while she was asleep.
Lew's great oaken log stood out straight in front of him, now, parallel to the floor. For one giddy moment, Sesame thought of setting her drink down on the broad, smooth flat top of Lew's beam, but thought better of it. The glass would be too cold. Too cruel. And the stiffness might desert him for a moment, and spill her drink. You had to be practical, think of consequences, when you had silly impulses like that one.
"Wake her if you want to." Sesame said. "I'll use a little imagination to wake Herman, there. You know Herman? Wonderful dancer." She was feeling playful. Herman was asleep in a chair, his head on his broad furry chest, his arms hanging to the floor. His pecker hanging, too, but not to the floor. It was slim, and limp, and white. And totally at her mercy, totally helpless.
"I know Herman," Lew said, nodding. "But I never danced with him." He set his drink down on the coffee table and moved to the end of the sofa where Pat lay with her head back, her chin up, her smooth little mound of Adam's apple moving gently under the white delicate skin of her long swan's neck. Her tender pale young-girl lips were parted, as if expecting a kiss, from a knight on a white horse maybe, Sesame thought, to awaken her.
Leaning forward. Lew touched the soft wrinkles of skin beneath the head of his extended thick prick to the tip of Pat's shiny sunburned nose.
Pat's eyes opened, reluctantly, it seemed. Good God, Sesame thought; it must be like regaining consciousness on the deck of a big sail board and seeing the boom pass above you.
Awake all at once, Pat did not look around, did not seem the least bit interested in anyone or anything else in the room, except that massive limb above her face. She moved her head minutely from side to side, like a cobra's to the sound of a flute, her eyes transfixed by the massive instrument that must have seemed to her big enough to blot out the sun. She reached up one delicate, slender hand and gripped the monstrous cock around the base. Or as far around the base as her hand would reach. Her tongue extended, pink and tender and pointed, and tentatively licked at the soft shawl of under-skin that was the part of Lew's great wonderful wand that had awakened her. Using just the tip of her tongue, Pat tickled the underpart of Lew's prick from the top all the way down to the base, then started to lick it, with long deliberate strokes of the full breadth of her tongue, like the efficient strokes of a broad paintbrush, from the base just above the ball-sack to the cleft under head, and back down again.
Good Christ, Sesame thought, if she tries to take that big brute of a choker into her mouth, she'll have to unhinge her jaws, like a garter snake swallowing a frog. Lew looked over at her, smiled, and winked.
She got up out of her chair, put down her drink, and moved over to where Herman sat in his chair. He was still asleep, his head down on his chest, snoring softly. She studied his slender little hanging pecker for a while, then got to her knees between his legs and thought for a moment. Something different. She had it.
She raised her hands along her body and cupped her breasts in her palms, bringing them up underneath Herman's dangling, inert penis, cradling it in the yielding soft crevice between her breasts. She jiggled the mouthwatering flesh mattress up and down, flipping the short slim length of Herman's limp hose into the air, catching it back in its soft hammock. It made a tiny slapping sound.
But after a few trips into the air and back, Herman's suddenly swelling cock did not fall back into its cradle, but stood out with a mind of its own, rising and growing, stiffening upward and deepening in color. The eye in the center of the pointed head winked at her and seemed to smile. She smiled back at it, and looked up into Herman's wide-open eyes.
He was smiling, beatifically, and she wondered if he'd really been asleep, or had been only faking.
"I never got woken up like that before," he said, moving his hips forward on the edge of the chair, letting his knees spread wider apart. "It sure beats any alarm clock I ever had."
"Don't you think it's time for fun and games, Herman?" Sesame asked. "You've slept long enough."
"I sure have," Herman said, and put his hand lightly around the back of her neck. He turned his head then and looked across the room to where Pat was holding Lew's astonishing telephone-pole of a cock with her two hands, licking and nibbling up and down along the underside of it like someone eating an ear of corn. Pat was totally unconscious of the spread of her thighs, the tender pink slit of her cunt, framed by the silken strand of auburn hair, the tender little fold of pink peeping out at the center, like the tip of a tongue.
Sesame had Herman's whole pulsing cock in her mouth now, licking and sucking its entire responding stiff length. She felt Herman's other hand reach up behind her neck, and rolled her eyes upward to watch him. Holding her, keeping her mouth busy on his cock, Herman moved out of his chair and sank to the floor, leaning over sideways. Turning his head, holding Sesame to her sucking, he began to gulp at Pat's exposed, unresisting twat.
It seemed as if he'd done it by request. Pat spread her slender legs wider, groaned with deep contentment, and kept on licking and sucking at Lew's now-glistening wet cock.
Sesame bent further forward and lifted the limp sack of Herman's loosely enclosed nuts into her mouth, sucking at them, rolling them on her tongue. His stiff swollen prick stood straight up, pulsing, and touched the tip of her nose. She let his balls fall from between her lips and began licking his stiff shaft again, with full wet strokes of her tongue, on the underside, from base to tip.
At the termination of one of her tongue's trips to the head of Herman's stiff, lively shaft, Sesame leaned forward farther and raised her whole body, bracing herself with her hands flat on the floor. Again she took Herman's whole cock into her mouth, the pulsating tip touching the back of her upper palate, and began to lick and suck alternately. She could hear Herman's ecstatic moans, muffled slightly by the tight embrace of Pat's slim soft thighs around his head.
Sesame loved the sensation of the rigid, throbbing cock in her mouth, enjoyed the feeling it gave her to have her lips squeezed greedily around its stiff, slippery shaft, sucking it, licking it, gobbling it-but there was something missing. She didn't feel complete where it mattered, down at the meeting of her thighs, the burning core of all her sensations and desires.
Wise old Lew must have been reading her mind, she thought a moment later.
"Why don't we get down on the rug," he said. "All four of us. We can improvise better lying down."
Sesame raised her head and watched as he turned away from Pat, his limb swinging empty away from her sucking lips, her tongue lapping at emptiness. Sesame gave Herman's cock one long last deep suck, and turned to watch Lew.
He stepped across the room, across a couple of sleeping forms, and lay down on his side in a cleared area of the carpet. Sesame thought she understood. Holding Herman's cock in one hand, lovingly, she stood up and took a couple of steps backward to where Lew was lying. Lingeringly, reluctantly, Herman freed his sucking mouth from its pleasure-source between Pat's thighs, and followed obediently after Sesame. He had to. Her grasp on his prick was firm and possessive.
Pat sat bolt upright, looking confused, as if she couldn't figure out at all what was going on. Then her head seemed to clear. She went over and lay down on her side and resumed her licking and nibbling and sucking along the length of Lew's gleaming wet weapon.
Sesame let herself down to the carpet, lying on her side, and raised her top leg. Lew's mouth went immediately to the sweetness of her streaming cunt, like a hummingbird to a flower. His head pillowed itself on the soft comfort of her lower thigh, and Sesame went back to her sucking of Herman's pulsing prick.
They lay that way for a long time, the four of them, unconscious of anyone else in the room, each mouth occupied with its own giving and receiving of pleasure, each organ of ecstasy getting its full attention, the maximum of sucking, licking stimulation and gratification from another mouth, another tongue.
Sesame heard the gasping squeals of Pat's orgasm, in a series of high groans that seemed to catch in the girl's throat; seconds after Pat's flurry started, she felt Herman's thick body stiffen and arch itself toward her mouth. His throbbing, reaching slender prick slid deep and spurted its murky hot load into the back of her throat. She reached up with her right hand, squeezed the shaft, and milked the pumping cock into her sucking mouth, until she could feel that Herman was drained dry.
Lew's expert tongue in her twat, the gulping suction of his hungry mouth, had brought Sesame to a kind of plateau of ecstatic gratification, a delirious euphoria of the cunt. But she was far from coming, right then. For some strange reason, she didn't want to reach her orgasm, not quite yet. Lew hadn't come either, she noticed, looking sideways at him. Pat had somehow managed to get the whole head of his enormous cock into her mouth, but she lay quite still and lifeless, as if numbed by the fury of her apparently unfamiliar licked-and-sucked orgasm. Her jaws were opened wide, to their fullest extension, but appeared to be slack, with her mouth motionless around the thick neck of Lew's stretching, rigid cock. The veined and muscled shaft still stood out with the hardness and apparent durability of a hickory limb.
Oh, God, it was huge. It scared her. Frightened her to death.
But the unsated demands of her quivering cunt were tearing at her. If she gave in, looking at Lew's destroyer of a cock ...
She rolled away determinedly from the suction of his mouth.
"Would anyone like a fresh drink?" she asked.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Sesame rejoined the group and gave them their fresh drinks, they were all off the floor. Pat was sitting back in her corner of the couch, Herman in the opposite corner.
Sesame took a seat in the easy chair facing Lew, and knew at once that her trip to the kitchen hadn't changed anything for her. She was as cock-hungry as ever, and Lew was the cause of it. His enormous hard-on pointed straight at the ceiling, undaunted and undiminished by Pat's mouth's eager ministrations, her loving lapping and licking.
Somebody ought to throw a tablecloth over that pole of Lew's, Sesame thought, trying to distract herself. Make a kind of circus tent. But it was no use. Tablecloth or no, circus or otherwise, Lew's fiercely erect red giant of a cock was the one magnetic attraction in the room, for Sesame. Her twat was desperate for it, itching for it. Drooling for it.
Others in the room were waking, stirring, but Sesame paid them no attention. All at once her fear was gone. Dissipated completely by her desire.
"Lew?" she said, looking at his face, with an effort. Tearing her eyes upward.
"Yes?"
"I can't fight it any longer."
"I've been waiting for you to say something like that," he said. "It's high time for me, too."
Lew stood up and crossed the room to where she sat, and started to lean over her, where she sat in the chair. Instinctively, she slid to the floor. The only place for this action, she thought. The main event. I'm going to need room. To get away from that monster of a girl-destroying cock, if necessary.
Lew dropped to the floor beside her, and pushed her back, so she lay stretched out. He was very gentle as he leaned over and kissed her. She opened her mouth as if starved for his tongue, and her own tongue leapt up to meet it. His hands crept across the smooth, tender, tingling surface of her back, tasted the warm yielding swell of her buttocks, teased and caressed the backs of her legs, lingered lovingly on the warmth of her inner thighs.
He untangled his tongue from hers, broke the suction of his mouth on hers, explored the insides of her ears with the tip of his tongue, squeezed the lobes between his lips.
She squirmed, and closed her eyes. But even with her eyes closed, she had a wide-screen, Technicolor image of his huge, red prick with its hard, swollen purple head.
Lew kissed the side of her neck, moved his softly-sucking lips across her throat, as his hands traveled over the whole quivering, responding surface of her body, caressing, squeezing, stroking. His mouth and tongue negotiated their way down to the waiting globes of her swelling breasts, his lips squeezing first one hard, erect nipple, then the other. Baring his teeth, he bit one nut-hard bud, gently.
Without taking his licking, sucking mouth from her breast, he rolled over and arched himself up, and Sesame looked down, for one last glimpse of the enormity that her little country cunt was going to try to cope with. She could feel her eyes widening, like the eyes of a small child on its first roller-coaster ride.
Now that she was facing it squarely, ready to take it into her straining, delirious twat for the first time, it looked more immense than ever. The great swollen head was as big, as smooth, as hard, as shiny as an apple.
How could she ever fit that into her limited little cunt cave, she asked herself? Bull by the horns, she told herself. She reached forward and grasped Lew's throbbing monstrosity between both hands.
She was filled, from toes to eyebrows, with a hot, eager, pulsing excitement. Any girl in her right mind, she thought, would be frightened to death with the prospect of taking on that giant instrument of destruction for the first time, but all at once Sesame was anything but frightened. In all that morass of wetness, that quivering, wanting cavern of desire between her thighs, the way she felt now she could take on the Eiffel Tower. Tourists and all.
She felt Lew's middle finger-she was sure it was his middle finger-sliding back and forth across the swollen, slippery, squirming snake of her clitoris. Her legs spread wide, all by themselves, without her willing them apart; her hips too began to revolve. All by themselves, without being told.
"Now?" Lew's face was over hers.
"Now, yes, now. Yes, yes, now."
Lew arched to his knees between the wide V of her thighs, and she let her left hand drop to her side on the floor as she took the hard shiny red apple of his prickhead between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, guiding the great cumbersome rocket shaft toward the wet, waiting swollen lips of her quivering, hysterically-hungry cunt mouth. When the head was firmly grasped in the soft welcoming embrace of her loving twat-arms, she let go her grip with her guiding fingers, and Lew took over.
He launched his great rocket from his pelvic-pad slowly, with a gentle, forward pressure of his hips. Sesame was reminded of movies she'd seen of the berthing of a giant ocean liner. She moaned happily as the huge liner slid inside her deep, opening, slippery, warm channel of quivering sensation, pushing the shores back, stretching her inner walls.
When the shaft was imbedded half way, the ship only partially docked, Sesame felt completely full, stuffed, complete. Her cunt-cavern was crowded, crowded with a full, stretching joy. Lew halted his hips, stopped inching the prow of the great ship forward.
"Enough?" he asked.
"No," she almost screamed.
"You want more?" He was leaning above her, carrying his weight on his elbows, his face now directly above hers. He looked worried, actually worried, and she knew that he wasn't just teasing, when he asked if she wanted more of his great thick hard destroyer of a cock. All at once she knew that, from the outside, her cunt had a young, fresh, dewy delicate appearance, and appearance that made Lew hesitate. She liked Lew, all at once, better than she ever had.
"I want every bit of it, Lew," she said, squeezing out the words. "Every wonderful fucking inch. Every lovely, long, thick, hard, juicy, jammed-in fucking inch."
Lew's rocket of a rod went on with its deepening, widening, exploring journey. Sesame lifted her knees and spread them wide with her hands, as Lew mounted one long, inexorable downward thrust. She felt the pelvic mound at the base of his cock grind to a halt, hard against her own, and the long crowbar hardness of the entire length of his throbbing, singing telephone pole of a prick was inside her stretched, squeezing twat-sheath. My God, she thought, the head must be up around my lungs somewhere. Her throat seemed to be clogged with something. She couldn't have uttered a word right then if she'd had to.
She squeezed his hips hotly with her grateful legs, her feet hooked tightly behind him. With slow deliberation, he eased the shaft out of her sucking cunt, until only the head remained in the grasp of her spasmodically clutching inner lips, held it there for what seemed an interminable moment, then sank it again, deep into her cunt-depths, in one long, sure, plunging stroke.
She heard herself emit a choking gasp, as her hips rose instinctively to push her hot-twat-lips tight against the base of his shaft.
"Oh, fuck me, fuck me hard, Lew," she said, through gritted teeth. "Fuck me deep, way in there. Ream me, ream out my twat with the big hard reamer. Fuck me so I'll never forget it. Fuck me now for all the rest of the year."
She was babbling. She didn't care. There were people all around them, awake now, watching. She didn't care.
Lew began to fuck her with a deliberate, exquisite rhythm, driving the entire length of his monster far into her depths with every stroke, and her hips instinctively joined with his timing, bringing her gulping, gluttonous cunt up to greet his every in-stroke, grasping and holding and clutching at the thick, slimy, stiff shaft on every out-stroke.
She felt his hand sliding under her lifting ass, felt it spread itself under the round, spasm-wrenched globes. She felt his finger slide into the tightness of her asshole.
The elastic drawstring of her sphincter muscle seemed to loosen, unpuckering her asshole, welcoming his finger, greeting the added sensation, as his finger penetrated to the knuckle, sliding back and forth against the bottom wall of her vagina, slipping and tickling through the wall of membrane against the hard, pulsing under shaft of his invading cock.
They fucked in joyous harmony for a long time. Sesame was dimly aware of a circle of faces above them, but paid them no heed. She lost all track of time. She could not have guessed whether they'd been fucking for five minutes or five hours or five months, and she wanted it to go on forever and ever, but she couldn't keep her surging excitement from mounting, climbing steadily toward a peak she couldn't conceive of. She was aware that Lew was keeping himself under rigid control, that he was waiting for the precise second of her orgasm before he let himself go. For just one second, she was afraid of that rocket's explosion inside her.
Almost imperceptibly, then, Lew began to increase the tempo of his strokes, to quicken the rhythm, not shortening his thrust at all, but making it swifter, harder, more demanding. She found herself being whipped to a mindless frenzy of sensation, as his heroic spear stabbed deeply into and out of her with lightning strokes. Lew was banging it into her with a fury, again and again, with thumping, jarring jolts, and soon she felt herself surging into a crazed frenzy. She heard herself crying out, heedlessly, over the sucking sounds of her inflamed cunt gulping at Lew's sliding shaft.
Then she heard a long, quivering scream in the room, and after a moment knew it was her own. She felt her body go rigid as she came to her orgasm, once, and again, and again.
Lew's hot wet juices splashed up inside her, squirting, spurting, bathing her broiled squirming insides. With her eyes squeezed closed, she saw skyrockets bursting, at first, then a great engulfing wave of red flashing inside her mind, spasms pounded in diminishing waves along her inner cunt-shores.
Lew waited until she was completely limp, relaxed, so quiet she almost thought she was going to sleep, before he pulled his lingering limp instrument of joy out of her clinging cunt. As it left the swampy refuge of her twat, his softening cock made a soft, wet, plopping sound, like a wet cork being pulled from the neck of a bottle.
She opened her eyes and looked up, like a patient coming out of a post-operative coma. She saw a circle of smiling faces, and remembered dimly hearing the sound of applause, as if in a dream, during the last frantic pounding seconds.
It didn't matter. She smiled back at the faces.
It looked as if the party was a success.
For her, anyway.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"You've got to get a grip on yourself, girl," Sesame told herself grimly, in the shower the next morning. She was very, very sore, in the area of her ultimate joy, from Lew's prodigious reaming and the multitudinous, mass fucking that followed. She'd had enough of that activity, she decided, to make up for all the years she'd lost. Enough to last her for the rest of her life.
Or for the next few days, anyway, she thought, as she stepped out of the shower. Showers always made her feel better. But she was determined to spend some of her vacation on vertical activities. Like tennis. She'd always enjoyed tennis, been very good at it, in fact. Captain of the high school girls' tennis team, her senior year. Tennis, now, for sure. And volleyball. Another good sport, a team sport, that she'd been good at. She'd always been a good, all-round athlete. Ail-American girl, she thought, and grinned inwardly, thinking of Lew's All-American cock. Horseback riding. She winced, feeling a sharp twinge between her legs just at the thought of it. Well, no horseback riding, for a while, anyway. Tennis, though. She just wouldn't do much rushing of the net, for a few days.
She was still faintly hung over when she went down to breakfast. That was something else she'd have to correct. Cut down on the booze intake. She'd come here to enjoy herself, not suffer every morning. As long as she could remember, she'd always gotten up in the morning feeling good-bright and healthy and cheerful. This hangover business had to stop.
The dining hall was sparsely occupied, and she took her breakfast tray to an unoccupied table, to be alone with her thoughts. Her plans. Her resolutions. Let's pretend it's New Year's, she told herself.
Pete arrived at her table, carrying a tray, while she was having a cigarette with her coffee.
"May I?" he said.
"Why do you ask?"
He sat down, removing plates and cups from his tray to the table.
"I don't know. I just thought I should."
He didn't look cheerful at all. Unhappy about something. Maybe he'd heard something about the party. Oh, God, she hoped he hadn't heard too much. She hoped the boys at the party weren't the fuck-and-tell type. But then, she reasoned, if he'd heard too much, he wouldn't even be sitting here. She took some comfort from the thought.
"What's on the schedule for today?" she asked him, brightly.
"Depends on what kind of mood you're in. Bobcat Inn offers everything, you know." He looked at her darkly when he said it. He'd heard about the party, all right.
"Well," she said, fencing. She didn't want Pete mad at her. She had plans for him. He could be a big part of the new Sesame, or rather the old Sesame, of a few days ago. Clean-living Sesame. Canoe-paddling Sesame, Maiden of the Mountains. Not whisky-drinking Sesame, Maid of the Mattress. Or the rug. She shuddered, inwardly.
"If you look in the right places, there's probably a party starting somewhere, right after breakfast."
She looked at him quickly, but didn't say anything.
"And there's the bar," he said. "They have an Early Bird cocktail hour, with drinks priced lower. Gives you a real American feeling of old-fashioned virtue. Make it for the Early Bird cocktail hour and you demonstrate the twin virtues of early rising and thrift."
"Stop it," she said. "I'm not a morning drinker, if that's what you're thinking. Not yet."
"I'm glad to hear that."
"What all have you heard?"
He looked down at the table, then back at her.
"Not much, really. Only that there was a pretty wild party at one of the cabins, one of the girls' cabins, and I supposed it was the one you went to."
"You know how people talk, about those things. I didn't see anything so wild."
She crossed her fingers under the table. It was a gesture that had stayed with her from early childhood. It nullified a lie, somehow, took the sin out of it. She didn't know exactly how, but it did. Or was supposed to.
He grinned at her suddenly.
"They had some vivid imaginations, the guys with the stories," Pete said. "I guess I'm just sore that I wasn't there."
"Let's forget the party, shall we?"
"Let's."
"What I'd like to do now, I'd like to find out if all that good clean fun they talk about in the brochure is any fun."
"Would you like to give it a try?"
"Absolutely. Till I drop."
"Well," he said, making a steeple with his fingers in front of his face, as if in deep thought, like some kind of counselor, about to come up with a word from the wise. "First, I'd suggest a brisk horseback ride along crisp, tangy mountain trails."
"Ooh, shit," she blurted, bringing her knees together as a pang of anticipatory pain shot through her. "No. Excuse me."
He looked at her curiously.
"What have you got against horseback riding?"
"I haven't got anything against horseback riding."
"Horses?"
"Well, yes. They're so high up. And did you ever see the size of those teeth?"
"These horses are really very gentle," he said seriously. "They're either mares, or they might as well be."
"What does that mean?"
"The male riding horses here are geldings."
"What's that?"
"They've been castrated." He looked embarrassed. She was ashamed of herself.
"I'm putting you on," she said. "I'm sorry. I grew up on a farm. I know all about those things. And I'm not afraid of horses at all. Or any other animal."
"Then why don't you want to go horseback riding?"
"Well," she said, "it's just the wrong time of the month for me, for horseback riding or anything like that."
She crossed her fingers under the table again, but this lie had been a stroke of genius. Instead of looking embarrassed, Pete looked relieved; suddenly cheerful. She realized that what she'd just told him made last night's party perfectly all right.
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" he said. "We could play a little shuffleboard. Or read poetry to each other."
"I'm not that incapacitated," she said, laughing. "How about some tennis?"
"So that's your racket? Sure."
"That's my racket," she said, "among others."
She almost said, "any game with balls," but thought better of it.
She didn't know him well enough. Not yet.
She realized, walking back to the baseline to serve, midway through the third game, that her hangover had dissipated completely. She felt healthy, glowing again. Completely alive. Ready for anything. Anything in the way of vertical activity, that was. The soreness was still very much with her. Damn that Lew.
Pete turned out to be a very good tennis player, who was rusty. He hadn't played in two years. Working very hard, placing her shots carefully, she managed to beat him the first set, but he won the second one handily. Normally she hated to lose, but she didn't mind having Pete beat her.
They had a fast dip in the pool, after tennis, and met again at lunch. This is what good clean fun is all about, she thought. She'd had her taste of the between-the-lines Bobcat activities. Taste? She'd gorged herself. But that was over now. She'd have her fun with Pete. Her good clean fun.
She felt so good, so wholesome, she even wrote and mailed her mother a postcard, right after lunch.
"Having wonderful time," she wrote. "Bobcat really a nice, friendly kitten. Love, Sess."
She saw Phil at the counter next to her, writing a card of his own. He glanced at her, smiled, and went back to his scribbling. She read the card over his shoulder. He made no attempt to cover it up. It was addressed to somebody named Bill, she saw.
"Greetings from Bobcat Inn," Phil had scrawled. "Happiness is a warm pussy."
Phil saw her reading the card, and grinned at her and shrugged his shoulders when she looked up.
She just looked at him for a second, without smiling, and walked away. She waited till he was out of his sight before she let herself smile.
That damn Phil, she thought. I'll have to have a talk with him sometime. About good clean fun.
Late that afternoon she was sitting by the pool with Pete, sipping her first Scotch-and-water of the day. Nothing wrong with a drink or two, she thought, around the pool, just before dinner. Part of the good clean life.
"People in Ascot Bay do much drinking?" Pete asked idly.
She thought about it for a minute.
"Very little," she said finally. "At least, most people drink very little. Not at all, mostly. I guess the biggest part of the population of Ascot Bay is dry. Teetotalers."
"What about the other part of the population. The non-teetotalers?"
"They drink up a storm," she said. "They make up for the rest of the town."
"Doesn't sound very civilized."
"It isn't. People in Ascot Bay are either teetotalers or drunks, practically. There's nothing in-between. No moderate, social drinking. No cocktail parties. No two drinks before dinner. Nothing like that."
"All or nothing, huh?"
"That's about it."
"They the same way about sex?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, the girls, for example. If the pattern is anything like the drinking pattern, they're either virgins or nymphomaniacs. Nothing in between."
"I wouldn't know," she said, distantly.
"I beg your pardon," he said, just as distantly.
"Anyway," she said, relenting, "in Ascot Bay, a nymphomaniac is known automatically as the Town Pump." She giggled.
"Some lucky girl has that reputation in every small town," Pete said. "It's not unique in Ascot Bay."
"I suppose not. Nothing's unique, in Ascot Bay."
"You are."
"Thanks. But what's so unique about me?"
"You don't act small-town. You act pretty civilized."
"I read a lot," she said.
All at once, looking at the casual, carefree attitudes around the pool, hearing the laughter, the splashing and shouts of the swimmers in the water, she was very angry. The name Parker Perkins III crossed her mind. She was furious.
"I'd like to see Ascot Bay sometime," Pete said.
"I thought you'd seen it?"
"Only once. Passing through. And that was a long time ago. I'd like to see it again, take a better look. I want to see the place you come from."
"With a native guide?"
"Well, yes. If you mean you."
"That's exactly what I mean," she said, and finished her drink. "There's no time like right now."
"We'll make it a fast trip, then," he said, "if we're going to be back here in time for dinner. Unless you want to eat while we're out. Maybe you'd like that. A change from the Bobcat menu."
"No. We'll make it a fast trip. There's no decent place to eat in Ascot Bay. Or to do anything else," she added, vaguely.
He got up and followed her away from the pool.
"See you at the parking lot," he said, "in fifteen minutes."
"Make it twenty," she said. "I have to dress for town."
He laughed. He had a wonderful laugh. Too bad he thought it was the wrong time of the month for her.
Stop that kind of thing, Sesame, she told herself. The clean life.
She walked back to the Annex, humming.
She wore a demure summer dress for her trip to the village. Pete whistled when he saw her.
"They ought to line the streets," he said, "to welcome you back."
"We'll hardly see anybody," she said, getting into his car. It was white Volvo sports model. Very low down. Very jazzy. "Let's just stop in the drug store, so you can see where I worked." Worked? The past tense. "I'll buy some film for my camera."
She knew all at once what was behind her sudden urge to take Pete to town. She wanted Parker Perkins III to see him. That bastard. Let him eat his jealous perverted heart out. She didn't care if she ever worked for him again. She just wanted him to suffer.
"Did you ever think about getting out of Ascot Bay?" Pete asked, as they drove down the winding mountain road. The view had an unreal, postcard quality about it. To a stranger, it would be breathtaking. Sesame had seen it a thousand times, from every angle.
"Yes."
"Have you ever done anything about it? Written to anyone? Tried to get a job in a city, somewhere?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Too young. Or my family thought I was too young."
"You're not too young anymore."
"That's right," Sesame said. But no more. Pete started to say something, and stopped. They drove the rest of the way in silence.
He tooled the car slowly down Main Street, past the Hampshire House-the pool table would be busy, at this hour-past the post office, and the bank, and the First Methodist church, and the hardware store, Hay, Feed & Grain, and the new Laundromat. Sesame waved him over at Perkins' Apothecary.
She let herself out of the Volvo, unfolding herself carefully, but her legs drew a lot of stares from the familiar knot of boys out front. Pete got out on his side. She knew he would.
"I have to get some after-shave lotion," he explained. He was filled with curiosity. She was tempted to tell him to buy something in the contraceptive line, if Mr. Perkins waited on them, but changed her mind. It would look too much like a put-up job, even to PeePee the Third.
He did wait on them himself; came out from behind the counter to greet her as she walked into the store with Pete right behind her. The girl who was taking Sesame's place during her vacation was only part-time. And she didn't see Charlie around anywhere. She'd just remembered about Charlie, and she was glad he wasn't there. She didn't want to hurt Charlie.
Mr. Perkins took both her hands. She'd never seen him so effusive, greeting anyone.
"Sesame, dear," he said. He'd never called her 'dear' before, either. What bullshit. "What brings you back?"
"I needed some film for my camera." She introduced Pete. Mr. Perkins shook hands with him, coldly.
"Taking a lot of pictures, are you?" he asked, going back around the counter.
"Lots," she said. "For the family album. Everybody at home is so curious about the place."
"How do you like it, so far?"
"So far, I love it," she said boldly, looking at Pete.
He looked back at her, and smiled. Did he know what she was doing? she wondered.
Mr. Perkins dropped the roll of film in his hand, and had to bend to pick it up.
"I'll have some after shave lotion, while you're down there," Pete said easily. The shaving needs were in the glass-enclosed case under the counter.
Mr. Perkins came up with both the film and the lotion. He looked very unhappy.
"You say Bobcat is really a nice place?" he asked.
"Wonderful. Lovely people." Lew. Phil. Tony. He'd love them. Leslie. Pat. He'd love Pat.
"I've been thinking," he said, "I need a little vacation myself. Just a week-end. Do they take guests just for the week-end?"
The bastard, she thought. He wouldn't.
"Sure," Pete said.
"Maybe I'll come up for a week-end," Mr. Perkins said.
The son-of-a-bitch, Sesame thought. He wouldn't dare.
"I'm sure Mrs. Perkins would love it," she said.
"Oh, I know she wouldn't come along. She's got her flower bed to tend. No, I'd just come myself. I'd be a bachelor for a week-end."
"It's the place to come," Pete said helpfully, "for a bachelor week-end."
"There's one thing, Mr. Perkins," Sesame said. "There's a lot of drinking going on up there."
"Doesn't bother me," he said. "I can take it or leave it alone, myself."
"I didn't know that," Sesame said, confused.
"And anyway, I like to see young people enjoy themselves."
I bet he would, Sesame thought. Me, especially. He'd like to take pictures.
"You're pretty young yourself, Mr. Perkins," Pete said. "You'd fit right in."
She almost kicked him.
"You have to make reservations pretty far in advance," Sesame said, looking hard at Pete.
"Oh, you do?" Mr. Perkins said. He sounded genuinely disappointed.
"Not for just one man," Pete said. "I'm sure they'd have room for you. They're usually not full up except on Labor Day."
She would kick him. As soon as they got into the car. In the balls, if she could manage it.
"That's good," Mr. Perkins said. "Maybe I'll see you this week-end, Sesame. You too, Paul."
"Pete," Sesame said, automatically.
"Pete," Mr. Perkins said. "Maybe I'll see you both."
"That'll be nice," Sesame said. And she smiled.
It almost killed her, but she smiled.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sesame slammed the door furiously when she got back into the car.
"What did you do that for?" she said tightly, turning on the seat to face Pete.
"Do what?" He seemed amused.
"Tell him there'd be room for him at the Inn?"
"He seems like a nice enough guy. Be good for him, a couple of days away from the store. Let you get to know your boss better."
"I don't want to know him better. He's a bastard."
"Sesame!"
"A no-good rotten bastard. A sonofabitch of the first water, whatever that is."
"He seems so nice. So polite. And so stuffy. I thought it would be fun to see him in Bobcat surroundings."
"Fun for you, maybe. Not for me."
"Why not?"
"He'd, well, inhibit me."
"Inhibit you from what? Tennis?"
"Oh, shut up," she said. "Anyway, he probably won't come. He was just bluffing. Wanted to make me uncomfortable."
"He seemed like such a nice man. You must know something about him that I don't know."
"Maybe I do."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Seems like a perfectly nice man to have for a boss."
"He'll be my ex-boss, if he shows up at Bobcat."
"Now we're getting somewhere," Pete said, looking over at her. "How'd you like to get a job in Boston for a while?"
"We'll talk about it some other time," she said, and looked out the window at the familiar scenery.
She was still mad.
But she got over being mad, soon enough. She never stayed mad long, when things were going well. And things were going very well, just the way she wanted them to go, with Pete. After dinner they got into a game of darts in the Loafing Lounge, with the loser paying for beers, and she and Pete didn't pay for a single beer.
There was a movie that night, too, a fine old movie called Twelve Angry Men, that she'd never seen before. Even if she hadn't been sore, after seeing that movie she felt so good, so exalted, so cerebral, in a nice way, that she couldn't have had a horizontal, lusty thought, even with Pete.
He kissed her goodnight, with a sort of stiff formality and an unstiff pecker, as far as she could tell, at her door.
"Thank you for a nice day, Pete," she said. "Thank you for not staying mad at me, whatever you were mad about."
"Thank you" he said. "What'll we do tomorrow?"
"Let's figure that out tomorrow."
She got up on her toes and kissed him again. Not a sexy kiss. Just a nice, warm, grateful kiss. When she opened the door and turned to go into her room, he didn't even pat her on the ass.
Such a nice guy, Pete, she thought.
She wondered how long he'd stay nice.
She wondered how long she wanted him to.
The next couple of days fell into a pattern, a pattern that might have come straight out of the brochure, except that it was more fun. She was with Pete almost all the time, and when she was with other people Pete was with her, too. They came and went everywhere as a couple, and for the first time in her life, Sesame didn't consider the arrangement a total loss, a bore, a drag. She liked being with Pete more than with anyone she'd ever known in her life.
The days were full, without being crowded or hurried. They did what they felt like doing, when they felt like doing it. With one exception, of course. Sesame had turned over a new leaf. She was sticking to her midsummer New Year's resolution. Nothing but Good, Clean Fun. Sesame Willoughby, the Ail-American Whole Hymen.
And it wasn't easy, keeping up the act, because they ran into Phil and Lew and Tony and Herman constantly, in the normal course of events. But all in all, except for an occasional sidelong glance and overt smile, they behaved pretty well. After a day or so, they resigned themselves to the fact that she wasn't exactly panting for their services, and they turned their attention elsewhere.
God knows there was plenty to occupy them elsewhere. The cabin girls, among others. The popularity of Leslie, Martha, Pat and Betsy rose like a thermometer in the sun in the days immediately following the pants-less party. There seemed to be a steady stream of male visitors wending their way to and from the girls' cabin. Sesame mentioned it to Leslie, when she met her alone for a brief moment in the dining hall.
"Looks as if the world is beating a path to your door," she said. "You and your better mousetraps."
"They're not better mousetraps," Leslie said, smiling broadly. "They're just baited better. Or publicized better."
"I think they are actually wearing a path up to your place. It'll be obvious in a week, that worn-out ribbon of lawn."
"You're right." Leslie didn't seem to be the least bit worried. "I'll have to re-route some of them. Have them come up the back way."
"Don't talk dirty," Sesame said.
"I mean approach the cottage from the rear. Come in through the back windows."
"That sounds much better."
"Doesn't it? How are you doing? Looks like you're all tied up, with one Peter."
"I am, but not with his peter."
"Why not?"
"I had too much of a good thing, all at once."
"Hard on Pete."
"You're talking dirty again."
"I mean tough on him."
"That's better."
"How long are you going to keep up the act?"
"Who says it's an act?"
"Who're you kidding?"
"Well, maybe it is an act." Sesame thought a minute. "But it's a very important act. I'm doing the Passion Play."
"Looks anything but passionate, from where I sit."
"I'm playing the Virgin Mary."
Leslie laughed. It was more of a hoot, and heads turned toward them, from the nearest tables.
"You're too much," she said.
* * *
It was getting to be too much, Sesame thought. All through their loafing, laughing hours together, all through their hours by the pool, their splashing gaiety in it, all through their games of tennis and badminton and deck tennis and shuffleboard, all through their long strolls on the dim, secluded mountain trails, Pete never made a pass at her.
They held hands. That was all. He never attempted to kiss her, except at her door at night. He never accidentally-on-purpose brushed his hands across her breasts or over her ass, never pushed himself against her.
If he had hard-ons, she never noticed them. And she was watching for them.
She began to wonder, about Pete. Could there be something wrong with him? The only evidence she had that there wasn't, really, was that disappearing episode with the tit-teasing brunette at the dance on Saturday night. And that wasn't really evidence. It was only conjecture, on her part.
On Thursday, all her good, clean vertical resolutions were forgotten. The soreness between her legs had dissipated, to be replaced by an insistent, twitching, nagging ache of desire. And, what was worse, it wasn't an all-round, all-purpose, indiscriminate desire, that could be satisfied by just any man. She was the helpless victim of that most tortured of human conditions, a discriminate lust. She wanted Pete. Only Pete. Oh, Jesus, how she wanted him.
But all day long, they were just Jack and Jill again, on their way up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Screw this clean living, she kept saying to herself. Fuck this good clean fun. What good is it?
Late in the afternoon, as they were lying by the pool, sipping Tom Collinses, she was overcome by her lust. Ever since her first afternoon, the afternoon of Phil and Lew, when she'd first worn her earth-shaking, cock-stiffening swim suit, she'd worn last year's comparatively conservative suit to the pool; the other one was just too much, for everyday exposure.
Now was the time for that suit, she decided. Pete hadn't seen her in it yet. It was time to take this bull by the horns. She stood up.
"You going in for another dip?" Pete wanted to know.
"No. I'm going to get into a dry suit. This one's starting to itch."
It was the first time she'd made any complaint like that, but Pete didn't say anything. She glanced back at him as she walked away. He looked a little confused.
Well, she thought, we'll see what kind of confusion he shows when he sees me in the new suit. Wet, that'll answer all my questions. I'll know just what to do, from there on in.
The tingling between her legs was almost unbearable as she walked toward her room in the Annex.
* * *
When she came back she ignored the prickly sensation of eyes following her. Prickly was the word, all right, she thought. She didn't even stop at Pete's chair, but walked on past and dived in the pool.
When she came out, dripping, the transparent suit glued to her gleaming body, she paid no attention to the staring eyes and the audible gasps and comments. She was interested in only one reaction: Pete's.
She got the reaction she wanted, all right. His eyes fastened first on her puckered nipples, displayed and accentuated by the wet transparent fabric, rather than concealed by it. Pete's eyes feasted downward over her delicious display of soft, curving flesh, then stopped, riveted, as they came to the pouting pinkness of her cunt-lips, peeping through the damp matted halo of dark-blonde hair.
"Jesus!" he said. "How can you do this to me?"
He was curved over in his chair, as if in agony. Her heart jumped, joyously. All her doubts and fears were forgotten. He had a hard-on, all right. She could see the angry pumping mound pulsing in his trunks. Why had be behaved so coolly, so long?
And then, in a flash, she knew. It had been her own fault; and Pete had been a paragon of self-control.
She let herself into the chair beside him, opening her legs shamelessly as she did so. She was awash with gum. The poor bastard. And she'd been such a bitch.
"Pete," she said softly.
"What?"
He was trying not to look at her.
"I think I ought to tell you."
"Tell me what?" His tortured eyes couldn't stay away, couldn't leave her body alone.
"I can go horseback riding now."
"Who wants ... " he started to say, and then he got her message. His face lit up with the joy of a man dying of thirst stumbling onto an oasis in the desert.
"I've got to get into that water," he said, looking down at the throbbing mound of his trunks. "Come with me. Walk between me and those people over there."
She got up and moved beside him to the edge of the pool. He reminded her of Lew, that first day. He never straightened, but made a crouching dive into the water.
She stood at the edge of the pool for a long moment, watching his long, convulsing body, seemingly mostly arms and legs, swimming just beneath the surface, looking for all the world like a frog trying to escape some phantom fear. Then she realized she was attracting too many stares, standing out there on display in that swim-suit, and she dove in after Pete. Maybe, she thought, the cold water will do the same thing for me it's supposed to do for Pete. Maybe it'll put out the fire between my legs.
But it didn't. It acted on her inner fires more like gasoline than like water. When she surfaced from her dive, she saw Pete's head above the surface, looking toward her, and in one brief instant they exchanged an all-knowing glance of wanton mischief. She took one deep breath, let it out, took another, and dove beneath the surface.
She found him immediately. Their open mouths groped, met, fused. No formal good night kiss, this. Their lips locked as if only the suction of their mouths could keep them from drowning. Their tongues twisted, groped, entwined, like playful snakes underwater.
Her arms were around him, his around her, but their legs, above their bodies, stayed free, kicking, to keep their natural buoyancy from bringing them to the surface.
She felt the pressure of Pete's arms around her, then, guiding her toward one end of the pool. Mutually, they broke for the surface and took one more deep breath. This time, when they submerged, Pete had a grip on one of the stanchions of the underwater ladder, and his grip there relieved their legs of the necessity of keeping them under. Their bodies pressed together; she ran her hands hungrily down his muscular back, pressing his hips forward toward her own surging desire. She felt the hard bulge of his trunks against her lower belly, and dropped her hands to his hips, hooking her thumbs under the elastic of his trunks, dragging them down. His free hand was no longer around her. It had found its way down into her suit, between her breasts, and cupped one full, buoyant globe, the fingers squeezing the hard jutting nipple.
She had his trunks halfway down his thighs now, and felt the hard tip of his rigid rod prodding against her lower belly. She looked down. Oh God, she thought, I'm delirious. It's as long as Lew's.
Then she remembered that water magnifies. She placed one hand lovingly around the base of his cock, wrapped the other around in front of it. No, it wasn't just water, magnifying it. There was still room for a third hand around it, if she'd had a third hand. It was as big as Lew's. As long, anyway. She measured the circumference, carefully, and found that she could get her thumb and forefinger to touch. But just barely. So it wasn't quite as thick as Lew's. Good, she thought giddily. After a night with Pete she wouldn't have that awful soreness.
They came up again for air, gulped in a lungful, and re-submerged. Again she held his cock lovingly between her palms. His free hand had given up fondling her breasts, had found its way inside the crotch of her suit. A wriggling, probing finger found its way into her craving, crying crevice. Oh, God, this was awful. What were they going to do?
Without thinking, she spun in the water, Pete's finger still sliding in and out of her eager, gulping twat, and took the head of his rampant prick into her mouth, sucking like a starved demon.
She felt a violent ripping tug at the crotch of her swim-suit. Suddenly her cunt was free of all restraint, all cover, and Pete's finger was driving in and out of it with an abandoned fury.
She took her mouth from around his prick, spun in the water till she was right side up, and surfaced. His finger was still wriggling and diddling inside her, but his head, too, was above water.
"My God!" she said, "What have you done to my suit?"
His wet, streaming face was contorted.
"Never mind. I'll get you another."
"Not that." Despite her shock, her wanton hips were pumping her warm cunt up and down on his deep-probing finger. "How'll I ever get out of the water?"
"I'll get your robe and bring it to the edge of the pool, and wrap it around you when you come out. Nobody'll see a thing. Most of them have gone in for dinner, anyway."
She looked swiftly up around the pool's edge. He was right. There were only four people left, and they were moving around, collecting things, getting ready to go. They were the only ones in the water.
She forgot about the ripped suit, forgot about everything except that long throbbing dong poking stiffly, searchingly, between her legs. She locked her hands behind his waist, spread her legs wide, and let the open mouth of her cunt find the tip of his prick-head.
It found its way between her welcoming cunt-lips without any guidance. With one hand holding her around the waist, Pete used his other hand to work them down along the pool until his feet found bottom, and he could stand. Only their heads were above water. She swiveled her head again. No one was watching.
With the water lapping around her chin, she hooked her heels harder around his hips, pushing the opening of her twat down to engulf the rock-hard head of his upthrust waiting long lance. His hands hooked around and under her waist, supporting her easily in the water, as his hips drove his great spear forward and up into her welcoming wet cunt depths.
She slid out and in, up and down, with an easy, liquid motion, feeling the delicious slithering shaft sliding easily in and out, effortlessly, as in some kind of dream of ecstasy. But this was no dream. His plunging cock was as hard and as real as the concrete pool sides.
"Is-this-what-it's-like," she gasped, "for the elephants?"
He didn't answer. The small swells and waves their fucking created kept slapping him in the face. He spewed water from his open mouth, and grinned maniacally.
She'd waited for him too long, she knew then; she couldn't last. Waves of sensation were slopping around her insides, to match the watery waves breaking across her face. A spasm of delirious joy clutched at her, and she felt her head go under, not caring. She was drowning in her pounding, exploding lust, anyway. She came up, spitting and gasping.
She felt one of his hands slide down while the other one still supported her writhing weight easily; the hand slid under the torn bottom of her suit and a finger found its wet way into her tiny squeezed-shut asshole.
She let the finger in, somehow, made it welcome, in the spasms of her orgasm. She was drowning, she thought. Drowning from both ends. Drowning in sensation. It was a wonderful way to die.
Then she felt the hot spurts of his juices inside her; he seemed to explode, trembling all over, and she felt his knees go weak. It didn't matter. It was a wonderful way to die.
"Jesus," he said. "I guess I waited for you too long. I'm sorry this had to end so quick."
"I'm glad it did," she said. "It ended for me, too." Her cunt was squeezing, contracting, around the base of his stilled shaft. He held her, waiting for the spasms to subside.
"Now let's get to your room," he said, "and do this right."
"This way was wrong?" she asked weakly.
He grinned at her, reached down in the water to pull up his trunks, and hauled himself out of the pool to get her robe.
She didn't think she'd drown, after all.
She had a lot to live for.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
They lay side by side on her big bed, naked, smoking, looking at the worm's-eye view of themselves in the huge mirror. First feet, then calves. Then inner thighs, then the wet, pink welcome of her beckoning cunt lips. She shifted her gaze. Pete's tall soldier was getting slowly to its feet.
She watched in fascination as it drew itself fully erect, came to attention, threw its shoulders back, stood in a vibrating upright brace. Seeing it that way, from the bottom of the red wrinkled ball-sack up the entire length past the base along the awesome length of the shaft, up to the purple knob of a head, it looked ever bigger than it seemed underwater.
She put her hand around its base, lightly, and began to move her hand lovingly up and down, folding the soft skin of the neck up over the head, like pulling up a collar on a windy day.
"Don't," he said.
"Why not?"
"It's a waste."
His finger had found its way into her responding furred cleft, slid across her slippery clitoris.
"Don't do that, then. It's a waste, too."
"You talk too much."
"So do you."
"Stop talking, then."
"I will if you will."
She felt his hand under her near knee, urging it upward. Wondering, she raised the knee high as he shifted on the bed, lay on his side. She watched him, curious but content, in the mirror.
He moved his shoulders down on the bed, pushed his hips upward. His lower leg slid under her far leg, and she raised that knee a little to accommodate him. His other leg lay across hers, from the top, enclosing it in a gentle scissors-grip.
She saw what he was up to, now. The head of his pulsing prick lay between the open eager outer lips of her cunt. She lifted a little, pushed down, and watched in the mirror as the great length of shaft began to disappear between the ravenous tender lips of her twat.
"Ooh," she said. "Oooh. That feels so good."
"As good as under water? Better?"
"At least as good," she said, "and a lot more, well, comfortable." She was filled with comfort. And contentment. And cock. Her lips moved happily, slowly, meeting every pressure, the sensitive palate of her cunt tasting every hard taut tender inch of his passion-muscle.
"This is the most comfortable position there is. I bet we could stay in this position all night."
"You mean you'd like to fuck like this all night?" She used the word without hesitation, now.
"Yes. I'd like to fuck you like this all night. And all day."
"Let's try."
"Let's."
They'd fallen into a slow, lazy rocking motion, like being on a ship, she thought. Better than that submarine stuff.
"What do you call this?" she asked, suddenly curious.
"Fucking," he said. "At least, that's what most people call it."
"I mean this position."
"Indian position. This is supposed to be the way the Indians did it."
She set her inner cunt lips into motion, squeezing, contracting.
"Oh, Jesus," he said. "You're some wonderful squaw."
"I bet the Indians never did it like this."
"Not what you're doing," he said, between clenched teeth. She kept squeezing and releasing, squeezing and relaxing, as he slid his great pole slowly in and out. "But this is the position they used."
"How do you know?" Squeeze, pump. Squeeze, pump.
"I read it somewhere. Hell, everybody knows this is the way the Indians did it."
"I don't believe it. Indians don't have that much imagination."
"You never can tell about Indians," he said mysteriously. His breath was coming harder. So was hers.
Squeeze, pump. Squeeze, pump. His finger was up her ass. She hadn't noticed before. Squeeze, pump. This was what it was all about. This was heaven. Never mind that business about harps and angels. Cocks and cunts. This cock and this cunt. That was heaven.
"We're going to miss dinner."
"Fuck dinner."
"Maybe we'll miss breakfast, too."
"Fuck breakfast."
"How you talk."
Squeeze, pump. Squeeze, pump. The mirror was getting hard to see. She didn't know if it was getting dark in the room, or her eyesight was failing.
They almost did miss breakfast.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At breakfast, Pete very nearly fell asleep. Looking across the table at him, Sesame was suddenly aware that his eyelids were half closed, like a pair of window shades, and that his entire torso was leaning slowly toward the table, his head dropping.
She kicked him, gently but firmly, with the side of her foot, under the table. His tilting torso straightened and leaned back to the vertical, looking at her impassively from under his weary, lowered lids.
"Call me inscrutable Hayes," he said, in an Oriental sing-song. He did look faintly, Chinese, she thought, with his eyes slitted that way.
"No tickee, no fresh sheets," she said. "Listen, hot coffee's a great waker-upper, especially when you dip your nose into it. You better try to snap out of it. I may not be watching the next time you get an attack of the sudden sleeps."
"I'll try to be careful," he said. "I think maybe I'll go up to my room and take a nap, after breakfast."
"That's a very sensible idea. In fact, you might go up for a nap right in the middle of breakfast. Nobody'd mind."
"I'll muddle through. I can't understand why I'm so sleepy this morning."
"You didn't get any sleep, to amount to anything. You only slept in snatches, you should pardon the expression. A snatch." She laughed, pleased by her own little joke.
"Don't talk like that," Pete said.
"Well, let's say you had a hard night."
"That's no better."
"How come you're so chipper this morning?"
"I'll explain it to you sometime," she said. "For me, it was easy." She smiled a smile of utter contentment. Like the original cat with the saucer of cream, she thought guiltily.
"Well, you don't mind if I take a nap? I'm older than you are, you see. About a hundred years older."
"You'll be young again."
"I hope so," he said.
"After your nap," she said, "there's one thing we have to do."
"What's that?" He looked a little uneasy.
"Drive into Conway and get me a new bathing suit."
"Oh," he said. "I'd forgotten about that."
"Well," she said, pretending hurt indignation.
"I didn't mean I'd forgotten that," he said, as hastily as he could in his comatose condition. "But I'd forgotten the bathing suit part. It was immaterial."
"It was very material," she said. "And now I can't wear it any more. Modesty aside, I'd get triple-pneumonia of the you-know. You wouldn't want that, would you?"
"No," he said fervently. "I wouldn't want that."
He left her right outside the dining hall, and when he turned to head for the stairs, he looked like a man who'd put in a tough day in the fields, haying, but he looked somehow satisfied in his deep fatigue. Like a man at the end of a long day of work well done.
Or a man, she thought, at the end of a good night's work, well done.
Pete had certainly been on the night shift.
* * *
When it was almost lunch time and Pete hadn't come back downstairs, she got his room number from John at the desk and went upstairs and knocked on his door. She knocked again, when there was no answer; then tried the knob, in the silence. It turned in her hand.
He was lying on his back, fully clothed except for his shoes. There was a look of serene beatification on his face, marred by only one detail: his mouth was open, and he was snoring gently.
She reached for his shoulder, to wake him, then hesitated. She had a better idea. She put her hand lightly on the front of his pants, and moved her palm up and down, very gently. With a sense of great satisfaction, she felt a faint stirring start beneath her hand, and looked at his face. His eyes were open, and he was smiling. He reached out one long arm for her, but she backed away from the bed.
"Lunch time," she said. "We have to eat."
"We can do that too," he said, looking pointedly at the crotch of her orange slacks.
"Stop it," she said. "Today is a day of rest."
"Sunday is a day of rest. Today is Friday."
"That's right. And they have oysters on the half-shell at lunch. Friday special. Also oyster stew." He got out of bed and started looking for his loafers.
"You don't believe that business about oysters helping male potency, do you?" he asked, as they were on their way down the broad stairs.
"No," she said. "But they can't hurt anything."
He grinned at her.
"You're making it up, anyway. They don't have any oyster special on Fridays, here."
"That's right. I was making it all up. You certainly don't need any oysters, anyway. Your shell is plenty hard enough."
"You're a good girl, Sess," he said, kissing the top of her head. "You always say the right things."
* * *
Sesame was going to buy an exact duplicate of the suit Pete had ripped, but when she held it up in the store in Conway, Pete looked distressed.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Didn't you like this suit on me?"
The salesgirl looked discreetly away.
"I liked it too much," he said. "And it's not only me I'm thinking about. It's every guy at every pool or beach you're ever at. That suit causes too much male agony. Puts too much of a strain on too many supporters." He lowered his voice when he said it, but Sesame saw the salesgirl trying to hide a smile.
Pete was making a joke of it, Sesame realized, but at the same time he was talking like a husband, for God's sake. She looked at him, quizzically. He just didn't want her parading around in that suit in front of other men.
She gave in gracefully.
"All right," she said. "You help me pick out something more modest."
"Have you got a Mother Hubbard for underwater wear?" Pete asked the saleslady. This time she laughed openly.
"Even a Mother Hubbard," she said, "wouldn't hide this girl's figure."
"You see?" Pete said.
They settled for a modest little robin's-egg-blue suit, with a sort of skirt, made for girls with imperfect thighs. Oh, well, she thought, she wouldn't be bothering much with bathing suits for the rest of her stay at Bobcat. And when she got home, she could give it to her little sister, who was getting bigger here and there.
* * *
Friday night at Bobcat was casual, canned-music dance night in the Barn. There was a juke box that played with slugs provided by the management, and the guests brought their own tapes and records to play, also on equipment supplied by the house.
Pete and Sesame had danced a couple of times, quietly, almost dreamily, they were both in such a state of relaxed euphoria, and were sitting sipping Scotch, alone at a corner table, when a pair of sharply creased white slacks intruded on the periphery of their vision.
"May I join you?" a voice said, and the white slacks folded in the middle and sat down.
It was Parker Perkins III. Oh, God, no, Sesame thought. She'd forgotten all about him.
"I knew I'd find you here somewhere," Parker Perkins III said. "I've been looking all over for you, Sess. And Paul." He looked briefly in Pete's direction.
"Pete," Sesame said automatically.
"Pete."
"When did you check in here?"
"Some time ago. Around seven, I think."
"For the week-end?" The bastard. The absolute bastard. She hadn't thought he'd have the nerve.
"Oh, yes," he said, looking at her intently. "Just for the week-end."
"Will you have some Scotch with us?" Pete said, reaching for his bottle and sliding a glass across the table.
"No, thank you," Mr. Perkins said, and laughed a nervous little laugh. "I never touch the stuff."
"Good," Sesame said. Pete looked at her and frowned slightly.
"What?" Mr. Perkins said.
"I mean it's good to know that some of us have the sense to leave the stuff alone," Sesame said, looking defiantly at Pete when she said it.
"Oh."
Pete stood up and held out his hand toward her.
"Will you excuse us?" Pete said politely. "Sesame promised me this dance."
"Oh, God," Sesame said, when they were out on the floor. "I never thought he'd really do it."
She was all shook. That bastard. What a way to end a perfect day. A perfect night.
"He won't haunt you," Pete said, grimly. "I'll fix his wagon, if he tries."
"I'll fix his wagon," Sesame said. "I don't know how, but I will. You just leave him alone."
"Whatever you say."
The haunting was starting, Sesame saw, already. Mr. Perkins approached, across the floor, and put a hand on Pete's shoulder.
"May I?" he asked. Pete dropped his arms, looked at her briefly, and left.
Mr. Perkins was a terrible dancer. But he had guts. You had to give him that.
"Sess, I have to talk to you. Alone," he said. "Without that boy."
"Why?" she asked, coldly.
"I just do. I have to be with you alone for a while. To, you know, make up for that awful episode in the car."
"Was it so awful?"
"It wasn't what I wanted to do. Wanted us to do. I haven't been able to sleep since."
Sesame shrugged. The dance was over. What was she going to do with this poor idiot? She worked for him. She shuddered, and went back to the table. Mr. Perkins followed.
She danced again with Pete, and again Mr. Perkins cut in. He had no pride, no sense of decency. No manners.
When he approached them to cut in for the third time, Sesame knew all at once what to do. She almost started shaking with excitement, her plan struck her so suddenly. So whole. So perfect.
"Here he comes again," she said quickly into Pete's ear. "I'm going to get rid of him this time. For good."
"How?"
"Don't ask questions. But do me a favor. Right now."
"Anything."
"Go to my room. The door's open. Wait for me there."
Pete looked at her solemnly, not smiling.
"Yes," he said. Mr. Perkins' hand was on his shoulder. Sesame leaned up and said softly into Pete's ear:
"Take off your clothes, while you're waiting."
Pete nodded, still solemn, and left, graciously, as Mr. Perkins put his arms around her.
"I've been thinking, Mr. Perkins."
"Parker."
"Not only thinking. I have feelings, too, you know. And I haven't been sleeping so well myself, since that night." It sounded so phony, so foolish, that she almost laughed out loud.
But he was a very foolish man, she saw at once. He didn't look as if she sounded foolish at all. A look of deep-self satisfaction spread on his face. Along with a swelling excitement.
"Pete's gone," she said abruptly, standing still. "Where's your room."
He stood still, too. His mouth was slightly open. It was too much for him, all at once.
"Where's your room?" she repeated.
"In the Annex. On the floor above yours. I have the room to myself."
The bastard. He'd bribed the desk clerk.
"You had the room to yourself," she said. "Let's go."
She almost had to drag him. He was like a man sleepwalking. When they'd reached his room she closed the door behind them, leaned against it, and gave him a long, lingering look. She made herself smile. He reached for her.
She twisted away, still smiling, and turned the doorknob, opening the door just a crack. She held it that way for a second.
"Get out of your clothes," she whispered. "I'll be right back."
Still looking numb, he backed toward the bed, reaching for his shirt buttons. She went out, closing the door behind her, and found the bathroom down the hall. She was shaking with a new kind of excitement. There was a moist tingling between her legs, but it was different from anything she'd felt before.
She reached up under her mini-skirt, whipped off her pants, and put them in her bag. She looked at herself briefly in the mirror, and went back to the room.
Parker Perkins III was lying on his back on the big bed, as naked as the day he was born. His mottled purple prick pointed toward the ceiling. It was ugly, she decided. Like his soul. Mr. Perkins rolled over on his side and made room for her.
She stepped up onto the bed and stood there, looking down at him. He looked very puzzled.
"Aren't you going to get undressed?" he said.
"I can't stand it anymore," she said. "I'm in too much of a hurry. Lie back the way you were."
Mr. Perkins did as she was told. Sesame remembered Leslie and Lew, but she had other ideas. She stepped over Mr. Perkins' recumbent form and stood with her legs spread, her quivering cunt directly above his eyes. She raised her skirt high, holding the hem in front, giving him a long look at the open moist pinkness of her pussy. The light was good. She had never seen a man's eyes opened so wide.
After a long, staring moment, he licked his lips. She'd been hoping for that sign.
She lowered herself, very slowly, deliberately, an inch at a time, feeling her cunt-lips opening as the V-between her legs widened. When her pussy was almost upon him, Mr. Perkins stuck out his tongue. The tip strained upward.
She let her cunt touch the tip, held it there. The tongue fluttered. The tickling was unbearable. She lowered herself all the way. She'd smother him, she thought. His tongue licked frantically, his mouth sucked, gulped, made wet slurping sounds.
Abruptly, she stood up again, her legs spread over him. Standing tall. Mr. Perkins groaned, as if in pain. She moved down the bed, straddled him now at the hips, lowered herself again. Over his straining prick, this time.
His hips arched up to meet her descending twat. His prick-tip straining upwards. With the tip just barely touching the moist tenderness between her open pink cunt lips, she held herself very still. When he strained further upward, she lifted herself upward too, preventing any penetration. Only his prick-tip touched her. She held herself that way for what seemed like a long time. Moisture was pouring from her open cunt mouth, running down the pulsing shaft of his angry purple prick. She looked at Mr. Perkins face. His mouth was contorted. Sweat poured down his forehead. He was moaning, his hands imploring, but when he tried to touch her, she pushed his hands away.
She stood upright then, pulled her skirt primly down in front, and jumped to the floor.
"Good night, Mr. Perkins," she said crisply.
"You couldn't," he whispered. "You couldn't do this to a man. What am I going to do?"
She hesitated for a moment, then moved to the side of the bed, took his near hand, and wrapped it around his cock-shaft.
When she turned, as she was closing the door behind her, he hadn't taken his hand away. It was starting to move, up and down. She ran all the way down the stairs to her own room. She was pouring juice.
Pete was lying on his back, too. Naked. His throbbing prick looked enormous. She lowered herself down on it, with a sigh of gratitude. She'd never felt so full of gratitude. Or anything else.
"Ooh," she said, starting the long slide down his stiff pulsing shaft. "You were saying something about me getting a job in Boston?"
"Yes," he moaned, ecstatically. "Yes. But can't we-talk about it later?"
"Yes," she said, sliding up and down slowly, joyously. "Oh, yes. I can wait."
