The rain which had begun as a gentle drizzle now roared on the convertible top of Emily's car. In fact, it fell so heavily that she was unable to see clearly through the windshield. Her wipers hurried back and forth, doing the best job they could under the circumstances, but they could not clear the glass effectively. To make her situation even more unpleasant, she notic ed suddenly that the needle of her fuel gauge read well below the Empty point.
Oh! If only she had had the sense to fill up when she passed through that last town.
But it was too late for that now. There would hardly be another gasoline station up here in these damnable mountains, and even if she should pass one, she imagined, it would almost certainly be closed at this late an hour. In fact, it must be midnight or after. Damn! What was she doing up here anyway?
The best she could do, then, would be to proceed slowly and evenly in order to save as much fuel as she could. Perhaps if she could manage to drive as far as the pass, she'd be able to roll down onto the plains on the other side. And, in the meantime, if she did come to a station, she could, always park before its pumps and sleep reasonably well in the back seat until someone came to open up in the morning. All this practicality was perfectly sound, of course, but just at that moment she truly could not see why she had needed so desperately to leave Arthur-well, run out on him if you wanted to know the truth. For three years they had been constructing quite a pleasant life, even an exciting one. And now here she was, driving away into the night with an ache in her heart, stripped of understanding of what was happening.
She felt like some rather obvious little tart of a wife in a mediocre movie. But here she was, for all of that, lost in these endless mountains, her handkerchief, predictably, soiled with tears.
She had slowed the car to thirty-five. Lightning began to flash around her, affording her piercing views of bent treetops against a hurtling, grey void. Thunder came with the lightning to shake the car on its foundations as a dog would an impertinent stick.
The trees crept by at a snail's pace. She wasn't getting anywhere. She'd never reach the pass at this rate. The road she followed was totally deserted. For hours she had not seen another car. The black shapes of trees hemmed her in too tightly, and the winding climb allowed her no sense of relief from their embrace. She wanted space around herself, vision, a chance to rest. It was all too close, too loud. But the road kept drawing her higher and even higher, away from the range of human company, and away into a blackened and drenched landscape of fretful trees and conglomerate rocks. She tried the radio, but the storm around her so interfered with the radio waves that she heard only now and then a distant voice, thin and useless through the static.
Now too her roof began to leak. Just a little at first, a few drops, but as the storm beat upon the opening, the drops grew into a stream. Soon cold rainwater coursed down the windshield and splashed onto her skirt and knees.
She grew ever more damp. The windshield was fogging up, and the defroster worked only poorly. The water dribbling down her calves grew warm from her body before it ran into her light shoes, and she realized that her toes were growing all squishy. She had come into an area of gusty winds, and the rain was now driven through her roof almost without slowing down. The car swayed drunkenly on the long curves. She slowed further. Her headlights, even, were dimmed by the heaviness of the rain. How high was this pass? Wouldn't she ever get there? Why had she come?
Why, why, why had she left herself without gas? It was at that moment that a pair of wrought-iron gates came into view on the right. They were so out of place that she hardly realized what they were until she was nearly past. She had an impression of space though, as her headlights fleeted over them, but no lightning came to show her more. The gates had seemed to be hung on stone pillars. There had been a board, perhaps with a name or a warning upon it, which swung in the wind. She slowed the car. There had been no sign of a house. She pulled the car to the shoulder of the road and stopped. She was growing wetter by the minute. Certainly, it was far too late to call upon strangers, and yet the thought of sleeping in the car was increasingly unappealing. And she might as well admit to herself that she'd never find any gas now. Already the engine had choked once or twice. There! It missed again. Oh, God.
She looked backwards through the red glow of her taillights to where the gates had been. But this was too cliched a situation; I mean, really! A lonely house on a hill, probably Victorian, a crashing storm, a girl in distress. Straight out of Mary Shelley and the gothics. It embarrassed her, so conventional a scene was it. It embarrassed her, and she pulled the car once more out into the road.
But she was not destined to go far. Before she had traveled another mile, the car's spluttering had become so marked that she knew escape from that house back there was impossible. Had she been able to go a few miles more, she would have slept in the car, wet, but spared the necessity of appearing like a half-drowned kitten appealing for shelter in the middle of the night. She turned the car with its last drops of gas, and commenced to roll back through the storm. There was always the chance, of course, that no one would be home, and she could sleep in the car anyway, secure in her anonymity yet knowing she had done all she could.
She braked to a halt before the gate. An opportune flash of lightning showed a driveway and a copse of trees into which it disappeared. And the name upon the signboard was "Black."
The crash of thunder which followed even as the lightning was still vivid in her eyes stunned her. She panicked. She found herself clutched before the gate, wet through, tugging at the bars with frantic hands. The lightning came again, and the thunder.
The noise seemed to still the very blood in her veins. The shock of it thrust her against the wet, cold bars like a blow from a battering ram. Dimly she realized that her own voice was bellowing in her ears, screaming and screaming to drown out the thunder.
She tried to pull herself together. It was just thunder. Just a big noise. Thunder couldn't hurt you. It's okay, Emily, she kept soothing herself, it's okay, it's okay. Oh God, where was Arthur?
She returned to the car, pulled out an old raincoat, closed it uselessly around her shivering body, pocketed her keys, and locked the door. She walked calmly to the gate. She could see no bell to ring. She tried the bars again. They were not locked, but they were closed by a complicated latch which. had defeated her earlier panic.
She unfastened the gate and pushed it open. The drive led in front of her. Rain pelted her from behind, and the wind seemed to lift and shove her down the road.
She felt the water seeping through coat and clothing to drench her with another ooze. Lightning struck again, and the thunder came, but she was prepared, vigilant against terror. She did not even turn her head. She clutched the coat together in front of herself with white little hands, carried her face stiffly, and marched into the utter darkness between the trees. The coat was useless, of course, better suited to a lady like drizzle than to this gale, but she kept it pulled determinedly to her as the trees whipped her and the wind rose to a howl.
Finally, the drive left the trees. She had followed pale, white stones through the darkness, all that she could see, but now she was out. again in a rolling, landscaped country which the lightning revealed to extend far along the mountain slopes in each direction. She caught glimpses of other wooded areas, of small outbuildings, of what probably should have been graceful shade trees now gusted into writhing monstrosities. Someone very substantial lived here. The name Black meant nothing to her, save that symbolically it was apt for this night.
Probably an eccentric woman of Victorian v intage, a Miss Havisham keeping herself in timeless splendor. Or, more formidable still, a tall and cadaverous gentlemen involved in mysterious experiments who would lock her in a basement and allow her only the company of his large, mute servant named, unfailingly, Igor.
Whoever it was, he was certainly enamored of seclusion. The lightning still uncovered no sign of a house. Emily was beginning to wonder whether after all if she oughtn't return to the car when the drive angled around a hillock and down, and she saw the cluster of roofs which she knew must belong to the main house. It was situated, so far as she could tell, in the fold of a hill, backed by the imposing mountains she had been trying to cross, and looking out across what was probably miles upon miles of the lowlands. Carefully s ited plantings softened the shape of the house against the hill. She noticed that before a low garage were drawn up four or five expensive cars, putting their unquestionably immaculate polishes to the great test. The house itself was wide, of stone, and three stories high. It boasted gabled roofs and turrets, and a long, wide veranda fronted it. And, to her excitement, there were lights not only in some of the upper windows but coming through a series of tall French windows along one wing.
Drenched, Emily climbed the stone steps of the veranda. The front door was dark, so she walked to the French windows instead. She would have liked to peek in to see what sort of people they were, but heavy drapes cut off her view. She straightened her hair, took a deep breath, thought for one instant of the car, and knocked.
Nothing happened.
She knocked more loudly.
Still she roused no response.
She felt rather deflated. What should she do now? She gave one more louder knock on the glass and turned to see if she might not be able to attract the attention of someone upstairs. But just as she did this, the drapes were swept aside, and she found herself looking into the handsome face of a man of about forty years who wore a.comfortable-looking smoking jacket. A look of immediate concern crossed his features, and the door was swung wide to admit her.
"Oh, thank you. Thank you. It's so wet!"
"But, my dear, of course. Whatever can have happened? Do come in."
"I ran out of gas,. you see, and I saw your gate, and I-"
"Thank God you were close by! What a terrible night to be stuck on the road."
She had entered the room by this time, and he closed the window again firmly. She stood dripping by the glass and felt intensely awkward. The room was a large one, rather baronial, and was dominated by a friendly fire in a massive, stone fireplace.
The couches and chairs looked inviting. Save for the two of them, the room was empty.
"I'm afraid I'm rather wet," she said nervously. She realized that she was shivering as well.
"Well, of course you are. Now, don't worry about the carpets. It won't hurt them. You just come over her by the fire to get warm. Come on now! I'll not have you catching pneumonia in my house." He took her elbow and guided her toward the fire. Emily felt enormously relieved to have stumbled upon such a gentleman. He would take care of her, she knew, and see that she was all right. There was nothing to worry about now. She allowed herself to be led as a little child might.
"Now, that's better, isn't it?"
"Oh yes! It's so cold out there."
"Give me your coat, my dear, and I'll just hang it out to dry."
Emily peeled out of the clinging coat. She knew her clothing was soaked, and she felt somewhat uneasy about the fact that she was not wearing a bra. She had the sort of physique which is slender but sports quite massive breasts. Her nipples, she knew, were erect with the cold and from rubbing against the wet silk of her blouse.
She was aware that this man could see most of the contours and details of her body as she struggled from the wet garment, aware also that her breasts themselves were wobbling quite obviously as they hung from her chest. In point of fact, she saw in the mirror over the fireplace, her breasts were not actually as exposed as she feared they might be. Her nipples did stand out like cones, yes, and the darker color of them could even dimly be seen through the wet silk, but the rest of her blouse did not cling too tightly. Her hair, though, was a wreck.
But after all he did not allow her to be embarrassed. He hardly glanced at her body as he took her coat. "Now." He hung the coat over his arm and asked her, "What can I do to help your'
Emily was at a loss. She supposed that she wanted to spend the night, but one could hardly ask such a thing. Mainly, toward the end of her walk, she had just wanted to get away from that awful rain. "Well, I… that is to say, I'm out of gas, don't you see, by your gate. If you had some gas… " She allowed her voice to trail away.
"Nonsense! You'll stay the night of course." He looked at her for a moment. "A nightgown, I think. Something warm and flannely. And a robe."
"Oh, but I couldn't-"
"None of that. You will, and that's all there is to it. I'll just go and fetch my wife."
And that last word resolved the issue for Emily. Any small, lingering doubts she might have had, all of the Frankenstein situations, were banished from her mind.
Here was shelter; here was peace. The fire began to warm her. "You're too kind."
"Not at all, not at all."
Before he turned, he gave her a thorough looking-over, but she did not mind any longer. If her form pleased him, it was little enough payment for the fire and his was welcome. And he was, when all was said and done, a handsome devil. She glanced his way again and discovered that she was alone.
She had a moment to look around. She didn't want to leave the fire, whose warmth was seeping slowly through her clothes, but she saw that the room was both old and tastefully appointed. It was a library, and her host had been sitting reading a volume of poetry. An empty snifter winked from the floor beside his chair.
And then she heard footsteps in the hallway. He returned accompanied by his wife.
The latter carried a nightgown and robe, a towel and a hairbrush, and she wore a concerned expression. She was dressed formally in a full length dress of embroidered white material which was very decollete. Her skin seemed smooth and flawless in the indirect light and the swells of wide breasts under the cloth more sculptural than sexual. Immediately she bustled forward, all of a dither with sympathy. "Oh, you poor thing! You're so wet. Adrian told me we had a foundling, but I had no idea! And you walked all the way from the road? And through such a storm. Adrian, you go down to the kitchen and make a hot cup of something. Tea?"
"Tea would be lovely." Emily was amused by the woman's kindly effusion.
"Tea, then. And we'll just change our clothes before the fire here, won't we?" The woman laid the nightgown out before the flames to warm it. "Go on now, Adrian, or this poor girl will catch her death!"
But he was watching Emily's body again as she thankfully brushed her tangled hair.
Lifting her arms like that did wonderful things with her breasts.
"Adrian! Off with you." Emily caught a wink from him as he turned. "You mustn't blame Adrian for staring, my dear. You're so attractive and so… revealing."
"Yes," replied Emily in confusion. "Yes, I suppose I am."
"Well, let's not think of that now. You just slip out of those wet things, and I'll be back in a moment."
Looking around to make entirely certain she was alone, rather cautiously Emily began to undress. She unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it stickily away from her heavy breasts. Her skin felt cold, despite the fire, and she saw in the mirror that her nipples were as tightly wrinkled as she thought they were. She put her fingers to them, to coax them into softening a little, but they were determined to stay erect. To unzip her pleated skirt, she crossed her left arm across her chest, and the action caused her breasts to sway outward like lovely, pale mountains. She slipped the skirt down over her hips. En doing so, the wet material drew her pale blue panties down as well, exposing the cleavage of her buttocks to the firelight. A few strands of her thick pubic bush curled up in front. She pulled her panties back up, protecting her soft cunt lips from view, and allowed the skirt to fall to the floor around her feet.
She sat on the edge of the couch for a moment to gather her clothes together.
Though she was trying to be quick about changing, she paused for a moment with her thighs parted as a pulse of heat beat upon her dark cunt. She had always loved the heat of a fire on her body. Her legs sagged open more loosely. Nervous sweat had made her damp in the crotch, and she caught an errant whiff of her own musky scent. Her cunt itched. She shoved her right hand inside the cup of her panties and scratched herself idly while her memory conjured up luscious images of the fantasies she habitually used while playing with her body in front of a fire somewhere. She had masturbated almost constantly as a teenager-and she did still, though less frequently now that she was married. The knowledge of how easy it would be to arouse herself in this still house caused a hollow sensation to grow in the pit of her belly. She withdrew her hand and lifted it to her nostrils to catch the thick, odorous memory of many long caresses. How fine to manipulate her breasts, and her cunt, and her asshole as the wind shrieked powerlessly outside! She pressed her palm heavily against the soft, pouting pudendum which hung plumply in its pantie covering. She knew it so well! She loved the pleasure it could give her. She loved the long, uncomplicated masturbation which she knew would make that cunt just yearn and yearn for more of the same. A tail of a thought passed across her mind then, something about Arthur, but the immediate heaviness of her cunt in her hand was too important for her to follow that thought to its conclusion. She could feel the familiar moisture beginning to s eep in her slit. Her thick hair made such a nic e, crinkling feeling as she smoothed her hand down and down!
But then she heard footsteps in the house, and quickly she slipped the nightgown over her head. It was her hostess striding back into the room. But just as the woman opened her mouth to speak, Emily heard the sound of gentle music begin somewhere in the house. It was a sound which swelled softly and tantaliz ingly.
"What's that music?" she asked.
"Some friends of ours are practicing," her hostess replied in a vague sort of way. The woman began spreading her clothing before the fire. "This is a lovely blouse."
"Thank you. It's from Bali. I saw the cars outside. You must have other guests."
"Just some old friends staying for a few days." Again she changed the subject.
"Were you in Bali yourself?"
"Oh no! I could hardly afford that. I wish I had been though. I'm told it's lovely."
"It is."
"You've been there?"
"Oh yes."
"Someday, perhaps… "
"Well, it isn't expensive once you get there."
"But getting there is the thing. But, look here! I must be keeping you from your real guests. I'm so sorry."
"That's all right. I can join them later. They're just making a little music now."
Emily thought it a little odd that they should be playing at this hour, but as the other woman seemed to prefer not to speak of it, she changed the subject herself.
"Incidentally, I'm Emily Alexander."
"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Emily." They sat on the couch, and Emily drew her legs warmly up underneath herself. "I'm Laura Black, and that was my husband Adrian you met before.
"This is a very nice house you have."
"We like it. It's out of the way, don't you know, and that's what we want when we're in this country."
"You travel a lot then, do you?"
"Yes. We have business interests in Africa and the Far East. We're out of the States about five months every year, I would guess." Emily, who had never been able to travel, was impressed. "It sounds a very glamorous life."
Mrs. Black gave a pretty laugh. "I suppose it is. I don't mean to sound worldly-wise, but one grows accustomed to it."
"Yes, I suppose one does."
Mr. Black entered the room then with a tea tray laden with a shiny silver service and a collection of little sandwiches. The cultivated, international aura of the house swept over Emily as she told Mrs. Black whether she took one lump or two. Mr. Black sat down again in his original armchair. Again, the hypnotic quality of the music impinged upon Emily. Everything was so very still in the house except for that pulsing beat. There was a pause in the small conversation as they all took their first sips, and Emily paid her rescuers another compliment upon their musical friends.
"Yes, they do a very professional job," replied Adrian, but then he too shifted the focus by asking her something about the condition of the roads. And that was a subject upon which she could wax lyrical. Encouraged by their exclamations, she found herself talking quite freely, and it soon must have been clear to them what her situation was. In fact, she alluded to Arthur and to her flight from him frequently. It was an enormous relief even to mention the fact to someone, to make it less terrifying, conversable.
Neither of her listeners said a word until she had finished her monologue. She sat quietly, in confusion, for a moment, and then burst out with apologies.
"Hush, hush," purred Mrs. Black, patting her knee.
"Then you really haven't any particular destination?" asked Mr. Black.
"No. I, well, I don't know-"
"Then, Emily, I think it best for you to stay here for a few days. Please accept the offer of our hospitality. I'm sure my wife would be pleased."
"Oh, Mr. Black, I-"
"Adrian."
"And call me Laura."
"Well, thank you. That's very kind of you. But I couldn't, honestly. You don't even know me, and-"
"Now, now. We'll speak of it again in the morning. Perhaps if the weather has cleared, you'll at least allow me to show you over the grounds?"
"I'd be delighted. But please don't go out of your way."
"Nonsense, my dear. No trouble at all. Do you ride?"
"Well, I used to a little, as a girl… "
"Then it's settled. We'll have a lovely time."
"But I'm sure-"
"You mustn't argue, Emily," Laura interjected. "You have to understand that Adrian enjoys nothing better than showing off."
"Well, yes, it will be ever so nice," and she smiled quite sweetly at her host.
He, in turn, drained his cup, smiled back, and said, "Now, perhaps, I'll show you to your room. You must be tired."
"Yes, I am really. I'd like to go to bed." But on the contrary, she felt quite alive. She seemed light and very warm to herself, floaty almost. Maybe there had been something unusual about the tea. Or more likely it was something about the indolence of the big, quiet house. And the kindness, and the relief. She stood up with a sensation of complete contentment.
"I'll leave y ou in Adrian's hands then," said Laura, rising, "and bid you good night here."
"Thank you so much for the nightgown, and the tea, and, oh, just everything! You've been so kind."
"Enjoy your rest, sweet Emily." The woman kissed her lightly upon the cheek and turned to walk away.
Adrian and Emily followed her out into a dim, imposing entrance hall at the base of the wide stairs where they made their last good nights. Emily watched Laura then open a small door under the staircase, one clearly leading to a basement, and descend. And when the door had opened, the music had swelled in volume.
The size of the house was accentuated by the shadows which waited in the corners.
Emily climbed behind her host, treading silently upon the carpeted steps. Faint illumination only came from small, shaded wall lamps. Adrian offered no communication as they rose, and they encountered no other people. Emily was happy to fall into his mood and employ herself in staring at the dark faces and other reliefs which were carved everywhere into the woodwork.
On the third floor, Adrian led the way down a corridor past several shut doors. He stopped outside one such, pushed it open, reached inside for a light switch, and handed her through into her bedroom. Her heart turned over inside her. It was like walking into a bedroom in a fairy tale. A high, ancient, canopy bed dominated the scene. The floor was thickly carpeted.
A fire was laid ready for the match in a white marble fireplace. Dresser, vanity, writing desk and chair, bed table, armchair before the fire, everything was perfect!
One entire wall was made of a mirror which had dark, golden veins within its depths and gilt chasing across its face. The color scheme was cream and blue, and this was picked out by an admirably chosen Renoir, a portrait of Madam e Monet, which hung in an ornate frame over the mantle. The hot, dusty air of a summer Parisian afternoon seemed to waft through the painting, flowing over the lounging, exquisite creature in her long, blue gown.
Adrian first drew gauzy white curtains across the rain-dark windows and touched a match to the fire. Then he showed Emily the connecting bathroom. "I think you'll find everything you need."
"Oh, Mr. Black! How perfect it all is!"
He smiled at her. "Remember: Adrian."
"Adrian. Yes, I'm sure I'll be very comfortable." She skipped across the room and sat happily upon the bed. "A canopied bed!"
"Only the best for our waif from the rain."
She ran up to him again, flushed and excited by it all, and took his hand in both her own. "Thank you for being so kind."
"It's nothing. Now, don't forget our date for tomorrow. Anytime you wake up."
"I never would forget."
He leaned forward and, rather to her surprise, kissed her quite sensuously upon the mouth. She was too startled to react at first, but then a second later she recognized that she didn't care to stop him after all. It was all so sumptuous. The room, the kiss, everything! She closed her eyes and kissed him back, her hands coming somewhat tentatively to rest on his hips. She leaned further toward him so that the points of her breasts might brush against his jacket. And then he was wishing her goodnight and shutting the door.
She stood bereft for a moment in the middle of the room, not quite knowing what to do. She wasn't certain just what she had expected from kissing him, but this wasn't it. But she was, after all, just a guest here, a chance stranger in trouble upon the road. Ah well. She turned to explore the room.
And what a room it was! If one had to be stranded, this was certainly the place to be stranded in. She had a chance now to look at Mme. Monet and at the several other Impressionist painters who were represented. Their luscious Mediterranean visions seemed to make the room all the, more luminous. Too, the bedside books were that splendid, eclectic accumulation typical of guest rooms and summer homes. And all the while, as she tried each chair, she was conscious of her reflection in the mirror wall. She found it a warm and absorbing narcissism. One eye always looked back upon herself, as she moved about the room, and her gestures grew increasingly deliberate.
She gave the bathroom a functional exam ination. As she sat upon the toilet, she realized that the force of rain and the skin of wind had diminished considerably. A silence began to grow around her. Such an enormous house, yet so still! The flushing toilet was an intrusion. As she walked upon the thick pile back into her bedroom and saw the flickering lights of the fire upon the white ceiling, so deliciously was she cut off from the storm, from the ground, that she was nearly overcome by a swoon. No one knew where she was! She had escaped.
She felt a tendency to weep coming closer. Here, she might surrender herself to despair. It had all come to an end, and still she did not know just why she had driven away so furiously. Poor Arthur. What must he think? Oh, God! But as she began to be overcome by her grief, she noticed herself again in the mirror. A rather tall and quite slim girl with a head of perpetually disarrayed, dark honey hair. And a handsome face. Hardly beautiful, no, no matter how she angled it, not beautiful. But handsome. Unique. And, coming closer to the mirror, she caught a glint of amusement in her eye. Handsome eyes, and a very wide mouth, which now she twitched with a practiced, ironic grin. After all, it was just herself. What point was there in recrimination? She had done it, and she was here, and that was all there was to it. By God. And she grinned at herself again. Way up atop this silent house, alone with a fire. She angled her torso so that, apparently by accident, her astounding breasts were clearly visible. Here she was, all by herself, in this wonderful room, with a cheerful fire and the rain dying outside. Here she was, surrounded by the silence and the luxury, safe, alone. And she winked at herself in the mirror. Already there was a slight hollow in her belly. Perhaps she ought to go and look at the fire. Yes, indeed. How she did adore a fire. Ho hum. Now, let's see.
Let's just stand before the fire and-oh, a stretch! She thrust her arms over her head and raised herself vibrantly upon her tiptoes. But as she did it, she swung slightly so that her reflection might be caught from the corner of one eye. Ah! There's that girl again. And what enormous tits she does have. Yes sir. Quite wonderfully massive breasts. How proud she must be of them! Her emblem, her extraordinary feminity.
And again she chuckled at her audience. Strange, how a fire made her feel. Strange that breasts which were too big, far too big to be aesthetic, could suddenly appear so terrifically erotic. If the truth were known, they were far more a problem than an asset. They made it hard to buy clothes. She had to wear terribly tight bras to enjoy any sort of athletic activity. Until Arthur had bought a waterbed, she had found it too painful to sleep on her stomach. They elicited quite unwanted and usually unpleasant comments from passing men. But now, and she turned back toward the fire, now they hung from her chest with a song. As he raised her hands shyly to cup their weight.
Heat bathed her feet and ankles. She lifted the hem of her gown so that it bathed her calves as well. Her head fell loosely back upon her shoulders as she felt warm air circulating up under the flannel and twining round her legs. She spread her thighs a little to allow the air more freedom with her body. The light hair on her legs stirred slightly in the current. She felt as though she were a balloon: almost as if the warmth would lift her and support her as she lay effortlessly upon the air. She raised the gown still higher. A sudden glimpse in the mirror revealed spread calves and half her thighs upon which played the fire. Her hands held the fucked up gown, and her hips were canted forward, throwing her belly and the descending slopes below it -into relief. Had anyone been watching, she fancied, how anxious they would be to see even more of her arched legs! Coquettishly, she lifted the material even more. She could imagine the glow in her audience's, eyes as they saw her smooth thigh flesh being made nude before their eyes. Her own eyes held the same glow, in fact, and she pleased herself yet more by continuing the slow revelation. And now the first hint of her blue-covered, pouting V came into view. There, slung between her arching thighs, lay her most intimate part, and she knew that it was her cunt that they wanted to see.
Her cunt! Oh, her cunt. Already, she could feel the growing heat in her cunt. Already, the eyes of her audience were having their erotic effect.
With a single flowing motion, she raised the gown entirely over her head and dropped it upon a convenient chair. Now she stood tall! Now her audience might feast their eyes upon her great, melon-shaped breasts and marvel that they could be supported by so slender a girl. They envied her, she knew, envied those two white mountains with which she could attract any man. Merely to see them was enough.
The mere sight of them drove men to distraction. It made them furious to explore that wealth of heavy, swaying flesh with their fingers and tongues. And her broad nipples began to erect themselves as s he felt the pressure of lust upon her, as she felt all those eyes upon her, watching her, needing her.
Emily looked back into the reflection of those eyes. Just knowing what was about to happen excited her. She hardly needed to touch herself to feel the beginnings of an engorgement of her clit. She was going to beat herself off, make herself come perhaps again and again in the utter privacy of this room. No one knew she was here. Arthur, her friends, her parents, no one could get at her. She was in a magic world high above the rest of the people, a waif as Adrian had said, taken in and given a wonderful, warm room to live in, a room with a fire which just cried out for her to lie before it and m asturbate. She was safe, and she was completely unto herself, and she was going to make such love to herself as she had never done.
The armchair was broad and deep and extremely comfortable. She pulled it as close to the fire as she could before lowering herself luxuriently into its embrace. The upholstery was warm and soft against her back. She allowed her legs to sag apart as the happy fire threw its heat against her smooth inner thighs and the tumbling prominence of her cunt. She slumped down farther into the chair, feeling the crotch of her thin and tantalizing panties sink tightly against the thick lips and moistening creases which it covered.
Her fingers rested lightly upon her splayed, wallowing breasts. Ahhh! The pleasure simply of touching them was enormous. With her fingertips, she gently rolled her rising nipples until they stood out like wrinkled fingers. Each little roll pinched the skin and quiver ed all the way down to her pussy. And there the heat of the fire and the heat welling slowly from within her were making a puddle of wetness, of sweat and anticipation and her own warm syrup. She knew just how splendid it would feel when she first ran a smooth finger down into her wet slit. She trembled a little at the thought of how her clit would swell and preen until she had found it with her fingertip and stroked its smooth, hot head. Her cunt would be heavy and slobbery in her hand as she made it come. She would grind her cunt up against her masturbating hands until the lips gorged wide and the slippery red flesh inside slopped against her palm.
Her juices would be running thic kly, drenching her hands, and she would slid two or three fingers deep into her hot hole. More fingers would craze her clit. Her muscles would stiffen, and with a jerk she would be coming. Her tits would thrash from side to side in her ecstasy. She would grit her teeth, writhe •her body, and come a second time. And a third. She would come and come until she was drained of cunt-juices and her hands lay limply and stickily upon her abused thighs.
The thought of it was terrific. She knew she was going to come. To come! Oh, so soon to come.
She lifted one of her heavy breasts and sucked her rigid nipple into her mouth. She bit gently upon it, rolled it around with her tongue, and the first groan of real pleasure escaped from lips nearly stuffed with white titflesh. She thought of having milk to suck, of having it warm and sweet in her mouth, and she imagined it spurting from her big nipple like a man's come, leaping and squirting in heavy, hot gobs into her mouth. Her other breast she took in her whole hand and shifted lazily about upon her chest.
She crossed her ankles now, and stretched her legs out until her thigh muscles creaked. The lips of her swelling cunt mashed wetly together across her erected clit.
The little clit gave a flash of pleasure at the pressure. The hand rolling her big breast snaked down across her neat belly to grab the top edge of her pantles and pull them up so that the crotch band sank deeply between her hairy lips. Each tug seated the soaked nylon band deeper inside her wet cunt-slit and tightened the pressure against her clit. And her gorgeous loose lips hugged the band inside themselves until the material completely disappeared up inside her. Now the crotch band was sunk wetly into her wonderful, thick sporran, soaking itself in her gushing cunt juice.
Her eyes were tightly closed as she released her tit from her sucking lips and ran both hands down her body toward the hairy cunt which was beginning to cry for relief. She reached underneath her hot ass and pulled the panties up in back too.
The band was now brushing her sensitive asshole and her clit with each tug upon its edge. One hand cupped the steaming, hairy lips which had been puffed aside while the other continued to masturbate by pulling on her panties.
And her mind began to wander, as it always did when she masturbated. Once, years ago, she had come upon a woman making love to herself in the woods. A lovely woman, lying back upon a mossy bank in the dappled sun, but with her skirt pulled high to her waist and her two hands masturbating a flowing, redhaired cunt. Emily had hidden to watch, had slid a hand inside her stuffed shirt to squeeze a handful of breast-flesh as she watched, the woman begin to hump herself harder and harder against her flashing hands. And then the woman had rolled partially onto her stomach, had drawn one exquisite leg high and, as Emily watched, had sunk one long, red-nailed finger joint by joint into her puckered asshole. One hand still masturbated frantically, while the other penetrated slowly and succulently in and Out of the clinging asshole which was tilted toward Emily's eyes. The sight was electrifying, and Emily was quick to pull down the top of her pants and grab her cunt hard as it came by itself. And then the woman had come, slowly, agonizingly, with vast, wrenching heaves. And she lay spent upon the moss before raising her wetfingers to her mouth and gently sucking her own dripping juices from them. Until that moment, it had never occurred to Emily to taste her own cunt, but she too cautiously lifted wet fingers. With thumping heart, she had touched her creamy cunt water to her tongue, and the taste was flamboyant and exotic. She dipped, down for another fingerful, and another, with the sun beating on her, and her pants down around her knees. She scooped up her cuntjuice and drank it like nectar.
"Tastes good, doesn't it?"
Her heart had leaped with fear. She had forgotten the woman. Now the other stood over her with a knowing smile upon her face. "You like y our own cunt, don't you."
And to dissemble would be foolish. "Yes," she answered in a quavering voice.
"Taste it again," came the command. She obeyed, with eyes downcast.
"What's it taste like?" I don't know.
"Like honey, doesn't it?"
"I… I guess so."
"Shall I taste it for you?"
"No!" But what would have happened if she had? Emily's masturbation grew more frantic as she imagined what might have happened. It was a picture, simply, without story line, of that red-haired cunt and its flowing juices pressed against her, of fingers and even tongues in her own slit.
But the woman had smiled and said instead, "You were watching me, weren't you?"
"Well, I… "
"Weren't you?"
"Yes."
"It excited you."
"Well, yes."
"Show me what you did to yourself."
"I couldn't, I… "
"Show me!"
And still with downcast eyes, miserable Emily had been forced to beat off for the woman, to run her hands down into her heavy muff and open her lips so the woman could see her fingers dancing over her clit. But as she masturbated, she grew more excited. She knew that she was arousing the woman again, for the latter stood and massaged her own breasts as she told Emily what to do with her fingers. The woman towered over her, into the sun, as Emily beat her furry snatch against her masturbating fingers. Emily's enormous breasts had swung so mightily inside her shirt that its buttons had worked open,.and her quivering mounds had emerged partially, pushing themselves erotically against the material, bursting to be in view.
And then the woman had slid one hand down inside the top of her skirt and cupped her own cunt. Emily could see the hand against her skirt, and the knowledge that the woman was about to come herself tripped Emily over her own peak.
And back in the bedroom, she was growing closer to that same orgasm. Her breath was coming in short gasps. Her tits were joggling across her chest. Her hands were buried in the tightly splayed cunt gash hauling her panties frenziedly against her clit.
She had watched a woman masturbating in the woods once, but the rest was pure imagination. She loved to enhance that story. Sometimes the woman masturbated for her. Sometimes there was a man also, and he beat his great cock off all over her body. She came frequently as his imaginary drops of sperm burned upon her writhing flesh. Sometimes even the woman and the man would masturbate for each other, watching each other's avid fingers, racing to come.
And that was like what had happened one day as she lay upon the waterbed at home with her fingers flickering over her cunt. At the very moment of purest ecstasy, Arthur had walked in. He had been shocked, furious, his puritanical upbringing outraged, but she had been unable to stop. She had lain there in an agony of coming, horrified that he should have discovered her, and yet so totally wound into her impending climax that her hands continued to sing their song upon her clit. She had lifted her head to look at him, her neck straining, her face and breasts flushed with pleasure, her juices so runny they squished loudly with each inward plunge of her hand, and she had watched his expres sion change from one of horror to one of lust.
A wash of gratification had swept across her as she saw his eyes dimming and his face slackening with need. She knew then how the heavy smell of her musky cunt was arousing him, how the sight of an uptilted and eager cunt being beaten off by slender, come-dripping fingers was making his cock stiff in his pants. She could see the bulge rising, stirring to see her masturbating her cunt.
And so she had slowed down, deliberately making a show of the self-pleasuring. She parted her legs to give him a long view of the hairy snatch she knew he loved so well. She let him watch as she curled one long finger down through the matted, wet hair which crowned her wide and prominent cunt, down around her plump, stiff little clit, down through the red and sticky inner lips, down until it dipped, fingernail first, and then joint after joint up, up, up into her burning hot hole. Her other fingers were stiffly spread against her soaking pussy, only the middle finger having disappeared into her hairy lips. Arthur had been hypnotized by the sight of her finger slowly masturbating in and out, glimmering with her thick juices, and he had slowly opened his pants until his thick, red erection had sprung out into view. His eyes never left her cunt, and his fingers slowly closed around his cock. And then he came forward to kneel before her like a supplicant, kneel before the altar of her cunt.
And so she had performed the ritual for him, singing in her heart to know that she might thus excite him. Her finger came slowly from her dripping hole to caress her clit in small circles. Her other hand rose to squeeze her shuddering breasts, to pummel them until they were red with blood, to pinch her nipples until her cunt made her head spin with its need for a vast come. And all the while, Arthur looked on with no expression save that of lust, his mind paralyzed, and his fingers active.
And as she began to come, as she knew that the control was going, she slid her legs together and flung her hands against her clit. The orgasm was sweeping over her, her entire body quivering, as she heard from far, far away Arthur's voice chanting to her. "Come, Emily. Come now. Make it come. Make it come. Make it come." And it was upon her, and she vanished for a long, shuddering second, and she beard a lurching grunt as she began to slide back down into life. Before her eyes, the tip of Arthur's cock •erupted in huge, long, white streamers of sperm, blasting high into the air over her still trembling body. She felt them splashing hotly across her belly and tits to run in burning rivers across her flesh and down onto the bedspread. As the pulses began to die and the last come to dribble out and down across her husband's fingers, Emily smoothed the warm come across her stomach and spread it to coat her breasts.
Emily shuddered through her orgasm on the chair before the fire. Gradually, she relaxed. Her thighs fell open again. Her hands trailed of their own weight across her thighs and hung downward toward the floor. Her eyes were still s hut, but they were quiet now. She had come.
But Arthur had been ashamed and disgusted by his lust, and they had never repeated that wonderful performance. Too bad, she thought, as her hands again rose to her cunt. She had enjoyed that more even than anything else, except perhaps his mouth on her pussy. Slowly, she pulled the stretched and drenched panties away from her slit. She raised them to her face and breathed deeply of the odor of her cunt. Using one hand to smear the thick cream across her nose and mouth and eyes, she masturbated herself to another climax.
She stood then, naked, and noticed that the fire had burned down. She dropped another log or two into place. The flames leaped up, and she caressed herself standing before their heat. Sweat was glistening on her heaving body now, and she smoothed her hands ecstatically across her billowing flesh. The smell of her armpits aroused her, and she thrust her nose as close to one as she could so as not to miss any of the fragrance. The wet and sumptuous hairs which nestled there like a small cunt were suffused with the scent. She drew some sweat up with a finger and licked it off with her long tongue. She opened her cunt lips to the flame and allowed the heat to play upon her stretched clit. And she beat herself off yet again, nearly collapsing off her tottering legs as she came for the third time.
She was in an agony of self-pleasure. She couldn't stop. She made herself come again. She needed something in her cunt, something hard up her cunt, and yet there was nothing. Her fingers were too short to reach all the way up. She stuck them into her asshole, but it wasn't enough. She tore at her nipples, bit them, bruised them with her teeth. Her cunt was on fire as she came yet again. She lay on her stomach on the bed with a pillow rolled up between her thighs, humping it frantically while one hand ploughed her asshole and the other gripped her squashed breast tip. Again, she came.
Frantically she searched the room. There must be something. It was no longer a comfortable place. One more orgasm, just one more, a final one, an enormous one, one such as she had rarely felt. She needed to drown out the lust with one last mighty ecstasy. She hated the room which kept her from completion. Damn it, there must be something. Somewhere. Oh, please. Please! I have to come again. I have to come.
And then she found it. There it was, right in the bed-table drawer as though left for her to use. A vibrator. A long, white vibrator such as she secretly had at home. And she began to come even as she saw it, began the final come which she completed on the bed, her legs drawn back, the vibrator deep within her, and her fingers lashing upon her aching clit.
For a long time she lay silently after turning off her electric fucking machine. The quiet of the house finally came back to her. The rain had stopped all together.
Firelight flickered on the ceiling. She was happy again, and rather awed by her frenzy before. She saw her reflection in the mirror, and cupped her cunt, and smiled.
This would be one to remember.