Paula's memory of another time had been fleeting. She was still staring at Harry Riggs's lean, compact body, staring at his cock which was so close to her face that she could feel heat radiating from it like a branding iron.
He squatted atop her chest, his thighs pushing her full, firm tits upward like some carnal corset. His hairy scrotum lay between her tight-squeezed jugs, tickling her faintly but she had other problems more pressing than being tit-tickled by a man's balls.
If only she could get her body under control. Here she was facing the ultimate in degradation. He was going to make her do something infinitely more male chauvinistic, more porcine than even his semi-rape of an hour ago. And what was she doing? She could still gain the advantage over him, she knew. She could grab him where it hurt and have him quite literally by the short hairs. But it required movement and she was paralyzed, fascinated by that full-sized, hot, throbbing hunk of maleness.
Eyes half-crossed, she focused on the heavily strung underside of his virility. It really was as large as she remembered-a full eight inches long. My god! Had she had all that inside her? No wonder she had felt-ravished.
The knob on the end of this breaker and enterer's crowbar was perfectly round and as big as a golf ball. His foreskin was rather short and now that his cock was in full flaming erection, its round head glistening and glowering with purple engorgement, she could see the single blind eye in that head staring at her from the stretched-open tip of his prepuce. It would take only the slightest pressure to force that foreskin all the way back and present her with a weapon field-stripped and ready for any eventually.
His foreskin was heavily veined and each swollen vein was pulsating in time to his heartbeat. Unconsciously, Paula found herself counting and realizing to her mortification that he was not as excited, his heart not racing half so fast as was hers.
She remembered the feel when that prodigious prod had been sliding in and out of her belly, pushing her insides this way and that, churning her into a pink-frothed mist of eroticism. Why couldn't he do it that way again? If he was destined to do it at all, why couldn't he just pour his eight inches to her in the way God intended for men and women to mitigate the burnings of the flesh. Now why did that old parochial school phrase pop into her head just then?
She was still staring myopically at the long slim shank of his cock, which seemed even thinner after the dramatic flair of his tremendous glans penis. Her belly gave a little flip flap at the memory of how that flared cockhead had gone into her like a harpoon, the flare of his glans penis digging into her yielding flesh like a barb, snagging, pulling, threatening to turn her tender cunt inside out each time he withdrew for yet another full-depth plunge into the well of her lonely femininity.
Unable to move, she studied at close range the weapon which had destroyed her view of herself, her self-sufficiency, her tranquility. God damn him! God damn that piece of meat. It was just an enlarged clitoris-the same thing that lay like some vestigial memory of maleness inside the pouting labia of her pussy. There but for a chromosome go I, she realized. But she was not a man. She was a woman and this son-of-a-bitch was a man and he was on top of her and it was bad enough that he fucked her at will, not even asking or inviting her cooperation. Now he was planning an even more outrageous assault on her privacy and what was she doing to prevent it?
Nothing, damn her hot little pants! Women were supposed to be so much more analytical than men, supposed to be cold-blooded for the main chance and not so apt to go ape-shit and sacrifice a career for a pair of tits. What was wrong with her? She had broken from her submissive, Catholic woman background twenty years ago. She was a lawyer, reputedly able to work out logical connections and trains of thought between totally disparate concepts. Where was her brain now? Was that tiny tickling trickle she felt between her legs-was that her brain, melted down into love's lubrication, betraying her, telling this outrager with a dip of the finger that no matter what he were to do to her she would be unable to resist the lure of those eight fabulous inches?
God damn it! It wasn't fair. Men liked to fuck. Men fucked all the time. But men could get their Jollies and button their flies and go off to play a game of golf or close a deal or any of the other things that make a man's life varied and interesting.
Paula… when had her mind last been totally free of a faint overlay of fucking? Not since she had started growing tits, she realized. Since her body had grown old enough to consider the joys of sexuality she had not for one instant been totally free of this distraction. How could she concentrate on torts when her ass was throbbing with a ceaseless desire for torture?
And here her mind went wandering again. Staring a one-eyed worm straight in the face, knowing exactly what was coming next, she could still not keep her mind on business. Maybe it was because she had actually had a man so seldom over the last twelve years… had it been so long since she fucked that illusions, dreams were now stronger in her mind than realities?
She wondered if this was just another super realistic dream and knew it wasn't. He was squatting atop her chest, his balls nestled in the hollow between her abundant tits. His cock was pointing straight at her face. And she wasn't moving, wasn't struggling, wasn't even murmuring a polite "No, please don't."
Did she really want this to happen? Once more she was slipping away from reality, trying to psychoanalyze herself instead of doing something. She was still struggling, trying to tell herself this was a real man with a real cock, with a real danger, when she realized that Harry Riggs, paroled breaker and enterer, prodigious cocksman, was so sure of himself that he was no longer in any hurry. He was not moving forward now. He was backing off, sliding his balls along her midriff, across her waist, down her belly where he could squat to admire the full-length perfection of her lush body.
Once more he was at a safe distance. She could see him without focusing her eyes now. He spread her legs again and knelt between them. Was he going to fuck her after all?
She felt her belly give another little tremor at the thought of all that raging masculinity inside her, pumping her full of the stuff dreams are made of. God damn him-couldn't he get off the dime and something?
Then, dimly, Paula sensed that her assailant was having problems of his own. He was breathing hard, panting as if he had been wham-bamming for ten tantalizing minutes. His face was screwed up into an agony she had hitherto seen only on crucifixes. Abruptly, he gave an inchoate roaring moan and sprang from the bed.
Before she knew what was happening he was back again only wrong end to, his face buried in the soft warm wetness between her thighs, his eight hammering inches once more poking at her face.
As his tongue began its first circuit around the hot hardness of her passion-swollen clit Paula gave a gasp of supernal, uncontrollable delight. And that gasp was her undoing. As if that blind opening in the end of his swollen cockhead were an eye, she felt his lunge drive that dong straight past her lips, past her teeth, past tongue and soft palate, straight down her unsuspecting throat. The things his busy tongue were doing to her cunt filled her with such a frenzy of delight that she hardly realized she had his eight-inch burglar's tool in her mouth, down her throat. She was having so much trouble separating reality from illusion that her mind once more retreated into memory.
Now how had Mr. Costello managed to get all these two or three hundred buttons on the back of her blouse undone without her even suspecting? Not that she minded, Paula guessed. After all, it would have been brazen for her to start undoing them herself. She remembered the rumblings and teeth gnashing that occurred every time a boy of her own age was so bold as to… but that was largely why she preferred this blouse.
None of which had anything to do with the moment. Mr. Costello was pulling the blouse forward off her shoulders and she wasn't even putting up a token resistance. "Mustn't get your lovely clothes all wrinkled," he said smoothly and finished pulling the white material down her arms. Paula lay on his day bed, now clad only in her saddle oxfords, bobby sox, below-the-knee skirt, and a thirty four "C" cup bra of green satin. She remembered irrelevantly that it was, at least, the same color as her undersized panties.
She had to do something, say something. He was a nice old man and she liked the clean male smell of his body but this was getting as dangerous as back seats on Saturday night. "Uh, what did they do to prevent accidents back in the Stone Age?" she asked brightly.
"Any number of things, all of which I'll be delighted to show you," Mr. Costello said. "But to put your lovely legalistic mind to rest, your present partner is undoubtedly the safest choice on this benighted planet. Not only am I a very old man and probably well past the age of procreation, but also, having done my familial duty to society many years ago, I took advantage of a bit of surgery which has been known and practiced at least since Aristotle's day. The operation, despite propaganda to the contrary, is irreversible. There is no way on earth that I could ever render the most willing candidate pregnant, thanks to a vasectomy which has stood the test of thirty years."
Benumbed by this facile flow of verbiage, Paula only caught the word "vasectomy." It was a word she knew. It was, she had known for some time, the principle reason why she was an only child and if the priests wanted any more, then let them raise them, her harried father had snapped.
But Mr. Costello had not been idle. While explaining these details he had been systematically and efficiently removing his own clothing and stacking it in a neat pile over one arm of the easy chair. The other arm held only her blouse. But while Paula was noting this inequity she felt capable fingers working at the waistband of her skirt and a moment later she was doubly thankful that she had at least had the foresight to choose bra and panties of the same color.
Had she been more knowledgeable of male thought processes, she would have realized that Mr. Costello would not have cared what color her bra and panties were. He was already busy pulling off her saddle oxfords and before she had time to cavil his arms were behind her back, lifting her half off the day bed as he found the hooks to her bra. Now that, Paula realized, was something new. Only twice had fumblers of her own age gotten that far and each time the boys had been thwarted by a total inability to get a bra unhooked. Mr. Costello had been around.
Gosh! Was this really happening? She really hadn't intended for it to go this far. It had always been fun of a sort to wrestle with boys, to get a mild turn-on and amuse herself with their discomfiture. Boys were too easy to divert. They would believe anything-even that it could be the wrong time of the month for three weekends in a row.
But Mr. Costello, she abruptly realized, was far from being a boy. If she were to offer excuses now, begin stalling and making vague promises for tomorrow or next week or next month Mr. Costello would give her that same tolerant smile of amusement which came whenever she wandered far afield in her girlish efforts to establish some rudimentary relationship between the law and life as it is lived by the breathing, suffering victims of the law.
"Uh, what're you going to do now?" she asked.
"That depends entirely on what you'd like me to do," Mr. Costello said gallantly. But she noted that without even asking what she would like he bent over her, kneeling now beside the bed instead of sitting on it. He gave her a perfunctory kiss and before she was quite used to the sensation of a kiss backed up by a mustache that mustache was tickling its way down her throat, across her chest, and then he was fastening his lips right over the hard, throbbing nipple of her pink aureoled left tit.
It was the first time anyone had ever practiced that delightful exercise on Paula. She felt a deep surge of excitement course through her virgin body. It felt almost like an electric shock. She was tingling from crotch to eyebrows and she knew suddenly that she was blushing all the way, blushing all over her whole body and he must be watching her blush because all she had on now were her fuzzy white bobby sox and those bought-a-year-ago green panties which cut so interestingly into the outline of her firm little just-blooming bottom.
Without missing a lick, he switched smoothly to her other nipple and began running his tongue in delightful, unbearably and erotically ticklish circles around the sudden rock hardness of her tiny virginal nipple. Gosh, did it ever feel gooood!
She had experimented in her bath, in the loneliness of her narrow bed, running her hands over her body and pretending they were somebody else's. The experiments had suggested that great things lay in store for her once Paula found a partner for these experiments-preferably some male who would be clean, discreet, and would never even think of making her pregnant.
Now she realized to her delight she had exactly the sort of partner she had dreamed of. She wondered if this project had really been in the back of her mind even before Mr. Costello had learned she was interested in the law. Or had she actually become interested in the law only after she had become interested in Mr. Costello?
She wondered what would happen if ever she were to confess that she had always had ambivalent feelings about this ever-so-nice old man. What would he think if she were to tell him she knew he had been making up excuses to hold the ladder, to look up her skirt and admire the contours of her firm little ass-finding excuses to jiggle the ladder and grab that little ass least she fall and bump her lovely bumpers. Then abruptly she knew he was doing it again. Without missing a lick on her firm little nipples, his hands had discovered her ass. Smoothly, he was peeling her green panties down.