Before Frank Morris came to know about women, sports and American History were his major loves. That was in 1972.
Baseball, in particular, was his favorite sport, and he would spend his weekends as either a player or a spectator, depending on the situation.
Frank's family was quite sports-oriented, and he and his parents would usually go down to watch the San Francisco Giants play at Candlestick Park.
His father was such a fanatic about the Giants that he knew the up-to-the-second statistics on practically every player by heart-batting average, runs batted in, home-runs, hits, stolen bases, at-bats. And with pitchers, he pretty much knew each one's earned-run average and how many innings he'd pitched.
Why, Frank's dad even knew the stats on Candlestick Park itself.
Just like a professional announcer, he'd say: "Candlestick Park seats fifty-eight-thousand people. From home plate to left field is three-hundred-and-thirty-five feet, from home to center field is four-hundred-and-ten feet and from home to right field is three-hundred-and-thirty-five feet. The wall heights in left, center and right fields are all twelve feet high. That's five feet shorter than the walls down in San Diego Stadium, where the Padres play."
like most Giant fans, the Morris family loved Willie Mays, the Giants' "Say-Hey" Kid. Dad Morris would always talk about Mays' unconventional breadbasket catch. And he'd point out how the outfielder had not only won the most-valuable-player award in 1954, when the San Francisco Giants were still the New York Giants, but that he also took the same award eleven years later-in 1965-after the Giants moved Westward.
"Willie McCovey, another Giant great, took the most valuable-player award in 1969, while the immortal Carl Hubbell was awarded same as a Giant back in 1933 and 1936," Frank's dad said proudly, as if he'd been presented the MVP award himself.
Frank was quite impressed with his father, realizing that the man was a veritable encyclopedia of the sport.
"Did any Giants win the Rookie-of-the-Year Award, Pop?" he asked one day.
"Do fish swim, Frank? Do birds fly? Sure, a couple of Giants won that award during the years since they have been keeping records. Willie Mays earned it rightly in 1951, and came 1958 and 1959 and first basemen Orlando
Cepeda and Willie McCovey won it back to back, both with San Francisco.
"Boy, Son, it's a shame our Giants haven't won too many World Series in recent years. The last time around was in 1954, when they beat the Cleveland Indians in four straight games; they were still in New York then. Surprisingly, they've only been in the World Series once since they moved here to California, and that was in 1962. But they went the full distance, though-seven games-losing to the New York Yankees-dem bums from de Bronx-in the last game.
"In fact, Son, I took you and Mom to some of those World Series games back in 1962, but you were too young then to remember much now, I'd guess."
"Well," Frank answered, "I kind of recall the red, white and blue bunting all over Candlestick Park. And I think I even remember seeing you screaming at the top of your lungs whenever the Giants were having a rally, or when you found yourself disagreeing with the umpire's call. I think you even cried a little when you watched the Giants lose the seventh game on television."
"That's right, Son, and I'm not afraid to admit it. Right good memory you've got there, boy ... just like your dad."
"But I remember how you smiled when Gaylord Perry pitched that fantastic no-hitter for the Giants to beat St. Louis four-to-zip. That was in 1968, not all that long ago."
"You bet, Son. And speaking of pitchers, let's not forget Juan Marichal, one of the Giants' greatest hurlers ever. He led the National League in 1966 with a won-and-lost record of twenty-five and six, giving him a percentage of point-eight-oh-six. Three years later, in 1969, Marichal was the National League's leader with the lowest earned-run-average-two-point-one-oh."
"You may be a fan of the pitchers with their fastballs, change-ups, curveballs and spitters, but give me a home-run hitter any day of the week," Frank laughed.
"I'll give you three from our illustrious San Francisco Giants, Son: Willie Mays led the league with fifty-one homers in 1955-though he was in New York then-and again in 1962 with forty-nine over-the-wall shots. By that year he was with Frisco. In 1963, Willie McCovey homered forty-four times for San Francisco, but so did the then-Milwaukee Braves' great hitter, Hank Aaron.
"But Mays came back again in 1964 and 1965 to lead the league in homeruns with forty-seven and fifty-two, respectively. Oops, we almost forgot Orlando Cepeda, who was the league leader with forty-six four-baggers in 1961. Power-hitter McCovey homered thirty-six times in 1968 and forty-five times in 1969 to take the honors of home-run champion. So as you can see, the Giants most definitely had the long-ball hitters in the Sixties-Mays, Cepeda and McCovey."
"What a team, Dad! What a team!"
When the weather turned cold and the baseball players doffed their caps and spikes for the season, Frank and his dad turned to hockey as their number-one winter sport, leaving football to other sports enthusiasts.
In the days that Frank first began to follow hockey, there were but six teams in the National Hockey Leaguethe New York Rangers, the Chicago Black Hawks, the Detroit Red Wings, the Toronto Maple Leafs, the Montreal Canadiens and the Boston Bruins. Then, the league started to expand and Frank and his father couldn't keep track of things with all the trades going on.
But in those early years that Frank followed hockey on television, he sure had his favorites.
"Dad, if I had to name my favorite hockey player right now, I'd have to say it's Stan Mikita, the feisty little center for the Chicago Black Hawks. The guy is unbelievable. He used to be one of the most penalized players in the league-always getting into fights-and then he turns around during the 1966-'67 season to take the Lady Byng Trophy, for sportsmanship. And he does it again the following season. Stan the man Mikita, my hero."
"You seem to be forgetting, my boy, that Mikita led the league in scoring for four out of five seasons in the Sixties-1963-'64, 1964-'65, 1966-'67 and 1967-'68."
"Say, that's right, Pop. Who was the league leader in 1965-'66, when Mikita wasn't?"
"Why, the Golden Jet himself ... Bobby Hull, another of the Chicago Black Hawks' finest. Mikita had to live in Hull's superstar shadow for many years, as did Phil Esposito. But Espo broke that pattern and now he's the one who's leading the league in scoring for the Boston Bruins. And he's the first player ever to get over one-hundred points in a season."
"Wow, Dad, Espo's really smashing those goalposts. He finished the 1970-'71 season with one-hundred and fifty-two points, seventy-six of them being goals, a new record. Hmm, I wonder if anyone will ever break that mark. It seems almost impossible."
"Well, Frank, Roger Maris of the New York Yankees hit sixty-one homers in 1961-how apropos!-and that shattered George Herman "Babe" Ruth's homerun record, which he set in 1927."
"But Maris had one-hundred-and-sixty games to do it in, Dad. The Babe walloped sixty homers in the now-extinct days of the one-hundred-and-fifty-four-game season."
"Yes, Son. And Maris sees that very notation in the record books, represented by an asterisk next to his name, every time he looks there.
"But it's winter outside, Frank. How did you let me get onto the topic of baseball. It's hockey that we should be talking about this time of year."
"I don't know, Dad. You seem to be a baseball fan all-year round, cheering your favorite team during the season and the off-season, hollering when they make a trade you disagree with or. . . "
"Okay, Frank, don't rub it in. Let's get back to our discussion of hockey. Who are your other favorite players in the National Hockey League ... besides Mikita?"
"Hmm, on the New York Rangers, I like Harry Howell and Rod Gilbert. On the Toronto Maple Leafs, Davey Keon and Bob Pulford are particular standouts in my book. Les Canadiens? For sure, it's got to be Jean Beli-veau, the team captain. As for the Detroit Red Wings, there's no doubt about Gordie Howe. I bet he'll still be playing a strong game in years to come, and he's in his forties already. And the Boston Bruins? The aforementioned Phil Esposito is my main man ... along with Bobby Orr. As for the expansion teams, I have no favorites yet. Maybe I'm still mad that the league had to expand in the first place."
"Wow, Son, you've got some mighty big names in hockey on that list. Harry Howell took the James Norris Trophy for best defenseman in 1966-'67, but Bobby Orr has been grabbing it up ever since, season after season. Jean Beliveau won the most-valuable-player award during the 1955-'56 season, and again in 1962-'63. And Gordie Howe-he's a four-time winner. Bobby Orr is starting to win that one regularly also these days. Davey Keon earned rookie-of-the-year honors in 1960-'61, and then had a firm date with the Lady Byng Trophy for the next two seasons."
"You sure know your hockey, Dad," Frank acknowledged. "They ought to put you on one of those quiz shows, firing questions about hockey and baseball at you. You'd never give a wrong answer, and you'd come home with bundles of cash."
"That's not my scene, Frank. And anyway, that would be too much like work. I prefer to keep my sports knowledge for enjoyment purposes only.
"One sport that I came into contact with last year was stock-car racing, and I really enjoyed going to the Daytona 500 in Daytona Beach, Florida. I was in the East on business, and decided to take in the racing festivities in my spare time."
"I think you mentioned it briefly, Dad. Who won?"
"A fellow named Richard Petty, and I understand it wasn't his first win there either. He's supposed to be one of the biggest winners in the sport's history!
"There were a number of other great drivers in the contest, including Cale Yarbrough, Lee Roy Yarborough-no relation, Buddy Baker, Fred Lorenzen and even A.J. Foyt, whose taken a few Indy 500's over in Indiana.
"I saw a fiery crash or two during the race but, fortunately, no one was killed. Those guys ride around that banked track at speeds of about two-hundred miles an hour, which is rather hairy considering how close together the cars are. Too many men have lost their lives in auto racing, but that's what a lot of spectators are there to see, and it's a rather sad commentary on some human beings and how they get their kicks."
"Sounds to me like the people who go to boxing matches and absolutely love the sight of blood, right, Dad?"
"You're one-hundred-percent correct, Frank. It's good that there are people like you and me, who enjoy watching a boxing match for the sportsmanship. I've enjoyed watching great heavyweights ever since Joe Louis. Wow, there have been a bunch of great fighters in that weight class-Ezzard Charles, Jersey Joe Walcott, Rocky Marciano, Floyd Patterson, Ingemar Johannsson, Joe Frazier and the one and only Muhammed Ali, nee Cassius Marcellus Clay. I wonder if Ali will ever get a chance at the title again. He's about thirty years old now, and he hasn't fought in a while since he was stripped of the title for not wanting to serve in the armed forces."
"I can't say that I disagree with him for not stepping forward at the selective service center," commented Frank. "He did what he believed in.
"But I'd sure like to see him fight again, Dad. He was an innovative fighter, and I'd like to see him take on Frazier, another great champ."
"That's one particularly great thing about America, Son. A man can make millions of dollars through boxing, and that's a sum of money that he might not get all that close to in a white-collar position. But then again, you've got to develop that God-given talent to box, and that requires years and years of training.
"America is a really fine country for those of us who are willing to work hard for a living."
Frank's father was also an expert on his favorite country as well as its history, and the eighteen-year-old boy had picked up a great deal of information from him. The two of them could name every President and Vice-President from George Washington and John Adams right through Richard M. Nixon and Spiro T. Agnew. And each one knew the capitals of each state from Montgomery, Alabama through Cheyenne, Wyoming.
Both were proud of the fact that the current President was a Californian.
"Say, Son, wouldn't it be great if we could have a Californian in office every ten years?" exclaimed Frank's dad.
"You bet, Pop. Maybe President Nixon will end that damn Vietnam war yet. I'm sure glad he put through the draft lottery, though, because my number is so high that I may never be called to serve."
"I may be patriotic when it comes to baseball, Son, but there isn't anyone in this world who is going to convince me that we're right in being over there. Good Americans are being blown to bits, or returning with their bodies or their minds-or sometimes both-a bit screwed up.
"During World War Two, things were much different," Frank's dad recalled. President Roosevelt helped a great deal of us get through the darned Depression of the Thirties with the New Deal, and he sure had the right ideas about the Nazis and the Japanese and Mussolini's Italy. Why, you weren't even a gleam in your daddy's eye when the Japanese bombed our guys in Pearl Harbor.
"I guess one of the few things I hold against President Roosevelt, though, is how he ignored the pleas of European Jews who were dying by the millions in concentration camps. During the Forties, I guess I agreed with the moving of Japanese-Americans into relocation centers-some called them concentration camps-but I'm not so sure about it today. If they had to do the same things with German-Americans and Italian-Americans, there wouldn't be too many people walking the streets of this country during the war years.
"I still think President Truman was right to bomb Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He ended the war a lot quicker, meaning that countless American lives were saved because of the destruction the men of the Enola Gay dealt to the Land of the Rising Sun and its people."
"Seems the only part of it I'm not proud of," Frank commented, "is that a lot of the innocent women and children in Japan were killed or mutilated by those bombs. We saw it all over again in North Vietnam when President Lyndon Johnson decided to drop napalm."
"War is hell, Son," Frank's father said disgustedly. "I know the expression is a cliche, but I sure won't be the last one to use it. And the words-sure as hell-are true.
"Just the other day, Frank, I was thinking about my own father telling me about the tragic crash of the Hindenburg back in 1937 in Lakehurst, New Jersey.
"He recalled vividly how radio broadcaster Herb Morrison had announced that the hydrogen-filled German airship was flying over New York on its way to New Jersey. Then, it was approaching the mooring at Lakehurst when suddenly, it burst into flames.
"Morrison cried as he continued his narration, apologizing to his listening audience for breaking down. He was only human, though, and considering the circumstances, did an excellent job.
"Surprisingly, about two-thirds of the people aboard the airship survived the fiery explosion. And I hear that once Morrison calmed down a bit, he was out helping the survivors. During his Boy Scout days, he had learned that one of the last places that burn on the human body are the armpits. So, when sighting a badly-burned Hindenburg passenger staggering from the scene-his clothing in cinders-Morrison went behind him and held him by the armpits. When another rescuer ran toward them to assist, his arms outstretched to grab the victim's arms, Morrison had to shout him away for fear of further harming the man in his arms.
"Morrison's broadcast has been repeated numerous times over the radio and television. And the television version, of course, shows the Hindenburg being engulfed in fire, the flames licking at the airship's outer skin."
"Wow, Dad. I've just got to see that sometime. Tragedies like the Hindenburg disaster are something we all wish could be avoided, but we haven't seen the last of them," Frank lamented.
"The Sixties brought us the two Kennedy assassinations and the murder of Martin Luther King, the great civil-rights leader. I. can still picture him giving his 'I Have a Dream' speech to his followers. It's a pity he wasn't around to see that dream realized.
"I still remember those four days following President Kennedy's assassination in the streets of Dallas, Texas. The initial shock and disbelief at what had happened, and then the tears that followed.
"And imagine watching his killer, Lee Harvey Oswald, being led out of prison to be shot dead-in full view of TV cameras and millions of Americans-by a man named Jack Ruby. Ruby became something of a hero, with many people driving around with "God Bless Jack Ruby" ass-perstickers on their cars.
"And Robert Kennedy's assassination by Sirhan Sirhan in California was another shocker, particularly so because it came so closely on the heels of the King killing.
"If I were Ted Kennedy, the last remaining Kennedy brother, I doubt that I'd ever run for President, not after losing two brothers to crazed murderers."
"This may sound like a crazy question, Dad, but do you, by any chance, remember the Alamo?" queried Frank.
"Well, I wasn't there in person, if that's what you mean," chuckled his father.
"I heard about it in school the other day, but I guess I was daydreaming while my teacher, Mrs. Goderson, was talking about it. Could you fill me in a bit?"
"It's not a good sign to be daydreaming during class, Son, especially when the topic is as interesting as American history.
"Please don't let it happen again. Now ... that Alamo ... that was when a comparatively small band of Texans tried to stave off an attack of the Alamo-and impressive fortress-by a vast army of Mexicans, led by the notorious Santa Ana. The date was March the sixth, 1836. The Texans in that fort included Jim Bowie, the same fellow whom the knife is named after, and Davy Crockett. I remember there was quite a fad over him in the Fifties-Nineteen Fifties, that is, not Eighteen-Fifties-where stores all over the country were selling T-shirts, coonskin caps, powder horns-you name it-all bearing his name. Crockett was a hunter, a politician, and an all-around patriot. But the Mexicans were just too strong and overpowering, defeating the Texans and taking the Alamo. Today, the fort is a great spot for sightseers to visit, recalling that infamous nineteenth-century battle.
"One of Davy Crockett's favorite expressions, Son, was 'Be sure you're right, then go ahead.' It's something you should remember throughout your life."
"That sounds like a credo that everyone should live by, Dad. A very important idea to keep in mind.
"To change the topic only slightly, Dad, how do you feel about capital punishment?" queried Frank.
"At this point, Son, I guess I'm in favor of it. The United States Supreme Court just ruled that the death penalty for murder and for rape, when imposed by the jury, constitutes cruel and unusual punishment in violation of the eighth and fourteenth amendments to the Constitution.
"Close to four-thousand prisoners were executed in gas chambers, in electric chairs, by hanging or by firing squads in America since 1930. To me, that means four-thousand fewer people on the streets to rape and kill-or do both-again.
"California last used capital punishment in 1967, which, at this point, puts it and Colorado as the last two states to take advantage of the death penalty. And no state has used it since."
"Any chance of it coming back, Dad?" Frank asked.
"One never knows, Son. There's so much distaste for capital punishment as being inhuman nowadays that it may be decades-if ever-before it returns. Meanwhile, our jails are filling up with murderers and rapists who, before you know it, will be out on the warpath again. And doing their dirty work all over again.
"And do you think any of those four-thousand men and women-many of whom murdered-showed any compassion for their victims when they were shooting them, stabbing them, or whatever? Not in the least, I'd bet a bankroll."
"You mentioned hanging and firing squads, Dad. Are there actually some states that use those as methods of capital punishment?"
"Well, Utah for one. And I think that there are a couple of others, but I can't recall them offhand."
"You know, Dad, we've been talking about some awfully depressing topics. Why don't we discuss America's space program, a definite high point of the last decade?"
"I fully agree, Son. Which was your favorite flight?"
"No doubt about it, Pop. It has to be Apollo Eleven, when Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin Jr. landed in the Sea of Tranquility. Poor Michael Collins had to stay behind in the Command Module while the other two guys were having a ball on the moon. But then again, how many of us will ever get as close to the moon as he did?
"Seems like only yesterday, but it was four years ago."
"Armstrong and Aldrin stayed on the moon's surface for over twenty-one hours, not bad at all," Frank's father commented.
"I, of course, enjoyed that flight, too, particularly when Armstrong took that 'one giant step for mankind.'
"But my own all-time favorite space flight was way back on May the Fifth, 1961, when the first astronaut, Alan B. Shepard, Jr., was launched in a Mercury spacecraft to an altitude of some one-hundred-and-fifteen miles. And his vehicle traveled at a top speed of five-thousand miles per hour. True, he was only up a little more than fifteen minutes, but Mr. Shepard kicked off the entire space program.
"And I have to say that I was extremely pleased when Shepard was one of the three astronauts sent up last year-in Apollo Fourteen-to land their Lunar Module in the moon's Fra Mauro area. Shepard, along with Edgar Mitchell and Stuart Roosa, flew in space for over two-hundred-and-sixteen hours. It was only befitting that Shepard, America's first man in space, was permitted to go on one of the Apollo missions to the moon. And to think that there were almost ten years between his Gemini flight and his Apollo flight.
"I guess we're both looking forward to Skylab's launch next year. It will be America's first orbiting space laboratory, in which three-man crews will spend several weeks and then, maybe months, in space, observing its effects on them over the extended period of time.
"The results should be very interesting, don't you think Son?"
"You know it, Dad. I just hope the United States doesn't decide to cut back its expenditures on the space program. I find the flights quite interesting to watch on television and to read about afterward in the newspapers and the newsmagazines. And I think the flights also inspire patriotism in American's throughout the land."
Just as Frank completed his thought, his mother walked into the living room from the kitchen, saying, "Okay, fellas, it's time to get back down to earth again and do some shopping for me. We have an important guest coming this evening."
"Who's that?" asked Frank, opening his eyes wide.
His father also looked at the woman wonderingly, lighting his pipe at the same moment.
"Why, it's your cousin, Jerry, the writer from New York. He's come West for a couple of weeks to look for some story assignments with the West Coast magazines, and he'll be staying at a nearby motel."
"Didn't you ask him if he'd like to stay with us?" Frank's father asked.
"Of course, John, but he said he didn't want to impose on us. And I guess he realizes that we're kind of cramped for space with three people, much less four."
"It's been a while since we last saw him," commented Frank's father. "I figure he's already had articles published in every big magazine back East, so now he wants to conquer the publications three-thousand miles away."
"Enough talk," Thelma Morris said. "Would you two please go down to the butcher shop and pick me up a nice roast beef. And on your way back, stop at the green grocer and pick up some parsley, carrots, cabbage and potatoes so I can prepare a hearty soup. While you're there, you might pick up some broccoli, spinach and cauliflower to round off the meal nicely."
"What about dessert, Mom? You know that Jerry always leaves some space in his stomach so he can have a few extra helpings of dessert. And even though he's from New York, he seems to be a Southerner deep down, craving pecan pie."
"Well, Frank, I seem to recall that pecan pie is one of your favorites, too. And when was the last time you were to Georgia? I won't have time to prepare it, though, with all of the other cooking I have to do. So why don't you and your dad pick up a pie or two at Marcy's Bake Shop!" his mother suggested.
"You bet, Mom. Marcy makes the greatest commercial pies in San Francisco, but she can't compare with your homemade dessert creations. I understand, and Dad and I won't want you in the kitchen all night."
"Thanks, Son, now get going," Thelma Morris advised.
Frank and his father headed into town in the family's 1970 Dodge Dart. Frank had been along on many of the trips that the car had taken them on, and he noticed the odometer had logged a lot of mileage in those two seemingly-short years.
In just under an hour, the two were back at the Morris home, unloading the packages from the backseat of the automobile and bringing them inside to the kitchen.
Several hours passed,, during which Mrs. Morris cooked up a proverbial storm, John Morris napped and Frank Morris finished up his Spanish homework.
At six in the evening, the doorbell rang. Frank bounded from his desk to the door, and opened it.
There stood Jerry Briggs, the successful freelance writer from back East.
He was about ten years older than Frank, but didn't look that much older. His London Fog raincoat was open slightly, and Frank noticed he looked fine in his three-piece blue suit.
"Well, invite him in already!" Frank's mother called as she stood just outside the kitchen.
Jerry and Frank shook hands and each said, "Great to see you! How're you doin'? "
Meanwhile, Thelma Morris tossed her towel on the sink and ran to Jerry, embracing him.
"It's been too long, Jerry, much too long!"
"It has, Mrs. Morris. Let's get together more often, and not just because you happen to be the best cook in the West."
Frank and his mother laughed at Jerry's touch of humor and she told him to get comfortable while Frank woke up his father.
As the three men sat in the living room, Frank asked Jerry about some of the articles he had written as a professional journalist.
"About the most interesting one, for sure," claimed Jerry, "was about a visit to an underground or deep coalmine in Ohio.
"Before I started my research, I expected to see men bent double, their bodies glistening with sweat, as they worked dark seams with pick and shovel.
"The truth is, though, that much of coalmining today is quite modernized.
"Miners operate a thirty-seven-ton machine called a continuous miner, which tears from four to eight tons of raw coal per minute from a seam. That's a lot quicker than it was in earlier decades."
"Methane gas is a constant worry among coal miners, even with the excellent ventilation that many mines have.
"You see mine workers frequently checking their digital detectors to make sure the methane-gas level is not nearing the danger zone.
"After a particular area has been mined, workers use a machine called a roof bolter to shore up the ceiling. That's designed to prevent cave-ins as they progress farther into the mine."
"That's fascinating," said John Morris. "Weren't you afraid down there, though?"
"I've got to admit that I was, Mr. Morris. But once I saw all the precautions that were taken, I sort of eased up and started to take notes as if I were covering a Yankee game."
"Did you ever do any articles on hobbies?" Frank asked.
"Yes, stamp collecting for one. I used to be a philatelist when I was a kid, so I had the basics of the piece many years before I wrote it. Philately is an extremely informative hobby, and I'd sure like to get back to it one of these days."
"In the article, I described the differences between mint and used stamps, along with descriptions of first-day covers, plate blocks, stamp albums and stamp catalogs. I also told the reader how to get hold of the stamps, et cetera, without having to go to the foreign countries themselves. The article involved just a few days of research to kind of update my knowledge."
"Did you ever have an article rejected, Jerry," Frank's father asked.
"It happens to the best of writers, Mr. Morris. And it's not always a terrible thing.
"I had a piece on learning a foreign language rejected by a magazine which had planned to pay me one-hundred and-seventy-five dollars for it.
"With the rejected manuscript back in my hands, I searched through Writer's Market-the writer's bible-and discovered a career-oriented magazine geared toward a younger audience.
"I queried the publication with the idea, and once they said they liked it, I rewrote the piece with a new slant. My reward was a check for five-hundred dollars. Ergo, rejections aren't always earth-shattering news.
"But then, of course, there are articles that you can't seem to sell no matter how many markets you try!"
"Gee, Jerry," Frank noted, "you probably have very little free time with all of the writing you do."
"Not necessarily, Frank," Jerry retorted. "As a freelancer, I can pretty much make my own hours.
"This past summer, in fact, I worked with the church baseball team as a coach.
"Of course, it was on a volunteer basis, and it did mean devoting one or two nights a week along with waking up pretty early in the morning on Saturdays. But working with seven and eight-year-old boys and teaching them the game and watching them put my knowledge into practice made it all worth it.
"Unfortunately, the parents and the managers and coaches from the other teams-from the same church yet-made it tedious after a while."
"How's that?" asked John Morris.
"Well, as the only coach who didn't actually have a child playing on the teams, I had the benefit of not rooting for any one particular child over the others. But some of these fathers would belittle their children right in front of everybody, leaving emotional scars that might take years to disappear, if ever. And a lot of the fathers were managers or coaches, supposedly trying to teach sportsmanship. Some fathers-particularly managers-would give their children prime positions to play, even if they were extremely short on talent.
"The straw that broke this camel's back was the day I had an argument with my live-in girlfriend, then an over-the-phone disagreement with a slow-paying editor. This was followed by being an "umpire" in a night-time game at the park in which I had parents of children on the opposing team telling me I had made a wrong call and was 'as blind as a bat,' followed by near-fisticuffs with the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound manager of the other team. After that, I threw in the towel. But I guess I can draw on the experience one day if I ever write a comedy."
"Sounds like you had a truly winning day there, Jerry, if you know what I mean," commented Frank's dad. "Don't you agree, Frank ... Frank...? "
Frank was in another world, though, taken there by Jerry's mention of last summer.
He was pondering an incident that had taken place just before that summer, in the stale, musty textbook storeroom at his high school.
Mrs. Ellen Goderson, his young brunette American-history teacher was facing him, and he found himself breathing deeply, as if to quell the sound of his fast-pumping heart. The woman standing just feet away from his virgin body had been the subject of a year's worth of high school sex fantasies.
Before that afternoon was over, fantasy had turned to reality, and the recent divorcee became his initial lover.
Through the cloudy haze Frank saw her lips move. "I'm your first," Mrs. Goderson had gasped. He said nothing. "You're a virgin." There was no need to answer: she knew, he had told her. "My own virgin boy," she had said in a low moan, closing her eyes as he entered her warm inner recesses.
But that afternoon of his seduction by his teacher would have a long-lasting effect on him, leading him of some strange behavior in the years ahead.
The memory of it was with him constantly; it had brought him to therapy with Dr. Karen Vogel, who sat at the other end of the room, her blonde hair catching the San Francisco sun of a spring ten years later.
Talking about it had taken comparatively few words. Yet the dream-like quality the remembrance had taken on put it out of the realm of time and space. The memory seemed as long as the events themselves.
"And then?" The woman's voice reminded him of Mrs. Goderson's-or was it just the confusion between past memory and present reality? Was it just that he had only now finished recounting his first sexual experience?
"Then ... " he began, his voice trailing off. This was the difficult-the more painful-part. "We had sex again, still in the textbook storeroom. I don't know how many times. We did it until it was dark outside-until I had to go home for supper." He paused for a moment. "It was almost summer then, too, and it didn't get dark until late."
"I see." Karen Vogel was waiting for him. He looked at her, stalling for time. Damn, he thought. Why didn't they tell you that therapy was painful? All this unraveling of secrets, of hurts from the past. He was lost for a moment in the sound of her voice-like Mrs. Goderson's, husky, throaty. Dr. Vogel couldn't have been that much older than the other woman had been at the time. Perhaps thirty at the most. He found himself-wondering about her sex-life about what she was like when she took off those severe-looking glasses. He was convinced they were for effect, anyway-she took them off often enough....
Again she interrupted his reverie. "Mr. Morris, you've been in therapy for several months now-and with a serious sexual problem."
He nodded. "I know. But I've heard it-that therapy takes years, sometimes."
"Sometimes, yes," the psychotherapist smiled, the smile softening her features. "But one shouldn't use that as an excuse for not wrestling with the problems soon. I think it might be possible to 'solve' your difficulties sooner, if we don't evade them. After all, you have an incentive in your fiancee."
"Yes," he agreed, thinking of Emily Perrin.
"You are sure you want to marry her-aren't you? You don't think your impotence might be caused by uncertainty?"
"That I love Emily? Of course not."
"But you are impotent with her." Karen Vogel's nipples clung to the pale jersey; her large breasts were unfettered by brassiere.
"Not impotent, Doctor," he said, drawing his eyes away from the tits, wondering if they were erect or whether they were always that sharply pointed. "I mean, I'm able to stay hard and to come-well," he went on after hesitating, "other ways."
"Yes," the young doctor agreed. "Other ways. But not through intercourse."
Frank Morris shook his head. "But she's so young."
"If she's all that young-and a girl of eighteen is sexually mature, Mr. Morris-then she's too young to marry. And you tell me that you both want to." She waited only long enough for Frank to nod. "And that's why you're here."
"I suppose so," he mumbled. Slurring his words seemed a way of qualifying his confessions in therapy.
"Did you choose her as a potential partner because she was a virgin?"
"Not only that-" Frank started to protest.
"But you've dated a whole string of girls who were virgins, haven't you?" Dr. Vogel drilled him, her own voice just as insistent. He took a deep breath and said nothing. "The point is, I didn't diagnose your problem-you did. You were afraid that if you and Emily did marry, she would lose her sexual attraction for you along with her hymen. Isn't that right?"
There was silence in the office, and she went on. "Like Valerie before her, after you'd made love to her. like Susan, after you'd deflowered her. After Elizabeth, after she'd been so frustrated she lost her virginity with another man."
"Yes. Yes. Yes," he repeated the admission as a man might rub a sore tooth with his tongue.
"Now." Karen-she insisted on the use of first names at random, it seemed, depending upon the intimacy with which they were speaking-continued in a softer voice, "can we go back to your own sexual initiation with Mrs. Goderson?"
"All right." The painful part would have to come, after all. "The next day, when I saw her, I smiled. I mean, it was the sort of smile she would understand. I didn't want to embarrass her, and I certainly didn't want to brag about it to the other guys. I mean, I really thought I was in love with her." He found a lone cigarette in what he'd thought was an empty pack, withdrew it and lit it. He inhaled, and the next words issued out in smoke.
"I was just trying to be nice. I certainly couldn't deny the intimacy. It hadn't occurred to me she would. After all, she'd said I was special."
"Because you were a virgin."
He nodded, his mouth tight and grim with agreement, "But I didn't see that then-how could I?" He sighed. "I've inherited her kink-that's how I've come to understand it.
"But she looked away-and the times she returned the smile, when other kids could see-well, it was a cold smile. Telling me it never happened. But of course it had, and what she was really telling me was that it couldn't happen again.
"And it didn't, Doctor Vogel-"
"Karen-"
"Karen." He impatiently stubbed out the cigarette-it wasn't giving him any satisfaction anyway, and he worked out the frustration he felt, remembering the earlier frustration with the woman teacher, by crushing the burning ash into the glass tray. "She avoided all of my attempts to be alone with her. One time when I stayed after class, since it was sixth period and there would be no next class, she called out someone else's name at random, just to keep us from being alone."
"How did you find out-how could you be sure-that it was because she'd taken your, uh, cherry, that she didn't want to have anything more to do with you?"
"Because," he sighed, "I little by little realized that she was doing-and had done-the same with other guys as she had with me. For all their bragging, most of them had been virgins before Mrs. Goderson."
"Did they tell you this?"
"No. They didn't have to. Once she'd 'initiated' me, to use your word, I could see the signs. They'd stay after class, maybe, she'd ask them to help her with some chore-as she'd asked me that time."
"But no one said anything."
"They didn't boast, if that's what you mean. It's really not so surprising, when I think back. Maybe it was loyalty-after all, she'd done us the one favor boys that age prize the most. It could be gratitude. Or maybe fear of her-she had had the upper hand, no pun intended. And who'd believe us-snotnose kids that we were? Who'd ever believe an attractive young teacher like that, with her pick of any man, would have taken on clumsy high-school virgins?"
"Who indeed?" Dr. Vogel-Karen-sighed sympathetically. "But haven't you come to realize that it was her problem? That her rejection of you-and of those other boys in turn-had nothing to do with you? That it was only because you were virgins-"
"And that once we weren't, we lost our interest for her. Sure I realize that. In my head. But not here," he said, sticking a finger in the base of his stomach.
"And not in your cock," his therapist added. Frank blushed, but she widened her eyes. "Don't be so shocked, Frank. A little crudity can sometimes cut through confusion."
"I suppose I realized-I mean, got the idea-then, that if you had to be a virgin, that it was terrible not to be. That you were damaged if you weren't, second-hand goods."
"What about you?" she asked. "You were no longer a virgin. Yet you continued, in these past ten years, to make love to women-mostly virgins, true, but-"
"It was too late for me," Frank said, staring past her toward the window and the view of Union Square.
"And the women you really loved were virgins. Until you made love to them, at least. Since your own virginity was lost, you made love only to virgins."
CHAPTER TWO
"Tell me why you love me, Frank," Emily said in her little-girl voice. It seemed to match her unlined face, her eighteen years, and even the frilly pink bra she wore. He thought of all these things at her mention of the word "Love," and he rolled his thumb over the tip of the empty bra cup. A few minutes before the other side of the silky fabric had touched her nipples, now exposed just above the frills at the top of the undone bra. The areolas were just a few shades deeper than the pink of the undergarment. It smelled of carnation, the fragrance of the bath she had taken just before they'd gone out this evening.
"I love you because-" He looked down at her, supine in the back seat of his car, with a calm smile he did not feel. He was wondering whether to tell her the truth. And if he did, how could he put it in a way she'd understand?
It was at moments like these-moments of wondering what an eighteen-year-old girl, however apparently randy, could comprehend-that he wondered whether her parents might after all be right. That she might be too young to be going out with a man of twenty-five, a computer technician three years out of college. And certainly too young, they insisted, to be engaged. But even if he had really agreed, neither her parents nor he could really stand up to this "Little princess" when she wanted her own way.
"I love you because," he began having opted for the cowardly way out, "you're innocent." Well, that was true in a way-innocence and virginity had once meant the same thing. "And," he added more truthfully, "because you're beautiful."
With this his finger again prodded the nipple that had gone slack since he had come in his trousers, causing a brief halt in their heavy-petting. The tit, stiffening, responded immediately. He rolled his finger over the splotch of scarlet until the sharpened nipple tickled the fingertip. She was smiling, wiping her dry upper lip with her pink tongue.
"Am I beautiful?"
He answered silently, with a wet kiss. There was something so eager and anxious about her tongue-fucking, as if all of the wrenching of actual intercourse was expressed through the sliding lips and squirming tongue, the grating teeth. She wasn't exactly beautiful-but few men would have been satisfied to call her merely "pretty." Her hair was the color the English call "fair," sometimes called "red" by Americans, but in fact something paler-so pale as to set off perfectly her cream-white skin, marked only by the most occasional of freckles. Her lips were neither thin nor particularly full, but they could express things as clearly as her hazel-green eyes.
Frank lifted his mouth from Emily's, wondering how at eighteen she could be, though still virginal, so skillful a lover in all the preliminaries-and some of the variations-of sex. His tongue moved over the surface of her areola, and his teeth gnawed playfully at the rising tit. He felt the breath fill her lungs as her breasts pushed up into his opened mouth. The undone lacy-pink bra was crushed under his weight as he swept moistly away from the rising tit and bit into her midriff, while she sighed. He looked up to see a flicker of pleasure course through her lips, while between them came the girlish whimper that always excited him. The teenager was reaching impatiently for his prick.
He was hard again-Emily could make him come over and over; she awoke in him more lust than any other girl or woman had before. "You're wet," she said. "But still hard." Her small thin hand smeared the come through the thick pubic hair at his crotch-she had already pushed his trousers and underwear to his thighs. "The come is so hot on you," she said, rubbing a globule of the thick white cream until the patch of sensitive skin above the thicker hair was dry, and the come had caked into fine dust.
"You want me to do it to you again, huh?" she asked. "Don't you?" she teased, knowing he did.
"Which way this time, Frank? With my hand again? Or-" She moved her tongue over her deep-pink lips. "With my mouth?" He smiled in answer. The naked skin of her back made a smacking noise against the plastic seat of the upholstery in the car. Emily's legs folded at the knees.
"Maybe not here, Em," he cautioned. "Why not?"
"We could, later. After the film. At my apartment."
She laughed. "I couldn't wait that long. Did you really want to?" He shook his head. "If I didn't know you better," he said, "I'd swear you were a tease."
"Me?" Then, softly: "But I always satisfy you, don't I?" He nodded while he winced with pleasure: she had taken his throbbing cock in her hand and was rolling her thumb over the flattened side of its head. She moved the prick toward her soft side, just above the hipbone.
"Yes. Of course you do." He sniffed at the smell of come in the closed car. "But I can't satisfy you as easily, can I?" His tone was sad-and cautious. He was afraid of the very issue he was raising. They were both on their sides; in the reflected light from the city below-the car was parked in a deserted lot on a hill overlooking the Bay-he could see her prominent nipples jiggle with movement. She had inches lower; she was going to take him in her mouth. He could almost feel the wet swish of her tongue....
"Innocent?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes."
"Because I'm a virgin?"
"Well," he hesitated. "That's part of it. But it's mainly, well, that you're pure. And I don't want to do anything to spoil you."
"Spoil me? You couldn't do that. Besides, you said yourself you wanted me to be as satisfied by sex as you are."
"After we're married-"
"I don't say that to you, Frank."
There was no answer to that. In the night, Frank shook his head in agreement: no, she didn't. She wouldn't. She would let him fuck her in the back seat of this car if he wanted. She'd never been coy. Right now, without hesitation. That was what made her seem so vulnerable, so-innocent. Yes, that might be the right word after all.
"I'm not so innocent, Frank," she said, dispelling his sudden mood of gloom with a teasing giggle. She was taking the stiffened board and leading it to the center of her chest. "Help me, Frank," she said.
This was new. The sight of his cock nestled between her girlish-but not small-breasts, excited him. It looked like a sausage between converging bun. The tits pointed out and up, sharp, to the sides of the cock. Her legs doubled at the knees, and her naked toes rested on the inner door handle, this obscured her stomach and midriff, and the details of her crotch-lips were lost in the dark and the position. Below her ankles rested the discarded panties. In the air was the thick smell of excited cunt.
"Do you feel that?" she asked, and he nodded. "Hmmm," he said, feeling the tits rub up against the spine of the stiffened sex-organ. "It'd be nicer if you sucked them again. Then they'd feel smoother."
Emily loved having her tits sucked hard. His body crouched in order that he could apply his mouth to the center of her chest, between the smallish, but well-proportioned knockers. He turned his head, rolling his closed lips between the two hillocks which, when she did not force them together, pointed outward.
He closed them together around his cheeks, stuffing them against the slight hollows. His fingers stretched up to where the smooth flesh took on the texture of tapioca, budding under the pressure of his fingertips as he pushed them back into the soft cream-white breast.
He knew best how to excite her, to make the pressure on her build. He took his tongue and rolled it around the white-pink skin that circled the already enraged areolas, one by one. Just as the pressure on one breast began to mount, to make the teenager start to squirm and rub his neck imploringly with her fingertips, he slid his tongue across the valley between the breasts and came up to-not quite touching-the twin crest. The tongue's pressure was harder and he whipped it round the reddened tit-tissue. Beneath his chin, Emily's hand was kneading her own breast-tissue, trying to slide the cap of the breast inside his mouth as he continued to tease at his own pace.
Then at last the lips, with only a trace of moisture-the wet absorbed from the skin outside the tip, on her own breast, the moisture that had not yet dried from his mouth-he rolled his tightly closed lips over the points in turn. "Yes, yes," the girl cried, half-moaning and half-whispering. Then, just as dry, his upper and lower front teeth closed in on the tits, biting down hard. His fingers sought out her midriff, and with his short nails he pushed in at her slight curve of a belly. Inches below, as best she could in the cramped back seat, she thrust her tawny-haired pud upward, begging him wordlessly to let his fingers crawl down lower. Again he denied her, wanting her to come this time; wanting, too, to give himself more time-to get harder still. The blood had inflated his recently-spent cock, but he was not quite the brick-hardness she liked to feel in her mouth when she blew him....
Emily's own fingers had slipped down to the silktwine that nestled round the twat-lips, and she was pressing down on the excited clit. For a moment two fingers slipped just a fraction of an inch inside the box, then quickly withdrew to spread a thin film of moisture over the swelling clit oral bud. Her hand rose to her breast and she wiped the skin of fluid over the sharp tit of her left breast. The touch of her own fingers was wild; the breast-flesh jiggled under his chin. Frank felt a shiver of frustration pass through the girl's body. Her ass was rolling against the plastic seat-cover, making smacking and screeching noises not unlike the sound of cocks in wild motion through wet cunts-the penetration he had always denied Emily, but the thought of which, even now, when he knew he would not deflower her, excited him.
His teeth slid over the tit she had doused with cunt-slither, and his tongue rolled over it again and again, feeling a throbbing warmth shaped like a circle, coming to a sharp point against the roof of his mouth. Her fingers pressed into the nape of his neck, while her thumbs pushed into his cheeks. He felt their pressure on the sides of his teeth: she was urging him to come down more sharply still on the nipple.
Then came the sweetest of frustration as his mouth opened wider, and the nipple tickled at the edge of his throat so that he almost gagged on it. The tongue rolled over the curved underside. He raised his head and looked at her. Her pale red hair was disarranged in curls over the edge of the car-seat, and her head snapped with a rhythm she felt within. "Uh, uh, uh," she groaned, as if dancing to a disco tune inside her body, a tune Frank did not hear. He opened his palm and rubbed her saliva-soaked tit as he put his mouth to the other and immediately bit hard.
As he teased her with his teeth, flicking the lower part of the swollen tit with his tongue while the edges of his upper teeth coursed over the granules of excited dark tit-flesh, Emily's hand again slithered to her crotch. He felt the knuckles at the back of her small hand push up against his thigh, tickling him. He wanted her hand now, but he would not deny her the pleasure of feeling herself, fingering herself. He wanted to watch the fingertips move within the pink-purple ribbons of cunt-flesh and disappear as the mouth of the vagina opened, puckered around the bony insertions. In a moment they did; the tightly coiled hair moved as Emily bumped her hips up off the backseat of the car, as if to meet the inserted digits.
His hand traveled to her hand, and his fingertips grazed her moving knuckles. The fingers dived between the spreading bones and rubbed the delicate flesh underneath the reddish hair of the vaginal area, and she swayed from side to side, letting him alternate the pressure on the clitoral ridge, so that they were both masturbating her at the same time. The mixture of little-girl cuntsweat and the less fragrant salty perspiration that now covered her forehead excited Frank, and he moved his tongue from her breast to her neck, and finally to her brow, breathing down a butterfly kiss that made her pump her crotch up with violence toward their tangled fingers.
In the next moment, Frank found both of their hands inside her soft box; the girl's smaller bones, his own long thin fingertips reaching farther up to the womb. The cushion of the car snorted as she came down, and the four coiled fingers shoved forward inside the sweet slime as if in pursuit of the retreating cuntwalls.
Now, instead of moving up and down, Emily rolled from side to side, stretching the labia, which both their knuckles prodded as the steady pace of fingerfucking accelerated. Suddenly Emily withdrew her own sticky fingers and pressed them to the back of Frank's wrist, jabbing at the pulsing veins, encouraging him to stick his own hand deeper inside her. He pulled his hand back as if to withdraw while Emily's stomach wriggled below, and in the next stroke he had slipped in the third finger. The walls began to seal about him-half-stuffed with his prodding stiff bones, half through the contracting muscles of the cunt itself. The fingers themselves felt as though the thick cunt-water had seeped past their own skin, that they were as much a part of the vaginal tissue as the converging walls themselves. He twisted his wrist and brought the three fingers, pumping together, in a half-circle through her now-gaping sex-hole. The hair outside the rim of the circle was now soaked as if rained upon, and the air of the closed car was thick with Emily's aroused sex.
In a spasm the girl's legs closed around his assaulting hand, drilling him to her so that he had to wrench hard to keep moving to the counter-strokes that were driving her, he knew, close to the edge of finger-induced orgasm. His own knuckles felt the softness of her inner thighs like pillows as the legs moved together. Her body tightened as if afraid to lose the bones, to lose their penetration inside her quim.
He jammed forward again and again, and the cunt-muscles were as grasping around his hand as the legs, though these muscles were slicker with inner moisture. Once deep inside her, his base-knuckles covered with the curly fair hair that covered the entrance to her sex, he wriggled the fingertips against what seemed to them the very end of the vaginal track.
Now Emily's own hips shimmered with the most economic movements, as if to squeeze her own orgasm from his stiffened fingers. He could barely move forward in the last strokes. She held her breath as he moved the tips, pushing them into the yielding wet flesh. Only the sound of her head beating itself madly against the muffling cushion of the car-seat told him that she was letting the orgasm course through her. The fingers seemed caught inside the electric-charged cunt for an eternity until at last the muscles relaxed, and he withdrew them slowly to her cooing sounds.
She took his hand and led it to her lips, sniffing her own essence on him. She smeared the heavy liquid across her lips, and he put his mouth to hers again, tasting her as strongly as if he'd tongued the hole itself. The girl's fingers slipped off her own unlined face and stroked the small of his back, awakening a train of sensation in his lower body, while her mouth opened wider and their tongues collided.
The movement of her mouth was sloppy, as relaxed now as was her sated cunt. She was wet and moist, and her body had lost the coiled tenseness if had achieved in the moments before the wrenching release of orgasm.
But even as she had "wound down," Frank was newly excited-charged by her own wild pleasure of moments before. Emily was never selfish, though, and he could wait for her. The need to give him pleasure was as strong in her as her own sexually precocious desire for climax. That was, he knew, why she wanted to fuck him-to let him fuck her. She thought he needed to for complete satisfaction. That his restraint was unselfish. She did not realize what he most feared; she did not realize that it would be that complete satisfaction that might lose him the excitement her taut young body now held for him.
Her hand moved to his stiff rig without him feeling the motion against his lower body, somehow numbed by the cramping of the car. She had "recovered" quickly. She yanked the foreskin of the plank, and she scraped the flattened underside with her perfect red-stained thumbnail, sending a thrilling blister of sensation deep through the cock. The warm base beneath the scrotum swirled with pulse and with gathering ejaculation. His pelvis moved forward, shoving the dork into her tightening hand as she tried to keep him prisoner in her soft closed fist.
She let the tip of the rounded dome press into the deep pocket just inside her protruding hipbone. Only then, against the dry skin, did he realize a thick bead of dog-water had already formed outside the slit. She rubbed the cream back into her own flesh, then pulled on the head to widen the slit and let more of the steaming foam out onto the surface of the head, like a cloudy white bubble. This in turn she smeared over the jagged surface of the rising pelvic bone.
She snuggled under him to where she'd been before, and his own flank was hidden at the sides by the girlish breasts. The nipples were still stiff, but that did not prevent Emily from rubbing them mercilessly with the surface of her thumbs as she tried to cover the whole of Frank's cock between the twin breast-buns, flushed and warm to the feel of his organ.
He slid up in the space between them, while she anchored the underside of the phallus to the space between the breasts with pressure from her fingers. The curved head was pointing toward her throat, but she pressed down hard with her forefinger on the foreskin before he reached her collarbone, though her own chin was tucked toward her chest to watch the approaching prick. Frank felt the friction of the foreskin against the tight skin between the hillocks, and he felt as though he could rub forever until finally letting go and shooting the whole spume toward the soft-pink neck, covering her chin with come. . .
Emily had other ideas. She pressed down and kept him motionless for a moment, a trapped animal of frozen lust between her teenage breasts. "OK," she whispered, the signal for him to move, at last, further up between the converged breasts and beyond them. The head pressed at the underside of her chin, sticking up against the bottom of her mouth. She had grabbed the staff in her hands and was now moving it side-by-side, smearing the small trickle of premature semen over the facial skin-with a thin spittle of the sticky stuff extending to her neck and finally snapping in the air like a bubble.
All the time her lips were squirming wetly, her tongue massaging them with saliva; she was making herself ready for the entrance of cock into mouth. Further down the rod, she tickled the flatter side with a fingernail, and her free hand cupped the heavy-skinned scrotum, rolling its palm over the hanging balls with a whispered softness of touch. She took the sac between two fingers and pulled it to one side; even the thick skin could feel the pleasurable stab of the sharp-pointed nipple. Then she repeated the tease of juiced-bag against tit as her chin bobbed toward the cock's head, and the tongue lashed out, tantalized. She wriggled the tongue-tip a tantalizing fraction of an inch away from the head itself, teasing him-not only with the tongue, but with the childish smile the tongue interrupted with its wet fleshy pinkness.
The bag felt another wrench: the girl's breasts were still, after all, wet with the hard sucking he had given them, and the heated scrotal skin slid back and forth over the erected nipple just as-
He closed his eyes as Emily moved her head, raised from the seat-cover, closer to the end of his rod. At first there was only the softness of converging cheeks, the yielding tissue of the girl's pliant tongue, the turned-in moisture of Emily's lips, wrapped over the edges of her front teeth. The cock shot in, propelled by Frank's eagerness to fill Emily's "safe"-non-vaginal-orifice with himself, to fuck her mouth if not her cunt, and at first she let him. Only when he began to thrust forward in stroke and retreating stroke did her own mouth close in argument, in playful fight, as if to say she would not so much yield to his fucking her mouth as let him be in her mouth so that she could fuck him with her swift and inventive tongue....
Her fingers below drilled into her own pouting, puckered tits, scratching at the hair that sprouted from his heavy scrotum. She teased the wrinkled skin with her forefinger while she pushed another fold back against the buried part of the long phallic joint. For one moment the curve of the thumbnail dipped between Frank's ass-globes, dangerously and deliciously close to the anal sphincter. Then, however, it came back to thread and re-thread the thick dark hair that covered the thin layer of skin surrounding the dork's base.
Only an inch was inside of her mouth now-beyond the head-and her teeth grated carefully on the stretched raw foreskin while Frank groaned gutturally with pleasure. As her teeth moved underneath the cock, the canines sliding just off the curve, she remoistened the taut skin with her tongue. The head brushed the textured roof of her mouth, while from her throat she blew warm air directly onto the slit, and Frank heard a sound-half-whistle, half-gurgle-as the breath moved through the cock, inside, competing with the warmth of the excited blood.
Now Emily moved it as a singer might move a microphone-only this was inserted in her mouth. As the mike would be, so was the "sound" of pleasure in Frank's dick amplified a hundred times as she rolled it, pushing at the inside of her cheeks. The teeth were like a cage around the thrusting penis, which only accentuated the pleasure he would get a moment later from the soothing softness of Emily deep inner mouth. The thumb had curled back the foreskin as far as it would go, so that even as he wriggled inside her licking tongue the skin was tightly unfurled.
Anxiously, Frank reached for the side of the car and pushed up on his palms. His forehead had almost touched Emily's, but now he straddled her, one knee touching the back-seat, the other half off the edge of the seating cushion. The cock slid painfully out of her mouth, but Emily had not let go and rolled the head over her wet lips while the balls wriggled inside the sac, just above the stiffly-pointed red-brown tits.
He looked through the breath-clouded window to the cluster of shrubbery in this deserted space, not clear where the boundaries of his sensation and Emily's active tongue-fucking left off and began again. His eyes flickered down to the girl's face, and he realized she was staring at him, trying to judge how close to climax he was-how soon he would explode in her mouth, causing the froth to stream thickly down her inner cheeks.
Up until now her mouth had been like a cunt that could do strange tricks with its yielding and malleable wet flesh, a splendid velvet vise. Now she began to pull on the cock as though it were a divining rod, as though she wanted to drown her throat in its pumped essence. She stuck her thumb up under and within the scrotum, dividing the balls, jabbing the stalk thus covered, and pushed at the root, to make the fruit explode with its juice in her mouth. Frank groaned and coiled his lower body so that the upper side of the cock scraped the drier roof of Emily's eager mouth.
The girl's lips tightened around the dick, over the foreskin, just below the purplish line of the glans. They twisted until they were dry: the spittle had spread evenly on the cock itself and had been absorbed back. The sound of air sucked in through the teen girl's mouth was harsh, exciting him still further. He let himself be a willing prisoner of her tongue and mouth, not prodding further into the orifice, ready to follow her lead: she would have room to "catch" the fluid in her throat when he came, as he knew he would, within moments....
Emily rolled her mouth to the side, then pushed the back of her head into the car upholstery. She was sidling up beneath him, the base of her skull against the car-door. The cock was being pushed once again between the two hills of her small but plump teenage breasts. The cock shone with the moisture of her mouth.
She pulled the cock from its up-pointing angle and brushed it over the erected nipple of one breast, then back again to the other. Soon she was "smacking" herself with his stiff sex, masturbating him with the soft boobs.
Frank looked down to see the cream spurt out like white fire against her neck; the next wad covered a raw red nipple with its opaque white. The next surge of fiery juice shot into a red curl just beside her ear. She was holding the prick tightly between her gathered breasts. He plunged forward between them, imitating the thrusts of intercourse as his come seemed to drown her small breasts, and as the girl's fingers twisted the foreskin under the glans, "squeezing" the last drops of come from the exhausted phallus.
At last the sweet thick smell of his spent semen wafted over the more pungent smell of young cunt between her legs, on her cheeks, on Frank's own lips.
He looked down at Emily. She was smiling: she had given him pleasure, and her expression was as satisfied as that she had worn directly after her own orgasm. The only difference was that it was less drowsy, less exhausted, and more conscious: as if she had-watched the demonstration of his passion from a distance.
"Don't you see, Frank?" Emily was asking-and now she seemed, in the aftermath of his pleasure, far from him, as she petted the deflating organ, rolling its newly flaccid bulk over the still-flared tits. "I'm not really a virgin. This is like you fucked me anyway, isn't it? I've heard what boys call it-a 'technical virgin.' But when I let you do this to me, I feel fucked. I feel like a woman."
She was a little impatient, a little anxious. She could never know how important her virginity was to him-at least for now, at least until Dr. Vogel might help him with the program of "sexual shock therapy" she had promised. He knew it would have to be soon; Emily was one young woman too randy to wait very long for her deflowering.
He silenced her with a new kiss, as his body uncoiled in the mess of clothes and bunched-up bone and flesh in the car's back seat. His open mouth came down over her still-moving tongue-she had been about to go on, about to offer up her virgin cunt yet again. With the tongue tip he could taste some of his own dripping sperm, seeping in from the corner of her mouth, where his own tit-fucking cock had squirted it.
CHAPTER THREE
Today, with spring further along in its march toward summer, Karen Vogel was wearing not her usual business-like plain jersey, but a summery flowered blouse. As if to compensate for its sheerness, she wore-as she usually did not-a bra under it. Luckily for Frank's interested eyes, it was not much of an undergarment: a slight white-gauze barely obscured the flesh, and the cups themselves were minimal, only just covering the jutting ebony tits and little more.
Frank Morris wondered if he were imagining that Dr. Vogel would pace about the room-and lean this way and that behind her desk-in order that he might see more of the breasts, near-naked beneath the thin chemise. There were moments that he felt she teased him for therapeutic purposes-as when she would insist on a point of interpreting his kinkiness. Then there were stranger, less "therapeutic" teases, when she seemed to be announcing: I am a woman. And I am not a virgin. What do you feel for me?
Perhaps, he thought, catching a last glimpse of the breast in profile as she looked through the window, this was all a part of her "shock therapy," to get him to relate to women who weren't virgins. But that wasn't the point. He was engaged. He didn't need to relate to women other than Emily. Perhaps he should say something.
Then again, perhaps he was misreading Karen's moves..."Karen." Today there was to be no "Dr. Vogel"-she had interrupted his use of the title several times, curing him of the habit for the moment.
She sank her denim-jeaned buttocks into the chair once again. She could have been years younger, Frank realized. With excitement, he tried to imagine her as a virgin. Women her age looked younger in San Francisco, where even professionals of both sexes dressed so casually.
"Frank," she was saying, chewing on the pencil she'd picked up as if to compensate for her sporty dressing habits and look more doctor-like, "have you ever thought that you divide women into types?"
"Types?"
She nodded. "Saints-and whores. Good women and bad. Nice girls and good girls, as they say in high school. Girls who will and girls who won't-the girls you can take home to mother and the girls you'd rather not."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Are you so sure?" she queried, voice again insistent. She seemed to come into each new session with a new idea for his "cure," or at least a new idea of what had caused the "mental block" that had brought him into therapy.
"I've never been to a prostitute in my life," he said rather primly, immediately embarrassed by his own prudery-and what it might have given away to her analytic ear.
"You've never had to, of course," Dr. Vogel said in her deeper and more suggestive voice. "You're too good-looking to need to," she added, flattering him and again making him wonder if he were the object of flirtation. "You've told me," she went on, getting back to the subject, "that you're only aroused by women who are virgins."
"Only really aroused," he corrected her. "I mean, that's when it's most intense."
"And the other women-you cared less about them, didn't you?" He nodded. "As people?" He nodded again. After a long beat of silence, she asked-not with a point to prove this time, Frank thought, but with genuine curiosity, "Are you sure you've never wanted to visit a prostitute? After all, there you could have intercourse without affection, and not feel guilty because you hadn't given them love. You had given them money, which is something they'd value as much in that situation."
"You say 'had,' Doctor-Karen. But I never have." He was less sure about the answer to her question. Was he sure he'd never wanted to? Even now, his prick was getting embarrassingly hard. He looked down the couch at his crotch and wondered if she could see the lump rising from where she sat.
"Some psychoanalysts," Karen continued, "call it the 'Madonna complex.' With the fascination for innocence and purity-which men like you sometimes see as represented by virginity-there is usually an underside."
"An underside?" he asked, intrigued. The word had a dark and mysterious sound to it, as though it were an incantation to and for evil.
"An underside-the other side-sees the woman as seductress. Temptress."
Frank thought he saw what she was driving at. "You mean the woman is aggressive rather than the man?"
"Sexually, at least. And the man can act passively. With one of the 'pure' type of women, he is free to be aggressive, because he is the teacher. He's in control."
There was a long pause in which Frank tried to tear away mental cob-webs. "The way I describe Mrs. Goderson-does she sound like a-well, a temptress?"
Karen Vogel nodded silently. After thirty seconds in which her patient retreated into his own past and thoughts, she asked, "How long has it been since you were with a woman who wasn't a virgin?"
"There was Diana-but then-"
She knew the story and could interrupt him to finish the sentence. "But then you fucked her, and she was no longer a virgin."
"Yes."
"And since then there's only been Emily."
"And she's, well, a virgin," he sighed. "I've been dating her for about a year."
Karen turned her wrist and looked at the face of her watch. "I'm afraid the hour is up, Frank. I'll see you again next Thursday, all right?" He nodded. "I suppose you're rather tired, anyway."
"Yes," he admitted, "it's been an exhausting session." As he rose, he was newly aware of the disconcerting protrusion in the crotch of his slacks. As if she knew, Karen looked away, lifting the phone to talk to her receptionist. This gave him time to move quickly toward the back door of the office, the one leading outside again to the hall, without connecting through the outer waiting-room, which shrinks like to keep free of colliding patients.
The stimulated sexual feeling did not stop when Frank left the office, however, now even when he'd emerged on Geary and looked at the tiny park of Union Square before him, above a vast underground parking lot. In the sunshine-for he worked Saturday mornings in lieu of his "free" Thursdays, when he had his session with Karen Vogel-he moved over on the grass to an empty bench. From it, the sun baking, he looked at clumps of old people, some dignified and some winos, and younger hippie-types-street artists and wasted-looking junkies.
In the younger people, except for an attractive young woman hawking sterling-silver handmade jewelry, he was suddenly and keenly aware of the absence of women.
This surprised him. For months his sexuality had been so focused upon Emily that he was seldom attracted, at random, to women on the street. Even more seldom did he think of sex when there were no sexually "possible" women about. Sex in the abstract-just getting his rocks off. Maybe Dr. Vogel's treatments were liberating him, after all. If one could call this unfulfilled horniess "Liberation." In fact, far from freeing him, it bound him to thoughts of sex. Of naked thighs, spread wide, and breasts moving with deep breathing....
He exhaled and rubbed his forehead. He was sweating-but it was his mind and not the sun that had overheated him. What had Karen said that day to so excite him-or, rather, what of all she had said had excited him most?
One phrase returned again and again. The analyst's voice reverberated like an echo: virgins or whores. . . virgins or whores. . .
He knew where they were-on Geary, farther up, and on Powell. Perhaps they were concentrated more in North Beach, on Broadway, where there was a whole string of them. But Broadway was a drive away, and parking was as difficult there as here-and he'd already got his car in the cavern below Union Square.
Besides, he told himself, he didn't want to-to buy. Only to see. Admittedly, to be excited; for that matter, he was already excited.
Some were called massage parlors-the old dodge, before San Francisco had been the comparatively "open city" it now was, by pledge of the D.A. not to prosecute private sexual acts between consenting adults. Little by little, before the "go easy" policy of the city's fathers had been made explicit, the storefront bordellos had become more bold, perhaps to entice the growing tourist trade. Men who might think, unless it were luridly painted over in pink or purple fluorescent paint, that one might have to settle for a mere massage.
Not any more. Even the massage parlors were overwhelmed by the painted words NAKED GIRLS! The newer establishments had dispensed with the corny "covers" of wrestling instruction, massage parlors, sensitivity training, rap sessions. Frank found this out quickly enough. A stacked blonde with white lip-gloss stood on a corner a few blocks from the Square, just outside a comparatively discreet purple windowless store, the door ajar as if to let in the air. Inside there was a glimpse of darkness against red-carpeted plush, matching imitation leather furniture.
She smiled. "Hi," she said, "why not come in for a chat?" The mouth opened in a grin over her teeth and the tongue that for a moment lodged between them.
"Hi," he answered, stopping. His feet had pointed toward the corner, the intersection, and the stoplight, but he hesitated. He had looked at her, expecting to pass by, not expecting to be stopped. A series of signs protruded from the building like pennants. SEXY GIRLS, they read. LIVE NUDE....
He turned, came closer. He was relieved when the girl moved behind him with agility, sheltering him from the eyes of passers-by-eyes he was sure were focused on his mere association with sex. She started to walk-she was leading him inside the dark room from behind.
His vision was snared by a girl who seemed more innocent, somehow-innocent! he heard himself with surprised annoyance-than the woman who'd led him inside.
She-the girl on the couch, now applying her make-up, only glancing up at him from her compact mirror, eyes again down in the next moment-was no more than twenty, he was sure of that. Her hair was a slightly deeper shade than Emily's, before she'd hennaed it. She was dressed in what was probably a slip, so sheer it was less white than transparent, over a scarlet bra and matching lace panties that showed through.
Frank's companion could not herself have been more than thirty, but her figure was lazily ample. And in her simple green summer dress she was certainly the one to bring customers in-San Francisco was not yet that indiscreet.
"This is Eileen," she smiled, noticing that Frank's attention had been caught by the other. "Sit down, why don't you?" she asked, sitting down herself and thus making Frank nervous-he was the only one of the three standing. A situation to be cured only by sitting on the couch between them, nearer to the girl who'd brought him in. "I'm Donna," she said in a confiding voice. "What's yours?"
"Frank," he replied, shocking himself that he'd not lied. Even a first name seemed-well, a first step into the possible truth of what Dr. Vogel had told him. Virgins and whores ... he thought.
The girl named-was that her real name?-Eileen had put down her mirror, and was looking not at him but at Donna, who was delivering a sales pitch.
"You a visitor, Frank?" He wondered where the conversation was going.
"I only came in-well, you know. Just to find out what it's all about." He was convinced he was blushing.
"Oh, Frank, I'm sure you know what it's all about," Donna whispered confidentially, her lips moving like twin snakes. The confidential tone of voice was loud enough to make Eileen snigger, he noticed uncomfortably. He felt deceived: there was nothing innocent in the girl's snickered laugh.
"Well, the sign out there didn't say all that much..."
Blonde Donna was suddenly business-like. "It's thirty dollars for twenty minutes."
"What do I get?" he asked nervously, the question ending in an embarrassed swallow.
Donna smiled. "Well," she replied, "me. Or Eileen. Whichever you want." She smiled past him at the younger redhead. There seemed to be no jealousy in the operation.
Suddenly panic-stricken, he rose. "I see. Well, maybe sometime."
"Better now than later," Donna pursued.
"I just wanted to see what-what you were offering," he said, stepping backward, out of the shaded air-cooled den and toward the door Donna had closed when she entered. "I don't have that much cash on me."
She asked him his bank. "Bank of America," he replied.
"Well, there's one right around the corner. You could cash a check and come back."
He had his hand on the door. "Maybe I will," he said, taking a last look at the younger girl's knees, spread slightly and crookedly below the hem of her short nightie. Eileen had picked up an emery board. Unconcerned, not as obviously eager for trade as her colleague, she began to file her nails. He noticed they were long and sharp.
Outside the sunlight again could not account for the warmth coursing through his veins. He turned the corner-lest Donna take up her old stand-and checked his wallet to make sure he'd lied. He wanted to have lied.
Not that he really would go through with the negotiation. Only that-well, he'd seen several other sexshops, or whatever one might call them; the presence of money made the exercise of bidding more exciting. Perhaps too exciting. He was glad it was mid-afternoon. No chance that anyone he knew from work would see him. And Emily was still at high school in Sausalito. In broad daylight, he was safe for the most open sex market this side of Amsterdam. At least this week, he thought to himself; police policy could change. It made him all the more anxious to sate himself on sex-for-money now. Not on the real thing, of course...Just the thought of it.
Then too there was Eileen, the "Little" girl who'd reminded him at first, in that dim light, so much of Emily. He might go back-but if he did, this time he'd have to complete the act, wouldn't he?
No, he would try to satisfy himself with the preliminaries.
The next shop was more lurid on the outside, but presented a title, "Rap Parlor."
He opened the door, no one stood outside. A single girl sat on a large chair watching a re-run of "Bewitched" on color television. She rose. She was dressed in leather hot pants and a sheer top, displaying large and heavy breasts, the nipples a stark brown beneath the gauze. Her eyes were blue and alert, her hair a brown as deep as her tits. The intelligent eyes were assessing him, sizing him up.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Mandy." Then, after having waited a moment for him to speak, she encouraged "What's yours?"
"David," he said, having planned the lie this time.
"Where're you from, Dave?" she asked, careful to brush with her fingertips against the elbow of his light sport-jacket. She was tugging at him, leading him to a chair next to her own. "Sit back," she smiled, relaxing in her own chair.
"I live here," he replied, half because he'd not got another simple lie prepared, half because he didn't want to be considered a tourist.
"Well, Dave, you know what this is," she began, and before he could nod or ask, she went on. "It's a rap parlor. For ten bucks you get fifteen minutes with the girl, for fifteen half an hour, and for twenty-five the whole hour."
"What does that include?" It was as though another person's steady voice were asking these business-like questions.
"Just talking to the girl. Of course you'd both be naked. Anything extra would be a matter between you and her, and depending upon what you'd decide, there would be a tip."
"How much?"
"That'd depend on you. And the girl."
"Would you be the girl?"
"There's another, but she's busy just now."
"You'd be fine," he said, eager to go on. "Depends on what you want to do."
"How much would sex be."
"Fifty."
"On top of the money for the, uh, rap?" The girl nodded. He started to rise. "Of course there are other things. Fellatio, say, for forty. Or we could-" she took his hand and caressed it as a lover-as Emily-might, and went on in a sultry feminine tone, "we could work something out...."
He pulled away, smiling politely but nervously, clumsily excusing himself. He was surprised that the girl seemed neither offended nor annoyed. Perhaps these aborted business transactions happened dozens of times a day. Perhaps there were other men like him, who "got off just on talking to women they knew would engage in sex for pay. Whores....
Virgins and whores....
Of course, he might go through with it. Just to see if it were true. He might be impotent, despite the erection that now struggled inside his cotton briefs, when it came to the act itself.
He was thinking of Eileen, Emily's near look-alike....
He thought to enter WILD GIRLS, to see whether there was a "cover charge" along with the massage offered, or whether the legend "Sexy Masseuses" had been left over from the time the city had slightly more frequent raids on hookers. But instead he drew closer to the Geary corner, to the purple storefront. This time it was Eileen standing outside, soliciting trade, dressed now in tight red slacks and white-cotton schoolgirl style blouse, below which, however, she wore no schoolgirl's bra. The outline of her plump deep-pink nipples was visible through the summery cotton cloth.
"Hi," he said. She hadn't opened her mouth to passersby as he'd stared from under an awning at a newsstand across the street. Her "style" was different from that of Donna, the "professional" of the two. One middle-aged man had stopped to talk, but had quickly moved on. Perhaps someone like himself, aroused by the bargaining itself as much as by the act.
Still, for him, he knew it could not end in that. "Hi," the girl returned, no smile lighting her face. In the light she looked even younger. "You cashed a check?" She'd expected him back.
"For you," he said. "If that's O.K., " he added in a lower, more sure voice. The girl shrugged. "Yeah," she said, turning to open the door, letting him in. "Donna's busy, anyway." Inside there was yet another girl, a statuesque black woman in street clothes and a bouffant blonde wig. She smiled at him, but by some exchange of glances she knew immediately that he was Eileen's client.
She led him down a narrow corridor; all the doors were shut. She opened one; a tiny room, partitioned rather than walled, and clumsily partitioned at that, allowed space only for a bed and a desk-lampstand. In the corners by the doors were two kitchen-style chairs. Eileen gravitated to one of them and immediately began stripping, placing first the cotton blouse, then the tight slacks over the back. "You can use that one for your stuff," she said, nodding to the other straight-back chair. He was already focusing on her ruby nipples. The space of skin around the inner thighs was completely bare of hair, like Emily's thighs.
"The money," she said, "better give it to me now, huh?" He reached for his wallet, giving her one twenty and one ten. The girl's fingers retracted around the notes, automatically. She smuggled them in the back pocket of the slacks. Her thumbs disappeared inside the red-lace panties. She looked up, young brow wrinkling to find him staring at the space between the joined legs, waiting for the glimpse of cunt-hair she would next display. "Aren't you going to get undressed?"
Frank nodded dumbly, undoing the knot of the tie and threading it from his collar before bothering with the buttons of his Brooks Brothers shirt. Then he slipped off the jacket; the girl, efficiently, waited at his elbow like a valet to collect it, to put it neatly on the back of the chair. To hurry him.
She did the same with his shirt. He sat down on the edge of the bed to untie his laces, let the shoes drop on the wooden floor. He yanked at the socks, unclasped his belt and handed her the trousers. She let him throw his underwear onto the seat of the chair.
All this time she had been completely naked, the reddish pubic tangle swaying as she did, but, as if embarrassed to be caught staring, Frank had not allowed himself the luxury of it. Relieved at last of clothes, he sank back on the bed-there was no pillow-as she got on top of it from the other side. There was just enough space between the bed and the partition for her slim body to move.
Her hand touched the mattress beside where Frank lay. She looked down to his stomach and cock. His eyes followed her. The penis was flaccid, larger than usual, a bit puffy-but the erection he had had moments before was lost. Frank felt suddenly panicked.
The girl was leaning on her elbow. She extended her arm toward his chest. A fingertip grazed his nipple, making it stiffen, before the whole hand moved lazily to his flat stomach. "You're nice and thin," Eileen said, her fingers beginning to curl through his thick pubic hairs. Each moment that he looked down and saw the unmoving supine prick seemed teased to the length of an hour. Yet the whore did not seem alarmed.
"Yeah, a really nice body." Her hand opened from the slight massage and rasped the limp staff, tightening into a fist around it. The bulbous head squeezed out at top. Frank watched the delicate hand around the penis; his eyes seemed affixed to the sight of his impotence.
"Nervous, huh?" she asked conversationally.
"I guess so," he replied, then, after a pause, added, "Believe it or not, this sort of thing doesn't happen to me often." He tried to laugh casually; he knew this must be what all impotent men say. When she shook her auburn red hair, he was alarmed that she might contradict him.
"Well," she said, relieving his anxiety, "it happens to everyone else-well, not everyone, of course, but a lot-when they come in here, that is." A long pause; she was looking now into his eyes. "I'll bet you don't need this sort of thing often. I mean, from working girls." It took a moment for the phrase "working girls" to register as a polite synonym for prostitutes.
"Not really, no," he answered, embarrassed. Saying that seemed an insult.
"We can talk for a bit," she said, not letting go of the cock. Indeed, her nails seemed to scratch the wrinkled brown covering skin below the glans. Frank nodded. He put his hand on her breast. Both were on their sides as they faced each other. Her nipple hardened automatically to his touch. "Like them?" she asked with surprising shyness.
"They're very pretty," he said, fondling the soft breast beyond the dark-red nipple.
"Want to suck them?" Frank nodded numbly, coming toward her, smelling baby powder on her body as he closed his eyes and opened his lips around the areola she offered. Eileen pressed her fingers into the back of his neck, clinging to him, rolling her breast under his tongue-lashing. Her hand traveled lower down his sex, to the scrotum, which she teased with a long scarlet fingernail.
"Hand me that vaseline bottle there, on your side," she said after a few moments. Frank raised his head uncertainly. "On the night-table." He turned, noticing for the first time a jar with the lid not screwed on. "Just getting ready," she smiled as she drew her legs up, spreading them out at the knees while her bare heels touched. Frank sat up as he offered her the bottle; he watched the still-wet areola, shining with the soft sucking he'd given it.
She looked into his eyes, smiling, as her finger dabbed at the protruding cuht-lips with the thick film. He thought she was rubbing the clitoris with more than medical attention, and, indeed, her ass seemed to press deeper into the mattress below them both when the fingertip passed over the budding clit. "I've got to get ready, too," she said. When she was finished, she handed him the jar, which he replaced. Before he had turned his head back to face her, her hand had grasped the penis anew, rolling the grease over its softness. The sensation was pleasant but somehow frightening. The penis either was shrinking or hadn't changed size. I shouldn't be here, he thought to himself. Then with some satisfaction: Well, at least I've proved Dr. Vogel wrong.
Eileen was lying now on her back. "Let's just try it this way," she said, her fingertips jutting into the depressions near his pelvic bones. "I can still fit you inside me," she said, giving the joint a last tug before he was on his knees above her, between her own spread thighs.
She twisted the head and glans through the hairy maze that covered her twat; the moisture of the vaseline eased the friction of sensitive tissue through the sex-jungle. She jammed her thumb impatiently up against the flattened side of the cock's head.
"Come on, hurry," she said with mild annoyance. Then, as if the irritation had escaped her, she smiled sweetly. "Fuck me real nice, O.K.? Get what you paid for. . . " She squirmed underneath him, holding one side of the cunt's opening tissue to the side with one hand while trying to insert the penis with the other hand.
The warning to hurry had somehow excited him. Then the words "what you paid for" made him feel randier still. He was already inside her warm vaselined cunt when he felt the cock begin to thicken within the hole. He knew what was exciting him after all. She was a whore-"Get what you paid for. . . "
Still, he wasn't completely hard. It was as though he were trapped thinking about his softness. The girl moved lazily under him. "What turns you on?" Frank said nothing. Eileen's finger moved to the crack in his ass, just below the small of the back, tickling him.
Suddenly the question escaped him; he did not know he was curious until he heard himself speak the words. "How many men have you, uh--? "
"When?" She shook the hair off her naked shoulders, and her tits wobbled under his chest. The nipples moved, stiff, under his own.
"Today." Frank tried to imagine other men having fucked her within hours. Strangers, anonymous men. Men whom neither she nor he had known, would ever know, all riding their cocks through her public cunt.
"You're the fourth. Hell, poor Donna only had one."
"Did they all come-the other three?"
"Sure, but-" she stopped, smiling. Her hand had moved between his buttocks to the balls, pulling on the sac. "I don't think you've got anything to worry about," she said. "I feel you getting hard inside me already."
It was true. He looked at her, still feeling tense. She misunderstood the look. "If you mean you're afraid I'm not clean," she began before Frank interrupted with a shake of his head. "I douche each time," she said. "I've never had it, the clap, I mean." She sighed, her thumb moving to the base of the vaseline-soaked cock as he moved a few inches back in a counter thrust.
He was hard. He was thinking of her spreading her legs each time, inserting a warm pool of cleansing astringent water into her well-used youthful cockpit after each paid fuck.
"Do you ever come with them?" he asked, aware from reading books about prostitutes that it was standard for "Johns" to ask the question.
"Sometimes," she said, but the answer sounded like a lie. Certainly she wasn't excited now; it was as though there were nothing strange at all about the fact that a man's prick was inside, that a man was forcing his stiffening prick through the walls of her moistened vagina. He liked the knowledge that she was lying; somehow the fact that she was doing it for the thirty bucks he'd given her and not for any affection made him feel more powerful. She could always fall out of love, an inner voice was telling him-his own excited inner voice-but she'd always need money. Money from men who would pay to stick their penises inside the same soft cuntflesh....
"Hey, that's nice, hmmmm," she purred, twisting her ass against the mattress as his thrusts grew harder. He was slapping her own soft belly with his tougher stomach. "Go a bit easy, hon," she added, feeling the moisture on the external flaps of the genitalia, and then testing his stiffness by pushing a fingertip near the base of the cock. He was hard enough now to separate the lips himself with his own width.
"What do they ask you to do?" Frank asked. He felt a drop of sweat slip from his brow down to the side of his face. Her hips were moving evenly in time, but his own pacing was growing more frenetic, as if to make up for the moments when he had first been soft.
He remembered suddenly that this was the first time he had actually fucked anyone in a year. He'd come; Emily had used her tongue, her hands...But this was fucking. Fucking someone who let men fuck her for her living. The thought drove him faster and harder into her.
"What do they ask me?" Her brow wrinkled. "Well, this is pretty usual. One guy wanted to get sucked, but I don't swallow the stuff."
"This morning?" He felt the heat flush through his face.
"The guy before you," she said. "Since the first time you came in."
It was the nearness of her other fucks that excited him, he realized. Anyone could have her for money.
"Sometimes guys like to hear dirty words, you know, when they're fucking." She said it without expression, as though ignoring his cock coursing between the twat-moments as she spoke. The force of his pumping increased.
"Like?" he asked.
"Do you want me to?" she asked seriously. He didn't have to answer; she could read it from his face. She went on. "Some guys like to be called names. Told what bastards they are for coming in to fuck young girls for money." Frank closed his eyes: he could see her lips moving, repeating the "dirty words" that excited him. "You like that too," he could hear her say. His hands, which had been palm clown on the mattress beside her breasts, now moved in closer to the mounds themselves. As he rocked forward, sticking the end of his candle deeper toward her fleshy sex-throat, the breasts shivered like jello molds. His thumbs prodded the flesh back toward the center of her body.
"You think I'm just a cunt, don't you? Someone you can use, spill your seed into. That anyone can have me..." His eyes flickered open; her eyes were still alert, as if she were reciting a lesson. "I'll fuck anyone," she said, and Frank felt a spasm of pleasure ripple from deep within the base of his cunt-covered phallus. "Anyone who has the money," she whispered in a low, insinuating tone, straight into his ear, giving him what she knew now he wanted, exciting him wildly. . .
Frank shifted his own pumping buttocks from side to side, stretching the outer limits of her hole with his cock. It felt larger than ever now; it raced through the vaseline-lined jacket of her sex. The cunt felt like satin as it clung to his prick. The friction came from each inch giving way only reluctantly as he tried to probe deeper with it, to move farther up the vaginal opening to the edge of the prostitute's womb.
"You dirty fucker!" she half-shouted. "You filthy prick!" she said again, and now the come spurted through the narrow slit like a torrent of summer rain. Each new stroke was more slippery because of the great wads of cream that he now spread through the quim, while some t fluid drifted up the track, propelled by what seemed to him the incredible force of this orgasm.
He twisted the rigid dick in a half-circle as he pulled out almost to the foreskin before driving it deep and hard for the last few strokes. His eyes were closed, and his fingertips pushed under her back, kneading the flesh toward the spine, while his thumbs made the breast-mounds wriggle. His own chest pressed harder on them as the last waves of the orgasms coursed through them both.
The aftermath was like the first few moments upon waking from a dream. He opened his eyes on the young hooker, seeing Eileen for a moment as a complete stranger-just as his eyes might be surprised by sunlight the morning after a dream.
" Wow," she said. "You really like your sex, don't you?" The tone was impersonal but mildly surprised. "I thought when, you know, you started, like that it was going to be hard to get you going." She passed her hand over the scrotum; he felt the knuckles at the back of her hand push into his hair-covered crotch, as if to signal him to move back and out of her. He did, and she inhaled deeply to regain her breath after he rolled off her, back on the mattress. He watched as she reached to the night-stand-her breasts now seeming longer as they hung over him for the brief moment-and grabbed a wad of tissue paper from a dispenser beside the lamp.
She spread her legs as she had when applying the vaseline to herself. Now the come was seeping from the opened vise-his come, in this pretty young stranger!-and she was dabbing it dry with the rolled up tissue.
He wondered how much she might charge for another time, then dismissed the idea. It would be more exciting if he did it again at all to do it with someone else. Some other girl available to any man who wanted her. Any wanton earning her keep through sex, feeding herself on spent semen between her lips, between her labia....
CHAPTER FOUR
He had finished telling the story. After the first hesitations, it came easily. Dr. Vogel had encouraged him in automatic fashion. Then, coaxed, Frank's words came easily.
But he did not feel he had her fullest attention. She seemed to have expected the incident, or something like it. The usual questions of therapy were repeated in random order. "How did you feel then?" she would ask. "What did it make you think of?" She made a few notes, but then, after an interval of silence, Karen switched gears entirely.
"Why did you choose a woman therapist?" At this, she seemed to throw her head back, so that the blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders.
"I don't know. You were recommended by a friend."
"Surely more than one therapist had been suggested to you. And a list would have been provided."
"It's very simple. I obviously think women can be as good at giving therapy as any man-"
She interrupted. "I feel you're evading me again, Frank," she purred. "After all, your problem is a sexual one."
His brow furrowed, and he said, his voice soft, "Perhaps I wanted to talk to a woman about it. Because I couldn't talk to Emily."
She nodded. "And you can talk to me?"
"Yes," he agreed.
"And we've seen that you can achieve orgasm with a total stranger-in actual fucking, rather than masturbation or oral-genital contact with a virgin. Very good, so far.
"And as well," she continued, "you can talk about your problems with me-a woman." He nodded. "You obviously did not find the whore threatening in any way. She did not make you uncomfortable?"
"No, she didn't," confessed Frank, who wasn't at all sure he could say the same for this exchange with his therapist. Karen Vogel was making him extremely uncomfortable; he didn't know where the conversation was going. The blonde tossed the shock of pale hair from her neck, stroke its nape nervously, and seemed to thrust her breast forward, pushing her diaphragm against the edge of her desk as she looked into his eyes. Her own lids widened. Her vision seemed to pierce Frank.
"Do I threaten you?"
"Not usually, no." Usually she didn't; just now, well, that was different....
"Don't you see me as a woman?" There was nothing really challenging about the tone of voice-there was even a hint of laughter running below. Mocking laughter?
"Well-that is-" Frank stumbled. "I relate to you as a therapist."
"But I'm a woman as well."
"Yes," Frank sighed. "But-"
"Usually in therapy there is the phenomenon of transference, Frank, between the patient and analyst, and it may have nothing to do with sex. The person undergoing treatment becomes 'attached' to his therapist. That has happened with us-and I think there must be some reason."
He was silent; he could tell she was building up to something. "I've told you that you must be willing to try anything. I should like to attempt an experiment-to find out how you can relate to another kind of woman, and in what way."
"Another kind?" He was puzzled. "What do you mean, 'kind of woman'? "
"You remember I told you about the virgin-and-whore syndrome. So far you've proved me correct. After the last session, you went out and did just that. I think it's time we broadened your horizons a bit."
He knew she expected him to ask the questions. "How?" he asked, feeling helpless. It was as if he were only playing a role, giving a mechanical response.
"Perhaps you might react well to someone who was a virgin-" Karen paused deliberately, knowing that the mention of a girl who was a likely object of his fetish would excite him. It did; he only hoped he was not blushing and thus confessing his excitement.
"And yet you might achieve sexual satisfaction with her-this young virgin I'm talking about-because she didn't threaten you."
"Threaten? What do you mean, Dr. Vogel-I mean, Karen?"
"Because she would be a virgin, but she would not be interested, really, in you. You could have the pleasure of your taste in sex, yet without the pressure of emotional commitment, the commitment that worries you about Emily."
For a moment an involuntary shiver of expectation passed through Frank. "But-well, how? A virgin would get-involved, emotionally; at least she might."
"I have one patient I'm fairly sure would not. I want her to lose her virginity to have her lose her fear-at least her fear, if not her distaste-of men. She is nineteen, and, as I said, a virgin.
"She is also a lesbian."
Jennifer Holden, he learned from Dr. Vogel that evening, on the way to a bar that catered to young gays of both sexes, was a nursing student at junior college. She lived at home with her parents, who had begun to worry about her lack of boyfriends-strange in a tall and slim brunette with almond eyes, a bronzed skin wrapped tightly over swelling hips and large breasts that seemed out of proportion to her thin bones. The girl felt she could not express her own lesbian sexuality to her parents, so she agreed to go into therapy with Dr. Vogel. Luckily for her, Karen was quite willing to act as a "cover," and just as unwilling to try to "convert" her to heterosexuality.
"She's afraid of men," Dr. Vogel said. "Physically afraid," she added, turning her car into the bar's parking lot. "I want her to get over that, at least, and I think you would be as 'safe' for her as she would be for you."
The couple's entrance-he was suddenly aware that he and the young doctor must have appeared as such-a couple-to those on the street and in other cars-was noticed by members of both sexes. It was presumed both were either bi-sexual or gays who were "just good friends." Karen got her share of feminine attention; Frank felt embarrassed by his share, glances from a number of young men.
The feeling quickly passed. However passively, he blended into the environment. When he was introduced to Jennifer, it was her fascination with him-and not those of the handsome and even pretty young men circling the bar-that seemed strange. Others noticed, too, the ceremony of introduction.
Jennifer was shy. She apologized almost immediately, directly to Frank. "Perhaps we shouldn't have met here-"
"I was telling Frank I thought you would be more comfortable here, and he agreed," Dr. Vogel interjected.
The three left as soon as the introductions were made, and a ceremonial drink imbibed. Seated in Jennifer's car, he was suddenly aware of the strangeness of being with a young lesbian in the present situation. Dr. Vogel had separated from the newer "couple," and had driven away in her car.
"It'll have to be your place," said Jennifer, in her satin-smooth voice.
"Dr. Vogel told me you lived with your parents," Frank said, directing her to his apartment building behind Union Street.
There were few words spoken in the car, and none in the elevator. Inside the apartment, Frank switched on the lights and took the girl's coat. "I can't stay long," she said, while not flinching from his stare into her eyes. She drew closer and put her arms around him, pressing her arms to his sides, pushing her fingers into the small of Frank's back. She was almost his height, and her breath whispered across his lips.
"I thought you were-well-afraid of men," Frank said, his lips just a kiss away.
"I'm afraid of their cocks," she replied, almost aggressively. "Inside me."
"Could it be because you're, well, a virgin?" His own cock was throbbing, an erection already squirming in his underwear. Her stomach could no doubt feel the building pressure. The idea of her hymen-and her willingness to have him break it, this very night-titillated him.
She shook her head. "I'll always be afraid of men-that way, " she said.
"Then why are you here?" And she was very much here, pushing her lower torso against him with some force.
"I want to get it over with," she said brusquely, making Frank blush with a kind of shame. "Dr. Vogel thought it would be good for both of us." Her already tense muscles tightened even further, and she drew away. "Why? Don't you find me attractive?"
"Of course I do," he said, standing still. "I was surprised that you could be afraid and still be so-" He hesitated at giving her behavior a name.
"So aggressive?" she asked, her voice slightly taunting. The eyes which had in the club's darkness seemed gray were now clearly green, and flickering with a sort of warning anger. "Men like to be aggressive with women. Why can't a woman be aggressive?"
Frank shrugged. I want to get it over with, she had said, and now Jennifer's words ran through his ears as he walked, stiff-dicked, into his bedroom. She would follow, he guessed correctly. He would not force the issue. He would allow her to be aggressive.
An aggressive virgin...The thought intrigued him. Excited him. Yet, in her own way, Emily too was aggressive, always squealing for his prick, for the delight of a real fuck rather than the substitutes of cunnilingus or finger-fucking....
Frank undressed quickly, putting his clothes on the hangers in his closet. He would not go out again that night; the girl would drive herself home. He caught sight of his reflected nudity in the mirror opposite, and of Jennifer, watching him in that same mirror, from the threshold of the bedroom. Her purse was still over her arm.
"Do you want to put that somewhere?" He faced her directly; the teenager's vision was focused on his cock, neither flaccid nor erect. He started to walk toward her, but she placed it quickly on a night-table at the other side of his king-sized water bed. .
Frank enjoyed the sensation of being in control-and realized, with a little shame, that he was even enjoying the fear she now felt for him. "Don't be afraid," he said, softly.
"Dr. Vogel said you were gentle," she said haltingly. "That's why she chose you to-" Hesitating, she summoned up the courage to finish the sentence; her nostrils flared as she tried to re-assume her aggressive tone. "To do it to me." With distaste, she rephrased it, an undertone of anger in her voice. "To fuck me."
"Not if you don't want to," Frank said, aware that his stiffening prick was already in the act of betraying him. Her eyes grew wider, but she fought her fear. "No," she almost whispered. "I'm going through with it."
"You don't want me to undress you," he guessed aloud, and the girl shook her head, taking her cue. Immediately her hands were at the buckle of the belt she wore tight around the otherwise loose skirt. Her waist was small, and the skirt billowed suddenly after she had pulled off the belt like a tame snake from around it. She was breathing heavily, and her breasts and belly both pushed against the soft fabric as she exhaled. Nervously, she put her head back, tossing the hair loose behind her.
She put her hands to the front of the dress, ready to undo the buttons that began at the cleavage and continued down. Frank, aware that his glance made her nervous, unpeeled the coverlet and pulled back the top sheet and blankets. He sat down on the cold linen; Jennifer was unaware he was staring at her body as the mirror opposite reflected it.
The bosom of the dress had been tight, so tight as to make it not immediately apparent whether or not she was wearing a brassiere. The support reeled under the weight of the large breasts, and with delight Frank saw that she was naked. Her areolas were dark brown and seemed particularly wide. They were already in twin peaks, their angle tilted slightly upward though they were not erect.
The girl's graceful but large hand pressed down on the gentle slope of the mounds, fingers and wrist half-hiding both nipples at once. Frank wondered whether she was having second thoughts or was just trying to steady her nerves. After the moment's pause, however, he was relieved to see her take the button at her waist and undo it, giving him a glance of her diaphanous panties. As she continued to move toward the hem, he saw the thick web of pubic hair push up in a tuft below the crotch.
Unbuttoned, the dress was like a shirt. He could not help but turn from the mirror's reflection to the stark-naked Jennifer herself; surely it was too late now for cold feet....
She stared at him; he thought he detected in her glance a kind of pride in her large and beautiful body, in the silkiness of the hair which moved over her arms and breast. She shook it back, and the breasts and hips shivered in rhythm with it, though the soft muscles were woman-tight.
Jennifer came carefully to the other side of the bed. On her side, she rested on her elbow; the large bosom was only inches away. Frank's mouth began to water; yet he was anxious not to appear as eager as-he realized-he was. He hoped the young lesbian did not equate the stiffness of his prick with impatience; he would be very soft, very patient-very gentle-with this woman.
It was, after all, her very first time....
"You've never been attracted to a man?" he asked, his tone soft. He made no move to touch her.
She shook her head; the hair fell, the breasts wriggled against the white linen. He thought he.saw the nipples grow harder as they caressed the bottom sheet "I've always been afraid of-of that," she said, her eyes going to his own source.
He looked down, pressed his own forefinger against it, and smiled. "Doesn't look all that scary."
Unconvinced, Jennifer shook her head.
At once, the girl put her head on the second pillow, and lay on her back. She allowed the top layer of blanket and sheet to unfurl over her breasts and stomach, hiding only the crotch. Yet he could see the outline of her long legs below the blanket, and they were spread wide-almost athletically so. The girl's virgin imagination amused him. Once inside her, he knew, she would have to bring her legs tighter around him. His experience with virgins told him her automatic reaction would be to squeeze to defray the pain of penetration. He could already imagine the heat of her hollowed thighs against the outside of his own legs as he pumped her, broke her hymen....
Frank sat up and pulled the rest of the blanket down. It nestled over her feet. The girl's eyes were shut. Her pud open to view and soon to touch, she was vulnerable, completely vulnerable. The width of angle her legs revealed made the cunt-lips seem loose. Frank gave one last look at Jennifer's face before going down on her: its muscles were stiff, her mouth was drawn tight.
He felt the tension even as his lips lightly caressed her stomach below the navel. The shiver rose in a constriction of the muscles that could not last; the girl had to catch her breath. As she relaxed, inhaling, Frank's tongue followed the curvature of the belly from side to side. His fingers rolled over the flesh his tongue had moistened. The touch was feather-light.
Her eyes were closed. His lips pressed at the rising of her hip-bone, while the fingertips brushed over the valley between. The tongue followed the thigh inward, crossing over once again to the stomach. He stopped and moved up to face Jennifer. He rested on his elbow. Surprised that he had stopped, the young woman opened her eyes.
"Why did you stop?"
"Did you want me to go on?" He paused. "Do you want to get it over with that quickly?"
"I didn't mean to sound rude," she said.
Silently, Frank placed his hand where his lips and tongue had been. The finger pressed into the stomach, and the girl giggled. The finger moved very slowly downward, and he felt the girl tense once more. The heat of the filament of flesh just outside her cunt was like a small fire. He did not press forward, though he was tempted to make the dry flesh yield up moisture from within.
"Has a man ever put-his finger-inside of you?"
Jennifer shook her head, but said nothing, though her lips went white with tightness. Frank's finger crossed over the line of soft raw skin, over and over again. He wondered if it was numb to a male's touch, but after a while her breathing grew less shallow. His temptation was to increase the pressure or the pace of his manipulations of the clit, but he restrained himself. She would lead from here on: it was her body he would-for the first time-violate. She would give him the signs. He would make her passionate-he would make her want to give up her cherry!
Did he imagine it, or did the button swell as he rolled the fingertip over it? The jewel seemed to take life, growing warmer with each stroke. He stopped for a moment, resting while keeping contact of flesh against finger-bone. Yet Jennifer's body continued to rock, unaware for a moment that he had stopped. Her eyes flickered open when she realized he had stopped the movement of the finger. When he began to tease the clit away from the beaver in a steady pull, the tiny erection between his thumb and forefinger swelled even further, and Jennifer's eyes shut again, as with relief.
This time he did not release her. His palm pressed up against the twat-hair, and he felt the clit at the center of the palm. He was moving down the bed; the shift of his weight made the water bed splash beneath their bodies.
The tongue began over the line of hair; his breathing was like a summer wind through the brunette jungle. His palm pulled away, but the fingertip pulled the clit to one side, opening up the vise of her vagina. His tongue swayed through the hair; his finger lifted, and he moistened the small sex-organ. The breath seemed to whistle from between the young lesbian's teeth.
The tongue-tip whipped the bead from side to side. It had a taste of its own, though it had not been smeared as yet with vaginal grease from within. The tongue moved the loose lips to the cunt, but Frank was as yet afraid to enter her, even orally.
He rested his cheek on the hollow of her thigh, while his tongue weaved through the tangle, tasting now the cunt-lips, releasing the soft hold on the clitoris. Jennifer shifted her pelvis under him. She seemed to be thrusting the pudendum up into his mouth, seeking to re-find the tongue, to have him press it against the sensitive ridge of erectile tissue, pink and purple.
Instead his mouth kissed the opening of the cunt as it would a woman's mouth. The limp vaginal tissue yielded as the tip moved a fraction of an inch inside the hole. He wiggled it-the tongue-and spread the lips.
Jennifer's hands were at her sides; she pressed her fingertips into the water-mattress, which rolled beneath her hips. Frank's mouth slid-with the water's force-down to the space where the thighs spread. Instinctively, Jennifer had brought the legs back together. He teased the thigh-meat with his teeth and wet, puckered lips. She was moving the bed with her own rhythm projected outwards, from within her box. The lips to the quim were spread over with the hormonal film Frank's tongue had brought from inside the honeyed walls.
Now he began to move his head up and down, dragging the tongue through the soft underbrush. Jennifer's pelvis thrust forward as she tried to "catch" the retreating flank as it sucked the clit, then streaked through the felt. Frank put his finger to the warm mouth of the hole itself, aware that the bone would go where no man had gone before. The vagina was loose-no doubt other fingers had fucked her, women's fingers. Perhaps even dildos and vibrators had entered her. But her body had a caution of its own when it came even to digital penetration by a man; it seemed to resist the bone as it drove to pry the moistened lips apart. He rolled over the entrance until he was able to douche his fingertip within, covering his rounded nail, then moving the finger inside to the first joint. The twat seemed sealed.
He licked the clitoris from side to side, rubbing it with his tongue, dousing it in moisture, trying to distract the girl from the pressure on the hole itself. His mouth moved up, to the side of the navel, and he bit into a pocket of waist-flesh just inside the depression by the pelvis. The pud rttoved up and buried his finger within it, willingly.
He noticed in Jennifer what he had noticed before in virgins, even heterosexual virgins. She was passive and just lay there, occasionally rocking to the gentle beat of pleasure, but never touching his body in passion. Now he realized that in this case there could be special reasons for that. He wondered, vaguely titillated, whether the girl might actually be repulsed by his male body, preferring-accustomed to-the soft lines of a woman.
Now her hands had moved to the curves below her jutting hipbones, as if to smooth the flesh as it flared. She pressed her butt into the mattress under a gentle assault of his tongue-tip-she was massaging herself a kind of secondary masturbation. The hands stroked the sides of her breasts, pushing them together so that the large hillocks almost met at the nipples. Jennifer's mouth was half-open; breath seemed to rasp as it passed her dry lips into her throat.
Frank's fingers kneaded the flat surface of the stomach, while the thighs spread even farther apart. Jennifer's heels rolled into the bed, which squeaked beneath as she offered the cleft, thrusting upward. His tongue flagged down the clit until it was inflated and juicy.
The finger which had dipped itself inside her, wet with the lubricants, now returned to the yielding lips. It was enveloped inside; in the next counter-stroke he put another finger within; Jennifer groaned. He moved his wrist so that the outer tissues were pulled this way and that, her whole body seemed wracked with the inserted bulk of the fingers alone, as Frank kept his tongue sweeping wetly across the love-bud.
His body straightened once again; he was on his knees. He felt her breath whisper up against his lips, but when he came closer, Jennifer's head turned away with distaste. "No," she whispered in a tone that was confident he would not force the issue. Hesitating, he heard her say, in a voice that was half-whisper, half-moan, "My purse...my purse."
Frank pushed upon the palms of his hands, got off the bed, and crossed to the table on which the lesbian teenager had left the bag. He brought it to her, standing near the pillow, his cock standing at attention while she hardly noticed it. She burrowed inside the handbag and removed an object shaped like the phallus, but not nearly so long. He saw her thumb move against a button, and the vibrator began to purr. Jennifer looked at him. There was trust in her eyes-trust alternating with fear.
"Would it make you angry if it--? " Frank shook his head, not sure what he was denying. In any case, it would be a turn-on to see the girl use the machine-however she did use it. "It's just that," the girl continued, "we've always used one of these-girls and I-whenever I wanted the feel of one in me. Of-" She paused again-"a cock."
"Then you won't bleed?" Frank asked, vaguely disappointed.
"Well, probably," Jennifer replied, her voice slow and shy. "I've never put it all the way inside, past the hymen. And besides most of the time a woman will just use her hand or her mouth." She took the whirring dildo and rested the rounded side against her belly, which quivered beneath. "It's just that-I want to get myself ... ready for you."
Frank nodded, smiling.
It seemed right, somehow, that Frank should be standing as the girl began, tentatively, to touch herself with the machine. It was as though she were alone. The indentation his body had made on the bottom sheet grew more shallow as she began to rock from side to side.
Indeed, when he stepped back, to gain a better view, he inhaled deeply, his ears buzzing with the sound of the fake cock-the sound surely exaggerated by his excitement.
She cast a last glance at him just as he moved back, then shrouded her eyes with the dusky lids. Suddenly she was alone, Frank sensed-alone with her fantasy. And that fantasy would be either of her own naked body, swaying under the device, or of a woman. It would not be Frank, he knew. Yet somehow he did not mind. The idea even excited him.
Suddenly he knew why. It was perfect--! Not only would he be the man to break the last tender barriers of virgin skin inside Jennifer Holder-her first man. He would, at the very same moments, be her last as well....
Her wrist turned out, as though she were training it to read the face of a watch. But she was only moving the length of the vibrator over the inner thigh, where leg joined to pubis. Suddenly the machine rolled over the central path of the bush. Had he not seen the puffy clit disappear, he could have guessed at the contact by her relieved sigh, as if she had finally found the center of an itch and scratched it. "Hmnn," she hummed, and her mouth opened, sucking in air.
For a moment after the initial pressure, and the first groan of relief, she moved her hand away. It was a girlish, coquettish move-as a girl might move her hand away from a boy's in the first stages of courtship. The hulk of plastic lay balanced precariously between her thighs, cradled the more easily because she had drawn up her legs, and the lower torso pushed up. The rounded ass curved off the bed: he could see into the sweet crack of her ass from where he stood. The machine, with a life of its own, played its bee-like game, whirring over the area. He could see how sensitive Jennifer was to its touch by the way she moaned, the way the flesh rippled from the belly just below the navel to the hairy track where the action of muscle disappeared under twat-hair.
Its touch. She had been, in a way, as sensitive to his fingering. But this was different. This could bring back the memories of dozens of lesbian encounters where the artificial dong had been used, as she had told him, by her women, her girl lovers. It was more perfectly anonymous than his rough male fingers, his heavy rolling thumb.
She took it in hand again. She might have been scared, as she said, of cocks, but she handled it just as most girls would handle a penis. She gripped it tightly, the small palm savoring the stiffness of it. The rounded stalk covered the center of the hair-covered pink skin. This time she pressed down, hard. The very end of the plastic, the dome, pointed toward her navel, which seemed to pout above it. The base was flat, and its edge touched her left thigh.
Press deeply, release, but-not-quite. Press, it seemed from this distance of a few feet, press harder. The length of it seemed to squirm, powered by its batteries. Her hips moved on the bed. The fingers were relaxed, more apart, and at the point she allowed the clit to expand, by letting go of the plastic and just touching it with her fingertips, it rolled against the hollow of her thighs. She gasped for air and the fingers clasped it mechanically, desperate and with a frantic need. As if to make it up to herself, she now took it by the base, as far as she could go, and this time the
"head" was poked at the vise of the opening itself. As she had promised: the faked prelude to the real fucking....
She was now getting herself ready. The rest, he knew, had just been an indulging in the memories of being loved by women who had held the same small machine. Now in earnest did she imitate penetration. He stepped closer, nervously. Her knowledge of her own body meant there would be no awkwardness. She held the rounded surface to her cunt. He could see a flash of the raw silk pink as it penetrated, but only for the briefest second. The flesh closed in on the intruder. Frank's eyes widened as he saw how far she could push it inside her. The thickness of the thing pulled on the skin around the vagina, making the hairs strain, stand up, stretched from their natural crooked angles.
She would not stop until the first few inches were fully covered by her inner flesh. He was astounded by the supple way her body moved around the insertion, fitting it like a molded socket. Frank looked down at his own dick: it was not nearly so large-what would the girl be afraid of? His own hot sperm even now dribbled outside onto the slit, though he had dabbed the first dog-water with the side of his forefinger.
The dildo went so far and then no farther. She didn't push it farther, either: no doubt there was the obstruction of the virgin's hymen. The thing now stuck out from between her legs like a strange cock-growth of her own, strange now that it was planted in her woman's body. She moved her legs together, squeezing it between the walls of the hole, touching her legs to it. Her breasts rose: she was making love to the disembodied organ. Her cunt had that kind of control. When she moved it, now that it was deep enough inside of her, she twisted it, going no farther than before. She seemed to be rolling it against the flesh. He could see the external vaginal skin being pulled by the new friction. Her tongue moved now to coat her lips with shining spittle. Frank held his breath, but didn't know why. Excitement, certainly. But not for Jennifer's privacy, no; she already had that. She and the vibrator were in a world of their own, as the humming dong stopped short of the precious cherry, the cherry he would break.....
He could see a fraction of an inch of the plastic as it leaned from her. It was covered with her, shined with her inner body. She pulled the whole thing out of her in as easy a gesture, as natural a movement, as the penetrating stroke had been. It was so perfect, Frank thought as he watched. No wonder, he found himself thinking, no man could be so perfect a lover, as attuned to her needs, moment by moment, as Jennifer was to herself and her own, with the help of the sex-machine.
She moved the thing as she had before. The difference was that now she was spreading the fluid that had covered it over her own external genitalia. Smoothing the way. As she pressed the rod over the clit, now purple with need for the pressure, the opening snatch was stretched. He could see deeper inside her than before, the path ending in the darkness that promised her hidden womb. The thighs snapped farther apart, as though she expected yet another penetration, though her hand and wrist blocked the way. Frank felt his cock, and knew it was rigid with pumping blood.
Now Jennifer was aiming the dome not at the clitoris, but at the hairy flesh to the sides of the mons, first one side and then the other. She was indeed twisting open the hole. Its dampness seeped from within. A small trickle of moisture oozed out, caught on the side of the already damp machine, another droplet falling from the plastic to the tuft of hair itself, which balanced it like grass refusing to absorb the morning dew.
The twisting wrist grew wilder in its need. Under the near punishment of the dildo, shoved against the sweet virgin flesh, Jennifer's body thrashed, and the breathing grew less even. Frank wanted to comfort her with the entry of his cock-he wanted to stuff her with it, satisfy her with it. Push it past the hymenal membrane, gorge her on it. . .
He almost feared she had forgotten him in some lesbian fantasy. Her body moved with the lithe abandon of a woman near climax, as though she were sprinting to an inevitable finish-line of pleasure. Frank eased down beside the bed, almost afraid to invade the surface she had made her own as she lay there, legs akimbo, rolling her ass from side to side when she did not push it deeper into the mattress. He put his weight on his knee, made sure she knew it was time....
Her eyes flickered open, and the expression of her now-moistened lips was like that of a child awoken from innocent dreams. Her eyes seemed glazed with their own dream-moisture, as though washed by unshed tears.
Frank gently touched the inside of Jennifer's wrist. The contact seemed to pass through the teenager like a frightened chill. Her head gave an involuntary nod as it rested on the pillow, facing him, while he was on his knees, half-leaning toward her at her side. His fingertips moved inside the cupped hand, toward the instrument she had covered with her hormone-scented juice. He felt that juice upon its surface, rubbed it back into the plastic as though it were an extension of her own softer body.
The hand seemed to crumple around it, as a child's might around a treasured sweet. It was not easy, Frank thought, as he pulled the plastic joint from her grasp, taking candy from a baby....
Now the nod was voluntary. Jennifer Holden was like a vestal virgin agreeing to the terms of her ritual sacrifice. Yet below the obedience was the terror. She was breathing harder than when the dildo had made her body move to the edge of wild solitary passion.
"Are you ready?" Frank asked. She nodded again. He thought she would speak, but it was only the tongue that came out, no sound, just more moisture for the full lips, puckering with the tension she felt. He lifted his knee, put it between her legs. Jennifer's eyes closed and her muscles seemed to grow lazy. The leg slipped into a wider angle, her heel going over the edge of the bed. She was making it easier for him, Frank thought-and easier for her.
He had crouched between her legs. The vibrator rolled beside the pillow, still buzzing, caught under it. His fingers found the switch and silenced it. The sudden silence seemed to upset Jennifer. With a look of panic her eyes opened wide.
At the same moment the surface of his prick was touching the entrance to her hole. The reality of it had hit her all at once, now that the gadget's whirring had ceased.
Her eyes gaped wide. Her mouth opened in a wide circle as she sucked in air. She dug the base of her skull in the soft pillow, tilting her chin at an angle so that Frank could see the start of her deep throat. The tongue curled back, its tip coiled against the insides of the lower front teeth. She seemed to stiffen, to brace herself for the assault.
A kind of pity washed through him, the pity for her vulnerability that mixed with his lust for that same virgin vulnerability. He could feel the end of his pole "catch" on the slick soft flesh outside the hole. The clit seemed to pulse under the angle of his pressure. He was stretching open the tender snatch. "Uhh," she groaned, as if startled by the presence of a man so close to her soft woman's body.
He inched forward without touching his cock; the dome touched the patchwork quilt of pubic hair, and the cavity furled open, its thick cunt lips puckered and waiting. He kept waiting for her to object; but at the moment he thought she would speak, she closed her eyes. Bravery was written on her face-bravery and determination that she would be, at last, fucked by a man.
He took hold of his cock with his right hand and brought it down to the softer yielding skin below the erectile tissue of her crotch. For a moment he left the rounded head in the soppy hair, let it absorb her body fluid, her vaginal heat. He could feel the electric heat of the slick wall surface as he exhaled: the cock moved slightly, a twitch, and he tasted with its surface the feel of the inner cunt itself.
The thumb still pushed down on the rounded side of the cock, as the fingers spread wide to push down on the side-flesh of her cunt. He was teasing it away from the entry itself, making himself an open path through her. She sighed and caught her breath. She seemed still, doll-like. In that moment he knew he needed the feel of her virgin flesh, needed it more than he had ever needed flesh, it seemed. He let his stomach force against her. The lips spread as the cock moved inside the sticky vise. Jennifer opened her mouth to inhale, to gasp for air, though so far in the first few inches of the cunt-bath, progress was easy. The hole was not especially tight. There would be room to move about, to sway from side to side in the thrusting forward, were he not so anxious to penetrate deeper inside her than any hunk of plastic had gone, than any woman had ever gone with her finger or whole hand.
The cunt seemed to tighten when he was half inside her. He could look down to their crotches, where their bodies joined, and see inches of skin, strained by his stiffness, protruding from the surface of her sex; at either end of the connecting rod was sex-hair, hers and his own. The sight of the contact made him want to plunge deeper into her.
The feel of the cunt as he jammed harder into her was like cotton wool, moistened cotton wool, around his skin. Suddenly, as he felt the toughness of her inner skin, he felt another trickle of moisture he knew must be blood. The hymenal lubricant excited him, made him instinctively press deeper into her, creating another small gush of blood.
Under him Jennifer bit into her lower lip with her upper front teeth, and her face was pale, flushed of color. The nostrils flared with the breath she took in. Sweat covered her forehead in a film of virgin's pain. Her stomach was soft under his collapsing body, as he rolled his prick through her. The blood oiled the way, mixed with the cunt-juice. He felt its diluted pinkness rub itself, with each stroke, deeper into his cock's skin, tingling it with a blush of her virginity, sliding onto the glans. He felt himself soaking up the proof of her deflowering: her blood transfused into his by sex . ...
At first he had moved cautiously but firmly, without rhythm; each assault was an exploration of this newfound land of sex. Now the excitement of her newness spurred him on, caught him in the trap of friction, of rhythm. The cunt-walls clung to him as he drove his spike through them. Suddenly he felt her pubic hairs curl into his own, and he knew he was as deep inside her as the length of his penis would go. Through the thin padding, the railing of cartilage thrashed together. He felt the heat of her bush around his buried poker. He let his chest touch her breasts, heaving now with emotion-as though her body were wracked with silent sobs.
Her eyes opened. She looked pale and weak. He felt the back of her hand as it moved to their joined sexes. "Please," she moaned in a half-whisper. "I want to touch myself."
He pulled back, raising himself on his palms. His cock slid back little more than an inch. He looked down; it shone with a pink tint, the color of her hymenal blood spread over the strained stretched phallic skin. The fingers covered the pubic twill, and two long fingers moved up and down over the filament of external tissue. She sighed gratefully, soothed by the masturbation. Fascinated, he watched as she excited herself, independent of his penis stiffened within her sexhole.
The shreds of flesh pulled up around the cock as it entered her; he felt constricted as she manipulated the labial folds-constricted and at the same time excited.
The girl's knuckles grazed his scrotum as her manipulation grew wilder. She began to twist under him, moving the cock within her though he stayed on his knees, pushing up on his palms. He watched the flesh of her breasts quiver with building excitement. He leaned forward and the prick naturally dug deeper inside the ripped-open twat. Some more blood now flowed to the entrance of the cavity, and a droplet dripped onto the bulging scrotum.
Frank moved his hand to the place where hers moved. Her eyes opened as if she were being interrupted. But the instant of animal fury gave way to obedience. His forefinger pushed between the two fingers she used to stretch the hole open around the pulsing, pumping cock. She had coated her outer flesh in the vaginal ooze.
"Does it hurt you?" he asked breathlessly. Shyly the girl nodded. "Too much?" he asked, his whisper anxious. He did not want her to be in pain-unless it was necessary, absolutely necessary. "No," she sighed, "not too much," then corrected herself, "I don't know how it's supposed to feel."
His fingers glided on the lubricated surface. He touched his own ball-sac and the underside of the cock with her moisture, then shoved the bulk forward into her again. She grunted as the tool made its way deeper inside her belly than it had gone before.
Her head moved like a doll's, and her eyes rolled without expression, as if she were blocking the pain as she could not block his assaulting sex. The erection felt crowded and coddled by her tender feminine flesh, coated in her juice.
The come itself bubbled in the lower parts of the stalk. He could feel a low flame at the center of the base, deep within his scrotum. The tip, the head, had a life of its own, seeking out the depths of the chamber as the length of the erection rode ever more smoothly inside the sex-cage.
Her thumb now rolled over her clit, inflated with the friction. The sides of the snatch moved smoothly, so silkily he barely perceived their movement, but only saw when he looked down to see his own stomach smash on top of Jennifer's, hiding the cock and cunt below.
He put his hand underneath his own dick, feeling his balls as they jiggled. With one thrust the whole sac seemed to move up against gravity and slap the skin that led from her vagina to her hidden anus. There he put his forefinger and index, teasing the flaps of cunt-skin, at the same time that he stretched the scrotal cover.
At both ends of the slash they were pulling, twisting the sex-lips, teasing them. Jennifer seemed to sense that the friction would hinder more than help, and her sweaty fingers rolled over her stomach now, coating its flatness with love-grease.
"Hold me," Frank said, at the same time releasing his pressure on the lower labia. He moved his hand to her side. The mixed scent of virgin blood and female lubrication aroused him, and he inhaled it deeply. Jennifer moved slowly but obediently to his command. She grunted as he forced the whole length of his organ inside her; in the fingernails as they bit into his skin, he felt her anger and even her pale attempt at revenge for his deflowering. The irritation merely heightened the sensation of pleasure felt by his cock as it moved silently through the nether-depths of her quim.
By now the girls' whole body had gone loose under him, her limbs lax with his dominance: the invasion of her body was successful. He jammed the hot machine through the yielding tissue, and now her fingernails scratched through the skin on either side of his spine, ending just above the crack of his ass. He held the buttocks tightly together, his whole body as tight as it was first, when the resistance of the lesbian's frame had made itself felt by a kind of physical telepathy.
Her arms were at her sides. Her hair streamed against the pillow. The mascara had streamed with hot sweat, forming rivulets of black tears under her eyes. The lips drained of color, almost as white as the teeth they barely revealed as she opened her mouth and inhaled. His body moved more slowly now, for he felt the orgasm start to move up against gravity through his cock. He wanted to save it, hold it off: there were too few times he could fuck a virgin, and only once could he fuck the same girl. After his prick left Jennifer's body, it would never be the same again; he would have left his mark within her, deep inside.
She lay, defeated and limp beneath him as he humped her. The breasts continued to quiver as his chest collapsed over them, pressing their softness. He tried not to think of the purity of the hole, unknown by any man before himtried to think of her as just any cunt, like that whore's, like-but it was no good. The tired pain seeped through her glazed eyes and open lips. He wanted her, he had to let go. . .
The come spurted out slowly, heavier than the usual emission because he had held it for so long. It felt like fire as it coursed out through the length of the phallic tube. The glowing moisture clotted inside Jennifer, and she sighed with what sounded like relief: perhaps the come would soothe the pain. He jammed forward, feeling her erected nipples scratch his own.
He moved wildly within her, happy enough now to obliterate the last traces of obstructing skin, to fuck her completely. More wet warmth covered the cock, and the last strokes seemed somehow longer than he expected, as if they and he had been put into slow motion, as though the pleasure had been teased out. He slid into her from an angle this time, mimicking the pressure that her fingers had plied as she'd masturbated with him inside her. He smashed into the sweet fur covering the sides of the snatch and delivered the last white load into the glutted channel of her sex.
The cock stayed rigid inside of her. Frank waited to see if the need to move it within the walls returned, but instead a numbness passed through the erection, a warm afterglow. His sweat stuck to her body as he let himself press on her; he was damp with his exhaustion.
He put his mouth on hers-the gesture seemed quite natural, without thought. This seemed to shock her. She turned her mouth away, then brought her eyes back to face him-with effort. As if to say, "Must I do this now, too?" The pity flashed through his brain like a mild electric current, and he craned his neck, trying to make the apology show through his eyes and face.
The old rigidity had returned to Jennifer's body. She was stiff, and only the tissue circling his wet cock, embedded in a liquid padding of blood and cunt-juice and come, was soft. The pussy seemed, however, to hold him as tightly as if she had held him prisoner by will; the fluids created a kind of suction around the still-erect prick. He pushed up on his hands, wanting to pull back.
Jennifer Holden groaned. Frank realized, as she winced with each retreating inch, that now she would feel the soreness as she had not when he had been pumping her. He could almost hear the cunt walls as they folded back into each other. He looked down as he pulled the head out. The sheet below the place where their privates had joined was covered with pink, but the color was vivid with moisture-the stain had had no time to dry-it was still spilt blood. Some colorless come oozed out, trickling onto the tangled pubic hair that the teenager now dabbed tenderly with her fingers, as if to feel the damage Frank had done.
Frank rolled over and watched her: she seemed oblivious to his presence. One arm was flat over her breasts, almost hiding her large nipples; the other "tested" the sensitivity of her crotch, almost covering the triangle of hair and sex-flesh.
"Did it hurt very much?" he asked, mechanically. He no longer cared; her virginity was history. She shook her head and (he knew) lied. No murmur from her. She looked dazed, as if she had expected more to happen. The look was not unfamiliar to Frank. It was, he imagined, the look of a woman-as opposed to the look of an unde-flowered girl, a pure sex-child, a nymphet. So much could happen in a few minutes, he realized. His own prick began to grow limp, and he looked down. It was covered with a haze of come, like too many layers of wax had been rubbed against it. It seemed to blush pinkly with her blood.
It was over. Jennifer Holden's breathing grew more even, and she drew her hand away from the affected area. Her legs closed together, hiding most of the puckered lip-skin, as if to seal herself off from another fuck, another male cock. Perhaps this was a way to rejoin the severed walls, to feel the cunt as one virgin orifice again.
"Is there anything you'd like?" he asked. They were suddenly strangers again, further removed than before they'd been introduced by Dr. Vogel, when good manners had forced them to smile shyly at each other. Now their intimacy had gone beyond manners.
"Can you take me back to the club?" she asked, her eyes staring to the ceiling.
"The bar?" he asked, and she nodded. "What about your parents?"
"I'll lie," she said. "It will be worth it. I must see someone-anyone." Frank realized he was not even anyone to the girl he had made love to.
CHAPTER FIVE
His next appointment with Karen Vogel seemed strange because of the woman's very normal and calm approach. "How is she?" he asked, meaning Jennifer Holden. It was the way in which one might inquire after the sick.
"I don't think it's really taken effect yet," the therapist said, looking at him intently. The gaze made Frank nervous. "She's a bit-well-numb." There was a pause-too long a pause. Frank felt she was ready to pounce upon him, and he braced himself.
"But what about you?" she finally asked, ending the wait. "The therapy was as much yours as hers."
Frank felt slightly guilty; guilt required confession, and he told her the truth. "It didn't feel like therapy. It felt like-" He paused, gathered the courage and the breath to complete the rush of sentences. "It felt like the real thing."
"The real thing?" she asked, brows flexing over an impassive face.
"The kink. The one you're treating." There was a repressed violence in his voice, directed against the female doctor. As though he were impatient with her for not "curing" him, for not returning him to Emily, ready to give the latter the sexual satisfaction she needed.
"I see." She paused, her lips frozen into an expression that was neither smile nor frown. "For one thing, you know that you alone do the real 'curing.' Secondly, I told you the truth: all this is an experiment, a series of experiments. This time it was an experiment for Jennifer as well....Perhaps you were immune to this particular 'shock.' " She had called it "shock therapy" before, but the term seemed to apply, in this case, more to the young lesbian Jennifer than to himself.
"What next?" he asked.
Karen Vogel looked surprised. "There is no obstacle course, if that's what you mean. I suggest we get back to the main course of therapy." He said nothing while she paused, and she added, "How is Emily?"
The encounter with Jennifer had toned up his sexual desire, directed it toward Emily, another virgin-as though the one deflowering had started a habit, or greed.
She had phoned him on that Monday, around seven-thirty. She seemed to be whispering into the phone. "They're going out," she said meaning-Frank knew-her parents. "They're going to Bolinas until Wednesday."
"That's sudden," Frank responded blandly.
"My father was feeling tired. We have a cabin there, you know." He said nothing, thinking again that Emily was really out of his class-the Bolinas cabin was not the only one of their retreats.
"Well," she said, the whisper rasping with little-girl impatience, "can you come over?"
"Tonight?" he asked dumbly.
"Yes. You can stay in my room." Frank tried to imagine himself in the teenager's room. There was something exciting about it. The room represented, in a way, the little girl of her, the virgin in her. There would, no doubt, be photos of rock-stars, school snapshots traded at lunch-time. (Perhaps she would hide these, he thought suddenly, smiling at the maturity she might pretend for him.)
"All right. When are they going?"
"They're packing now. By the time you get here they should be gone-we just finished supper, and Daddy's anxious to leave. You know how he is."
Frank didn't know how Mr. Perrine was, but assumed he should, that Emily had chattered on about him so often that he was supposed to have a mental picture of the man.
When he was there, an hour later, there was a solitary light in the long living room. He could see Emily standing in silhouette at the huge picture windows. Through the glass he could see across the living room to the panoramic window that gave the Perrines a perfect view of San Francisco across the water.
He got out of the car a hundred yards up the hill, the parking a concession to any nosey neighbors. Not that the disguise could be very effective, if they were determined. He thought to himself that he should leave later that evening, almost hoped Emily would want him to.
Yet another part of him realized that the teenager was too daring, too impulsive-too coquettish for that. This was her opportunity to seduce him on her own ground, in her family home.
She moved away from the window as he walked down the cobbled path. The huge door pulled open. Inside the house the light seemed amplified by those Christmas-tree ornaments of the bridge, by the city lights that shone over the Bay.
Emily was wearing a demure schoolgirl outfit. Perhaps he had been wrong, and perhaps she did not mean to vamp him after all. Yet, perversely, he was more excited than if she had greeted him in the nude. Directly after she had pushed the door closed behind him, she hugged him like the little girl she really was. Her breasts were loose under her top, and he felt the nipples erect as the fabric pressed against him.
She had his prick in her hand within a minute of his entering, yet she seemed in no hurry to feel the naked cock itself, and instead stroked the skin through the twin layers of trouser fabric and undershorts. He could not keep himself from grasping her buttocks, clenching his hands into fists as he gathered the flesh, and squeezing them as he rolled his stomach forward into her. He gasped for air as he kissed her, having to take his mouth away. The mixed spittle touched both their cheeks at once, and Emily giggled. She stroked his wet lower lip with the tip of her forefinger, smoothing the saliva back into the skin.
"Come into the kitchen," she smiled impishly, and then, "I'll fix you a milkshake in the blender." There was nothing so wholesome, Frank thought, as the American teenager. One moment her hands could be making his prick throb and the balls wriggle inside his scrotum. The next they would be reaching with as much delight for the ice cream in the freezer compartment.
He followed her bouncing rounded ass; it seemed to slide merrily within her tight corduroy slacks. Absently she pulled down the striped jersey as she turned, quickly covering the flash of the small of her back, the slight dip to the rising curve of her ass-crack. He felt himself wanting her.
Frank thought of Dr. Vogel, thought of Jennifer Holden. The treatment would be complete, he knew, if tonight he took "advantage" of Emily, the very advantage she had been trying to give him these months. He wanted her enough. He could think of no better place for it, no place where she could feel more secure than her own home.
But then, before they had reached the kitchen, the excuses had started again. The mental picture of Emily prone beneath him and in the kind of pain he had given Jennifer-his stomach rushed with blood and panic. He could not do that to her.
That realization in turn gave way to another: Could he ever?
In the huge kitchen Emily was already efficiently scooping ice cream, knowing his favorite flavor was chocolate.
"We'll drink them in my room," she said, with her little girl's "wicked" voice, than which nothing was more innocent.
Her tongue slipped out and licked all but a line of the chocolate from her upper lip. Frank thought he would tell her, then repressed a smile and did not. He would taste the chocolate as he French-kissed her; she would taste of malted.
She took his empty soda-fountain glass and put it on the bedside table. He had been right: all the fru-fru ornaments of teenager had been removed, quite unnaturally. The room was altogether too orderly; she had tried to make herself appear "grown-up" for him.
"Didn't your parents try to get someone to, er, look after you?"
The girl was positively offended. "They trust me." Then, the tone of indignation disappeared within a Cheshire cat smile. She leaned toward Frank and her breasts moved inside the striped jersey. He put his hand flat against one and felt the warmth of her tit.
"Will you stay here with me tonight?" The tone was pleading.
"I thought you didn't need looking after." He knew instantly that he would. He did not know how he could avoid consummating the foreplay when they were freely together this way, in a bed, with the whole night before them.
"In some ways I do," she purred, and her fingertips grazed his wrist. She pushed her chest out so that his own fingers would press deeper into the mound of soft young flesh. His fingernail caught on the fabric, and at the same time on the hardening nipple below.
She straightened up, as if demonstrating what her posture could be. She drew the jersey over her head and Frank watched the breasts move, their tips pointing at slightly different angles. Her stomach was flat below the breasts, but he knew its swelling pout.
"It's warm, isn't it?" she teased, almost blushing at the transparent ruse.
"I'm feeling hot," he said, allowing himself to giggle with her at the crude pun.
"Is it feeling hot?" she asked almost breathlessly, reaching for the trousers. They both sat on the small single bed; she had not far to move. Her whole weight seemed to push down on the cock, already stiff and pumping blood.
"Emily, you're teasing me," he said in his sternest paternal voice. She nodded shyly, agreeing, admitting to the charge. "But I don't want to-that is, we can't-"
"I know," she conceded half-heartedly. "But you can-" She blushed. He knew what she liked. He could make her come with his tongue, that was what was in her mind. He was grateful that he could. It released the tension in her eager body.
Already she moved about in an elastic, kittenish manner. Her legs were akimbo, as she turned over on her stomach, her face still turned to him as he sat still on the edge of her bed, his hand resting on the nightstand. In a way this was what he had most feared: to be left alone with her in conditions of perfect freedom.
At the same time, it was what he most wanted. Most needed, he realized, as he looked at the swell of her buttocks and imagined the smell and the moisture of the cunt inside her pants. He wondered if she were wearing any pants. Sometimes she didn't, saying she didn't "need" them. He would reach down and feel, his hand surprised by direct contact with the hair, moistened by the sweat of friction of beaver against the tight-fitting garment.
"I can lick you, too," she said, almost as though she were afraid of how he would react to her boldness-she could sense when he got uncomfortable, and most of the time Emily tried to play the innocent she knew he wanted.
Her fingers moved toward his belt. He felt the growing excitement inside his shorts, the flooding of blood through his stick. She tried to suppress a smile as the fit of the trousers became tight while she wrenched the belt-buckle. She was already timid in having spoken out so directly.
She loved, he knew, to suck his cock, to feel it inside her mouth. She could make her tongue, lips and teeth do things no cunt could do; she had perfect control over him as she bathed the glans and stalk in spit.
Teasingly her hand moved down over the cock, though she could as easily have unzipped him and felt the cock directly against her palm. Then she suddenly turned back and got up off the bed. She looked at him coquettishly and turned toward the small bathroom off her bedroom. She did not bother to close the door after her, and he could see glimpses of naked curve and hear the sizzle of fiber against her nubile body. Then, when she was naked-he saw her ass as she leaned forward to divest herself of the panties that she was, after all, wearing-the tap water turned on, followed shortly by the sound of the teenager brushing her teeth. Instinctively Frank's tongue rolled over his own teeth, and then decided that a teenager's self-consciousness about body odors of all kinds was just that-self-consciousness. Once she had indeed remarked on the smell of his cock after a sweaty day of horse-riding on the beach-but only to say how much she loved the "masculinity" of it.
When he heard the sounds of washing in the bathroom, Frank nervously started to undress, anxious not to strip in front of her, somehow too shy. He knew she would re-enter the room completely naked. He pulled on the belt she'd unbuckled and, inhaling, dragged the trousers past his stomach, over his prick; he'd kicked off his shoes unconsciously while he'd been sitting on the bed with the girl, drinking the milkshake.
He peeled back the top layer of blanket and sheet; before diving under the covers, he removed the shorts-he wore no undershirt-and his socks. He waited for her, his eyes fixed to the threshold of the half-open toilet.
She came in without a hint of bashfulness now, proud of her body in the unaffected manner of a schoolgirl good at athletics. The breasts bounced playfully as she moved, observing his eyes as they focused on the nipples. Frank could not help wondering if she had run her wet, cold fingers over the nipples, which were already erect. His tongue ran over the edges of his lips as he thought of sucking them, wondering if he could make the tapioca-like texture even stiffer with prodding.
She hesitated a moment before getting into bed beside him, then came over to the side he had entered, where his body was tight against the sheet-a twin bed was not really big enough for the beginning of lovemaking, only the end, when bodies were entangled. She pushed him through the linen, her fingertips on the flat of his stomach, sending a tightness below. He moved back, allowing her to sit down.
She was taking the aggressive role. She kissed him gently, as though he were the virgin of the two, to be protected from the violence of passion, to be eased into it.
She whispered: "Why are you always so shy?" Her eyes looked down at his shrouded body.
His answer was facetious. "Because it's not as pretty as yours." Her breasts hung at a slight angle, their undersides curving up until they were capped by the deep-brown pointed nipples. He could not resist touching one as he spoke; his fingers folded down, collapsing the breast as Emily's eyes followed their movement. Her wet lips pressed together and twisted as he rolled his thumb over the tit, while his wrist rode the soft underside. His other hand moved to her midriff; her legs moved closer together with the chill this sent through her, and only a single wire of the auburn hair stuck out, a coil, from between the legs denuded of hair.
She arched her back, hunching her shoulders, so that her stomach was thrust forward and her breasts almost veered out of reach. Frank's hand had to move with her as he continued to roll over them, the sweat in his palm greasing the young mound.
Suddenly she was above him, her nudity swishing against the clean white sheet; he felt the warmth through the barrier of cool linen. Through it he could still feel the stiffness of the areolas, grazing his chest while the soft wetness of her mouth streaked over his lips. She liked being on top of him, he knew.
Her legs had spread wide around his, her knees on the bed. She was pushing up so that she squatted, legs apart and beaver open at a wide angle, strands of red hair shooting off at all directions. For a moment she waited, wanting him to admire her as he might a nude photo. He reached out to touch the pretty picture, and the first shudder of pleasure passed through her stomach as his fingers grazed the thigh. The smallest finger lazily crossed over the curve, almost poking the hollow of her thigh.
Emily's hands cupped her breasts, less to show them off than, instinctively, to clutch them, to begin the kneading process herself because she could not wait for him. She pushed on her knees, straightening her lower body so that the cunt was poised over the phallus, which made a tent of the sheet with its projectile stiffness. He reached up and took her hands in his, folding his fingers between the small girlish bones. His hands pressed up at the bobbing tits. Emily moaned softly.
She moved down on top of him again, her head tossing as though it were asleep with a nightmare, showering his neck with her hair. The breasts flattened against his chest and then his stomach, finally falling onto the mattress between his thighs as her mouth went for the solid dick, poking up under the sheet. Frank's legs moved apart and slithered flat; he had drawn his knees up, but now he wanted to make it easier for the girl. The sheet was looser over the rigid member. Her tongue bit into a lump of white cotton, but she sheet tightened around the glans, rubbing it with sudden friction. In a moment she had the whole of the draped head inside her mouth, and she was making the sheet damp with saliva. The spittle made the material cling even closer to his prick. He looked down at her and wondered if it had been sheer impatience or the desire for slightly kinky variety that had made her do it to him this way. His arms enfolded her back, and his fingers drilled deep and hard into the small of her back, to the sides of her jutting spine. He could feel the tension in the muscle below the skin as she restlessly probed the organ. She was gripping it now with her teeth, the feel of the edges dulled by the sheet. She was sucking it as though it were the covering layer of phallic skin, and now it was drenched. The moisture clung to him as she rolled it over the stalk. The linen throbbed around him, making the cock feel on fire despite the seeping moisture of her tongue.
He shifted uneasily under her, not wanting to come so soon, not wanting to waste the emission outside her mouth, not wanting to stain her sheet. He loved hearing the gurgling sound as the come filled her throat, the way she would swallow it like a cat lapping up cream.
Her eyes were closed, and her neck twisted wildly, as though the taste of the sheet had made the sucking the more exciting. His fingernails scratched at her scalp, feeling the summer sweat as she grew more excited. Her heavy breathing rustled against the sheet, and he felt the muted wind through the moisture of the damp cloth. His balls rolled impatiently below as his body shifted on the mattress, waiting for the direct caress of her tongue.
She seemed to enjoy sucking as much as being sucked; the excitement seemed to build in the same way as when she would reach orgasm. Right now the same sense of wanting to share came over him with a violence, and his cupped hands touched her cheeks, lifting her up off the instrument. Sleepily the eyelids flickered open.
"I want to kiss you," Frank said, "there." He was more shy than she was-at least with her, because of the innocence that attached itself so inappropriately to her. He could not be more explicit than this. He waited for her.
Emily stood up on her knees as before, and she waddled, shaking her firm and rounded breasts, little more than the size of Frank's large hands when folded over them, filled with them. She was moving up the bed toward him. The sheet, even with his collarbone, he pushed down toward his waist; as she lifted one knee, he pushed it farther down so that he would have more freedom.
Emily stopped when she could lean forward and press her breasts to the headboard-her face was hidden from Frank. The soft fur of her twat tickled his upper chest. Frank swerved down the bed until his mouth was directly under the patch of sex. His hands moved up to clutch her buttocks, to pull her down on him. She rolled the pud forward, her stomach nuzzling his face while his tongue took aim at the narrow slash.
She tasted of salt, a taste he diluted with his own licking as he rolled over the erecting bubble of woman's flesh, his tongue peeking into the place between every third or fourth stroke. He could not decide whether it was the fact that he'd left off prodding the tiny clit with his tongue that made her moan, or whether it was the way the tongue tip insinuated itself into the crack itself.
He wriggled the tongue over the love-bud while Emily's own fingers pushed in at the concave depressions inside the jutting pelvic bones, stretching the delicate muscle at either side of the hairy snatch. Frank's upper lip came over the front teeth as he pressed hard at the growing clit. Little shocks of movement pushed the beaver into his mouth, the hairs catching into the spaces between the teeth as she twisted furiously with each new stroke.
His tongue drew lower, past the vaginal entry, to where the first curve of the buttocks bulged forward-Emily was smashing her ass anxiously into the bed so that he could suck her harder. "Bite me," she groaned, "eat me." He knew how she liked him to suck roughly at the wet beaver, but he was afraid of the delicacy of her body, of somehow ripping the soft flesh with his teeth. But she was moaning impatiently and digging her fingernails into the back of his neck. He felt her thighs close in around his neck, tight enough almost to strangle him.
His fingers pulled at the fringes of flesh, opening the hole. The tongue moved from side to side like a fleshy whip, forcing the walls even farther apart. Each time the tip of the tongue made contact with the inside of one of the walls, he felt her hands move to her thighs, squeezing her own flesh while the fingertips pointed out and touched his puckering cheeks. The fingers were greasy with sweat, but the oil inside her vagina was thicker, with the musky odor of woman.
The fingers plunged in, and he touched his own tongue within the gaping box, pushing it to the cunt's left wall. His upper teeth half-touched the erectile tissue that dangled over the aperture, biting Emily as hard as she could wish, while the edges of the teeth were just barely hidden by the rim of the lower lip, now churning over the soggy sweat-stained mop of female sex.
Emily took hold of his wrist and pulled at the hand, making him masturbate her, while he continued the gentler cunnilingus. The wetness of the pie itself made friction within the cunt increasingly difficult, and to stuff her he had to insert the forefinger along with the index. His eyes gazed up, but he could only see the shimmering undersides of her boobs as she clutched to the life raft of the headboard, smearing his face with the smell of her hormones.
Frank's arm moved back into the pillow just as Emily slithered upward on the two digits, plunging into the wet yielding socket, and in the next moment he felt the fingertips graze the hair with her inner juices. Frantically, pressing her stiff tits to the headboard, Emily tried to shove her pussy back on the fingers, succeeding only in smashing the wet sex on his face, losing the tongue's contact with the clit. His thumb pressed on the lips where they joined, while the wet forefinger and index finger slithered toward her ass-hole. In a moment the moisture met the heat of the tight ring of muscle there.
Emily's hands reached down, scraping the skin of his neck, and she tried to force him to bob for the inflated pink-purple clit; Frank almost gagged on the impact of flesh against his lips, there being no room to breathe. What air he did inhale was not so much breath as the scent of the girlish quim, thick and heavy.
He dabbed the moisture of the walls on the hot skin of the buttocks where they came together, then brought the fingers back to the cavity. He had to slip them under his chin; they moved inside with beautiful ease, and this time the cunt seemed to wrap itself even more tightly around them while Frank turned his whole hand at the wrist.
His hand had opened at the side of her waist, and he was guiding her down on him, trying to control her impulsive young body. His hand closed round a pocket of flesh above the hip, as he was trying to "pace" her to accept the steady shove of tongue against sex-bud. The tongue drilled so closely to the clitoris that she tasted to him hardly of moisture at all, but only of the thick dry tangle of her hair, now taut against the skin itself. Her knees pushed into the headboard, making the framework of wood groan. The bed rocked wildly as he tried to keep up with her, to give her the orgasm which was now so near. She held onto the board as she would to the railing of a rocking ocean vessel. He could feel the sweat of her belly on his forehead. The perspiration was almost odorless, smelling of salt and of summer.
His hands could no longer "Lead" her body as she rubbed up and down, her cunt against his licking tongue. He drew his head back, the base of his skull rubbing the feathery pillow, and as he spoke, the breath made a small wind through the thinning forest of her upper region of pubic hair.
"Lie down," he said, his own breathing heavier with the exertion of eating her. "On your back." He could feel the fragility of her body, and his hands moved from her hips to the sockets of her underarms, which were glazed-their little fuzz of hair-with heavy sweat. The breasts swayed as he lifted her inches off his chest.
She knew what to do, and he felt her ass slither over his stomach. Frank sat up under her and, his thumbs pressing at the outsides of her shoulder blades, pushed her on her back so that her head touched the end of the bed, and her foot-soles the headboard. But now their faces were almost even, and in the aftermath of the separation she was gasping for air, her body out of the building rhythm, and when she drew his face to hers, all she seemed to want was a soft mouth kiss. He knew he tasted of her as his tongue swept over the outside lips, while she tried to open her mouth under him and make him caress her, tongue to tongue. He did, but only after the young girl started to bite eagerly at him, teasing him playfully with her teeth, like the young kitten she was.
As their mouths pressed together and met, deeper and deeper until her surprisingly long tongue scraped the sides of his inner cheeks, he felt the smell of her sweat and sex waft back into his nostrils. He was reminded of the soft tender flesh of the cunt, and his hand went to touch it, to feel its warmth.
She pushed her stomach up from the bed, her legs opening wide and automatically. Passage inside her was easy; he had oiled the way with his own tongue.
Emily's eyes closed again, and he knew she was waiting for him to finish what he had begun. He was on his knees, crouching between those spread legs, as he put his mouth to the opening. His tongue cautiously moved to the clit, which tasted of the hormonal film that had washed over it with his licking. The slightest pressure of his mouth, the lip-covered teeth, was enough to make the folds of sex-flesh separate onto the inner cunt, but his tongue wriggled, this time, at the small splinter of flesh itself.
Emily rolled below, urging him on with the wiggle of her ass against the squealing bedsprings. "Oooh," she moaned, as his tongue crossed over the clitoral ridge and slipped below the button to wash the hair with his tongue. She was twisting to one side, and Frank knew what this meant: she wanted to dine on him while he licked the external vagina. He brought his knees up under him, then twisted so that he was at her side, perpendicular to her as he continued to kiss her sex-flesh without the interruption of the steady stroking of tongue against beaver. His cock shot out at an upward angle, and Emily was grabbing for it, bending it down even before moving toward it with her mouth. He felt the pulse of the blood in the cock accelerate; her fingernails extended to the base of hair below the shaft, and she tore at the skin below that, pulling at the balls by wriggling the scrotum.
Unselfishly she seemed more concerned to take the cock in her mouth than to feel Frank against her own organ-at least for a moment-as she stretched to the side, still pulling on the penis, and tasting the sweet dog-water on the slit by stretching the tongue snake-like from between the lips bare of make-up, shining only with the tongue's own moisture.
He grimaced as she jammed the rod down so that her lips could devour the head. In the next moment he felt her body slither beneath him as her mouth followed where tongue and lips had led. His own head followed her pelvis, and within moments the two were coiled together, their bodies forming a spiral, joined as the genitals of each were caressed lovingly by the wet mouth of the other.
Frank was breathing very steadily, moving his lips very slowly across the delicate tissue, lined with saliva-coated hair. Emily's own body had seemed to relax as more and more of her energy seemed to move through her seeking mouth.
She glutted herself on the thick hard organ. Again he felt her teeth dig into the sides of the phallus, again the tongue crept like a snake up the flattened underside, while her chin pushed up against the scrotum and unbalanced the balls inside their skin-cage.
She was sucking out the semen, he could feel the heat welling in the root of the organ. The pace of his cunnilingus accelerated. The two were "making love" through their mouths, with perfect control, control more direct than they could ever have if they were actually fucking, Frank thought....
He drove the head so hard into the roof of her mouth that he felt its softness flatten, while her cheeks sucked in to close around the length of it. Her lower front teeth caught on a hair sprouting out from the scrotum and tore it off as she nuzzled the underside of the stalk with her teeth, teasing him where the juice now seemed clotted, waiting to spurt outside the cock and into her throat, there to be swallowed.
Again he felt he had to stuff his fingers inside, to rub her with them under the plying tongue. The walls separated easily around them, and he buried them to the depth of the base-knuckles. He felt the woolly moisture of her cover him, but he sucked all the more anxiously at her sex-pimple, feeling it throb. It seemed to have doubled in size since the moment his tongue had rewet it, and Emily's sighs, too, were louder, even though muffled by the thick cock in her mouth.
She was gorging herself on the erection, while his tongue sought and found, again and again, the small button that seemed to trigger one waver after another of frantic energy. Its source seemed to be the small of her back, for the teenager would thrust her breasts up, the tits erect, while her head curled around to suck on Frank's joint. Her belly seemed already warm with pleasure. The inside of her vagina was hot with woman-grease, and Frank's tongue was sticky with its coating, which he lashed again and again on the bedding of hair that now curled around its tip.
Her head slid forward on the stick, lurching violently at the same time her pelvis went limp and accepted the rougher strokes of his tongue. He could feel the heat against his lips as he bored down on her, feel the tightening, the stillness of her flat stomach muscles.
He pumped his rod toward the back of her throat, feeling himself start to spurt the hot cream into her mouth. The bubbling sound as it smeared the edge of her throat, her heavy breathing as she strived to swallow it, turned him so that he twisted the soft bead of sex between his squirming lips. Through the gurgle of sex-sound from deep in her throat came a deeper groan as she let go and started to jam the hot socket of womanhood into his mouth.
Lost inside her with his cock at one end of his body, his tongue slipped into her gorgeous vise at the other, Frank's fingers scratched her perfect cream skin, drowning her with his sperm, feeling the electric shock of orgasm through the valley between her jutting hipbones.
He looked across her desk at his therapist. "Is that how you always satisfy her?"
Frank shook his head. "Sometimes, you know," he replied with embarrassment at the intimacy, "by my fingers." Karen Vogel nodded gravely. "Will that satisfy her for much longer?"
CHAPTER SIX
"Frank," Emily said one day as the two of them sat at the Trident in Sausalito, looking out toward and then over the water, "how would you feel if I started to go out with other men?"
He turned to her, trying to suppress a smile-surely she was joking. He was not that vain, but she had told him he was the most important person in her life, hadn't she? And, saying that-as she had dozens of times-hadn't her face beamed a positively child-like devotion?
"Why?" he asked, trying not to sound alarmed.
"I don't know," she said with a weak kind of smile. It was the very weakness of the smile that made him realize she was quite serious.
"Is there anyone else?" He hated the question immediately after he had spoken it aloud; it made him sound like an agitated husband in an old movie, late at night on television.
"No one in particular." She paused, looking pale, and started to sip her iced tea. "It's just-"
"Yes?" He prodded as he knew he was expected to prod, as she wanted to be prodded. She was finding this difficult, he could sense. At the same time he felt a sick weakness in his stomach; he knew the answer already, and he did not want to hear it from her lips.
Even though she would lie, ever so slightly, so as not to hurt him.
"If we are getting married," she said in her best "commonsensical" tone of voice, "perhaps I should, you know, get to know other men a bit. Before we are. Married, I mean."
It wasn't quite the answer he had expected; perhaps it was the lie to cover up. He found himself asking a bolder question, to force the truth from her, even though it would pain him. "Do you want to sleep with other men?"
Emily paused long and hard. "I don't know."
"Then you wouldn't be-" he looked around the crowded restaurant and lowered his voice slightly, even though it was too noisy for anyone not listening directly to hear-"you wouldn't be a virgin."
Her eyes were dull with a kind of fear of him-the other side, he now understood, of that child-like devotion. "Is that so awful?"
Now he was hearing the worst, and the panic seemed to flood through his limbs. He wished he had ordered something alcoholic for himself. "It's for you," he said, breathing in deeply. "It's for you that I've wanted you to stay one."
"But what about I-we?" Now she was the petulant little girl. "It wasn't so important to me."
"It would be. Later." He waited a moment, tried to keep the insistence, the panic, from his voice. "You might have been sorry you-we-hadn't waited."
"But," she answered with quite indisputable logic, "if it would have been us, you and I, then we would have done it anyway. After we were married. So it would be the same two people doing the same thing. Why would I have been sorry?"
There was no real answer-not without confession, anyway. He felt in sudden need of consultation with Dr. Vogel. Perhaps she could give him the quick courage to blurt out the truth to the teenager. (And what-feel a fool, feel less mature than she surely was?)
"I can't say no," he began, steadily. "But I suppose it's the engagement. I mean, really, no matter what we both try to say or do-" He was going to continue, but she grabbed his gesticulating hand in its nervousness, clasping it tightly, her fingers folding within his.
"No, no, no," she repeated. "It's not that at all." After a pause. "Not if you still want me."
"I do, of course," he said, swallowing hard. He could not help but add the question, like a tongue prodding a sore tooth, "Will you sleep with-them?"
Her eyes widened. "Not if you don't want me to, Frank."
He couldn't imagine, though, how a girl with her drives could brake at the last moment; she found it difficult enough to stop from filling herself with his cock, even though it would always be him who moved away, who kept from penetration by a quick motion of the hips. How would it be when these other men-or boys her own age, less scrupulous than other men his own age or older, he was sure-how would it be when they implored her to let them continue?
He said nothing. He thought of Emily, now a shy teenager behind a soft drink in a Sausalito restaurant, thought of her naked and sweaty with young healthy passion, and of the other body tangled with hers-almost into hers-was male and-
And what? His eyelids flickered closed, and he could not make out any distinguishing features. There was a shadowy darkness, that's all. Someone was making love to her, some other hands were taking the folds of her cunt and pulling at the labia, stroking the beaded clit.
The shocking thing was that he found himself excited, felt the tingle inside his denims. This was what panicked him most; perhaps Karen Vogel would help him to understand, but just now he felt out of control.
"Would you like to go back to my place now? Would your parents mind you staying out?" It was Saturday lunch.
"No-they're going out later this afternoon, anyway." She was smiling now.
He did not know what he would do with her. He was excited sexually as he had not been in months, not by her or any other woman. Was it only because of the possibility that the virginity he had so long cherished was in such danger? Perhaps he would-perhaps this afternoon....
No. He wouldn't. He couldn't. With a sick feeling he knew that he would let her go to someone else, let someone else have that prize, before he dared to take it.
Still, he wanted to caress her, as though she were a precious thing that would soon be gone. He wanted to memorize every moment of contact.
For two weeks Frank scrupulously refrained from mentioning the talk they'd had. He wondered if Emily were provoking him when, one weeknight (she saved her weekends for him), she said something about having "made plans"-the embarrassed tone indicating that it was another man. He asked no more.
"How do you feel about it?" Dr. Vogel asked predictably. She looked especially summery in a frock through which he could see the sheerest of gauzy bras.
"I don't know," he answered, just as predictably. "I suppose I'm jealous."
"But turned on, as well," she said-for he had confessed to that early on. "Nothing really unusual," Karen Vogel had counseled. "Jealousy can be a great turn-on. You've only managed to protect yourself against it this far because you've been going out with young girls who see you as the great love of their lives, and who don't have much in the way of competition, except boys their own age."
He had taken to masturbating, thinking of Emily with the shadowy stranger his brain had conjured up the first time she had mentioned dating other men. So far, she promised him, she had not actually gone to bed with any of them. And, literal as any girl her age, he knew she meant "gone to bed" as well as "not fucked." No doubt, he thought, resentfully, this did not preclude use of a couch. After all, what had he and the young girl not got up to in the back seat of his car?
Karen Vogel seemed to be encouraging his jealousy. She thought it healthy. "It puts Emily back on a footing with other girls. And off that pedestal you've been keeping her on." This encouraged him when he decided to ask Emily more about the man or men she was "seeing," to use the euphemism that had crept into her vocabulary.
They had gone to a film, and were now in a Mexican restaurant off Van Ness.
"What've you been up to, then?" he asked after the waitress had gone off with their order.
Emily looked surprised. "What do you mean?"
His tone was indulgent, even parental and joking.
"I mean, these other guys you're seeing."
"Only two," she pouted.
"Only," he smiled, and hoped she would not see his smile as a sneer.
"One of them is a student at San Francisco State, majoring in English. And the other-I've just gone out with him once-is a teacher I used to have at school."
"A teacher?" Frank felt outraged: a teacher seducing a student was taking unfair advantage of prestige and power over the impressionable. like-he suddenly made the connection, which itself, seemed odd-Mrs. Goderson.
"Mr. Tanner. He's not my teacher anymore. He quit the school system last year. He was my teacher when I was in the tenth grade."
"How did you meet him again?" Frank felt his throat fill with nervousness that he feared would make his voice rise and grow thin.
"At a party with Ted. Ted's the student at San Francisco State. It was a coincidence, you see." She seemed as nervous to defend herself against attack as Frank was unnerved.
Trying to cover his titillation-yes, it was there, just as Dr. Vogel had said when she told him that "jealousy was the ultimate aphrodisiac"-and his own jitters, he asked, lightly, "Do you still call him Mr. Tanner?"
"Of course not," she laughed, just as embarrassed. "Well," she blushed, "sometimes I do." Both of them laughed, and she added, putting a brake to his relieved good humor-as if the two of them were in conspiracy against the other men-"most of the time I call him John."
"John," Frank repeated the name without emphasis, without apparent emotion.
"Are you attracted to him?" For the moment he forgot the (inevitably bearded?) undergraduate Ted; he sensed in the father-figure of John Tanner the real threat.
"Well, a little," she said after hesitation that made the blood rush to her face. Her eyes were averted; cautiously they looked into his. "Does that make you angry, Frank?"
He shook his head casually, without conviction. Well, it didn't make him angry, exactly. In fact, his own cock had gone stiff as he thought of Emily's breasts being taken in hand by other hands. Her experience had been, she said, so limited before. Suddenly her sexuality-a natural sexuality, there by instinct from the first time they had kissed and she had let him put his tentative hand on her breast-that sexuality seemed to be exploding, flowering before two other men. Frank felt a little sadness: surely he could no longer be as important to her. He had said as much, and been told by Emily that that was nonsense.
"Being fond of someone that way isn't like, well, an allowance, with only so much to spend." The homily was perfectly reasonable, he supposed, but it irritated him nonetheless.
They were almost silent as they went through the several courses of the meal. Emily looked guiltily at him from time to time, and at the end of it took his hand under the table and led it to her naked thigh-on warm evenings like this, she wore no stockings. He could not help but press anxiously at the tight muscular flesh, and feel the heat beyond his fingertips.
"Can we go back to your place?" she said, very shy all of a sudden. She seemed to want to "make it up to him."
She was very good at that. And his cock was throbbing.
"Sure," he said softly, trying not to betray his eagerness.
"Give way to the jealousy," Dr. Vogel had said. "Let it all in. It may surprise you." And now, as the two undressed each other in the bathroom while the tub filled with water, Frank made a deliberate decision to "go with the feeling"-another bit of Dr. Vogel's therapeutic jargon.
"Tell me about them."
"Who?" she said with innocence as deliberate as it was forced.
"Ted and John." He added, to make sure she knew he knew. "You knew. Why did you ask?"
"I told you about them." She turned. "The tub's full enough, don't you think? With both of us in it, you don't want it to get on the tiles, do you?"
He shook his head to the question and smiled at her tactics of evasion. He looked at her nude body in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. On a body any older or less silky-smooth than hers, such light would be harsh, would illuminate age. Here it seemed only to shine on a dewy freshness. . .
He wondered what Ted and John had thought of that dewy freshness-how much they had tasted of it.
"Have you been naked with them?" he asked.
There was a pause, a pause long enough to tell him the answer to his question before Emily spoke the word. "Yes," she said, swallowing. "Twice with Ted. And then the first time with John." She added, as if it were an extenuating circumstance, "I always had a crush on him when he was my history teacher in the tenth grade."
"Oh," Frank replied, offhand, before returning to the theme. "I suppose you've let them touch you." To show her where he meant he put his own open hand to her hairy triangle. The air hissed in through her half-open mouth. She closed her eyes and her spine arched slightly back to push the wool closer into his palm. The very skin of the outer twat seemed to throb against his fingers.
"But it's not like it is with you, Frank," she said, having to take small half-breaths between the excited words, answering the question by admitting that there were grounds for comparison.
"Have they gone down on you?"
Her eyes opened wide. She nodded wordlessly. He asked her, almost incredulously, "Both of them?" and she confessed with another nod.
There seemed nothing more to say. He was suddenly embarrassed by his erection; he wondered if Emily was making the connection between his hard-on and this "sex-talk." Certainly she had noticed the erection, and the flat of her hand rolled against the shaft, pushing it down toward the space between his legs. Her forefinger seemed to roll, independent of the switching of her wrist, and press down on the glans. In the next moment he had to catch his breath as she pulled the foreskin taut from the head.
Emily was kneeling. "The tiles are cold," he said dumbly, but her eyes were already fastened on the dome-like head of the prick. Her sigh as her kneecaps touched the floor-her soles pointing toward the sink-was barely audible. The two hands folded over the cock like the fluttering wings of a bird. Her touch was tender, not yet really sexual. She cocked her head and took a playful bite out of his thigh. The side of the poker was held by one hand to her cheek, and he could feel the high cheekbone against it as she pressed him closer.
"I'll turn off the water," he said, trying to move but not really wanting to. She misunderstood and looked up, slightly hurt. She let go of the cock, and it sprang back to its natural angle. He moved unsteadily, conscious of the sweet fire in his stomach. He bent over and switched off the tap. He put one foot into the tub and eased down slightly. His eyes focused on the parted legs still on tile, and the bush of sex between them. The lips seemed to dangle limp within the knit of hair, and he wondered if "Ted" or "John" had stretched it wider than he had dared to, that tender orifice..."Come," he said.
Emily looked uncertain. "You're not mad, are you? You seem to be mad at me all the time-"
He cut her off, trying to smile bravely as he did. "Because I'm interested in what they, er, do to you? Maybe I'm, you know, turned on by-by other men taking pleasure in your body."
She looked puzzled-but interested. She rose gracefully off the floor and hesitated before getting into the bath beside Frank. She was looking at his frozen cock. "Do you really want me to talk-about them?"
Frank nodded in a manner he hoped was casually sober, even sage, not wanting to betray his anxiety-and his excitement. Emily's ankle was touching the water, and then half her lower limb was submerged in it. He splashed her with the water, a few droplets scattered on her chest-one on the swollen left tit-and she giggled.
He helped her balance herself as she sat down beside him; the tub was too small for the two of them-which was precisely why Emily had suggested it, he knew. He was always amazed at her sexual imagination; and jealous of it, too; the more since she had started, no doubt, to share it with other men.
He was, after all, so single-minded in his pursuit of sex, knowing what he wanted and needed: innocence. While she-Emily-would try anything.
But would she try it with anyone!
Her body slouched beside him; both were coiled in the embryonic position, their knees touching the other side of the enamel tub, not lengthwise because that would be too much like a bed-and besides, there would be the awkwardness of the faucet.
Emily's breasts floated just above the water. Frank's wet hand massaged her back, pushing the nipples just under the surface, distorting the size of the areolas.
Emily's hand had already swirled below, twisting from between her spread legs under her thigh and his. She was tickling his hanging juice-bag with her fingers, separating the almond-shaped testes as she prodded the hidden base of the long phallic staff. Immersed in the lukewarm water, his cock felt hot by comparison. She was pulling hard on the scrotum, making him wish she would move higher, to the cock itself, and yank the covering skin so that he could feel the friction of it against his glans, which seemed inflamed; he wondered if the water could douse the heat.
He saw the hairs covering the cunt lips shoot out in the water like red-tinted seaweed and he pushed his hand down against the water in a vain effort to cover them. But even when the cupped palm managed to obscure the lips themselves, his hands felt the water-logged weeds as they wriggled from under his hand. Emily's legs jammed together and she pushed the small of her back into the tub's curve.
"Hmmm," she groaned, breathing in deeply. "Did you really mean that, though?" she asked, holding on before she could really relax, really absorb the contact of his hand on her crotch in the bathwater. Her own fingers relaxed around his erection, even though his hips bucked forward to make her stretch the skin and expose the glans to the lukewarm waves.
"Mean what about what?" Frank asked in a distracted tone of voice.
"About what I did with, you know, the others..." Her voice trailed off. Frank's eyes opened; he'd been lost in the small ocean of the bath, feeling his fingertips press her pubic wool back against the fragile bonework around the vaginal cavity.
"Will you tell me?" He added, "If you want to, of course."
Her hand went tighter round the pole; the touch of the fingertips as they pressed the veins that spiraled round just under the tanned skin was a tentative one, as if she were testing his reactions. He could feel the blood try to move through against the pressure of her strengthening little girl's grip.
"It makes you excited, doesn't it?"
"Nothing wrong with that, is there?" He tried to sound casual. But he didn't feel it. At the end of the question he had to breathe in deeply; his heart beating madly.
"Do you want to know about Ted or John?"
Both, eventually, Frank thought. "Tell me about John first." John was another "older man," and he identified with his designs upon Emily. He could feel enough like John Tanner, her former history teacher, to put himself in his place, yet different enough to be turned on by the fact that Emily had been "had"-or almost had-by another man.
"He's doing his master's degree nights at San Francisco State. That's how he was at the same party with Ted. He asked me for my phone number, and then we went out to the beach-last Sunday."
That's right-Sunday. One of the days Emily had "made plans," Frank thought.
"Did you do it with him?"
"I didn't make love to him, if that's what you mean." Her body had grown still in the water. Her clenched fist had rested at the base of his cock-shaft, making his scrotum bulge underwater. She was looking straight ahead, to the bathroom door, not at Frank, as though she were embarrassed.
"What did you let him do?"
"We went to that cliff below that restaurant." She stopped, inhaled, began again. "And we started to kiss...He put his hand against me-" Frank wondered if she knew her back was arched as she spoke, and she was forcing her breasts straight out as if to demonstrate. "I was wearing this shirt that buttoned down the front.
"I didn't make him stop. In fact-" she blushed as she confessed-"I liked it. I liked the way he kissed." Perhaps involuntarily, her own tongue wet her upper lip. Frank took her hand and made her stroke the blood-pounding cock with the inside of her slippery hand. The water passed in concentric circles as she rolled the fist up and down. Frank aimed his cock out the other end of the clinging fingers.
"Tighter," he said', half-gasping. "Make it tighter." She did. He could feel the tips fingerprint themselves into the cock. The skin was pulled back from the glans, which felt the ripples of water. "Then what?" As he asked, he looked down at her cunt and saw the puckered lips below the soggy hair. His left hand found the clitoris, and with the side of his hand he rubbed it back down into the hair and pinkish flesh, his fingertips touching the inner hollows of her thighs.
"Well, his hand went into the shirt-the first two buttons I'd left undone." He thought of her like that, with the innocent provocation of a young girl. He could almost see the teacher's hand grasp the breast as his wrist was partially covered in a cheesecloth blouse.
"I opened the blouse, though, as soon as I felt his fingers on my tit." He could picture the man's strained patience. "It was outside my skirt, and so it was easy for him that way. I mean, I was just naked from the waist up, as soon as I unbuttoned the two buttons." The breasts would spill out in their slight divergence.
"Then he bent forward and ran his lip over me, there." Frank's eyes concentrated on her areolas, and his hand moved tentatively toward it. "This one?" She nodded and blushed in the same moment, the same movement. His forefinger and thumb closed around the circle, feeling it go almost diamond-hard. The texture changed, so that there were a hundred granules of erected tissue where a moment before the surface had been smooth and wet with bathwater. The needle-sharp buds seemed to absorb the water.
"Like this?" he asked, and before Emily had a chance to answer, Frank was at the tit with his tongue, lapping up the water, biting its slick and slippery surface, and the girl was moaning, softly....
While his tongue pushed the cap back into the soft pink breastflesh, she continued with effort, at the same time that wet fingers stroked the back of his neck. "His hand took it and squeezed me, very hard," and when she had spoken the word she looked down to see Frank's fingers fold around the bulge beyond his sucking mouth.
"Then he came forward and he kissed me again, on the mouth, biting my lips in between the strokes of his tongue on me." Frank's teeth captured her lower lip, and water dripped between lip and the flash of pink gum; for a moment, breathing hard until he let her go, she did not speak or seem to want to, letting him bite and kiss her, kissing him in return with an anxious seeking tongue.
"His hand went lower, between my legs." Frank cast his eyes down, and her legs were closing together, obscuring most of the pussy-hair, as if the very thighs were remembering the contact of his touch. "I was wearing those faded denims, the ones that are real tight, you know, down there." Frank took a deep breath; his slit felt like fire as some hot semen leaked out into the water. He drove himself up against Emily's palm, and, responding to the movement, she twisted the skin around the glans as if to wrap the head in gnarled foreskin.
"Through the clothes?" Frank asked, trying to keep the excitement from breaking his settled voice.
"At first," she replied simply. "I-" she hesitated, and Frank knew that now her own body had taken over, her own needs-and that she would be shy about telling him, Frank. "They're the ones that zip down the front-remember?"
Frank remembered with gratitude the dozens of times he had been so easily able to get at the beaver by yanking at the metal strip. He nodded, and as he did he realized that the back of his neck had begun to pour sweat in the heat he felt.
"So I held his wrist, and for a moment he thought I was trying to stop him, you know, from going any further, but then, when I pushed up so that I could feel his hand against me, his palm, well, then he pulled open the button at the top and then ran the zipper down. I could feel his knuckles against my hole, and they kind of got caught in the cleft. I held my legs tight together around his hand, keeping him there.
"We were in that cove, and I just laid back, trying to find a space without too many pebbles, because I was really hot, and I wanted him to-" again she hesitated.
"Go on," Frank insisted, catching.
"To finger me." After a pause, "Like you do." It seemed a plea, and Frank's index digit easily parted her seam. A trickle of water moved inside with his fingers, and he could see the air-bubbles move out of the hole itself. The tissue seemed to cling more tightly to the single finger than it would have out of water; the suction seemed to hold him more firmly.
"You were on your back?" She nodded. "And he was on top of you?"
"Yes." She bit on her lip, he found appealing the very shyness of the sexual confession-it seemed so much like her, so much "in character."
"Go faster," he said, rubbing his backside against the bottom curve of the bathtub, feeling the semen pump through the veins, feeling the tingle wanting to be whipped through the dick's length.
Emily could tell how much she was turning him on, and he saw a smile play briefly on her lips: suddenly she seemed perversely eager to carry on the story. "When he found that the one finger could get inside me easily, he put in his other long finger, too, and then he put his thumb on top, like this." She took his thumb and rolled it underwater to the surface of the clit. He could feel the tiny sex-organ bulge up under the pressure, and then Emily shoved up against both fingers and thumb, pressing her stomach against his lower palm and forcing a wave to roll across the bathtub.
"All the time he was kissing me, and then I grabbed his cock in my hands." Her hand stopped briefly its rocking rhythm of palm against his shaft.
"Why did you stop?" Frank whispered breathily.
Emily shook her head. "I don't know." She looked worried again, as though the elation and liberation of telling him of her other lover had caused a flicker of alarm to pass through her.
"Please, Em," he said, out of breath. "I can feel myself starting to come if you'll just keep on." She nodded, and her chin almost touched her collarbone as she resumed the pressure. "Can't you feel me?" he asked, and she nodded again.
"You really are hot, aren't you."
"Yes."
His eagerness seemed to spur her on; the worried look was replaced by a smile of satisfaction, as if she were proud to have not only his cock but his pleasure in her hand. The strokes were faster now. He jammed his thumb against her clit, wanting to make her come with him. His fingers curled back under the arch of her pelvis so that the tips could press into the rounded curves of the cheeks. He smashed the flesh against the tail-bones, separating the cheeks, raising Emily-floating her in the water. The lips of the cunt seemed looser now that the fingers had slipped out, and the thumb had moved from the clit to fill the gap itself.
"Did he make you come?" Emily nodded, very slowly, at the same time that she drove her thumb hard into the flattened side of the prick's base. Her forefinger curled around the curve and she prodded it, squeezing the juice out as her hand swished through the water. "With his hand?" Frank asked breathlessly, and he heard her "Yes" through the sound of his own quick deep breathing.
He thought of Emily, sprawled on the beach sand, her ass pumping against the pebbles of the cove, her legs drawn up at the knees as the older man fingered her, the digits disappearing inside her hair-pie stroke after quickening stroke. His own fingertips curled inside the cunt as the inside of the bones lingered at the clit. He could feel her heat diffuse through the water. His strokes were wrenching, and he seemed to be pulling her body up by his grip on her pussy. His chest was splashed with bathwater as her stomach jammed forward in his hand.
His own mind was filled with the image of another man's fingers in her willing insides, her vaginal grease coating the history teacher's hand while her neck snapped with each new stroke, and the walls dilated, then as now, with the spasms of orgasm....
The sperm streamed out into the water like liquid smoke, rising slowly to the surface like white scum. As she yanked the skin covering the shaft, some of the sticky cream squirted directly into Emily's hand, which twisted around the board, stroking it back into him, pressing the last come into the slit itself, as if to bottle him up for a few more strokes of climactic release.
When she felt him start to lose momentum, Emily's hand squeezed even tighter round the dick-as if she were holding on to it for the little support available in the bath. The water began to cascade over the tub's edge as she came; in the last shock of orgasm, her legs shot out over the enamels and stiffened at the knees. She slipped, her eyes closing, deeper into the water, only her head above its surface, as Frank, exhausted, turned his wrist and stretched the walls as he pushed up and through her.
His fingers felt the mixture of the sticky coating of her interior and the water that oozed in and out of the cunt in the last wild strokes of orgasm. The hole opened around the inserted bones, then in the next moment shut and the muscles closed down more tightly than ever before, squeezing them to feel their stiffness as the quim shuddered with climax.
His fingers moved slowly over the beaver in the aftermath. His free hand cupped water and brought it to her face to douse the sweat beaded there. Her lips puckered gratefully to kiss the water as it rolled down her cheeks. She turned to him. "You're all sweaty, too." Her hand released his cock and more of the white-hot cream floated up. The hand was still coated with it when she brought it from the water and rubbed his chest with it. The heat was soothing, like a vapor rub.
She crossed his lower lip gently with her tongue, then washed the upper lip before entering his mouth aggressively, squirming as frantically as though she were even now fighting for the release of orgasm. His fingers stroked the back of her long neck, teasing the folds of flesh, rubbing thumb against the line toward her shoulder.
"You really liked that, didn't you?" she asked. "Me telling you about John."
"Yes," he assented with difficulty. His energy now spent, he felt slightly embarrassed. Still, below the embarrassment there was still the faint blueprint of titillation; those thoughts, he knew, would excite him other times, when he was alone and thinking of Emily. It would somehow be more exciting to think of her under another man's body than his own-at least some of the time. He could remember his own times with Emily; how much more exciting it was to imagine her with a stranger. . .
"Will you rub me down?" Before she had heard the answer to the question, the girlish body was struggling out of the water. Her ass separated at the crack while Emily bent over and clasped the edge of the tub. Frank's hand, still hot with her quim, "sliced" the buttocks by ramming the side of his hand up against her anus. For a moment she stayed there, leaning on the side of the bath, seemingly pushing her ass toward him. She squeezed the cheeks together and he tugged a single wet finger over the ring of flesh. Emily gasped and stood up, trickles of water falling from her flopping breasts.
Frank still sat down in the tub from which he had pulled the plug; the water level subsided around him. He leaned forward and rubbed the moisture back into her legs, which felt soft with the slightest of hair down below the knees. His thumb crossed over the ankle bones and Emily shivered, dripping water on him.
"You said you were going to dry me off," she said, stepping out and reaching for his largest bath towel. She handed it to him as he rose. He balanced it on her shoulders, then rolled his palms through it up against her back, from the top of the spine to its base and then to her buttocks, pushing them together. As he moved lower, the dampened terry cloth peeled off Emily onto the backs of his hands. He squeezed her cheeks even harder, until she yelped with the pressure on her ass, turning toward him and slithering out of his grasp. The towel fell back on his hands and separated them from her belly and crotch as she faced him.
She waited, her wet breasts almost touching his chest.
Frank leaned forward and brought two layers of the towel over the mounds, rubbing hardest against the areolas capping the mounds. Emily's eyes shuttered closed and her tongue crept from her mouth, moistening her lower lip. The towel hung snake-like from Frank's hand, its tail folding nicely into the girl's gash. Her thighs closed and held it over the hole itself, obscuring the pink-purple of the recently sated clit.
His right hand holding the wet towel to her breasts, fondling the tits through the damp soft barrier, he pushed the corner into the soft furrowed cunt. The very end moved easily inside, "catching" on the walls of the cavity. The surprise of the texture made Emily gasp. "Does it hurt?" Frank asked after the sound escaped her throat, but she shook her head, tossing the red curls around her ears, moving forward to kiss his mouth. As she did, the finger, covered in the towel, forced itself even deeper into her, until it was stuck to the second knuckle-the penetration as deep as two fingers when the bone was covered with the thick towel.
"I wasn't wet in there," she smiled teasingly. "That is, not until you started doing that."
Frank tried to feel the softness of the inner quim as he shoved in and moved the finger slightly back, pushing and then pulling back-never so far as the original penetration. But, even as the vagina soaked the end of the towel with woman-damp, he felt the cloth and not her inner flesh.
As if for balance, Emily took his cock and rolled the surface of her forefinger over the glans, while the tips of her fingers stretched lower. The cock was limp now, but the clawing evoked the first stirrings of renewal.
She pushed herself forward on the extended finger, covered by the twat-stained towel. He saw the clit bob above the aperture as she shoved herself on to him. The pelvis snapped forward and the buttocks shivered as she almost moved off them-before, even more quickly, slamming straight ahead.
As if she were denying herself a hunger, she stepped back, extending her arm behind her to support her weight on the sink. The gap looked moist; the skin of the rest of Emily's body was dry.
"Why don't we got to bed?"
"I'm not ready. Not just yet." His cock ached still with the last emission; it would be another hour at least, he figured.
"I have an idea," she said. "What?"
"Come inside and I'll show you."
Frank didn't move. "What?" he asked again, curious.
"Something Ted-likes to do."
This time, he knew, she was playing it quite consciously for his titillation, having seen the way it could enrage his cock the time before. The blood, starting to flow through and thicken the phallus, was obedient, and the prick ached. The only way it could be soothed, he was sure, would be if Em's deft fingers stroked it, muffled the fatigue. But instead she merely looked down at the tool as it started to grow in muscular twinges, smiled, and turned, her rounded ass bouncing on the long stems of her perfectly shaped legs.
She lay on the bed, quite naked, her legs drawn up, her palms resting on her knees. Her crotch was almost hidden but for the shock of reddish hair that covered it. The breasts seemed to quiver lazily as she inhaled deeply.
She patted the bed, making a space for him as she moved over. The legs stretched out, and suddenly the lips looked glossy. "Lie down beside me," she said, but instead he kneeled by her side of the bed, reaching for the girl's breast and starting to knead the tit. Tenderly but with no hint of sex, Emily's lips scraped his forehead.
"No. Here-beside me," she insisted, turning away. Frank rose and walked to the other side. "On your back." He wondered if she were going to go down on him.
"What about Ted?"
"It was actually my idea," she said lightly, as if confessing to an unimportant sin. "I wanted to see him do it to himself." She turned on her side to face Frank. He wondered if she could see his eyes widening.
"You want me to--? " He left the question unfinished, dangling in the silent air of the bedroom. She nodded, smiling.
"I'll do it for you, too. Not with my hand-I mean, I'll let you watch me."
He had thought of Emily masturbating; somehow, given her intense sexuality, it seemed silly to think she had not tried. But this was different, this boasting certainty. He blushed and felt the heat in his cheeks-or was it desire, not embarrassment?
"Do you do it a lot?"
"Not on my own. But when I asked Ted if he would-"
"Why? Why did you ask him?"
"Because I wouldn't let him inside of me. He kept complaining, and he said he couldn't come in my mouth, or if I gave him a hand-job. So that gave me the idea, and I asked him if he would. He was shy at first, but then, when I said I'd do it with him, he was excited."
So, Frank realized, was he.
"You want to watch me?" he asked, aware his voice was a bit timid.
"I'll start," she said, girlishly bold. She was sitting up, her stomach shoved forward into her thighs and her hands wrapped round her legs. The knees were quickly akimbo, and Frank, pushing up on his palm, had a perfect view of her beaver. The lips were fevered pink, juicy next to the dry hair. Emily's forefinger came down and dabbed the clitoris; her wrist pushed back into her stomach and she jammed the fingertip hard into the filament. Her eyes closed and he heard a deep purr from inside her throat. The clit seemed to bulge out under the finger, which she rested there for several moments. He moved his own hand to graze the back of her fingers, but Emily shook her head, starting to tease the wrinkle of flesh away from the skin on which it rested. The forefinger stretched and she rolled the button to one side, then the other. Her other hand curled inside the angle of her spread legs, and the fingertips dug deep into the soft hollow with her short well-bitten nails. The other hand cupped the whole pubic bush, then twisted over the clitoral ridge before the index finger poked inside the box itself, dampening it with the coat of fluid lining her vaginal tissue.
Emily hunched her shoulders now, and brought her elbows tight in to her sides. Her ass rubbed against the sheet. She breathed in deeply, looked at Frank with eyes slightly dazed, and eased herself back. Her hand stayed at the labia, dwelling on the clit, pressing it into the fur, but no longer rolling it.
"Now, .yon...You do it, okay? So I can watch?"
As if in a dream, Frank nodded. He lay flat beside her,, his body more tense, stiffer than before, when, leaning on his elbow, she began her first fingerings of the delicate tissue.
He was aware of being watched. The cock, flaccid when she started, was now heavy, almost erect on its own. Once inside his folded fingers, the penis started to twitch with growth. He tightened and felt his sweaty palm press down on the pulsing blood of the blue veins that spiraled the tube-like shaft. In the corner of his vision there was Emily, her small hand still over her cunt-but no longer fingering herself, the contact absentminded.
He felt self-conscious as he pulled the foreskin down, revealing the purplish line of the glans. The slit seemed to pucker open, like an infinitesimal valley, and the semen seeped out, just covering it with melted frost. He held the skin of the phallus down, his hand resting on the pubic curls at the base of the rod.
"Go on," Emily whispered impatiently.
The prick was not quite rigid, and he was vaguely embarrassed. His fingernails dug, punishingly, into the skin as he brought it up past the glans and over the lower part of the rounded dome. He yanked the skin down yet more violently on the next stroke. He could feel the stiffening in his hand. His pounding fist dislodged the balls in their sac on the next downward stroke.
He turned to Emily, his eyes flashing from her eager and interested young face to the soft wiry tangle between her legs, where her hand rested, now relaxed, fingers spread. "You said you'd do it," he said, breathing hard, feeling shy.
The girl turned over on her back-she had leaned forward, resting her weight on her elbow, as Frank started to play with himself. Now her heels turned on the bed, and the toes pointed out. Her lower leg touched Frank's, and her eyes closed.
"I'm thinking about you, Frank," she said, "thinking about you doing it, too."
He realized she sensed his stillness on the bed. Again, his eyes on her torso, he started to pump his cock, rolling the skin up and down over the organ, now stiffly erect. The pressure of his buttocks on the bed as he moved rocked Emily's gentler weight, as though she were being carried on the crest of a wave.
He felt his body shiver involuntarily; the glow was running through the cock. He looked at Emily, whose pelvis seemed to push up off the bed-her cheeks leaving the sheets in steadily pumping rotations-and thought of someone else, this Ted, watching her....
He had seen her, Ted had, naked and vulnerable, making herself come, her whole body released to her hand, the tension flowing out while Ted was beside her. . .
Ted, who, like Frank now, was masturbating himself. Emily's head turned as her fingering of the puffy labia continued more frenetically. She was pulling the soggy limp tissue, teasing it, almost twisting it, then bringing her knuckle hard down on the rising clit.
"Yes," she groaned aloud, spurring Frank to squeeze himself harder. He did, and the veins rose up under his fingertips. The come, moving through the cock, welling up with a burning sensation below the slit, it seemed, was ticklish inside him. Yet Frank had no desire to quicken the pace, at least not until Emily herself showed signs of coming.
She had watched Ted "do it to himself," she had said. Suddenly and with a jealous pang he wondered whether she had been more excited by Ted or by him. His left hand took hold of the cock while his right touched her belly, carrying with it on its fingertips the heat from his own joint, the thin skin of sweat.
Emily's small pout of a belly shivered to the hot touch, as though electrically shocked. For a moment Frank thought she would push him away as before, but, almost oblivious, she continued to press her palm down against the cunt-tissue. The index finger smashed uselessly against the sheet between her sculpted legs, while the thumb moved ever more wildly over the inflated clitoris. Ted had watched her like this-Frank thought-Ted! Out of control, Emily's head pushed back against the bed, her neck stretched swan-like, chin prominent. She seemed to be swallowing hard, her nostrils flaring with the intake of air.
Her small body jumped against the mattress while his own hand jiggled more purposefully on the cock's trunk. He was pushing the cock to an angle, feeling the pleasure shoot down from the head, fill his whole groin with sensation. He knew she was about to come, could see it in the stiffness of the brown areolas, the way her elbows pushed into the bed, the way her spine arched and legs spread even wider, scissor-like....
At last he allowed himself to close his eyes, this last image engraved, the memory made even more vivid by the convulsive shaking of her flesh next to his as she came off onto her own fingers, sighing loudly, moaning, her left hand flailing out, her finger clawing his thigh as he, too, came, giving off the sex-foam, drenching her hand with the sweet stickiness. His eyes opened and he saw her small hand there, inches from his cock. His own arm brushed hers as, faster and faster, he drained the last of the juice from his stiffness and, in the aftermath, watched her body relax.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I don't seem to be getting anywhere," Frank told Karen Vogel, who clucked her tongue sympathetically.
"A certain amount of what we call 'therapy' sometimes goes on outside the office, with people other than the therapist: in your experiences. The best a therapist can do is help you get a better view of what happens in these circumstances."
He was impatient. He'd told his therapist about the way Emily had aroused him with mention of her other "Lovers." She seemed to find this quite "natural;" in the light of day, however, he was disgusted with himself.
"Perhaps I should talk to Emily," she said softly-sounding so matter-of-fact he almost didn't hear, and asked her to repeat herself. When she did, he tried to laugh, but the sound was hollow. His lips tightened in a forced smile.
"But that would mean I'd have to tell her."
"Don't you think she probably knows already?"
"How could she?" He was amazed at the suggestion. One thing he did know-even before therapy had begun-indeed, the reason for starting it at all-was that he suffered from a kink. And kinks-no matter how sexual she was, for her age-were most definitely out of Emily's sphere. Protesting, he said as much.
"You don't think she found it odd that you became aroused when she told you about the others?"
There was no answer to that. He shook his head.
"What do you think? You yourself said it couldn't go on like this."
"No. Not for much longer, no." He breathed in a lungful of poisonous smoke, his latest nervous habit. He was becoming more nervous; it couldn't go on like this.
"What have you got to lose, Frank?"
"Would I need to tell her?" He hoped not.
"Not necessarily." She paused, yet her lips formed an as yet unspoken word; she looked as if she were about to explain something, but hesitated. "The reason you were turned on when she told you about her history teacher and that college boy-that was because it was 'having' her by remote control-"
"But she didn't go to bed with them," he objected.
"Yes. But you knew that had she wanted to, they would have been willing."
"Unlike me," Frank said, feeling the anger at himself as he stubbed out the half-finished cigarette.
"Unlike you," Karen Vogel repeated. "All right, let's think this out. You want-you need-Emily to remain a virgin."
"I suppose that's one way of putting it. I came here for that, yes."
"Well, I'll try to help," she said, deflecting the implied criticism of her as a therapist. She paused, careful to frame the question. "Has Emily ever talked to you about attraction to other women?"
"No. Of course not!" He felt himself blush hotly on Emily's behalf. Dr. Vogel smiled at what-he could tell what she was thinking-she would think of as his naivete.
"Then you don't know what she thinks of female homosexuality." Her voice, Frank thought, betrayed smug self-satisfaction. He was growing angry at her. He felt trapped by that smugness, her power over him and her knowledge of him....
"It's something to think about. Perhaps, if she were to engage in loveplay with another woman-a non-virgin-and you were to have sex with that woman, it would be an indirect way of making love to Emily"
The idea shocked him, and Frank said nothing. But there seemed a vague truth to it. Why should Emily's sexuality stop in any particular direction? The intensity of it, her sense of adventure, had surprised him again and again.
"You want to talk to her?" The therapist nodded. "What exactly did you have in mind?"
"First let me see her alone. Have her come in your place next Tuesday. Maybe I can ease into the subject of your problem. Maybe I can even edge around it.
"And then we'd all three get together for a session."
"When would that be?"
"As soon as possible. It would depend, of course, on how my talk with the girl went. Then I'd want us to meet for dinner-say-at my place. So that the atmosphere wouldn't be so clinical."
He understood what she was getting at. She was offering herself io him! And at the same moment, to the girlfriend she had never seen. She would be the "agent," as it were, taking love from Emily, making love to him.
"Is this really therapy?"
"I'm not an orthodox therapist. I've told you that before." She had.
"Besides," she continued, "you may have heard of the phenomenon of 'transference.' " Of course he had, and nodded. "Well, Frank, it can work both ways, though most therapists are too uptight to admit it.
"You see," she continued in the same stream of words, confirming a suspicion of Frank's that he had been too embarrassed to give words to, "just as a patient can become attracted to his shrink, the shrink can have sexual feelings toward the client as well. . . "
Listening, he gulped for air. He had thought the confessions were all one-way affairs. He had been wrong. Suddenly the whole thing seemed out of control. . .
Yet, if she was willing-he hardly dared think. It seemed wrong, it seemed as though it were taking advantage of Emily. But surely neither of them would ever go through with it if she didn't want to, if she weren't willing. The intensity of sexual excitement was as great as anything he'd felt, as he fantasized the three of them in bed together.
Greater, even, than making love to a virgin....
"She's very nice," Emily said, pecking at a Chinese takeaway meal on the beach at San Francisco. She had taken him there to show him where she and John had been petting. . .
It was the late afternoon of her Tuesday session with Dr. Vogel. Emily had not said much, yet, and Frank was "pumping" her hard. All week he had been thinking of watching her make love to Karen Vogel, the older woman's fuller body stroking hers with those large tits-the little girl-nymphet and the bosomy woman making each other lose control while he watched and touched their meeting bodies.
"What did she say about me?"
"You said you had a problem with sex." Her manner was defensive. It made him sure Karen Vogel had told her everything.
"Not everyone would describe it as a problem."
"No. I'm not saying they would." Her voice was soft, comforting-as though she were the older of the two. Frank felt strangely awkward in this situation, being soothed by Emily. "But Dr. Vogel-I mean Karen-" did she blush? Frank wondered, when she mentioned the therapist's Christian name-"Karen thinks it's not really, well, natural." She looked up at him, challengingly. "I knew something was wrong, Frank." He started to speak, but she saw it as an interruption; clearly she wanted to speak her piece.
"I do want to marry you, Frank. But Karen explained how this would affect the whole course of the marriage. How you might not want me after I'd, er, lost it. My cherry, I mean." Now it was his turn to blush. "And that makes me think we'd be much better off finding out, for sure. Because I do think you love me-"
"Of course I do," he felt himself saying, almost desperately loud above the ocean roar.
" for other reasons besides that I'm-well 'innocent.' Because I'm not, not really. I mean, my body is, I suppose. But that's not the important thing, is it, Frank?"
He said, "No," while realizing that-to him, for some reason, somehow-it was.
"So I think we should try what Dr. Vogel suggested to me-"
"What did she say-what did she suggest?" he asked.
Emily's eyes widened in surprise. "Didn't she tell you? She said she did. She wants us to go to bed together, Frank-the three of us."
They met at Dr. Vogel's house on Jackson Avenue. She explained that she owned the building-a stylish Victorian-but rented out the ground floor. Frank looked around to survey the furnishings his fees had helped buy. He was pleased with her taste-nothing tacky, nothing too aggressively modern.
Karen had tossed a Caesar salad; the main course was to be filet of sole-dessert, a chocolate mousse.
Conversation was curiously stilted, with the older woman asking Emily about her school courses and future plans. Emily, nervously, tried to draw Frank into the conversation.
But he was uncomfortable, with a mixture of fear and impatience. Whatever happened, he was eager for it to be done..."oh, it's not the sole-delicious, really," he assured Karen as she cleaned away the dinner plates with an amused smile. He wasn't in the least hungry.
He looked at Emily, whose eyes followed Karen Vogel into the kitchen, where she could be seen through the opened shutters connecting it with the dining room. There was the whish and rumble of the dishwasher. Emily's tongue swept across her upper lip, and Frank wondered if it were tasting the last of the mousse or anticipating the warmth of the therapist's body.
Was he letting her in for some strange premature degradation? Part of him went on insisting that he might be. The other part insisted, just as strongly, that it was something she saw as "natural," that she was independent enough to object on the basis of her instincts, had she felt the need.
But there was no way to deny that his own excitement derived from something very like the twisted logic of a virgin's lust for another woman, for the fantasy of adult sex without "ruining" the teenager.
Frank felt as guilty as he felt excited.
Karen led them into the bedroom, a large white room with little furniture beyond an enormous water bed in a frame of unvarnished wood. "Why don't you two sit down?" she asked, but there was no place to sit other than a modernistic canvas chair in a corner of the room-the uncolored canvas melting almost invisibly into the walls.
Emily found it quite natural to sit to one side of the water bed's edge. Her buttocks pushed into the "mattress," cresting a wave halfway up the bed, while her thighs touched the frame and her shoes-sandals for this heat-dangled to the white pile of the lush carpet.
Frank stood there woodenly, though the younger girl had taken his hand in an effort to pull him down. Karen smiled indulgently, evidently seeing them for the moment as a "couple." She had opened the large white door of her closet, and was unbuttoning her blouse.
He had been watching her breasts all through the meal. Tantalizingly she had worn no bra, and the, large brown nipples pushed up against the synthetic fabric, quite visible in color and almost in texture. Emily, too, had watched her-he thought with curiosity, but perhaps with something more.
"How do you feel?" Karen asked, addressing herself to Emily, whose hand had, quite unconsciously, gone to the zipped front of her own frock.
"Oh-a little nervous." But, Frank thought, she sounded and looked not at all nervous. Certainly not as nervous as he.
"Am I going to be the only one to undress?" Dr. Vogel asked with a self-deprecatory smile. "I'll feel like an exhibitionist!"
Emily rose, not releasing Frank's hand; indeed, she stroked the back of the hand as if to say, Everything will be all right....
Karen came toward the two of them as they stood. Emily's hand seemed to tug at the end of the zipper. Frank gripped her other hand tightly, to control the building tension. The blonde had released her large bust-so heavy, it seemed, that even as she moved it did not bounce, but only sway gently over her naked midriff.
The nipples seemed to bulge, yet the surface had not erected. The skin color was an even brown until just inches above the tit, and the tan began again below the undersides of the jugs.
. The woman stood before Emily. Frank could smell her perfume and the slightest tinge of body-sweat-the two mingled in a musk. "Why don't you help me with this, dear?" she asked. "I've put on some weight since I bought it."
"Where? I like it."
"I. Magnin's," Karen replied, and Frank was shocked at the way that an erotic adventure could be interrupted by something so mundane as women's chat about clothes. He longed to unclasp his therapist's skirt himself, to press the soft layer of tissue back, through her panties, against her large and broad hipbones.
Emily put her hand to the belt of the skirt, which looked as though it were more decorative than functional, a deep brown suede to complement the beige skirt. She put her hand to the older woman's stomach while pulling on the nail of the belt. Karen breathed in, the large naked breasts rising. She leaned forward and touched Emily's blouse with them. The girl had worn a bra, but the nipples inside the cups stiffened at the contact of naked flesh against the clothing and the underclothing that covered them.
"I'll be the first," Karen said, looking at Frank as well out of the corner of her eye, but focusing on Emily. She had taken the teenager's hand to undo the belt, and now she tangled her fingers between Emily's and led the tips to the center of her stomach, just under the waist of the skirt. Then she let go.
"It buttons down, like this," she said, and while she unclasped the first two, Emily's fingers still touched the cloth below, just above the place where the belly's curve returned inward, to the place between the older blonde's thighs. Now the flaps of the garment separated around Emily's fingertips.
Emily looked at Frank. There was no alarm, but she seemed to be curious as to how he was reacting. Frank held his breath, and Karen paused, breathing out so that the flesh ripped through the skirt against Emily's fingertips. The crowns of the little redhead's nails disappeared in the fabric before the fingers themselves bent at the knuckles and undid the third button, finally revealing the blonde's panties.
Emily giggled-but only blushed when she looked over her shoulder at Frank, whose eyes darted from her to the woman's crotch, and then back again. Karen Vogel looked down at the girl's fingers, the small hand next to the broad arch of her belly. The panties were so low that a few darkish blonde curls escaped the overturned base of the triangle of fabric, and it was these curls Emily now smoothed with the flat surface of her forefinger. The luminous pink fingernails neatly pushed the offending strands back under the pants-while, in contradiction, Karen Vogel's palm pushed down at the side of her waist, revealing the prominent hipbone.
With her other hand, Karen touched the back of Emily's neck and then her shoulder. Turning to Frank, and moving closer still, so that Emily's hand slid stiffly into the pants-her fingers covered by them to the first knuckle-Karen sighed, "She's such a beautiful little thing, isn't she, Frank?"
Emily blushed a crimson that was a pale echo of her hair. Her eyes closed as if that might, ostrich-like, place her somewhere else. But at the same moment there was a kind of preening in her expression, and she did not take her hand from under the elastic waistband of the therapist's bikini bottoms.
Karen pushed forward, gyrating in a bump-and-grind fashion, sighing with pleasure as she moved. Her thumb caressed the inside of Emily's wrist, and Frank saw the shiver that passed through the girl's forearm. Karen leaned forward and Emily's hand opened, the fingers spreading toward the apex of the triangle. Karen shoved her pud forward still more, loving it. The girl's fingers were still stiff, and Emily was looking into Karen's eyes-widened at her little-girl touch-to gauge the older woman's reaction.
Karen's hand touched the first button of the young girl's shirt, and her face turned to Frank. She cocked her head, and he knew what he was meant to do. Emily turned her head toward him as he started midway down, revealing the flesh-colored bra with the first tug. Her hand stayed inside Karen's lacy underwear, now unmoving.
Her tongue crossed and wet her lower lip; then her upper front teeth clamped down on the coral surface, chewing her own flesh as Frank's fingers sifted her left tit through the tip of the bra-cup. Slowly and gently Karen brought her small hand from under the waistband of her own panties, keeping the wrist in her hand long enough to aim the still-dry fingertips at her tanned and naked midriff.
She stood to Emily's side now, facing Frank, on the girl's right. An unspoken agreement was signalled by their glance. Emily remained still, as if she both understood and acquiesced, while they both delicately helped her out of the blouse. Karen was behind her, squeezing the two straps together, making the smaller jugs bulge out into the cups, the nipples stiff and prominent at their tips. Her thumbs rolled over the back of Emily's neck, and the girl shuddered with relaxed pleasure, bringing her short-cropped red hair down on the therapist's knuckles.
Frank was in front of her now, and when Karen smoothed the bra-straps themselves down the shoulders, he collected the now-lifeless empty garment. The fabric he shoved back against the frozen tits just as he saw their deep color. The cloth twisted into the pinpricks of erection, and Emily's eyes shut as Karen, behind her, began to knead the flesh of her back, her thumbs working toward the base of the teenager's spine, pulling at the ass cheeks.
Emily's legs went weak under her dress, and she seemed to fall back toward Karen for support while Frank stripped her of her bra. With Emily's back now naked, Karen's fingers stretched around her waist and pushed into the stomach, while her enormous bosom mashed into Emily's spine.
The dress peeled forward, Emily was naked to the waist, her arms over what had been its puffy sleeves. The flimsy bra had been discarded and now lay at her ankles. He could see the rim of pink cotton panties, modestly on her waist and revealing only her navel. His hands could not resist the sight of the rounded mounds, and his fingers pushed up toward her neck as he jammed them back into her chest, feeling the tits grow hard as nuggets in his now-sweating palms.
His eyes had shut-he had not realized it, thinking he saw Emily and, behind her, Karen-as vividly as when they had been wide-open. But now he felt a light touch of his forearms, and he looked down to see Karen pulling his hands toward her sides, while Emily was sandwiched between the two of them. In the next instant he felt the swollen jugs under his pulsing, grasping fingertips-first the side, leading up to the sweet swelter of her underarms, shaven clean but sweating now. Then, carrying the perspiration back across the slope of her breasts, he was touching the nipples themselves, tweaking the half-dollar-size areolas between thumb and forefinger, then rubbing the younger girl's back with their needle-sharp points of erection.
Emily seemed to know what was happening; her eyes shut, her body the sole interpreter of tactile signals. Her own hands had moved toward Frank's crotch, and she was unzipping him expertly, taking the frustrated cock from its moorings, setting it free and fondling it with her palms before pulling on the foreskin and rolling the flat of her thumb over the line of the glans. The anxious fingers slipped down to the scrotum and the wriggling balls, and she pulled at the skin while her thumb moved back to stroke the underside at the shaft's base.
Behind her Karen had drilled her own stomach into Emily's tight ass, and Frank was feeling for the elastic that fastened them so tightly to her body. His fingers ran down the silky leg to the thigh, then moved inward to poke the hollows not covered by the synthetic lace, while his wrists jammed the younger girl's buttock-muscles.
The fingernails pushed at the warm flesh, and he felt the shift of the puffy labia inside, at the vee of the crotch. In the next moment Karen shoved her stomach forward hard against Emily's ass, covering his hand in converging flesh. At the same time, his loosened prick was brought up against Em's stomach, as she in turn surged toward him under Karen's pressure. He remained where he was, while Emily's hands caressed him, starting lovingly at the shoulders and pulling then at the strong flat muscles of his back. All the while her tongue stroked his, its tip brushing the insides of his lips.
Karen kneeled behind Emily. The girl was still, her muscles stiff as she felt the therapist caress her while peeling off the panties and helping her step from the dress at her ankles. The woman's fingertips stopped just inside the fold under her knee. Emily shuddered-Frank thought with pleasure-almost swooning and losing her balance.
The snatch with its auburn specks he had seen hundreds of times, while holding it under his prodding tongue, flicking it with his thumb, pressing it back into the soft lip-flesh and the delicate pink covering over the bone. But now with another woman's fingers caressing it, it looked different-its gap seemed to crave the touch, and Emily's moisture had already seeped from the hole. The novelty of the caress excited Frank, and he was not sure whether it was seeing Karen making the lesbian advances, or Emily receiving them, that turned him on more.
Karen's eyes met his, holding the glance while her finger stayed immobile against the love-bud. One breast touched the back of Emily's legs, the other hung free, like ripe fruit, exposed to Frank's touch if only he would kneel down, as now he did, to take the tit in his hand. The fingers opened wide to hold as much of the breast within the hand as he could, but its soft muscle seemed as elusive BOW as sand though, under the grasping fingers, Karen jammed her own hand to the side, collaborating with him in the loveplay. Frank looked self-consciously at Emily, who looked not at all jealous, but only curious at the sight of her lover's fingers rubbing another woman's boob. His forearm brushed against her own naked leg, and now she bent forward to move her fingers through his scalp.
His left hand reached for the girl's young cunt, and folded into Karen's hand as they teased the clitoris away from the fur. While the woman played with the bead, sifting it between her fingers, Frank's index digit shot up inside the cove, separating one hot wall from another. A spasm opened the slick walls; then another contracted so tightly around the bone that the twat pulled like gravity, and he left it within the seam. The gentle release that followed was stalled by the way Emily, leaning forward, her hand on his shoulder for balance, closed her thighs around his wrist. Karen's wrist touched the girl's hipbone and the fingers tweaked the fraction of sex-tissue from the side.
Frank moved his mouth to the tip of the therapist's heavy breast. The tongue slid over the deep brown, feeling the warmth before the texture stiffened and changed. His teeth gathered the whole of the areola between them, and his jaw shifted as he rolled it, biting down hard. Karen took the breast from below and aimed the tit deeper down the tongue, trying to make him suck on more of her.
Frank's hand went to the angle opened by her crouching, and he touched the line of cunt-tissue through the sheer panties, rubbing it forcefully and feeling the moisture seep through when the fingertip slipped below to the yielding lips of the hair-pie itself. The index curled under the inside of the tiny garment and in the next moment came in contact with its hot moisture. It folded at the knuckle and moved without difficulty into the vagina. He could, as he bit down gently on the tit, smell the tart perfume that now threatened to soak the panties. His thumb, outside the crotch of the garment, pushed the lace into the clit while he rammed his finger straight up as far as it would go into the hole. His stomach was on fire, and he was relieved when Emily moved down on Karen's extended hand, and the girl took hold of his prick again, squeezing it in the center of her palm, while the thumb rolled over the glans.
The three were a cluster of flesh, each now kneeling. Karen continued to stroke Emily's pud, while the girl pulled the covering skin of Frank's penis up and down the shaft, and he had one hand on Emily's beaver, the other on and in Karen's.
The stiff finger jammed forward and retreated in slow motion through Karen's vaginal muscles. Her other hand played with the younger girl's labia, leading him now to the gash, where the heat beckoned him within. Two fingers, one of each hand, moved forward and into the two cunts in the same steady sweep, separating the sides of the holes. The older woman's cunt was hotter, wetter; Emily's held the finger tighter. Karen's clitoris was already swollen with the friction from the inside of the panties; she herself was brushing Emily's sex-pimple. The strokes were gentle and deft, lightly teasing. Emily gasped as Frank drove through her under Karen's soothing manipulations.
His thumb sought the clit itself, from under Karen's; and at the same time his right thumb was moving over the surface of the blonde's socket, spreading the moisture from the quim over the tiny erection. As she became more excited and her breathing heavier, Karen moved her hand away from Emily; she bent the love-stained fingers and put her hands on the rug at either side, pressing down for support as she raised her hips and at the same time spread her thighs even wider. Frank felt the hold of the cunt loosening on his finger, and he stuck a second bone inside her on the next stroke.
Now that Emily's crotch was open to him, the thumb bore down hard on the clit, feeling it fight back for freedom against its pressure. The girl groaned and leaned back against the frame of the water bed, rolling her backside into the deep pile of the rug. Frank watched the two of them roll their pelvises around his inserted digits. He jabbed forward and both arched their spines and swiveled down on the bones. Emily's breasts moved like molds of gelatin as her body snapped with the rhythm of his forward thrusts. When she felt wet enough he brought a second finger to the lips of the canal and insinuated it inside her clinging walls. Karen pulled on his hand and he poked his third finger inside her. The oozing crotch tightened round them, and Karen's eyes closed while she rubbed the nape of her neck with her head, inhaling hoarsely.
Frank leaned forward toward Emily and put his lips to her nipple. Gently he took it between the front teeth, now covered it with his lips, and sucked noisily. He jabbed hard at Karen's womb with his fingers, and when her groin moved wildly with him, he slipped greasily from her and tried blindly, his mouth sucking at Emily's breast, to re-enter her. The fingers streaked over the belly and he clutched her breast, covering the areola in vaginal sweat before she grabbed him and applied the palm to the inflated clitoris. The thumb-knuckle shoved the erectile tissue into the hair, while the flat of the thumb again separated the soggy lips, moving through the walls, twisting the flesh apart.
Greedily he fingered both, gnawing at the almost diamond-hard tit capping Emily's smaller breast, flopping down on her chest as he filled her stretched cavity with two stiff fingers. The rest of the jug filled his yearning mouth until he felt Karen's fingers touch his shoulder. She was pulling at him, pulling him once again to her own larger breasts.
His mouth and lips closed, touched the round tit and sniffed in the scent of the cunt he'd smeared over the hillock. He held his cheek to the nipple and felt its point grow sharper, like a needle against his cheekbone; below he could hear Karen's heartbeat as it pumped with building speed. Her torso shifted around the three fingers stuck inside her. She slid down them and then jammed the labia to the base-knuckles of his fingers, squirming around them while the fingertips, deep inside, opened the throat of her sex.
Emily had moved forward and pulled at his testes. The prick seemed more sensitive than before, almost ticklish as she plied the skin away from the head and held it, drawn taut toward the base. Karen, following her, covered the girl's hand with her own and the two palms closed together round the dick while tilting it to the side.
While still rolling herself down on his hand, keeping him warm and wet and inside her, Karen half-whispered and half-yelled to the two of them, through short gasps for breath, "Let's get on the bed..." Her voice trailed off as she jammed hard on Frank's pumping hand. Obedient, he pulled away from her, but she bucked and smashed her clitoral ridge against his wet fingers while he tried to dry the lips by dabbing them against the thick tangled hair, and against the hot dry skin inside her thigh. He clutched at the muscle while Karen jammed the small of her back into the wooden frame, her whole body tense with the growing pressure that cried for release.
Emily looked as if in a dream, her eyes smoky with the rhythm he'd established with his fingering. She looked at Frank, then Karen, then at Frank again, as if puzzled to find herself where she was, anchored to his pumping fingers. Only reluctantly did he let his arm stop its work, then realizing at once the fatigue that filled it. He was inside her still, while Karen's tongue rolled over the fingers so lately drilled inside her. She licked the hormonal sweat while chewing at his fingers and biting his knuckles in a mad frenzy while she pulled at her own puffy clit with her thumb and forefinger. She had moved closer to her patient and to the teenage girl, and now she took Emily's arm and let it fall back against her shoulder. She burrowed under the arm and in a moment the breast Frank had sucked was in her mouth, under her own twisting tongue, her own teeth scraping the areola's surface.
Frank's arms held the two women at the waist, and now they hugged together in a single mass of flesh, Emily again the figure between them while his hand moved to roll over the therapist's jug, more solid now as her shoulders shifted back and her pectorals tensed under his anxious kneading.
He felt shaky and almost dizzy as he rose, seeing them at his feet, he and Karen half-dressed, with Emily nude and nubile. He gave his hands to them, and they needed him, to stand gracefully. Karen's forehead was covered in sweat, and she was moving toward him. In the next moments he tasted the sweat on her lips while watching Emily over her shoulder. The girl seemed as distant as a memory while his own chest pushed against the resistance of Karen's twin mounds. Emily moved behind him and undressed him, then, more boldly, helped Karen out of her panties-already stretched down below the pubic bush. Karen stood still, appreciated the almost frightened touch of the girl.
The three of them walked to the side of the bed, Emily holding Frank's hand at her left, Karen's at her right. The two older partners instinctively waited while the girl sat down on the edge of the bed, a sudden slight shock as she remembered the mattress was filled with water. Her muscles still tense, she shifted to the center of the bed, flat on her back with her legs akimbo and her breasts offered up to the two of them.
Karen was next, almost diving onto the surface beside her, then immediately starting to suck on the girl's left breast. Frank followed, moving snake-like to her other side, so that his cheek touched Karen's as both massaged the breast-tissue that escaped their sucking lips.
His hand on the girl's crotch touched one side of the vaginal canyon; Karen's fingers were stretching the labia at the other side, opening the abyss between that Emily, now impatient, her small tight body restlessly moving over the tide inside the water-mattress, filled with her own forefinger. Both Karen and Frank let go of the snatch and let it close in on the first joint of the girl's finger-bone.
Emily turned her head to face Karen, and in the soft come-hither look was an invitation to French-kiss which, after a last look at Frank, Karen accepted. Her own tongue curled round Emily's, pulling snake-like, wrestling for control of the common space, a single mouth, now formed; the boundaries of their lips disappeared in the steady suck-sounds. The girl's hand had moved from her crotch; now she held on to both Frank and Karen, the nails biting into their butt cheeks.
Karen had taken the girl's ear in her mouth, and her own face was obscured as she tongued it by the reddish curls. Emily grunted with loud pleasure, her legs sprawling wide with involuntary excitement, the crotch pushing up toward any surface that would claim it with friction.
Karen hooked her arm under the pubic arch, forcing Emily's bottom up off the bed; she rolled her forearm against the hairy pud while Frank watched the teenager's shivering thighs. The therapist's mouth slid to the girl's neck, but she was pulling on Emily, finally rolling over on her own back and taking the girl with her, so that half of Emily's body pressed, belly-down, on the water bed, while the other half meshed with Karen's nudity.
Karen pried open the lips with her fingers as she moved down the bed, already moistening her lips with the edge of her long thick tongue. The open mouth slipped over Emily's breast, then her belly, as the girl pushed herself up on her palms. Her legs were spread wide, and she was on her knees when Karen's fingers pushed up against the flat stomach. Karen's neck stretched up off the bed and moved to the girl's cunt, starting to suck the lips the moment they made contact with them. In moments the projected flesh was shining with her spit. Emily started to sag, her groin shoved against Karen's face, her head down in a pillow until Frank kissed her cheek and she turned to him. Down below Karen ate her and she twisted her torso so that her own tongue could move over his while their lips collided, brushing themselves on their teeth as they forgot all obstacles and caution in the building heat of the moment.
Karen was covered with the dripping sex, almost smothered in it. She prodded Emily with her fingers, trying to make the girl turn over once again on her back. Emily followed, glancing with love at Frank as their lips parted. Now Karen was between her spread-eagled thighs, and the last convulsive moans escaped the young redhead's throat. Frank pulled up his knees to his chest and rested his back against the bed's headboard, making the bed rock wildly below, sounds of loud sloshing accompanying each shift.
Karen's chin disappeared into the beaver, the cleft swallowing her squirming tongue, while Frank rested Emily's head on his chest and grabbed her breasts in his hands. His palms pressed down hard on the tits, stuffing the erected surfaces back into the softer surrounding flesh as each new tongue-twist whipped through her body. She gasped for breath and Frank, holding on to the mounds of breast-tissue, could feel the orgasm as she held onto the hands that now squeezed her tits, trying to connect with the rhythm of the spasms that tightened and released the walls of her pussy. The snorting noises below, as Karen sucked ever more frenetically, were lost in the sounds of the bed's erratic water-sounds and the uncontrolled breathing of all three.
"Yes, yes, yes!" Emily moaned, delivering her muff into Karen's mouth, sliding the outside of her hole against the other woman's lips, twisting and turning while Karen's hands squeezed her ass muscles and Frank kneaded the softer hills of her breasts.
The water began to move in even waves below them, and Emily's legs shot out, stiffly. "Fuck me, Frank-fuck me." she begged, turning her eyes to his, appealing to them while one hand touched the prick that poked above her, stiff and aching with undelivered come. But Frank was paralyzed by the plea, and in the next moments she was lost, and they were all lost to the rocking motion of the bed until it, too, grew less and less violent, and she lay exhausted.
Karen raised her mouth from the soft and satisfied wound, her whole face seemingly smeared with the girl's inner juices. She looked at Frank with longing that he, with his cock filled with hot thick semen, would deliver to her willingly. The big breasts moved with the same heavy grace of the water bed's undulations. She was moving toward Frank, whose back now pressed the headboard, Emily's head on his lap. He lifted her off and she watched as Karen's tongue, which had made her come, now rolled over the head of her lover's cock, the cock he could not force inside her when she begged him for it moments before. That same cock disappeared between the blonde woman's lips; the head first and then inches of the shaft, while she twirled the tight pubic curls with her fingertips, rolling the balls violently up against the buried base of the long tube.
What seemed like minutes to all three was a matter of seconds, just long enough for Karen to mingle the juices of Emily's cunt and her own saliva, and leave both on the surface of Frank's stiff phallus. Emily, watching, for a moment felt that Karen was the connection between the two of them...And in that instant all her jealousy evaporated, and her own desire began again, with a hot tightening of the muscles of her cunt. She moved to the edge of the bed, on her haunches, eagerly watching.
Karen's head had slipped off the cock. Frank was on his back, his legs apart. Karen's hands cupped her own breasts to keep them from wobbling as she balanced herself over the cock now nestled in the blonde-specked fur. The right hand let go of the breast and took the head of the cock, rolling it over the clitoral ridge three or four times in quick succession, slipping it against the hole itself, until the area was smooth with gleaming fluid.
She let herself down on the instrument, her eyelids closing as the penis gorged her. Her stomach rippled as the last of the shaft was taken within the slimy cave. She leaned forward, putting both palms to the sliding surface of the bed. Her tits almost scraped Frank's chest. She rotated her cunt around the inserted cock, reluctant to let him go, even loath to move up against his stiffness for fear of losing it. . .
Emily's hand moved into the tiny gap, flicking Karen's clit so that the older woman was sparked into moving inches up off the dong. In the fraction of a second that followed, Emily's finger stroked the moistened underside of the penis, until Karen lowered her womanhood, trapping Emily for the same short time.
The difference was that now the friction, the throbbing pace of thrust and counter-thrust, had begun in earnest, and Karen's body swung carelessly over Frank's, letting go of the cock almost until the foreskin was glanced through the sweet jungle of sex-hair.
Frank, for his part, was jerking his hips to lead his cock in pursuit of Karen's distant womb. He felt the come move through the veins and jabbed her walls with the wet dome, the slit feeling the raw cunt-flesh as it poked between the converging muscles like a hungry beast.
Emily sat back as Frank grabbed for Karen's hips, trying to slam her down once and for all on the cock....
She began to finger herself, and felt the heat flow directly to the fingertips. Frank, she imagined, was making love to her as she lay her own pud down on him from above, her own young thighs spread, her own cunt lips held wide apart with her fingertips, just as she held them now, pressing on her clit. . .
It was she, Emily, who was being impaled on his manhood, she half-dreamed as the clit grew under her prodding.
Her eyes opened and saw the larger woman move into the last downward strokes, swallowing Frank's sword in the mouth of her sex. Frank was pushing up against her breasts, flattening them with his hands as he squeezed them. She knew, Emily did, that he was coming, from the expression on his face, the strange collision of release and enraged passion. She looked at Karen and could tell from the frantic swim of the woman's torso that she, too, was absorbing the last shocks of the orgasm.
Emily let herself go; and again, just minutes after the climax under Karen's tongue, she was coming. Alone, masturbating within sight of Frank and his therapist, she felt more the focus of his hip-grinding thrusts than Karen.
As her cunt jammed against her palm, it was she who was going all the way with Frank, she imagined.
She knew, she insisted to herself while electricity moved up to the center of her belly, the root of her being.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It had seemed to him from the moment he entered the therapist's office that Dr. Karen Vogel was in a funny-funny peculiar-mood. Perhaps it was her clothing. Though the day was overcast, it was not chilly enough to warrant the untypically demure knit suit she wore. And, though she occasionally fidgeted with her reading glasses, she had them on today when he entered. Frank felt as though they established a tiny glass barrier between his eyes and her own.
He felt, in short, "distanced," and at the same time, that his relationship with her was curiously desexualized.
Her manner was polite-too polite-with the courtesy reserved usually for perfect strangers.
She asked him if there had been any progress with Emily in the two weeks that had followed their threesome. "I insisted on the two weeks between sessions," she reminded him, "because I thought that would allow us to see the results of the experiment."
He nodded. But, quietly and with embarrassment, he had to tell her the truth: to Emily's disappointment and his own, there had been no progress, and he was beginning to despair of the possibility of any.
True, she had used his recollection of the incident to turn him on, to excite her while they petted. She would take the shaft of his cock in her palm and squeeze down hard as she applied the head to her lips and bucked her hips, arching her spine.
But after the first soft jab, Frank would pull away.
Indeed, his "condition" seemed to have gotten worse. As though his will could no longer protect Emily's virginity, his body took over. "When we actually get to the point that sex-fucking-would be the next step," he told Karen Vogel now, "I get, well-" he flushed with color, "soft."
Dr. Vogel nodded sagely, without evident surprise, as though this were something she might have predicted. "Impotent," she said tonelessly.
"Yes," he admitted with effort. Then, almost too low for her to hear, shame in the voice, he added, "Perhaps, it's the best thing."
A long pause, then, "Why?"
For the answer, as she waited, she removed her glasses and looked at him through eyes that seemed tired.
Frank tried to make the words come, to make them convincing first to himself and then to Karen. "Because," he said with an anger that surprised him, "it's not going to work. It can't work-and it's better that we should both know now." He paused, aware that his resentment was toward himself, toward his "failure" to overcome his fetish for virgins. Speaking about that failure, as he was now, was the barely conscious desire to stroke a painful tooth with one's tongue.
"Don't you see," he began, before Karen had time to object-but in the tone of one who is responding to objections-"it's my body trying to tell us both, Emily and me. If I marry her, and we do have sex, I'll lose interest, because she won't be a virgin anymore. I'll be going soft then."
In a whisper-soft voice, the therapist said, "Perhaps," and no more. Frank went on to say that he had already started to "untangle" himself from Emily.
"How?"
"I broke the engagement." She seemed surprised, and he went on to explain himself. "She didn't want me to-she said she could wait, that she'd marry me even if we hadn't slept together before that. That she'd take the chance."
"But--? " She left the question dangling in the air; the connective was only an incitement for him to continue, after a brief thoughtful pause.
"I decided it would be best to make an end to it, once and for all." He sighed. "But I did say we could see each other-"
Karen interrupted. "Once and for all," she repeated mockingly.
"I meant the engagement. I still love her. It's only," he sighed again, "this problem...it's best for her to go on seeing other men."
"What if she loses her virginity?"
Frank found the question shocking, though it was the one he'd been dwelling on for days. The power of shock remained even after that of surprise had been eliminated.
Perhaps new surprise would come when he finally did succumb to her old history teacher, as Frank was sure she must-in time. Even though she insisted she wouldn't. "Don't be silly," he scolded, pretending not to take seriously her romantic youthful fidelity.
And he hoped she would remain as romantic and faithful-as virginal-as she had always been.
"Were there any repercussions after the last time you and I-and Emily-met?"
Frank spoke cautiously, softly. He was still nervous in Karen Vogel's presence, though she had been at his tender mercy when aching to be fucked. Some part of him still related to her as an authority figure.
"I've thought about you. A lot." He tried to keep her eye as he spoke, tried to calm his nerves by main force. His prick started to swell against the crotch-seam of his trousers. He was oddly aroused by Karen's more demure appearance.
"I'm not sure that's healthy, Frank," Dr. Vogel replied. "Healthy? What's health got to do with it."
"I'm your therapist. Not your lover."
"Not both?" he asked, trying to smile. "I took the role of your lover to help you work out something with Emily."
Suddenly Frank felt the resentment turning outward, toward Karen. "You said you'd become attracted to me," he responded with rising voice. "You talked about the therapeutic transference happening both ways." He was about to sputter onwards when she interrupted, icy cool at first.
"I was attracted to you. Perhaps I still am. But that doesn't change my primary responsibility, the job I took on when you became my patient."
"Perhaps if you weren't my therapist-" Frank started the statement, then dropped it midway through; he'd never planned to take further this veiled threat.
"If you mean that I could begin to see you socially-"
"Yes-"
She shook her head. "No, I would have failed as a therapist. I seem to have failed you already-and failed Emily....If you wish to discontinue these sessions because they're not helping you, I can't dissuade you. I can't even blame you," she added with a trace of self-mocking despair in her voice.
"Were you attracted to me? You seem so cold now."
She smiled strangely, with soft irony implied at the tensely upturned corners of her mouth. "Yes. Perhaps that distorted my judgment...But the experiment, though it might have failed for you, worked for me. Your hold on me is broken. I needed you sexually-"
"You used me," he said coldly.
"If you prefer to put it that way," Dr. Vogel admitted-nothing. "But I found out that the attraction was part of our relationship, not part of my personality."
"You feel nothing for me, then. Now." His voice, even to his own ears, was curiously devoid of tone and inflection.
"You know that's not true. Simply that our analytic relationship must enter a new phase. If-" she added, adopting the threat he had raised and turning it against him, "if you wish to go on at all."
"Perhaps I should drop the whole thing, at least for a while. The immediate reason for therapy-marrying Emily-is not good enough now that we've broken our engagement."
Karen Vogel said nothing, though he kept waiting for her to object. "Unless you think," he added-rather hopefully-"there's something to be gained."
"I wouldn't be so arrogant." The blonde took a deep breath. "I'll tell you this," she said. "No case can ever be said to be a complete failure, totally hopeless, as long as the person with the problem is alive-whether he or she is in therapy or not.
"But you've come closest to convincing me that I can't help you of any patient I've had."
Her despair was like a slap in the face. "All right. It's best we end it now." It felt-and it sounded, he knew-as though he were ending an affair rather than a therapeutic relationship.
Karen was writing something down on one of her cards. "I'm giving you the name of someone I think might be able to help you. You needn't call her unless you wish, of course." She finished writing, put her pen back in its well, and gave the card to Frank.
He read the name above a Mill Valley address. "Sarah Robbins." He looked at Karen Vogel, who was rubbing her fatigued eyes-she looked five years older than when he had entered, and for a moment he feared she would start to cry. (Was his mind exaggerating the melodramatic possibilities?) "Another therapist?"
"In a way," Dr. Vogel answered quietly. "But not the same kind as I am-and not officially therapist at all. She calls herself a Sexual Therapist, and her interest in psychology-which started when I took her as a patient, seven years ago-has grown so that she can apply what she has learned in sexual encounters. It is a kind of therapy."
"The kind you tried when you took Emily and me to bed?" he asked bitingly.
"Yes. Sarah is probably better at it." For an instant, she looked herself forlorn and troubled, as troubled as Frank felt. His instinct was to comfort her, but he repressed it, fearing she would rebuff him with her newly-assumed clinical manner. "I've told her about you," she went on, "and in fact she thought of that."
That. Karen could not bring herself to talk of the episode, Frank realized.
"She believes that problems like yours need radical solutions, through the fulfillment of fantasy, the acting-out of roles....it's only a suggestion."
Frank nodded, putting the card in his wallet and the wallet in the inside pocket of his coat. He rose and extended his hand to shake Karen's.
"Now I don't have Emily, and I don't have you. I'm alone." He tried to make it sound hard and self-mocking, but it sounded to him as though the self-pity had shown through.
Two weeks had passed, and television was unwatchable. Frank was nervous, dissatisfied, and lonely. It was only then that he consulted the card, getting up from the living room sofa, switching off the TV, and getting the wallet he'd put down on his dresser after returning home from work.
He picked up the bedroom extension and began to dial. It had been almost a week since he last saw Emily, whose meetings with John were now more and more frequent. The history teacher had taken his place as her "steady," he imagined, though Emily still insisted they'd not slept together, and incited him to prove it to himself by fucking her.
"You'll see. I'll still bleed," she protested.
Frank felt he deserved any punishment that came to him. Right now he was, however, interested in any fantasies Sarah Robbins could provide.
And not necessarily for their therapeutic value, either.
The house was an old clapboard in the Victorian style. It seemed out-of-place in the sunshine up this dirt road, curiously "hidden." It felt eerie to be here. He paused for a moment outside the gate, staring at the untamed lawn.
A tall woman wearing glasses came to the screen door and stepped out onto the front porch. Her figure could be described as "statuesque," Frank thought at once, wondering if she were Sarah Robbins. Her hair was long and dark, and she was dressed in faded denims and a sweatshirt. He guessed her age at the late twenties. Her face gave nothing away. It was not a beautiful face, but she was attractive, and the large cheekbones gave a wholesome and healthy appearance. But what most impressed him was the tone of her large body; he could be an inch or so taller than this well-tanned Amazon.
"You must be Frank." He nodded; her voice had carried in the hot silence, though she had not said it above conversational level. "Come inside," she offered, and he opened the gate and walked up the porch stairs. He had watched the tight ass beneath her jeans as it retreated into the shaded sitting room before he had ascended to the porch itself.
"Some apple juice?" She was pouring some into her own glass. "That would be fine."
She gestured for him to sit down, and Frank felt that her manner was every bit as officious as Karen Vogel's had been. She had already, within moments of meeting and after the briefest of phone conversations which set up the interview, assumed the role of therapist.
"I spoke to Dr. Vogel after you called yesterday. We reviewed your case. I'm going into that room to prepare for our session-"
"Don't you want to talk?" he queried, his unease forcing him to interrupt.
She laughed. "That is not how I handle my, er, 'patients,' " she said. "As I was saying, I shall go in there, and you may join me in ten minutes' time."
"What will happen?"
"That's very much up to you," she said softly, with a smile.
He had consulted his digital watch perhaps a dozen times in the interval-seven minutes rather than five, to allow for error in the woman's calculations. Now Frank knocked on the door.
"Come in," came her muffled voice. He tried the door and entered an ornately furnished bedroom. There was nothing as unusual about the period furniture-mostly French or French imitations-as there was of the figure standing before him.
Sarah Robbins wore a wedding gown.
"Don't speak," she said, shaking her head as his lips began to form a question. Her tone was so insistent that he followed her command, and immediately found himself in the middle of what seemed a three-dimensional dream.
He could understand the symbolism of the wedding dress, the white lace and the bridal bouquet. But he had to pause for a moment to summon up a reaction, in his surprise. Sarah Robbins was walking toward him; he took the bouquet she offered, then put it down on the chair behind him, when she gestured to it.
"Aren't you going to undress me?" she asked. "Frank," she spoke the name as though it were the name of a lover, even of her-husband. He felt vaguely panicked, but at the same time aroused as those same lips moved closer to his mouth and rolled over his own lips. Her tongue moved easily between his yielding lips and pressed down on his tongue with force. She drew away as his cock grew stiff next to her lace-covered thigh. "Please," she said with quavering voice, "show me how to make love, Frank. Just-don't hurt me," came the plea, with an actress's conviction.
She took his hand and put it on her large breasts, making the palm press down hard against the flesh below the stiff brassiere she wore. She closed her eyes as if in bliss, and in the next moment Frank could feel the swelling of the tit inside the dress and bra. Her figure seemed to have been poured inside the tight wedding-gown, and all traces of her previous outfit, including her glasses, were gone.
She shook her head, as if in response to something he had said-but he remembered he'd been ordered to be silent. "Don't get the luggage now. The bellboy can bring it up later," she said, coming once again to his lips while her tongue shot and slid through his mouth, overpowering him, it seemed.
She stepped back and pretended shyness as she stripped from the gown. Below, her panties and bra were of a barely visible white lace, through which the evenly tanned flesh showed. She had asked him to help her with the zipper, but then performed the pantomime of demure stripping alone, under Frank's greedy eyes.
She was naked now, and she had purposely not removed the wedding veil, he realized. "Please let me leave it on," she said breathily, replying to the unasked question. "Until I'm not a virgin anymore."
She walked back to the huge double bed, an antique fourposter. She lay down, and Frank saw the wool between her legs, through the texture of lace. He undressed quickly and eagerly, hesitating only when he wondered whether or not to remove his undershorts, finally deciding he might as well.
"Oh, Frank," she exclaimed when he stood by the bed, the cock at the angle of erection. Even to him, it looked bigger than ever before, swollen with excitement. "It's so-so big. I never knew a man could have one so big and, well, stiff," she said in the little girl's voice she'd adopted since he came in the room. It reminded him of Emily's voice when she was being self-consciously girlish and teasing. "Or so stiff." Her hand closed around the joint, just below the head, but close enough to the tip so that the palm scraped the glans as it twisted the phallic skin tight round the shaft.
Still she lay passive on the bed, her legs spread slightly apart.
Frank noticed a single stray hair peek out from under the inside seam of the panties, and this excited him-a proof of the wild sensuality beyond the assumed virginity, a week in the well-ordered garden. The brunette had brushed away the veil, though it still covered her hair.
One hand had gripped the cock tightly, and though she did not pull him, neither would she let go. Frank felt the first trace of dog-water seeping out the slit, as she rolled her thumb over the gash and spread the moisture over the bulging dome.
"Please fuck me, Frank-but don't hurt me," she half-sighed, half-whimpered and let go the dong, putting her arms at her sides. The muscles seemed tense as Frank lay down beside her, putting his hand over the bra cups, feeling the erected tits below the cups. He squeezed them in turn, feeling their stiffening warmth between his fingers. He put his mouth to the left breast and soaked the covered nipple in his saliva, until the surface of the areola was exposed through the transparent undergarment. He felt the heat in his mouth, the stiffness between his nibbling upper and lower front teeth.
At the same time he tested her cunt through the panties. The area was hot, covered by a thick bush of pubic hair. With seeming instinct Sarah Robbins took his hand and closed her fingers round his wrist; for a moment he feared she might take it away. But she only repeated, "Please don't hurt me."
He felt as though he were walking through a fantasy made flesh. He closed his eyes, and her image melted into that of Emily-into that of the virgins he had deflowered.
She remained passive as he put his arms under her back and undid the bra. He buried his face in the flesh of the large breasts, rolling his lips into the valley between. He sucked hard on the nipples while she groaned but lay still. Her very passiveness soothed Frank, made it easier to pretend she was physically innocent.
He had put his legs between hers, and was supporting his weight on his palms while he sucked her breasts. His fingers had moved under the waist of the panties, which were full-fashioned, covering Sarah's belly to the waist. The curled fingers brushed against the spread of her full hips, and he was pulling them down past the ass-globes. Sarah arched her spine and the buttocks lifted off the bed, so that her pelvis briefly touched his while he pulled the lace to her knees.
She looked at him, raising her head off the bed so that the veil fell-as if it, too, were being discarded on the pillow. She relaxed her head again just as Frank applied his tongue to the surface of the sex-trench, moving his lips over the edges of his teeth as he pulled the enlarged clit between them. The elasticity of the cunt, which separated fractionally as he licked it, lashing the flank of his tongue against the salty flavor of the labia, now greased with the seepage from the inner twat, gave lie to her pretended innocence-but Frank was kept on the track of the sex-fantasy when Sarah whispered from the top of the bed, "You're the only man in the world I'd ever let do this to me, Frank-and the only man I'll ever let do it to me."
This pressed him to move faster against her groin with his lips and tongue, and she groaned appreciatively, her large hands tightening and grabbing the bottom sheet, as her lower body turned stiffly as if to avoid the assault of the tongue, even as she moaned her pleasure at the friction it made with the wet beaver.
Her buttocks rose from the bed as though she had been shocked by electricity, forcing the pud against his teeth-which made her whimper until the next soothing tongue-lash coated her in warm spit. Her legs had stiffened at the knees, and she was stiff below him, imitating all the sexual immaturities he knew so well. He knew what would excite a young virgin, what would surprise her: he bit into her soft thigh and she half-yelled with the ecstasy of it when he took the flesh of the other thigh between his nibbling teeth and reached to mold her tits in his kneading hands, every few moments running the palms over the tits, so sharp that now they tickled the skin of the hand.
"Please, Frank-dear!" she exclaimed while thrusting her soft womanhood hard against the mouth, so the curve of the pud was warm under his tongue, and the thighs sandwiched his chin between them. Her whole body seemed to go into a frenzy, the muscles out of control.
Frank's mouth slipped over her stomach, the tongue trailing just below the lips as the front teeth ran to her midriff and smashed the underside of the woman's breasts. He took one last mouthful of her huge hillocks as his knees pushed her inner thighs and spread even wider her wishbone thighs.
With gentleness he took the cock's dome and touched it to the labia; she shivered underneath him with pain, heightening the illusion of the act's novelty. She squirmed below him, and now her fingernails pressed into the skin of his back, starting at the shoulders.
With his free hand he was pulling one side of the snatch to the side, opening the tissue for the cock. His thumb pressed into the lip while his cock touched the clit itself, feeling its heat as he tried to penetrate the entrance below.
He had his mouth rolling against one tit, trying to force as much of it inside under the tongue as would fit, while his hips were pumping forward and he could feel the woman's inner heat in the slit of his cock. At last, against the resistance of Sarah Robbins' inner muscles, coiled together by act of will, he forced open the sex-hole while she groaned and occasionally squealed with pain. Her head snapped into the pillow, her eyes widening and then rolling.
"You said you wouldn't hurt, Frank," she keened. "You promised it wouldn't hurt-you promised!" Then another shudder of pretended pain and the exclamation "Oh, no!" as the length of the instrument filled her, gorging her on the stick.
Now the girl seemed to be hanging on to him, hanging on by the weight of her fingers as her body surged up when his strokes threatened to withdraw. Her movements were straightforward and unsubtle, keeping him penetrated all the way even as she protested that he was going too deep and hurting her. "Remember," she cried breathlessly, "I'm a virgin!"
The cry spurred Frank on even more vigorously. He was looking at her face now as it showed the horror of her pain. He put his lips to hers and took the initiative that had previously been hers as he French-kissed her, her lips and tongue slack below the onslaught of his, which coursed through her mouth steady with the rhythm of his invading cock, below....
She squirmed as he covered himself in the steamy cunt-tissues, but he stifled her gasps with his tongue inside her mouth, pushing hers back against the edge of her throat while his chest flattened her breasts. Deep inside her now, he wriggled the cock from side to side, separating the walls more widely, testing the elasticity of the fake virgin's twat at the entrance. Her body limp under his, she turned her head away with almost super-human force, her whole form stiffening, and she screamed: "No! No! It hurts too much..." and began to cry, yelling out "No, Frank, don't-I love you, but no!" just as the come started to spurt and fill the edge of her womb, the wet flesh tightening around the prick and squeezing the spurting come from deep inside the scrotum. He pushed up on his palms, looking down her twitching face from above, thinking of the bridal veil she pressed under her cheek as her head moved wildly to the side, reacting to each forward thrust. He leaned on the right palm and brushed his left hand lightly over both tits, the flesh wobbling heavily while he drove the spike-through the walls, spending the last of the come.
Exhausted, he let himself collapse on her-Sarah was big enough to take his weight for a few moments. His mind was awash with the fantasy of her at his mercy while he deflowered her, the woman who, only minutes ago, had been dressed in wedding gown and veil, the symbols of virginal purity.
Frank felt as if, in his satisfaction, he might almost fall asleep. But, underneath him, Sarah Robbins was asking him to move-her tone of voice deeper and more assured than when he had been sucking her, when his cock had been moving through her vagina. Now she moved, and the cock's precarious anchor inside the vise was lost as she slipped from under him.
She began to dress again, inhaling as she stepped into the wedding dress, wearing no underclothes. The bodice of the gown was tight around her breasts, and the peaked nipples jutted through.
"Get up," she said, the order firm but without rancor.
She walked him over to a straight-back chair that had a seat of straw matting, and told him to sit down.
He heard her moving behind him; resigned to be passive, he did not look, but waited. He heard her open the door to the closet; in the next moment she appeared with a length of heavy rope.
"Put your hands behind the chair," she commanded, and kneeled when he had. She was tying his wrists together. His pulse pumped against the tightening hemp as she pulled hard and proceeded to knot it expertly, with a deftness Frank found surprising in a woman.
Sarah also bound him at the ankles and at the stomach, making sure he couldn't get free.
She was no sooner finished tying him than she stepped from the wedding gown, leaving it crumpled at her feet.
Her titillating movements were definitely getting to Frank, and his prong stood upright from his helpless body.
In total control, Sarah brought one leg over the chair and eased down on Frank's lap, her legs spread to miss the erection. Her other thigh lifted over his other side, then relaxed. She rolled herself forward, her toes again touching the floor as she pulled his stiff rod toward her vaginal entrance and started to swivel downward.
She seemed taller, as she bobbed up and down the cock. Her breasts swished against Frank, the erections of the areolas scraping the skin and hair with a rustling sound. She was smiling. "I'm not a virgin," she said. "Don't you like fucking me? Don't you like being fucked by me?"
He could barely move, though his buttocks squirmed on the seat of the chair as he tried to plunge still deeper into her sex-cove. But Sarah Robbins and not he was in the saddle as she pumped the well dry. He could feel the come start to push out of the cock, and his body rocked back involuntarily, almost toppling the chair and their tangled bodies.
Her breasts swung wildly from side to side. He tried to move, but instead she fastened his torso to the back of the chair, insisting on doing all the moving while he remained perfectly passive within his bonds, as though she were raping him.
"Isn't this good?" she asked, her voice wobbling as she moved up and down the stick. The juice squirted out. "It's better than fucking a virgin, isn't it?"
He could not answer, but only shoot come into her hot wet inner belly.
In the aftermath Sarah Robbins spoke hardly at all. "I'll send you your bill," those were her first words after she had untied him in a business-like manner, and handed him his clothes. She seemed anxious not to allow the "therapy" of the "acting out" to blend into everyday life.
"You can see yourself out, can't you?" she asked casually, as she put on a dressing gown from her closet. She was moving toward the door. He nodded, and she left the room.
It was the last he saw of her. As he went down the gravel path to where he had parked his car, he wondered if he felt any different toward virgins and their "innocence." Or was this all simply play-acting masquerading as psychological help?
He would see Emily again. He wanted to see her anyway; he told himself he was afraid of completely losing touch with her-no matter what happened to their sexual relationship, he wanted to remain her friend.
And at the same time, he found himself wondering about that sexual relationship-and whether he might, after all, be able to consummate it. Now, finally.
CHAPTER NINE
Emily switched on the living room lights, her hand moving easily to the panel by the door, betraying her familiarity with Frank's apartment. But, the lights on, she looked around it with curiosity, as though she had entered it for the first time, rather than the first time in weeks. Frank helped her off with her coat. "Anything wrong?" he asked-she was strangely silent.
"No. It just seems strange being here again with you."
For the first time since they had started going out together, there was something of "seduction" in the air. It was no longer a foregone conclusion that they would "go to bed" together.
"Would you like some coffee?" he asked, standing a few feet away as she sank, exhausted after the heavy restaurant meal, on the sofa.
Her eyes twinkled as she smiled, even laughing. "Don't be so formal with me, Frank-you don't have to be!"
He allowed himself a more restrained smile in return. After a pause, he repeated the question. "Well, would you like some?"
"That's what we came back here for, isn't it?" Emily giggled. "You said you made better coffee than they did at the restaurant."
It was then Frank knew that it was "on"-the sex-play. She had seen through his uncharacteristic ruse, adopted when he was unsure of whether she would or would not want to-
To what? he asked himself as he ground the coffee-beans in the electric grinder. Could be overcome the block-and make love to her?
He was not sure.
Emily had played at seducing him, wordlessly. "This is very good coffee," she said after the first sip. "I should compliment you." The way she chose to make the compliment was with a kiss, her coffee-tasting lips brushing his as she put the almost untouched cup on the table beside the couch.
Her tongue stroked his, its tip tasting of the sugar she was fond of and used too carelessly, with an immature sweet-tooth. Frank's breath had been overtaken by the suddenness of the assault, but it was recognizably Emily's behavior: aggressive in a little girl's coquettish sort of way.
"You're so shy, tonight," she observed shrewdly.
"It's been a while," he answered softly, his lips almost touching hers in a continuation of the kiss as they formed the words. "Since." He added the single word tokening all that had-and had not-gone on between them.
He tried to lighten the mood for the moment, wanting rather to ease into the sex, now that he was sure they would make love-at least part of the way. He wanted, too, to test his reaction on the question that had nearly obsessed him in the interval.
"Anything exciting happen? I mean, lately. . . "
"You mean," she started carefully, "have I lost my cherry?"
He blushed. After a sigh and a pause, he admitted it. "I suppose that's what I meant."
She shook her head, the conviction in her eyes such that he never doubted the truth of her denial.
Frank hated himself when he realized how turned-on he was by her virginity, now that he was assured of it. He put his arm around her shoulders and brought her closer to him. She nuzzled against his chest as his mouth opened on the nape of her neck; he tasted her hair as the tongue-tip flicked it away. His teeth gathered the slack flesh and kneaded it between their edges. She groaned appreciatively, running her palm down Frank's upper arm, then rubbing his wrist by twisting the band of his watch. She put her mouth to his ear, at first nibbling on the lobe, then running the tongue soft and wet over the auricle before she whispered, as though there were someone else in the empty room from whom it must be kept secret, "Let's go inside."
Frank stood up and offered his hand to her. She squeezed it as her slim body rose from the couch. Her eyes glanced at his crotch, where his bulbous head stood out through the trousers. Her fingers curled under the space between his legs, and he felt them push the wool up against the bag, between the testes, jamming hard-the way he liked it, she knew-the covered base of the long prick.
She drew the hand away, while keeping the other one closely entwined in Frank's. He turned, not letting go, and the two walked silently into the bedroom. He put his hand to the switch, but she stopped him with a half-whisper. "No, Frank-there's enough light from the street."
He nodded as she began to undress. Her nudity was like a rediscovery. The small plump breasts, the swelling of the hips at the prominent protruding hipbones, the rounded dimpled bottom...He focused on the strong flat muscle below her breasts, above the reddish strands that covered her sex.
He was naked in a moment, and he walked over to her. She embraced his nakedness, pushing his cock between their bellies as he felt the sex-hairs mesh together below, at the stalk's root. He missed the softness of the labia as they disappeared in the curve of flesh that moved between her legs. His fingers reached down as his wrists pushed into the small of her back, at either side of the spine, and he jolted the soft cheeks against the tail-bones, making Emily sway ill his arms, the pert nipples awakening at the slightest friction.
She held him so tightly that he wondered if she feared he might try to escape. He was only leading and finally . pushing her, gently, to the bed, where for the first moments they lay together with him astride her, his knees between her sprawled legs, with his cock hard against her fleshy aperture.
Nervous, he felt the panic making his cock soft. He turned to the side, on his back, waiting for he didn't quite know what. Emily's hand stroked his stomach, the fingertips making the barest trace of the flesh. He held the muscles tight, as if he were afraid. He waited for her hand to move to the penis itself, but instead she brought it to his chest, where she played with the short curls of hair that covered the sternum.
She kissed him, her head above his. He was passive not by command-as he had been with Sarah Robbins-but out of fear. He found it strange that he was frightened of this young girl, whom he had introduced to the preliminary joys of sex. He knew why-because she might extract more than the preliminaries. Certainly she wanted more....
Her hand went to the flaccid cock and tried to reawaken it; she betrayed no surprise, if she had any, that it had lost its erection. She stretched it, pulling it from the base of balls and hair straight into the air, at a right angle to Frank's stomach. He felt the yanking, while her fingernails swished from side to side on the ringed skin, inches below the flabby head.
Then she smashed the cock back into the hair, rolling the head into the soft wires until he winced with the intensity of the sensation on the glans. She was jabbing at the cock and balls as if they were all the same instrument, with the testicles wobbling against the buried stalk, her palm in the center as her fingernails worked through the tangle of hair.
New life started to flow inside the cock, which bulged in fits and starts against Emily's hand. Frank looked down and saw it move until it was large and stiff, and her fingers crawled back down its length, straining the foreskin until the glinting purple of the glans was naked to the eye. He was breathing hard; he looked at Emily, who was watching the cock she "milked" fiercely.
In the next moment she was down on him, tasting the new stiffness, rolling the still-fleshy dome against the roof of her mouth, pushing the end of the stick first against one inner cheek, then the other. Frank was amazed at how deep she could take the cock. He wondered if John's phallus had been giving her "practice." Her furled lips pushed the foreskin back so that the tongue had easy access to the sensitive tissue of the glans. He found himself pushing up even deeper, to the edge of her throat, wanting to test how far he could penetrate the devouring mouth. He rolled the flattened side of the head against the texture of the roof while she twisted her lips half-way down the shaft and pulled them back to reveal her teeth, with which she gnawed gently at him, pulling the skin down, away from the head.
He sat up in the bed, leaning forward and massaging her back; the muscle was smooth, tight, and lightly tanned. As she struggled with the stiff serpent in her mouth, she rolled her ass into the mattress and the bed seemed to jump below them. He pulled on the lower back, and the buttocks responded, jiggling slightly as she ate him with greater suction. Her hand forced the skin counterclockwise on the cock, straining it even tighter, the side of the small fist pressing the hairs flat down.
"Kiss me," he said, and her mouth slipped gently off the head, a strand of pre-seminal fluid snapping at the corner of her mouth as she smiled broadly. In the next moment she lay herself gently on top of him, her legs spreading around his manhood so that only one thigh touched the side of its erection. He tasted the thick sweetness of the come on her tongue as it rolled over his, tunneling around and around eagerly, as if thirsty for him. His fingers stroked the small cleft in her neck, then the collarbone, as if he were stalling for time. He moved his hips up off the bed and instinct led him to jam the head of his organ into her soft warm belly.
She wriggled from side to side, making the most of the friction, covering him in her flesh by rolling the skin forward, nestling it against the cock. The fingers slipped out against the underside, tweaking the skin and pulling indirectly on the ball bag.
Meanwhile she brought her mouth to his neck and tickled him with her tongue, chewing on his shoulder in the next moment after a wet-velvet stroke of her open mouth. The tongue slipped below, carelessly, into the hair-lined socket, tasting the salty skin beneath the hairs.
He tried to move from under the assault of her eager young tongue, finding the raw gash with his hand, plying the labia and shooting two fingers easily inside the hole. Emily was still above him, and she plunged down on the two fingers, reaching for the cock and squeezing it hard until more semen oozed from the slit. She tilted the cock until it rubbed against the hair just beside the opening of her body to Frank's prodding fingers.
She swung up off the fingers and aimed her crotch at his. Frank felt fear, and the emotion must have washed across his face, for Emily, concerned, moved back as if to soothe him.
"You're not ready," he stalled. "You're still dry."
"I've been ready for a long time," she said, slipping down the bed, belly against the linen, rolling her lips, tight against her front teeth, over the naked bulbous head of the phallus before locking its first few inches inside the mouth once more and proceeding to suction hard. Her hand had gone to the sweet vaginal trench, and she was playing with her own clit, separating the lips as if to prepare them for penetration.
Sitting up, she begged, "Just pretend," and began to rub him against her belly, tilting him from side to side, the lower cock rolling against the hair, the upper shaft and head smashing into her yielding softness, occasionally brushing the jutting pelvic bones as she imitated the motions of sexual intercourse in the astride position.
He had climaxed before with this kind of contact, outside her vagina, and Frank was not afraid. He pushed up, balancing her breasts in his hands, supporting them. He jabbed her hard, and she inhaled deeply. He moved forward again and hit the beaver, tugging on the lips to Emily's satisfaction as she gasped. Her tongue slipped out and wet her lower lips; clearly she expected him to push forward now, forward into her, to fuck her. His look of sudden panic must have alerted her, but now she was frantic, wanting the feel of him inside her, shoving him against her. . .
She raised herself up on her knees, brought the cock to the aperture, and looked at him. In the next moment she had slipped the cock under him, and was holding her ass cheeks apart, her hands on her hips.
She was bending the cock down, pressing on the tube, wrenching it from his belly. The inside of her cheeks, warm and tightly wrapped around his stiffness, was perfect; he arched his spine and pushed deeper, slipping down the bed so that he poked the end of the prick up at the anal hole, rather than merely being trapped within the converging globes of fleshy warmth.
Reaching behind her, under her, Emily helped him, inserting the cock straight between the buttocks, its tip stretching toward her anus. He felt the heat of the tight sphincter muscle and tried to work his way toward it. Emily's breast shivered as he surged forward into her. Frank himself grabbed her flesh at her waist, aware that he wanted to come inside her, even if it meant violating the rectal hole rather than her sex-organ.
For the moment Emily seemed eager for any kind of penetration at all. She was gorging herself on the tower; as she hunched forward, Frank could see his dick dividing the rounded muscles, plunging into her, the tip disappearing. Emily swiveled down with force. Her rectum had not been so frequently tested by fingering, and was anyway a tighter muscle. Her free hand started to play with her clitoris, and now the other fingers moved with less abandon into her depths, to gather moisture from the first few inches of the sex-tissue and spread it over the external genitalia. After a few flicks of fingertips over the external genitalia, the area glistened with moisture. Meanwhile she tried to jam her butt against Frank's rod, squirming until he felt the head press on the tight coil of warm muscle. Emily almost screamed her exclamation. "Oh!" she grunted. "Ohhhh..." the scream dying into a whisper or a sigh as Frank tried to break past the barrier of hot skin, into the anus itself.
She groaned as he stretched the seam, ripping into the skin. The dry skin burned against the fleshy and bulbous prick-head. She kept trying to spread the cheeks farther apart to ease the way; exasperated she dabbed the inside of her cunt with her fingertips. She smeared the moisture back through the hair-pie, then streaked the instrument with the new moisture, rising up off the prick so that its position between the cheeks was still secure, though the head was inches farther from her rectum.
He felt the trickle of joy-juice on the flattened underside of the prick, a film of moisture in the hot desert between her ass-muscles. She clamped her fingers around his stiff joint and stood up on her knees, her thighs shivering with the effect of removing herself from his penetrated cock.
She was breathing heavily, the breast shaking with her eagerness. She ran her fingers up and down the labia, stretching that organ by slipping the tips inside her box. The fingers were coated with the fluid, and now, as Frank rolled his cock into her belly, feeling the curly hairs against the underside of the erection, she was carrying it to the rectum. She held her left buttock to the side with her left hand. The index and forefinger stroked the tight sphincter with the moisture, then dipped deep into the hole. This time she stabbed herself with the fingers, oiling the way by stroking past the coiled sphincter and into the anal passage itself, staining it with vaginal juice.
She took the cock once more in her hand, after spitting on the palm. She rubbed the saliva into the skin before trying to squat down on the prick. She was frustrated, her heavy breathing almost breaking into sobs in her need for Frank's penis.
"Wait," he said, pushing her wobbling breasts hard against her chest. His fingers curled under her arms. He was lifting her off him; she grabbed for length desperately, as if she were a child and it were a favorite toy.
"No," he said, in a soothing, gentle voice. "Just turn over." She understood. She put her elbows on the bed, leaning forward so that her jugs touched the mattress only at the erected tips. Her ass stuck up into the air. As he, too, moved on his knees, it was Frank's turn to spread them with his palms on the butt-cheeks, the fingers digging deep into the soft muscle.
On her knees, the ass pushing against his stomach, she was too high for him to make contact with the puckered hole. He pushed his hands down on the small of her back, forcing her flat on her stomach. She turned her head a bit into the mattress as Frank's cock parted the cheeks and touched, in a single stroke, the small sphincter muscle that guarded her back alley. He could feel the cunt-sweat easing the way as he exhaled, pushing out against Emily. Under him, she groaned with a sound evoking both the pleasure and pain of the act. Her fingernails scratched the linen as he body tensed.
"Relax," he said, aware that he was to take an "alternative virginity"-and excited by it. This might, for all he knew, be what Dr. Vogel would call "progress"-"one step at a time," as she had said.
The step now was into the well-guarded anus. Her whole body rumbled as the tip of the phallus separated the tiny muscles, nudging them apart. He felt his belly shove against the crack of the butt, only the head was buried in the ass-hole itself. He felt the heat coil around the dick, felt the shudder in her body as he hugged her, reaching under her and cupping her breasts as if to drill her even closer to him. He squirmed, planting the tool deeper and deeper inside her until he was in as far as he could go. He rubbed the insides of the cheeks with the base of the cock and most of the shaft; inside the anal pussy, he jammed the dry flesh with his cunt-moistened cock. His conscience was eased by the pleasure he seemed to be giving her.
"Do my backside!" Emily begged even as he stroked through it, spreading the filmy vaginal water. "Do me up the butt!"
Her own hand had moved under her, and she was rolling her pud against her palm, tickling the clit and masturbating herself, shoving her stomach into both hand and sheet, moaning softly all the while. She began to shiver with the rhythms of fucking, her ass quaking as he moved through it with the upper part of his prick. Friction seemed to moisten the anal aperture, easing the way as he felt the organ go thick with come.
He sensed Emily was close to orgasm, her body twisting from side to side as she fingered herself. He let himself go, driving the spike deeper up her southern entrance with each thrust, unmindful of the pain she diluted by tickling her clit.
The come felt like liquid fire as it spurted from the slit, and it quenched the dry upper reaches of the ass-hole. Each counter-thrust spread the thick cream along the interior, making him slide farther into her as he delivered more and more of the juice, ramming her home as she gasped with pleasure. Her ass was warm under his stomach, but the shaft could hardly feel the heat of the inner buttocks as he came. He had grabbed onto her shoulders, and in the wild animality of the orgasm, he was jiggling her upper body as he spent the last of his climax. Her breasts moved frantically as he shook the last of his satisfaction from her, lifting her off the bed.
She groaned as, drained, he pulled the plug from her bottom. He turned immediately onto his back, reaching out for her arm and pulling her on top of him. "Did you--? " She nodded. Her fingers were still wet with cunt-moisture. '
She stood up on her knees as she had before. Delicately she took the cock, already shrinking, in her hands. Her eyes widened with amazement and appreciation. "You see, you can come in me," she said.
"I always knew I could. It's only that, if it were, you know, inside your cunt-"
She broke his sentence by shaking her head. She had run her finger along the flatter side of the instrument. She held it up. "You see? I was bleeding. I'm a virgin thereor I was."
He was the pink blush on the finger and felt a spasm of shame. "I hurt you-I-I'm sorry-I didn't mean to-"
She was still shaking her head, but she was smiling. "It was worth it, to have you come in me. Don't you see? It's pleasure, too, not just pain."
She rolled the flaccid piece of meat between her sweating palms, themselves covered with her inner moisture. She was pulling the cock up, away from the bed of hair. She was moving down the bed, her tongue already beyond the rims of her lips.
"Thank you, baby," she crooned. "Don't you see? I want to thank you..." She muffled her own sweet sigh by rolling her tongue over the glans....
CHAPTER TEN
That, Frank was quite sure, had been the end of their unconsummated "affair," much to Emily's regret. Not that he was "turned off" by anal intercourse-far from it.
Simply that there still seemed some block to "the real thing," as Emily had called regular intercourse when they had lain nude in the aftermath.
He had decided there would always be a block, that it was unfair to keep Emily "bound" to him, a bit of bondage every bit as real as that of Sarah Robbins' ropes, if only psychological.
His life resumed without her. He felt not so much the pain of loss as-as nothing, he realized.
The days seemed divided from each other only by bittersweet dreams of her in which his cock had actually parted the labia, dreams in which he was moving stiff and happy up the vagina. In dreams he could dare what awake he somehow feared. In dreams, he thought wryly, he was not the coward he was outside the world of sleeping fantasy.
A month later, an envelope arrived with a Los Angeles postmark. The handwriting of the address was unfamiliar. He opened it to find an engraved invitation to his tenth high school reunion in Los Angeles, to be held at the University Hotel in West wood.
He immediately thought of Mrs. Goderson, wondering if she would come. He sat down on the couch, tired after a day's work, but the thought still sent heat through the length of his cock. He wondered what she would look like, be like, now. He wondered if she would even come-could she be teaching at the same school? No, he remembered now, she had left years ago-
Why, he wondered, had he forgotten? He had imagined her there, fixed in aspic, the same young woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, ever young, pursuing new young male flesh within the stuffy confines of the textbook room....He laughed at himself.
No, he thought more lucidly, the real reason to go would be to see Sam and Dave-and Jack-perhaps the girl whose name he only vaguely remembered now, but which was coming back to him-
Suddenly the pictures came back to him. He was ten years younger, in a holograph of memory, living high-school life once more. He went to his desk and opened the stationery drawer, took a piece of paper, an envelope, and removed his pen from his inside jacket pocket. He sat down, composing an answer to the invitation, marked R.S.V.P.
It was after six, and cheap rates applied. He dialed direct to Westwood, after he'd got the hotel number through information.
"Hello," he said, "I'd like to reserve a room for the weekend of the twenty-third..."
Frank checked the room first, unpacking his two suits-he'd decided to make a week-end of it. The banquet didn't begin for another half an hour. He'd picked up the "memory book" in the lobby, near the signs pointing to the banquet room, reserved for the graduates and staff of his alma mater. He sat down on the bed, then stretched out in his shirt-sleeves and socks. He began to turn the pages.
There was Frank's name and current address, lest any of those not attending would have wanted to renew old acquaintances. There, too, were Sam and Dave-but, since all those invited had been asked to send statistics and current whereabouts, he did not know if that meant they would be here, tonight. Sam's address was given as L.A., and Dave's as Seattle. Frank wondered if either of them would be as anxious to see him as he, now, was eager to renew their friendships.
Suddenly, under the list headed "organizing committee" was the name of Mrs. Ellen Goderson....
It was after the "rubber chicken" that the speeches began. Sam and Dave and their wives were at the same table.
The moment Frank had been waiting for finally arrived: Mrs. Goderson was called to the podium to a wave of applause-and, from Dave and Sam-winks.
She spoke as if with intended double entendres about the "many good friends" she'd made in their graduating class.
" 'Made' is right, eh, Frank?" Dave nudged, horse-laughing, to the surprise of his rather demure second wife. (Photos of the children-two boys and one girl-from his first marriage were available for viewing on request from his wallet.)
It was a brief speech, gracious but perfunctory. Ellen's eyes seemed to be spanning the audience for those very good friends, and Frank instinctively tried to catch her eye.
She had not changed so very much in that decade. Perhaps Frank had been right: she, at least, stayed as she was. He alone had aged. The well-dressed cool brunette speaking into the microphone with a sexy little-girl's voice (hinting at its own sensuousness) was the same "older woman" of his ten-year-old fantasies. She had matured, and there were a few more lines, an attractive streak of gray that she had not bothered to dye.
She sat down, to applause, and realized only when his two old friends began to snicker (this time to the puzzlement of Sam's second wife-she rather less demure than Dave's second) that he had been applauding more vigorously than most of the audience.
Later the announced policy of "buy your own drinks" was in force at the bar and Frank was looking for Ellen Goderson, his stomach jittery-what would he say to her? He sighted her at the bar, standing out in her elegance as Brent Hartley lit her cigarette-Brent had been a football and track star in high school. Frank had hardly known him, but there had been rumors that he, too, had "been sweet" on Mrs. Goderson. And Frank suspected that might mean that she had introduced him, too, to the delights of sex.
They were all, he mused, a curious fraternity.
He was watching them talk, trying to imagine Brent without the paunch he had developed in the intervening ten years. (It was hard.) Suddenly Ellen Goderson turned her head and caught that glance.
"Frank! Frank!" Brent looked vaguely embarrassed; her voice had called the attention of the clusters around the bar. He was left holding his drink as she half-ran to Frank.
"How wonderful to see you!"
Frank had been nervous, but now his smile substituted for the words he did not know how to select. "You're more handsome than ever," she beamed, and he blushed on cue, making her giggle girlishly.
"I've thought about you a lot in the last ten years," he said quietly. It was the kind of remark that could merely pass the time, that could be a pleasant lie. In fact it was the truth, but how was she to know?
"Good," she said. "I always wanted to be remembered." The voice was curiously intimate, as if the ten years had not happened, as if her coldness after her seduction of him had not happened. She had even jumped over the formalities of people re-meeting at a party.
"I think that's why I did those crazy things in those days."
Her voice had become even lower, more intimate. "What crazy things?" He could scarcely believe he was hearing a confession, that she was willing to talk immediately about what had gone on between them.
"You know very well what crazy things." She inhaled on the cigarette Brent had lit for her. She whispered, "I'm so glad I saw you-Brent's turned into such a dreadful bore. And so quickly, too-it's only been ten years, not a hundred." She paused and moved closer. "I can tell you haven't. Your eyes still have that look of wild curiosity in them."
"If they were so crazy, why did you do them?" he asked, wanting to resume the conversation. His cock had gone hard. He leaned forward, hoping no one would notice the bulge in his slacks.
"To be remembered. Just as you remember me. It's important to be someone's first." She paused, looking in his eyes as if for reassurance. "Isn't it?"
He nodded, his smile wry. "Certainly to me. I don't think I've ever got over it." It could be flattery, the common currency of a reunion party-but she could not know that it was the truth. Yet she looked insecure, as if she wanted to be reassured that it was.
He changed the subject. "What are you doing now?"
"I quit teaching a couple of years after you left. Perhaps," inhaling again, as if the smoke gave her strength or courage, "perhaps I wanted to be important sexually-a sexual 'teacher'-because I knew I wasn't much good as a history teacher."
"But you were-" he started, automatically, to interrupt, though it was the fact true that he remembered little of what she had taught him.
"Don't. Not everyone succeeds at their first profession. I was almost right in my first choice. Now I'm a psychologist-it meant going back to college. I work with adolescents-they're my specialty. Mostly-don't laugh-sexual problems."
But she laughed, breaking the ice, and Frank followed. There was a soft silence he broke nervously. "Are you married?"
"Why do you ask?" she responded coquettishly. He wasn't drawn. "Are you?"
She shook her head, and for some reason wet her lipstick, a deep scarlet glowed sensuously. "I married again, but it didn't last very long-eight months, in fact. A few years later I left teaching. And since all the bills were still coming in to Ellen Goderson-I hadn't time to have them changed-I decided to keep that name. It wasn't mine, it was my first husband's-but I'd gotten used to it."
"Are you alone?" Frank felt bold. He had nothing to lose, and his excitement, his craving for her-Ellen Goderson as a memory-made-flesh-drove him on.
"Why?" There was no real question in her voice. It seemed a provocation to go on.
"I was wondering what you were doing after the party," he said, his voice firm.
"Is that a proposition, Frank."
"Yes, Ellen."
She laughed and took his hand. "You've grown up." There was a long pause, and the small frown her lips made frightened him, threatened him with denial of his desire. "So have I," she said. "Where should we go? My apartment is-"
Feeling masterful, he broke in. "I have a room here, at the hotel."
"You don't waste time," she smiled.
"Ten years," he said. She wouldn't know what that meant either, Frank thought.
Waiting while she bathed, Frank felt as though he had somehow regressed, somehow made the journey back through the long lost tunnel of years. He felt the old uncertainty of teen-age coming back; Mrs. Goderson-he could, in this mood, not think of her as Ellen-was the "older woman." The years of sexual experience-even expertise-seemed to slip away.
The difference, though, he told himself, was that, steeling himself, he had made the first move. And she had responded.
He thought to himself that he could let himself slide into the "role" of younger man. But if there were any chance of exorcising the possessing virginity-his loss of it, and the possession by it of girls he had known-then now was the time. He must be an adult, a lover....
"Are you quite ready?" she asked, a smile shading the corners of her lips. He nodded. "Then get undressed."
Ellen was now under the covers, but the breasts almost moved from under. They were smaller than he had remembered, but as firm. The nipples had not erected; they were broad against her breast, the color of dying fire. Her flesh was the color of cream, and her midriff was as flat as Emily's-that is, of a girl twenty years younger. She was altogether more slim and angular than the hazy and more fully-proportioned figure Frank had remembered and fantasized about.
Linen bordered her breasts like ruffle underneath the cleavage. She sat up. Frank took his eyes off the tips of the tits as he stripped-but only with effort of will. The dream blended into reality, memory into the present. He was surprised that he felt no new embarrassment, though Ellen watched him keenly.
"Turn off the lights."
"Is that an order or a request, Mrs. Goderson?" he spoofed her, feeling as daring as he might have done in the classroom years before.
She laughed while he did indeed switch them off. "A request," she said softly. He heard a matchstick scrape, a small flare, and the next moment the hotel room was illuminated by the candle by the bed. He watched his own shadow on the wall as he moved toward her waiting form; she had peeled back the top layer of linen and blanket.
"You have a nice body," she breathed into his ear, sending a chill through his neck. "I remembered that," she said, flattering him.
His feet pushed under the covers, but he did not cover himself. He drew the white sheet from her breasts. Frank rested his cheek against her nipple, which hardened against his light stubble. He turned and blew softly at the erecting buds. His tongue followed his breath, and Ellen's tit grew sharper as he prodded it. Her fingers moved through his thick hair, and her thumbs massaged the nape of his neck. She slipped lower, her head resting on the mattress of the hotel bed, not raised on the pillow.
His lips pressed the undersides of her breasts as he pushed them up, now forcing, poking the taut areolas back into the softer mounds. His tongue streaked down the center of her belly, toward the talcum scent that mixed with the slightly sour scent of her sex.
Her hands were under his arms, and she was pulling him up. He lay above her now, penis erect and bristling through the sex-weeds. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth to him. His tongue glided against her own, and he wondered whether the grace of the kiss was merely her expertise, or where he had improved as a lover. He scolded himself for the self-doubt. Ten years ago he had been a virgin-of course he had grown more accomplished!
His hands moved slowly down her arms, just the fingertips touching, ever so slightly, her trim flesh. When he reached her hands, their fingers entwined, Ellen holding on tight.
She brought her hands inward with his, to the swelling of her hips, before releasing him. His short nails clasped the ripe and well-exercised buttocks. The woman's legs spread easily, and the tips of his fingers felt heat from the crack of her ass.
Ellen stirred again, breaking the circle in which his arms 230 had cradled her cheeks by thrusting her pelvis up. Slightly impatient, Frank turned on his side. Still excited, he was breathing heavily. He felt a shock of passivity, as if wondering what to do next, now that she had seemed to stall him. But she moved toward him and down the bed.
Her mouth took hold of his manhood. "Has it grown?" she chuckled before sliding down the stick, her tongue against the flattened underside. She moved so quickly and with such force that the balls wriggled in her sac.
Her head bobbed as her teeth skated gracefully on the stalk her own tongue had licked. She swallowed his bulk until her lips brushed the curly hairs. He pulled back to the bed, his ass shoved into the mattress, but her mouth would not let go-not that he wanted to be released from its moist grip. He need not have worried. She followed him down, inner cheeks locked to the phallus's shape. Her front teeth moved from side to side, sucking on the cock, making it spring within her mouth.
His fingers traced the outline of her jaw as she suctioned him, stopping only where the wet lips wrapped themselves around his erection. He could both feel and watch her as her mouth sank lower down the instrument, when finally the front teeth bit into the skin at the base, burning the flesh before a thin trickle of her spit cooled the friction.
"You're better at this, too," he said, and Ellen looked up at him, smiling at the small joke.
He inhaled deeply. With his thumbs under her chin, he tried to pull her, lead her, up toward him, over him. He now lay on his back, moving only to imitate the motions of sex in his ex-teacher's mouth. He curled himself so that his own mouth pushed at her beaver. With closed lips he kissed her thighs, while his hands, flat and stiff, pushed between them to grant access to her sexual depths.
The knuckle of his first finger rubbed the lower part of the converging labia. The hairs tickled the skin of the finger, while the hole radiated musky heat. The lips gave way to a cleft of the soft moistness. He pushed lower, and Ellen's legs scissored open. His knuckles moved back out of the cleft and he rolled them over the tiny bead of pink-purple flesh which grew as he caressed it.
Ellen sighed, then moaned, and finally began to breathe so heavily that her breasts rose like faraway mountains in a distorting mist. Frank looked up at them from the side of her leg; Ellen's hips rose, and she shoved her pelvis up against his hand. The fingers separated, and he placed a single tip at either side of the labia, pulling at them to disclose the wet darkness between, the darkness obscured by tangled hair.
His mouth came close to the beaver, and his tongue tasted first the thick, even coarse, bush. Next its edge found the clit and tasted its rich film while sniffing its slightly acrid odor. His lips covered the edges of his front teeth as he sucked the pearl between them, tickling the in-sides of his lips with it as he twisted it in his mouth.
Ellen's ass slithered down the bed until she was slamming the pubic bone against his mouth. He opened wider and began to lick the whole pud, his tongue slipping sloppily and his teeth carelessly grazing the skin below the hair. Yet the pressure only made Ellen Goderson more demanding....
As she rolled her crotch into his fingers-he used them all now, stroking the nether-lips of the genitalia with the aid of lubrications exuded by flesh just inside the cleft-she went farther down the stalk with her oral canal. The difference was that now she did not move up and down the erection, but kept Frank tight between her teeth and lips, sucking in on her cheeks. In the vacuum, the only pressure Frank felt was on the organ's underside, from the tip of Ellen's tongue as she poked the soft pink against his stiffness. He came near to gagging her as she forced the bulbous head to the start of her throat. The suction on the cock was so strong he could barely move, pinioned at the groin.
He probed inside her, inserting his tongue between the fold and scouring its first few inches, stretching the oral finger as far as it would go while his thumbs held the sides of the hole. Frank's head bobbed up and down, the tongue brush-stroking the clit on the upward movements as his nose glided through the salty hair, a few strands of which tickled his nostrils.
. He put his cheek to one side of the opening, sticking his finger into the pie. There he buried it, letting it rest while he closed his eyes and enjoyed the snake-like movement of Ellen's tongue on the throbbing base of his manhood, now covered and even trapped within her mouth.
Ellen dug her fingernails into his scrotum and scratched the thick skin as she pulled on it. With his tongue-tip Frank bore down on the clitoris, teasing her by sliding down and inside the lazily open sex-mouth itself.
She moaned as the tongue moved into the incision. "No, no, no," she said, while forcing the crotch deeper against his mouth, her body begging and saying yes. She pushed her buttocks from the bed and rolled herself against Frank's face, smearing him with woman-grease.
"Please-please..."
Frank looked at her. A film of sweat covered her forehead, and her own hands cradled her breasts. The mouth held his cock so securely he almost felt numb with its pressure. As he watched, her lips slowly left the prick. But she held onto the last inch below the glans. Then the erection sprang from between her lips of its own force, leaving her lipstick a scarlet shadow around her mouth.
She moved slowly, as if in a trance. Frank's head had been facing the foot of the bed. Her hands pressed down at his chest and stomach as she tried to pin him down. Her buttocks on his thighs blocked the circulation in his legs as she caught her breath. Her eyes were half-shut as her hand brushed lightly over her stiff tits. When her hand touched the penis, the palm was damp with a sweat much warmer than the cool spit with which she'd covered the bulk.
Ellen squeezed the organ, flattening its fleshy head. Rising off his legs, she leaned forward, pulling the cock toward her. She shifted down on it, missing him. His organ jammed sideways into the bush. Clenching her fist round its length, she aimed it more carefully at the wet hole.
Frank felt her moist warmth as he forced himself into her, his speed matched by that with which she sank down on the prick. The chasm's sides drenched him with humidity so thick he could feel it roll like waves around his erection. Sitting under her, he licked one of the older woman's swinging breasts. His teeth fastened onto the nipple, and Ellen wrapped her arms around Frank's shoulders, clasping him to her breasts, wriggling the nipples against the flat hardness of his chest.
She swayed above him, her exhausted body resting on his. He clutched her buttocks as he watched them rise. Squeezing her hard, the fingertips disappeared into the plush ass-flesh.
She was not so much jamming herself down on his erection as sliding against him. Her whole body was frenzied, out of control. He tried to tighten their coupling, digging his heels into Ellen's calves at the back. But she was too heavy on him, and moved too slowly. Her vagina, too loose for real friction, was wet and gamy.
His hands moved between their thrashing pelvic bones. In the curve of hers, he turned the hands so that his fingertips pushed up just below the navel. His fingers stretched the labia as he pulled on them. Ellen groaned and licked, her saliva streaking his perspiring skin. Her hands locked under his arms, rubbing his hairs back into the skin of the sweaty pit.
Frank's hands traveled to her midriff, then to her wriggling breasts, the tits alone frozen, constant. He squeezed them hard as he shoved his ass back into the bed. He was pushing up between her squatting knees, taking the mastery offered him by her-the roles reversed after a decade of fantasizing, of remembering her dominance. Her pubic hair covered his own as her womanhood trapped the penis.
He pushed her back, his hands on her breasts still. She let herself flop up and down, wracked with the rhythm of desire, and she lost hold of the cock, compensating herself by wiping her clit with the side of her hand and just as naturally thrusting a finger into her depths.
She touched Frank's side with the heels of her naked feet. She was touching herself now, and Frank stared at the lips rolling lazily on his body. She rubbed the outline of his buttocks, and he shivered when the balls of her feet rolled over his hipbones.
He had to wake himself from his own trance to stop watching her. He shut his eyes and sat up to move onto her. He kissed her wetly on the mouth; then the tongue and lips tracked the neck until he gathered the lobe of Ellen's ear between his front teeth. He scraped it lovingly, then swirled inside the ear delicately as she groaned. Her fingers, wet now with her own liquids, swept against his chest. Dried against the hairs of his chest, they moved to his cock, pulling down the skin. Her legs moved together around him, and he felt the soft thighs surround him as she twisted.
Suddenly, though, she moved below him and his mouth touched her neck. He bit down on the nape as she shoved her swelling buttocks into his stomach. The plank moved uneasily into the dry crevice of her anal passage; Ellen was drawing herself up on her knees.
"Lower," she gasped, reaching behind to feel the thick stiffness, grabbing it halfway down toward the root. Her chin moved toward her chest. Frank looked down at the half-hidden cock. He shoved between the rounded cheeks and felt only the network of black lace between her legs. He moved back, then jammed forward once again. This time the lips of the twat yielded to the ticklish glans.
"Better," Ellen said in a half-grunt. "Yes." He heard her sigh, begging him to push in. "Please, please, please.'"
All these years, Frank thought, he had seen her as the masterful older woman. Now she was begging for his cock to satisfy her. . . Her elbows pushed out at her waist, and her hands were hidden as the fingers pointed in and down to the beaver.
Frank's fingers clutched the loose flesh at the sides of Ellen's waist, then moved slower. The strokes only lubricated even more the already wet vulva, but finally the head smashed against the raw flesh, flesh that seemed to absorb its moisture and cover him with musk. "Yes-oh yes!" she cried, and now Ellen's fingers poked into the sac, forcing the rest of the cock after the head.
He was inside her depths from behind. The walls parted, and Ellen's body sank limply on the bed, only her ass rising like twin suns. The first few strokes were awkward, the shaft rubbing up between the converging ass-cheeks as it penetrated the vagina. He could only get a few inches of the cock inside of her....
He leaned over to one side to watch the graceful rocking of the ex-teacher's breasts; they shimmered each time he poked farther up the slippery cunt. His chin touched the slope of her shoulder, but he could not see below the pout of her belly. He could only feel, but not see himself as he was sucked inside her raw nakedness.
"Uh," she groaned, the exclamation coming as if squeezed from her throat. She jammed against his poker with the chasm walls, groaning in time to the force of his prodding. His hands had been palms down on the bed, but now he brought them up and jammed his thumbs into the sides of the breasts. The erect nipples, hanging toward the bed, almost touched each other and the linen at the same time.
Ellen's skin was covered in sweat as he reached for the tits. He put his mouth to the side of her neck and tongued the folds below her ear. She tasted of salt.
Frank pushed hard into her, and it seemed as though the extra inch of penetration he achieved was tighter round the shaft that the inner flesh was itself less smooth, though as well lubricated as before.
Now her ass-globes moved from side to side, straining the base of the erection and threatening to let him slip from her. Instead of the in-and-out, fojward-back stroking, she gave a wild twisting motion, and it was all Frank could do to stay inside of her. Her wriggling nearly dislodged him even as he plunged forward, and the soft inside flesh greased his glans.
One hand went to Ellen's stomach. The flat muscle-work was warm to his touch. The twin roundnesses of her buttocks bucked up against his own stomach. He moved forward and up on his knees. His thumbs pushed the nipples into the yielding pale flesh around their erect surfaces. Each nipple was comprised of what seemed to his touch a hundred granules of erectile tissue.
Ellen's arms flailed in back of her. Her fingers stroked his waist, then spread out, reaching toward his ass to keep him inside. Her own torso shook out of control. Sounds almost like sobbing came from her throat, but Frank knew them to be moans of pleasure animated by the rhythm of his thrusts. Her neck buckled, and her head seemed to snap with each new attack of Frank's prick.
His hands, clasped to her boobs, had stopped their jiggling. Now her flesh was taut and strained. His thumbs moved back and slipped under her arms, rubbing the bristle back against the thin layer of sweat. He bit tenderly into her shoulder and tasted the same salt while Ellen squealed.
Her movements were blunt now. She did not more than move up or down, quickly, on her knees, as if shaking free of him but in fact rubbing her inner walls hard against his inserted rod. As her whole body vibrated, Frank closed his eyes and let the pleasure of friction and pressure overtake him.
The cream spurted from the cock's tip. Ellen pulled on his manmeat, draining it not only of the semen that came in the first wild seconds, but of all the burning semen that moved from the roots deep inside his scrotal sac.
He kept pushing, though now more slowly, even when he had spent the whole wad of ejaculation. His cock had not yet gone soft, and he could appreciate, with his heightened sensitivity, the coating of the inside of Ellen's cunt, his own come mixed with the hormonal fluid.
Finally his grip on her breast and stomach relaxed. Ellen Goderson fell with exhaustion away from him, down onto the bed, belly flat. He stared at the rounded cheeks of her ass. The blushes of color showed where his own belly had snapped against her as they'd had sex.
"Hmmm," she hummed, satisfied, deep from her throat like a gurgle. Her eyes were closed and her lips formed a half-smile. Her backbone rose as she took deep breaths more reminiscent of sleep than of sex. He put his palm against her spine, aware she was falling away into post-coital unconsciousness. Her whole body relaxed.
"Cover me, Frank," she yawned, and he did. But not before taking a last view of her back, naked to him. It was the body that had obsessed him for years. In it he had hoped somehow to recapture his own newness to sex, when novelty nearly overwhelmed the sensation of orgasm itself.
He felt somewhat freed. She was just another woman now; attractive, but-
"I've gotten over all those crazy things," she had assured him. She was not the same woman, after all. She had aged and grown. To seek his own youth in her was silly. Both of them had lived the same number of years in the interval.
Youth, like virginity, could not be recaptured.
He knew suddenly what he must do despite the late hour. He got up off the bed. The mattress rolled, released of his weight. Sleepy Ellen turned her head and saw him dressing.
"You're not going?" she asked, stirring almost but not quite to awakening.
He shook his head. "I have to make a call. Downstairs from the lobby. So's not to wake you...I'll be back," he assured her, but she had already replaced her face in the soft pillow.
EPILOGUE
The phone in Emily's room-her private number-rang three times before she lifted its receiver off the cradle. Then there was more silence as she brought it to her mouth. She spoke her "Hello" in almost a whisper. Stirring, she asked, "Who is it?" Frank had been too nervous to announce himself immediately.
"Frank."
"Hello, Frank." Her voice was gentle. "Emily-" Words came now with difficulty. He wanted her there with him, he needed her. "Yes?"
"Will you marry me?"
He thought he heard a smile in her voice as she replied, "You asked me a year ago, and I said yes. You were the one who called it off."
"I had a problem."
"Yes," she replied, her assent almost inaudible. "Will you?"
There was a long silence, and then, "I must tell you something, Frank-" He knew what it was, and he wanted to silence her. But curiosity-the need to have the whole nightmare completed, concluded-overwhelmed him. "I made love to John. Only once. Last week." More silence, as though she expected him to interrupt.
"That isn't important."
"It isn't?"
"I think I've got it all settled now...Do you still want to see me-last month you said you would, if I wanted to see you."
"If you do. Are you sure you do?"
He felt the blood surge to his cock. "Yes," he said, smiling in the phone booth in the lobby. "I want you. And I want to be the last of your lovers, not the first."
