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don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Poor Little Rich Girl
by Kellis (kellis@dhp.com)

***

A story in the 50's private-eye genre, complete with a 
sexy woman and the threat of a gun. (MFM, oral, anal)

***

"Freeze, damn you, or I'll shoot!"

But then his voice lost its harshness. "Hell, you're 
Prissy Perrin!"

At the instant he flicked on the light, she had been 
standing across the room, body extended over the couch, 
one hand holding the picture aside, the other inside the 
safe, clutching a stack of money. She snatched her hand 
back, scattering a few loose bills on couch and floor, 
and released the picture, which swung down upon the open 
safe door with a clunk. Langley almost smiled; he had 
broken the glass that originally covered that print the 
same way years ago. She sagged with one knee on the 
couch, both hands on the couch back, body twisted 
uncomfortably, and stared at him from a pale, anguished 
face.

He advanced into the room, closing the door to the dark 
hall behind him, letting his pistol point slightly away 
from her. "Tell me, my dear: what is my neighbor's 
daughter doing dressed in black like a cat burglar with 
her hand in my ready cash?"

Her eyes darted right and left, then back to his pistol. 
She swallowed and answered weakly, "T-trying to be one, 
I guess."

"A cat burglar? Well, I agree that you've almost dressed 
the part, even to black sneakers. But what is that on 
your head, your father's golfing beret? It covers up 
your hair but is probably easier to see even than your 
blonde curls. And don't you know you should blacken your 
face?"

Her mouth twisted. "I was afraid I couldn't get it off."

"Is this some college prank?"

She hesitated. Her chin trembled. "Would you believe me 
if I said it was?"

"No. Turn around and sit down, Prissy, before you hurt 
your back in that contortion."

She obeyed with a sigh, hands falling on her black 
bejeaned knees. She was wearing a black sable short 
coat, also not the recommended texture for nighttime 
invisibility, though he forbore mentioning it. She 
stared up at him anxiously, licking dry lips, as he 
stood in front of her, the pistol still only slightly 
averted.

"The last I heard, you were a sophomore at Fieldsmith. 
This is February, Prissy. What are you doing home?"

"They threw me out."

"Did they indeed! Grades too low?"

"No."

"Then why did they throw you out, Prissy?"

"Will you quit calling me that? My name is Melissa."

"Well, I can't see much change since you swam with my 
daughters. I think you're still Miss Prissy. Why did 
they throw you out of school?"

"Your daughters -- especially Edna -- are the prissy 
ones!"

He nodded slightly. "I might agree with you about Edna. 
Why did Fieldsmith ask you to leave, Prissy?"

She sighed. "They said I'm a delinquent."

"A delinquent! I thought delinquency was Fieldsmith's 
main prerequisite for admission."

She smiled tightly. "It may be."

"Did they catch you cheating, Prissy?"

Her shoulders slumped and her face dropped. "My history 
prof's wife caught him cheating."

"How did that involve -- Oh, I see. Were you trying to 
improve your grade, Prissy?"

"No. Well, that too."

"I know a professor of history at Fieldsmith. It wasn't 
Carstairs, was it?"

She sighed, nodding.

"What happened?"

"She walked in on us in his office."

"What were you doing?"

"He was ... He was eating me."

Langley chuckled. "And a gourmet feast I'm sure it was, 
too! That sounds like Carstairs. He always wanted to 
taste. I take it that wasn't your first time."

"Oh, no. I went to his office every Tuesday and Thursday 
afternoon all winter."

He nodded. "Always at the same time of day, I'm sure."

"Three o'clock, when neither of us had a class."

"Of course. And Madam Carstairs grew suspicious, did 
she?"

"I guess. God, she's a big woman! She had a key, walked 
right in, grabbed my arm and threw me out in the hall. 
She threw my clothes after me." The girl rubbed her 
upper arm. "Still got the bruises." Her chin rose and 
red spots appeared on her cheeks. "That's what caused 
all the trouble, I think. I had to dress in the hall. 
The dean heard the commotion and came to investigate."

"Commotion?"

"Catcalls and whistles." Her expression changed. "His 
wife said something to him I didn't understand. 'You're 
certainly no Marc Antony.'"

He chuckled slightly. "Permit me to enlighten you. 
Carstairs once wrote a paper claiming to deduce that 
Cleopatra demanded cunnilinctus from all her lovers."

"Oh... Oh!"

"What then befell my good friend, Professor Carstairs?"

"I don't know. They put me on the plane before dark."

"This happened recently, I take it?"

"Monday."

"I'll have to give him a call." Langley grinned 
maliciously. "I'm sure he'll enjoy discussing it with 
me... Well, Prissy, you've accounted for your presence 
in Newport, but you have a bit more ground to cover 
before we get to your hand in my ready cash."

He pulled up a straight chair before her and sat in it. 
She eyed the pistol still pointing near her, then his 
lounging robe, the almost hairless bare legs and the 
slippers on his feet. "Were you in bed? It's not even 
eight o'clock."

"I was on my way. I noticed the light indicating my safe 
door ajar. I had heard a noise earlier but passed it 
off." He looked toward the French doors and smiled. "Did 
you stumble over that smoking stand?"

She nodded with an expression of chagrin.

"I put the two together and fetched this new Beretta 
with me when I came to investigate. Isn't it a lovely 
piece?"

"Ah, ah -"

He chuckled. "Perhaps not from your end of it, eh? Now 
tell me, Prissy, why didn't you just ask your father for 
the money you need?"

She looked away. He saw a tinge of red on her cheeks.

"Don't tell me he took your delinquency hard!"

"Huh!" she grunted and shook her head.

"He's upset over a little fucking, Prissy? Oh, excuse 
me, of course you don't use that word. Believe me, he's 
done more than a little improper fucking himself! If 
he's gone all hypocritical in his old age, I may be able 
to furnish you some ammunition. What did he do, reduce 
your allowance?"

She watched him for a moment. At last she heaved a very 
deep sigh and said in a low voice, looking down, "He 
threw me out, too." Her head came up to gauge his 
reaction.

"For fucking?" he demanded incredulously.

"For fucking him," she answered in the same low voice.

He thought a moment, staring into her almost defiant 
eyes. "What do you mean, Prissy?"

"He ... You know I'm not his blood daughter, don't you?"

"Yes, I knew. Your mother married him when you were two 
or three, then she died a while back in that plane 
crash. I see. You meant it literally, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"When did that start?"

"Start? Huh! It started and ended yesterday. He was ... 
very sympathetic. He comforted me. I sat in his lap. I 
felt his thing get hard. When I went to lie down he came 
to my room."

"And did what?"

"You know."

"Tell me, Prissy."

She looked away. "He ate me. I sucked him. Then we 
fucked."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Oh, yes. And I thought he did, too!"

"I think I see. This morning he was different, was he?"

"Oh, god, yes! He said that I was 19 and that he 
wouldn't owe me anything even if I was his blood 
daughter. He said I couldn't live there anymore. He --" 
She choked but continued gamely. "He made me leave with 
just what I was wearing.

"I hid in the bushes and waited until his car left. Then 
I went back in through the kitchen. Martha said he left 
orders to call the police and charge me with trespassing 
if I came back. She let me cry on her, gave me a coke 
and watched out while I ran upstairs for a few clothes."

"Including the ones you have on?"

"Yes. I found his beret in the back of the suitcase."

"So what did you do all day?"

"I had about 40 dollars. I hung around at Sloppy Joe's." 
She smiled. "Mr. Kilmer offered me a job. All I had to 
do was dance with the guys that come in there and let 
them buy me fake drinks."

"Did you take it?"

She sniffed. "I may be a blonde but I'm not that dumb!"

"Then what happened?"

"I remembered Edna showing me your safe that you never 
lock. I thought I'd get enough money to go back to 
Fieldsmith, to the town. Jeffrey -- Professor Carstairs 
once offered to rent me an apartment."

"And if his wife has changed his mind?"

Slowly she shook her head. "I thought about that. I 
don't know if my idea would work, but it might. I would 
just offer myself to the first man who looked 
prosperous, then the next, until I found one that would 
feed me."

"A well thought-out plan! You like fucking that much, do 
you, Prissy?"

"I wouldn't have much choice, would I? But I do like ... 
fucking."

He chuckled. "Oh, you do know the word!" He took a cell 
phone out of a pocket of his robe. She eyed it, her face 
again turning white. "If I call 911, you think it'll 
just be my word against yours, do you, Prissy?"

"Please don't call 911, Mr. Langley."

"Why not? Don't you think our community needs protection 
from a desperate thief?"

Her face tightened. "I'm not a thief!"

He nodded. "True, only because I caught you before you 
could get away."

She shivered. "Mr. Langley, isn't there some way ..." 
Her eyes narrowed as her voice trailed off.

Suddenly she dived forward off the couch to his feet. 
Ignoring the pistol, whose barrel now almost touched her 
temple, her hands parted his robe. "I thought I saw it," 
she cried. "It's already a boner!"

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked, staring 
down.

"I'm going to do what you want," she answered 
submissively, first looking up into his eyes, then 
suddenly leaning forward.

He gasped slightly, admitting after a moment, "Yes, 
Prissy, your assumption is quite correct." He slipped 
more forward in his chair, hips moving slightly in 
counterpoint to her head. "This is a convincing 
argument, my dear. If you continue as well as you've 
begun, you could win this first debate."

She backed away slightly. "Do you have to point that gun 
at me?"

He chuckled. "Would you believe the last woman who 
fellated me at gunpoint was my nanny?"

Her face showed horror. "You threatened to kill her if 
she didn't?"

"Not at all. She insisted on it, said it made her feel 
better about doing it. But you don't need it, do you, 
Prissy?"

She shook her head. "Jeffrey was right. Rich old men are 
weird!"

"Undoubtedly, only they prefer 'eccentric.' Take off 
your clothes, my dear. Let's see just how un-prissy 
you've grown."

She shrugged, threw her fur coat to the floor, pulled 
her sneakers off, got to her feet and pushed her jeans 
down. "How would you know the difference?"

He watched her while he let the pistol dangle 
negligently from a finger in the trigger guard. "I 
remember studying you and the other girls in my pool a 
few years ago. You say you're 19, which would make you 
about 17 then. Hooray for the bikini! I recall thinking 
that your tits were well begun with a lot of room to 
expand. What I admired most was your perky ass and a 
most seductive little belly swell. Edna's tits were 
better, but nobody could touch your pudendal pad."

"I always thought I had nice legs."

"It's hard for a teenage girl not to have nice legs."

"You enjoyed comparing us, did you?" she asked, her 
voice muffled by a velour blouse as it passed over her 
head. "Even your daughters?"

"A man fucks every nubile female he encounters, at least 
in the privacy of his own mind." He chuckled. "Some men 
end up paying psychiatrists because of that."

"But not you, right?" She was straining to unsnap her 
brassiere.

He watched closely without offering to help.

"No. The idea that a man should feel guilty for his 
thoughts is a religious invention designed to profit the 
priests."

"How about when you do it instead of thinking it?"

"That's different." He smiled whimsically. "Then it 
depends on the girl."

She stepped out of her panties and stood naked before 
him.

"Well?"

He nodded critically. "Impressive! Lovely, full tits, 
and the pudendal swell is a bit more pronounced, if 
anything. I'm forced to agree: you are Melissa, not 
Prissy." He got to his feet, put the cell phone back in 
his pocket and drew her against him with his free arm.

She resisted slightly. "Mr. Langley, I can't run away 
naked, and you know you're stronger than I. Would you 
please put that gun down? It makes me nervous."

"Then you hold it," he said unconcernedly, putting it 
into her hand. "And call me 'Dickie-Pie,' if you 
please."

Her eyes widened in astonishment. She hefted the weapon, 
then examined it closely. "But this is a fake!"

"Please, dear. It's a replica: correct weight, color, 
everything but function."

"God!" she declared in disgust, letting the thing fall 
onto the carpeted floor with a thud.

He grasped her breast with the freed hand. "This feels 
so much better anyway."

"God!" she said again, watching as his hand kneaded the 
soft flesh, rolling the puckered nipple between 
forefinger and thumb. Slowly she smiled. "What did you 
say to call you?"

"Dickie-Pie."

"Like your nanny?"

"Like a sweet little cocksucker."

Her hand grasped the organ that prodded her belly. "Do 
you want me to suck, or do you want to find out what 
Jeffrey loved?"

"I know what Jeffrey loved. Why not both together?"

"Let me on top."

His eyebrows rose admiringly. "That sounds like the 
voice of experience."

"It is! With my head on the couch you could jam it down 
my throat. Lay down, Dickie-Pie."

* * * *

After various permutations his torso ended atop hers on 
the couch with her legs wrapped around his hips. He 
raised up, panting heavier than she, as her legs 
reluctantly released him. "You do like to fuck," he 
gasped, "don't you... Sweetie-Puss?"

She grinned lazily. "Told you so, Dickie-Pie."

He shook his head, backed away and slipped off the couch 
to his feet, where he stood leaning forward, helping to 
support his torso by hands extended to his knees. She 
frowned. "You're all right, aren't you, sir?"

"Soon as I get my breath! You're a marvel, Melissa. Do 
you have any idea how many times you came?"

"Who counts?"

He shook his head, straightening up. "I don't believe I 
ever knew a girl who could enjoy it so much with a 
stranger."

"You're no stranger!"

"Perhaps I should have said, 'With a mere 
acquaintance.'"

She chuckled, deep in her throat, as she sat up on the 
couch.

"You're a lot more than that, Dickie-Pie."

"Oh?" He grinned in puzzlement. "How's that?"

"You fucked me once before, you know." Her eyebrows 
rose. "Huh!

Then you truly didn't recognize me?"

He stared at her, several expressions chasing each other 
across his face. 

"Last Halloween?"

She nodded with a giggle.

"That was you? My god, I thought it was Eileen Cam- That 
is... But, dammit, I gave her that Vesuvius mask 
myself!"

"She had to powder her nose. I borrowed it."

He shook his head. "I can't believe this. I tell you, I 
recognized her perfume."

"We can both afford that scent. Well, I could until this 
morning."

"Why didn't you stop me, Melissa? When I pulled off your 
pom-pom, as I recall, you grabbed the dick of my 
costume."

"I wanted to see if your real one was in it."

"Of course not!"

"So I found out. But you make a good looking devil, 
Dickie-Pie."

"You recognized me, then?"

"No, but when I told Eileen that I had fucked the devil 
standing up on the dance floor, she had to look. I 
thought she would laugh her head off. She knew you, of 
course. I'm surprised she didn't tell you about it."

"Huh! She let me believe it was she I was fucking!"

"Now I understand," the girl observed sourly. "She must 
be nearly 30 years old. Is my body really so much like 
hers?"

"In a chorus-girl body suit, yes."

"But you got past the suit."

"Oh, yes. I believe it was Benjamin Franklin himself who 
first noted that age matters little in those female 
parts."

"And I kissed your devil's dick while the real one was 
in my cunny. Did you hear the woman beside us in the 
blue wig? She said, 'Too bad yours isn't that long, 
Bugsy.'"

She laughed a silvery peal, but her expression grew 
solemnly reflective. "That was a different life."

"Carefree and gay, eh?"

She sighed. "Gone forever, I guess. Will you send me to 
jail, Mr. Langley?"

"I might as Mr. Langley, but never as Dickie-Pie."

She rolled forward to the edge of the couch, hand 
extended to grasp his shrunken organ. "Then how do I 
keep Dickie-Pie?"

"That's the way, of course. You can stay here awhile, 
Melissa, especially if you... Hmm. Yes, exactly, but if 
you suck it up now, it will only be sore. I was about to 
say that both girls are away at school and Eleanor is in 
Acapulco on one of her sulks. She won't be back for a 
month or two, not till she runs out of beach boys and 
the weather improves."

"Eleanor? Oh. Mrs. Langley! What about the servants?"

"Old Granville died, you know. Heart-attack while 
bringing Eleanor her morning coffee. Made a mess on the 
stairs. And Abigail left with an attack of terminal 
pregnancy. Just now dinner is catered and a crew comes 
in once a week. Nobody you know."

"Then I could stay here!" She looked up hopefully. 
"Would you let me call Jeffrey?"

"Did you have some particular feeling for him, Sweetie-
Puss? I hate to tell you this, but you're about the 
fifth coed his wife has caught him with. I think it's a 
put-on to terminate the affair. Especially in your case, 
if you'd been fucking him all winter."

"We started after a conference in October. He said such 
nice things to me!"

"Of course he did! Sweetie-Puss, to a man our age you 
are all the milkshakes, banana-splits, deep-dish 
cobblers and crusted bombas rolled into one package, the 
personification of sweet love."

"Stop it! You're making me hungry." She sighed. "You're 
probably right about Jeffrey. Even I noticed how much he 
had cooled down." Slowly her concern faded. "Where would 
I sleep?"

"Do you have to ask?"

"No, I guess not." She regarded him quizzically. "I've 
never actually slept with a ... a grown man. I hope you 
don't snore."

He chuckled. "I'm told that when I do, my tongue comes 
out and wiggles up and down."

"It doesn't!"

"Where's your suitcase, Sweetie-Puss?"

"Just outside those French doors. By the way, Dickie-
Pie, why did you put your safe in a room with French 
doors, anyway?"

"When the safe was put here, that wall was solid. 
Eleanor cut the doors and built the balcony. Did Edna 
also tell you about the key under the flower pot?"

"Yes, she did."

"That girl! I wonder who else she's told! Slip your 
shoes on long enough to bring in your suitcase, and lets 
go to the kitchen. Even I can do wonders with a 
microwave!"

* * * *

"Why do you want to fuck in the servants' foyer, Dickie-
Pie?"

He pointed up to the mirrored ceiling. "Because of 
that."

"Oh." She grinned in anticipation, straining her head 
back.

"And this." He pressed a button under an arm of the 
heavily overstuffed couch. The back obligingly swung 
down, forming a wide, soft bed.

"And one other reason. That is an outside door, but no 
one is out there this morning, and you'll notice there's 
not a single window in this room. Now trot over to that 
closet like a sweet puss and fetch back a blanket to 
cover this couch. We don't want to stain it, do we?"

Throwing off her borrowed peignoir, she scampered 
nakedly away and returned with a blanket, smiling up at 
her reflection. "That mirror is the main reason, isn't 
it?"

He grinned. "Don't worry, I won't make you do all the 
pushing!"

"Why all this in the servants' entrance?"

"Well, actually, that's an old name for the place when 
my mother lived here. The back drive is right out there. 
When I was a young blade, that mirror often got sweated 
up at night. The ceiling in this room is lower than most 
others, you'll notice."

"I'll bet you fucked every girl for miles around."

"No, dear. It wasn't like today. The pill was new and a 
lot of girls were slow to use it. But I got my share and 
then some." He grinned. "Still do."

"Yet you were home alone last night."

"Well, I can't keep up the pace I managed 25 years ago, 
can I?" He chuckled. "One way around that is to use this 
instrument more." He waggled his tongue at her. "Lie 
down on the bed and pull your knees up. By the way, can 
you make a Viennese Oyster?"

She grinned. "Jeffrey told me about that."

"He would! Can you?"

In a jiffy she was bouncing on her arched back, heels 
behind her head, buttocks and pudendum raised, shoulders 
and arms resting on the bottoms of her thighs. She 
laughed at his popping eyes. "This is what you meant, 
right?"

"Oh, yes!" he breathed. He knelt on the bed and caressed 
the upturned cheeks. "How remarkable, no acne! Everyone 
who sits much has acne around the bottom of the butt." 
He leered at her smug expression. "May I gather you 
spent more time on your back or knees than sitting?"

"Jeffrey gets the credit. He gave me a cream to use and 
inspected me every time."

"I can just imagine his inspection: rather like the one 
I'm about to perform, wasn't it!"

He spread her labia and bent to the aromatic fissure. 
After the briefest licks, he raised up slightly to look 
at her. "Thank you, my dear. You applied the bourbon 
douche, I see."

"I wondered if you'd notice. How about using your 
fingers, too, Dickie-Pie?"

He chuckled and bent to her again. She sighed, hips 
quivering, staring into the mirror. "Oh, Dickie-Pie! I 
love this view." But her eyes soon drifted shut. 
Nostrils flaring, she moaned in time with the strokes of 
his fingers. The moans soon became a scream when his 
tongue lashed her mercilessly. She forced his head away 
roughly.

"You did that better last night!" she complained from a 
red face.

"I want you at maximum sensitivity this morning. Now 
raise your heels and take some of my weight on your 
calves and thighs."

He slipped into her as her legs rose. Her heels hooked 
over his shoulders. "Ah, yes," he breathed with a smug 
grin. "That deep enough for you, Sweetie-Puss?"

"Oh, god!" she said distinctly. "I'm coming again!"

Her body convulsed under him. He maintained steady, deep 
thrusts. She began an orgasmic cycle of short screams, 
temporary rigidity, then gradually increasing hip motion 
and sphincter closure leading again to short screams. 
"Magnificent!" he murmured, studying her flushed 
countenance with admiration and no little envy.

After several cycles the main door behind them swung 
open with a sudden crack of the latch, admitting a blast 
of cold air. The girl stiffened. Langley reached past 
her to the edge of the blanket and folded it back over 
her face before swiveling his torso to identify the 
intruder.

It was a man in casual clothing too light for travel in 
the snow. Langley recognized him immediately when he 
turned back from closing the door. "God damn it, Gil, 
have you forgot how to knock?"

"Sorry, Bob. Guess I have. I didn't know you were 
fucking in here, for Christ's sake! Though I should've 
guessed. Your phone is turned off again, isn't it?"

The girl tried to lower her legs, but Langley caught 
them in his hands while his hips resumed a slow 
thrusting. Her hands were poised on the couch to twist 
away, but she held still.

"Have you heard something or were you just feeling 
sociable."

The newcomer sniffed. "That girl! Where is she, upstairs 
asleep?"

Langley grunted. "Do you think I stay in touch with her 
every minute?"

"Are you sure she didn't run out again last night?"

"No, I checked on her before we talked. As a matter a 
fact, I had breakfast with her about nine. Now that you 
mention it, I think she is lying down again. She needs 
it, Gil. She's had it hard."

"Yeah. She makes it hard! But I think we're getting to 
the bottom of it. Bellingham's operator uncovered a key 
fact last night, a contradiction in the bartender's 
recollection."

"Hmm."

"Dammit, will you stop fucking and talk to me?"

"I am talking to you, Gil."

"Say, that's a nice cunt you've got turned up there!"

"Thank you, on the cunt's behalf. With a dick in them 
they don't often have much to say. What was the 
contradiction?"

"Who is she?" the newcomer asked, hand reaching for the 
blanket edge.

"Unh-uh! Hold on, Gil. You might know her."

"I might, huh? Madison's maid that he had to fire last 
week?"

Langley laughed. "Madison's maid indeed!"

"Good god, not his wife!" But Gil immediately shook his 
head. "No, no, this cunt's too young. What a smooth ass 
on her! Bob, are you treating her right? Why don't you 
let her put her legs down before your weight gives her a 
backache?"

"Look here, Gil, I thought you were concerned about your 
stepdaughter."

"I am, Bob. I wish I'd been a bit more sympathetic -- 
Say, that cunt looks familiar!"

"Oh?"

"Bob, I'll bet you a couple of Gs I've been in that one, 
too!"

Langley nodded sagely. "It's possible, I guess. But I 
have to protect her identity. After all, you burst in 
here on us. Do you know, I could charge you with 
trespass?"

"Trespass?" Gil laughed a little. "As many times as 
we've walked in on each other before? Remember the time 
you caught me with Melissa's schoolteacher? Trespass! 
Don't be silly."

"Of course, I only mention it because you seem intent on 
exposing my partner, here. If you raise that blanket, 
Gil, our friendship is at an end."

"Good god! She means that much to you?" The man drew 
back, hand to chin, considering the gently moving couple 
with calculating eyes. "Where are your girls, Bob?"

"You leave my girls out of this!"

"That's one of your daughters, isn't it?"

"No, you fool! I wouldn't screw my own daughter."

"Prove it."

"What?"

"Let me raise the blanket."

"Absolutely not!"

But Gil chuckled slightly. "That's Edna's car under your 
south portico, isn't it?"

"No, damn it! That's one I had for the maid's use before 
she left. Somehow it just never got put in its stall."

"Yeah. Somehow! Which one is she, Bob? Edna or Ruthie?"

"God damn it, Gil, you're becoming insulting."

"Am I? If she's not your daughter, then let me screw 
her."

"Do what? Don't be ridiculous! What would it prove if I 
did let you?"

"I bet I could identify her, if she isn't your daughter. 
Ha! Dammit, one way or the other I'll get to the bottom 
of this." He began to remove his clothing.

"Gil, what the hell are you doing? Don't you know you 
can't just waltz into a man's house and fuck his woman?"

"Can't I?" The man stepped out of his britches. "I can 
if it's not really his woman! Now move over and let her 
put her legs down."

Langley drew a deep breath, hips stilled at last. "You 
won't bother that blanket?"

"I won't touch it."

"Then see that you don't."

Langley lowered the girl's legs. He could feel her 
tremble. Gil waddled onto the couch to take his place, 
hand working himself under his shirt tails. He caught 
her under the buttocks and lifted them up onto his 
thighs. He explained, "I have to sit up, sweetie, so as 
not to touch Bob's precious blanket." He leaned slightly 
forward. "But I think we can still get the job done. 
Hey, a juicy one! I swear to you, Bob, I've been in this 
cunt before."

"You've been in a lot of them, Gil. But I'll tell you: 
that's a funny way to look for your missing girl."

"Yeah, it is, isn't it." The man grinned, thrusting 
vigorously. But shortly he desisted and pulled the 
girl's hips higher in his lap. "That's not your juice in 
her!"

Langley agreed dryly, "It seems I was interrupted."

"Look at that big rose. Not much doubt about this one, 
is there?"

"What do you mean? What are you doing, Gil?"

The girl's body stiffened and her fists clenched but she 
made no objection to his slowly sliding penetration. 
"Ah, good!" the man declared. "When they're that juicy 
above, Bob, they're ready below." He looked up 
appraisingly at his friend. "Did you ever do a Boston 
Treadle?"

"One or twice, when I was in school. Takes a limber 
girl."

"This one is limber, or I miss my guess. Come on, help 
me raise her bottom."

Stepping carefully, Langley crouched over the girl's 
torso facing his friend while the latter rose to a 
similar crouch. One hand each on her opposite hips, they 
raised her genital area to an appropriate height, 
dragging her face from beneath the blanket, still 
concealed from Gil by the intervening bodies. She looked 
up with horror into Langley's buttocks.

Gil used his free hand to present himself again to her 
anus, while Langley depressed himself between her labia. 
Now supporting her hips aloft firmly, each with both 
hands, the men began an alternate thrusting.

"The only trouble with this," Gil groused, "is that I 
have to smell your cognac breath."

Langley sniffed. "I was just thinking how much more 
agreeable this was in the frat house. If it goes on much 
longer I'll have back trouble!"

"Hey!" called a soprano voice beneath them. "Don't stop 
now!"

"The hell with this," Langley declared. "Gil, pull out 
and turn around."

"What you got in mind?"

"A regular old Greek sandwich. Soon as she's on top of 
me, you put in from behind. You're the one that speaks 
back-street, after all."

Gil turned around. Langley stretched out beside the 
girl, helping her reverse and crawl atop him. She sighed 
with an introspective expression as he slipped into her. 
If recent developments worried her, they were not 
apparent.

"Okay, Gil, we're ready."

The younger man knelt behind her between the spread 
pairs of legs. In a moment they had established a 
synchronous rhythm.

"I feel you," Gil announced, licking his lips.

"This compression pattern is unique," Langley agreed.

"You can say that again!" declared the girl. She began 
to moan.

Langley said reminiscently, "Remember that bar girl in 
Providence?"

"Like it was yesterday. She loved this, too."

"And wasn't it you with me on the lake at Buffalo? That 
was a bunch who loved it."

Gil nodded. "I think all women love this, if they can 
find trustworthy men to do it. Listen to her!"

Melissa had begun to utter soprano gasps that were small 
screams.

Her hips were rolling vigorously upon the vaginal 
penetration. Suddenly she shuddered while otherwise 
rigid, though the men continued relentlessly. Soon she 
relaxed and restarted her hip rolls. The moans were not 
far behind.

"How long can she keep this up?" Gil asked in wonder.

"I think you probably know better than I," Langley 
replied, moving easily, leaving most of the work to the 
tireless girl.

Gil smiled. "I knew who she was as soon as she spoke. 
How long have you been fucking her, Bob?"

"Apparently once last Halloween, then last night. Didn't 
you tell me your wife put her into your bed when she was 
13? That's kinkier even than usual for Newport."

"Mabel thought my enthusiasm was flagging. She sure 
stirred it up, I'll admit!"

Langley chuckled. "Last night Melissa let me believe you 
only fucked her the once in sympathy for her problem 
with that asshole, Carstairs."

"Huh! The only truth in all that bull she shot you was 
the bit about Carstairs. But I think I understand the 
whole thing now, and we've got a problem. Can I count on 
your help with Judge Powell?"

The girl screamed out another orgasm. When she relaxed 
into a quieter part of her cycle, Langley responded, 
"You mean the lad they thought was driving?"

"Yeah. It doesn't sit right, letting him take the rap."

"Don't jump the gun, Gil. I want to hear what Melissa 
has to say about it first."

Gil grunted. "She's in no condition to talk coherently."

"Oh, I don't know. Hold still."

"What? Are you kidding?"

"Not a bit. At present you and I are in excellent 
positions to judge her veracity."

"'To judge -' All right. How will you proceed?"

With both men holding themselves rigid, very shortly the 
girl raised her mouth off Langley's shoulder. "Why did 
you stop?" she asked aggrievedly.

Langley said quietly, "We want to hear you say who was 
really driving night before last."

"Can't we talk about that latter?"

"We will! But that's the crucial question, and Melissa, 
you know that neither of us will ever turn you in! Hell, 
if we did you could probably charge us with worse."

She sighed. "I was driving." She craned her neck to look 
back at her stepfather. "You're in this together, aren't 
you?"

He leered. "And a wonderful this it is, too!" He resumed 
his thrusts.

She turned wild-eyed back at Langley. He smiled gently, 
pulled her face down and kissed her. "Just enjoy it, 
Melissa. We'll talk later." He, too, resumed the slow 
rotation of his hips.

* * * *

"Now maybe you'll tell me. What was the bartender's 
contradiction?"

The girl lay naked on the opened couch, legs drawn up 
with a hand between them, thumb of the other hand in her 
mouth. She had collapsed so when the men left her. Now 
her eyes were closed and her breathing was regular. 
Langley had resumed his robe and sat in a nearby chair 
watching Gil desultorily recover his own clothing.

Gil paused to pull the blanket over the girl's torso, 
then resumed buttoning his shirt as he answered. 
"Bellingham's man noted it last night before we 
understood the significance. A bar fly who was there 
Wednesday night, too, heard the bartender - name of 
Kilmer - say then that Melissa was driving when they 
left, but last night Kilmer told Bellingham's detectives 
that the kid, Pershing, was the driver. Thinking it over 
this morning after I talked to you, and noting Sloppy 
Joe's number on my Caller ID record, I realized what it 
all meant, that we didn't have to interrogate Melissa." 
He grinned. "Though it's nice to have her admission. And 
one other thing, if she'll tell the truth. How much was 
Kilmer shaking her down for?"

"$10,000," the girl announced sleepily, not looking up.

"Have you already paid him anything?" asked Langley.

"The $5,000 I got for my car."

"When were you supposed to pay the rest?"

"Tonight. He said if he didn't hear before supper he'd 
call the cops and tell them he made a mistake."

"Who actually saw you in the driver's seat when you left 
Sloppy Joe's?"

"I don't see how anyone could. It was snowing awfully 
hard."

"Did you tell anyone in the bar you would drive?"

"I let David lean on me to get out the door. I guess 
anyone who noticed could see he was wall-stoned."

"'Wall-stoned,'" Langley repeated, chuckling a little. 
"That says it, doesn't it? So you poured him in his car 
and set out to drive him home, did you? What's he to 
you?"

"A good friend."

Gil, buckling his belt, snorted. "For the past several 
years! I caught them humping on a pool table when she 
was 14."

She retorted defensively, "He and I could always tell 
each other anything. But now he's at odds with his 
mother. He drinks too much."

Langley continued, "The accident happened two blocks 
away. You were still driving when you hit the city bus. 
How did you manage to smack a lamp pole half a block 
further on?"

"I'd been drinking, too. I already have two DWIs. They'd 
take my license."

"So you moved David into the driver's seat, eh? After 
all, it was his car. Where was your car?"

"In the Sloppy Joe parking lot. It stayed there until I 
met Harry from the used car lot to sign his papers. At 
least he was willing."

"Yeah," Gil agreed dryly, "I guess he was: a 40 grand 
Corvette for five."

"So you immediately turned the money over to Kilmer, did 
you, and set about locating the next five?"

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she said in a small voice.

"I am, too," Gil agreed, "but mainly that you didn't 
understand you could have come to me -- that you should 
have come to me right away!"

She sighed. "Have you forgot what you told me at the 
last one?"

"That was just in hopes of slowing you down. Don't you 
know I could never really throw you out?"

"You said I was 18 then and even if you were my real 
daddy you wouldn't owe me anything."

Gil looked away shamefaced.

"What about David Pershing?" asked Langley. "They've 
charged him with DWI and hit-and-run, plus a few other 
things like reckless driving. Where's his father? Why is 
he still in jail?"

"His father's dead," the girl explained, eyes lowered. 
"He's afraid to tell his mother."

"I see. Gil, will you take care of the expenses, the 
repair bills, all that?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Have Bellingham look into Kilmer's past. He's 
bound to find something! I'll get David out of jail and 
speak to the judge. He owes me one or two. Melissa, look 
at me. You've got to have confidence in your men."

"My men?"

"I count myself in that august assemblage. Let me say, 
have confidence in your old men. Remember what I told 
you last night about sweet food?"

"Yes. Now you're making me thirsty! Do my old men 
include Jeffrey?"

"Definitely!" declared Gil.

Langley regarded him curiously, then smiled. "Ah, yes. 
Now I remember how thick you and he used to be. Did that 
have a bearing on your confidence in the Boston 
Treadle?"

Gil chuckled slightly. "As a matter of fact, Jeffrey and 
I introduced her to it. She's right. Aren't we all 
thirsty? I know you've got lots to drink in this place."

Langley gestured to the inside door. "The refrigerator 
next door is supposed to be stocked. You two go ahead. I 
need to make a few phone calls."

END

kellis@dhp.com
Stories Gratis at http://www.dhp.com/~kellis

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. 4-million people around the world 
contract HIV every year. You only have one body per 
lifetime, so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 70