Oh Christ! She had forgotten about Harry Riggs. Not exactly forgotten, she amended. She had just made some assumptions on insufficient evidence. She had supposed he would spend the interval charging his batteries so he would be ready to take up the torch and feed eight revived inches to her as soon as the red-haired man's hard-on faltered. Now she knew she had been wrong once again.
What was he going to do to her?
As if she didn't know!
She reminded herself of what he had done last time, how he had been all set to do it without mitigation or preamble until some sudden access of passion-some supernal desire to lick her pussy and overcome and diverted him. But this time, with his red-headed friend already pouring his bald-headed cock to her seething cunt, there was little danger of Harry Riggs getting his face into the cockpit.
And she could remember vividly the place where his eight erect inches had ended up last time. Her throat was still sore and strained from all that swallowing, swallowing a hunk of raw red meat that resolutely refused to be swallowed.
My god, didn't she have enough to do now? The redhead was still pouring his cock to her with the steady dependable beat of a symphonist trying to play jazz. Her writhing, twisting body was responding in ways she had never imagined possible. Her whole being was suffused with a single desire to destroy herself, to fuck herself into premature senility, to come and come repeatedly until her heart finally gave up and she experienced that final orgasm from which nobody ever recovers.
But despite the passion that pervaded her lusting body Paula found herself pondering things like the simple mechanics of a three-way fuck fest. The redhead was in classic missionary position, his hard-muscled ass between her gaping thighs, his bald-headed banger spreading her labia as he drove' it deep into her vagina. His chest was over hers, scant red ringlets rasping the swollen rock-hard nipples atop her twin pectoral volcanoes.
She couldn't work out exactly where Harry Riggs was. From somewhere out of her line of vision he had his hands between her chest and the red-haired man's cupped over her full firm jugs like a living bra, his thumbs and forefingers industriously twiddling away at her tiny pink nipples as if they were not already as hard and upstanding as tiny twin Gibraltars.
She shuddered in a joyous ecstasy under the assault of those fingers which turned her on even more than the redhead's spasmodic licking and kissing for, after all, he had only one mouth and the breaker and enterer who played with her tits had two capable hands.
But was that all Harry Riggs intended to do? Paula couldn't believe he would be content to mark time on the sidelines while somebody else enjoyed the splendors of her abundant femininity. He couldn't fuck her, at least not until his red-haired friend had gotten his share.
Nor would he be able, without considerable physical rearrangement, to get his tongue in the only other place she knew was of any possible interest to a lusting, thrusting male. She remembered her mixture of horror, revulsion, and delight on the occasion when she had first learned about that alternate route to gratification.
With a suddenness that astounded her, a teenage Paula with a teen-age body surmounted by a thoroughly grown-up pair of tits had discovered herself no longer atop a ladder looking for a book while nice old Mr. Costello held the ladder and peeked up her skirt. She had known all the time what he was doing, had thoroughly enjoyed her power over this ageing pillar of the legal community.
She had not minded at all when the old man had been tempted into indiscretions by the sight of all that firm young flesh so tantalizing, so exposed, so eminently grabable at the top of his purposely unrepaired ladder.
And, reflecting on it with a wisdom beyond her years, Paula knew that she really wasn't sorry for the way things had worked out. She didn't yet know if she would ever become a lawyer but she had typed enough wills in Mr. Costello's office to know the wisdom of planning for the future. It was inevitable in her future that something hot, hard, and male find its way between her legs. And, she decided, the sooner the better.
But Paula had no patience for the pimply-faced stiff pricks of her peer group. She had no intention of being stuck in a mobile home tending three brats in diapers on whatever a box-boy in a supermarket could bring home. She knew it was inevitable that sooner or later she learn the art of fucking. But if it had to come, surely well-off men with four-figure bank balances and cool pads were possessed of pricks just as stiff and probably a lot cleaner than the grabbing, groping, grubby Don Juans of the junior class.
And now an old man, a widower, a man known to be discreet who would never ever brag in bars of his conquests-that nice old man was undressing her in the private room behind his office.
Had already undressed her, she corrected. With a sleight of hand she was unable to believe he had managed to undress himself without her knowledge and now he knelt beside the narrow day bed, knelt naked with his machinery decently concealed beneath the level of the bed.
By easy and imperceptible stages he had divested her of everything except her fuzzy white ankle sox and her green nylon panties. And at the moment he had eased both hands between her firm, delicately modeled little ass and was sliding his hands past the cheeks of her ass, down her long, smooth-tapered thighs and, unless Paula was misreading the signals, her too-tight green panties were accompanying his hands on this journey.
Sweet sixteen-practically never been kissed-and naked on her back being undressed by a dirty old man! Only, she amended, he was not dirty. He smelled clean with subtle hints of expensive lotions and colognes-totally unlike the pimply-faced, billy-goat stinking scrimmage men who usually struggled and gave up trying to coax her virginal panties off.
And, now that she thought about it, she wasn't really naked either. Mr. Costello had removed her saddle oxfords. He had unbuttoned the hundred-odd fastenings on her high-collared and long-sleeved blouse. He had undone the waistband of her below-the-knees skirt and both articles were now neatly folded over one wing of the easy chair.
Still smiling and urbane, Mr. Costello had managed to distract her embarrassment and discomfiture with small talk and dissertations on the sexual practices of the Oneida Community while unlatching the hooks on that double-barreled slingshot which confined her totally upstanding, onward-looking boobs. Now he had just removed her too-tight, bought-over-a-year-ago panties and put them carefully atop the wispy bra of the same green shade.
But Paula knew she was still not naked. As long as she still wore those fluffy, fuzzy, ankle-length sox nobody could ever say she had been naked. She wondered if Mr. Costello was going to remove them too.
He did not. Instead, he removed his bifocals and placed them carefully atop the mound of clothing. Then, still as unhurried as if she had presented him with yet another simple point of law for clarification, he bent over her thrilled and tremulous body.
Having never been seduced before, Paula was ignorant of the protocols involved in this delicate maneuver. But she had always assumed the session would begin with a kiss and work up from there. It did not.
Instead, Mr. Costello bent his white head over her chest, directly over those tremendous jugs which were at the same time Paula's greatest pride and her greatest embarrassment. Without his glasses she was sure he could see nothing but the blurry outlines of twin pectoral peaks. But Mr. Costello was not relying on his notoriously undependable eyesight.
Without hesitation he placed his mouth over the nipple closest to him. Before Paula even had time to get used to the novel sensation of a mustache pricking and tickling her tender body she was overcome with a wave of total rut.
Golly! Never in her sixteen years on this planet had she ever imagined anything one half this totally overpowering in its fascination.
It was mind blowing. For as long as she could remember she had been aware of these twin tiny buttons on her little girl's chest. Long before she had even dreamed of the joys of sex she had learned something of the mysterious tingle that could come from these tiny twin tips of her yet-to-sprout tits. In the dear, dead, pre-brassiere days of her childhood Paula's mother had, in winter months, clad her baby in wool underwear whose warmth, Paula was firmly convinced, came mainly from the increased circulation developed by constant scratching.
Even then she had marveled at the way a little rubbing could coax these twin contact points of sensation from a quiescent flaccidity up to full firm erection visible even through woolen undervests.
Now Mr. Costello's busy, white-mustached mouth was doing something countlessly more interesting than any scratching she had ever experienced from wool. She struggled not to move, to control herself and not surrender to an impulse to giggle and squeal and wrap her arms around that leonine white head and pull him deeper into her pectoral Cordillera.
Just as she knew she just couldn't stand it another second her senescent seducer switched from the titillating tip of one full firm tit to the other. Impartially, he licked and kissed until this nipple was just as hard, just as insistent on further gratification as her first one had been. Then when she was ready to pound her fists over his ears if he didn't do something else to quiet the pink-frothed wave of passion that surged through her inexperienced body, Mr. Costello abandoned both of her flaming-nippled tits.
She had supposed he would scoot around to kiss her on the mouth but her employer's interests lay elsewhere. Paula lay rigid while he kissed lazy figure eights down the full-fashioned undersides of her lushly proportioned tits, kissed his way past her midriff and past her tiny waist, past her deep, well-formed navel, past the gentle swell of her teen-age belly, past growing disbelief and right into the upper edge of her just-hairing pubic patch.
It wasn't that sixteen-year-old Paula had lived in some kind of a moral vacuum. For as long as she could remember girls had, whenever they were totally out of earshot of boys and or adults, girls had always been as eager to exchange scraps of newly acquired knowledge as any other group of students. She had heard of cocksuckers. She had heard of muff divers. She had blushed from belly to ears at the secret thrill that had coursed through her the first time a girl had explained to her exactly what and how a sixty-nine play was played.
Yet, despite all this knowledge acquired in bits and snippets during her sixteen years, Paula was still waiting to put some tiny bit of theory into practice. She was ready to believe people fucked. After all, dogs did; cats did; rabbits did. Once she had even seen snakes doing something very peculiar. But those other words… surely they were merely the outpourings of some fertile imagination's outrage at being trapped in a pimply-faced and eternally tumescent body. People didn't really do things like that-did they?
For the first time in her life, savoring the sweet sensation of Mr. Costello kissing his gentle way from tits to tush, she began to wonder, to suspect that she had been too cautious in estimating human behavior. Maybe people really did do those things. Mr. Costello was breathing hard into the sparse blond ringlets of her pubic patch. Surely he was getting ready to do something.
Suddenly she was faced with a problem which had never come up in all these social science classes inflicted on her in her school years. She had been taught how to greet people, how to take leave of them, how to host a dinner or a soiree. Nothing and nobody had told her what was proper conduct for a lady about to be the recipient of the highest tribute to youth and beauty any man can bestow upon her. What was she supposed to do when nice old Mr. Costello did her the honor of kissing her in a place she had never been kissed before-had never even imagined that people kissed one another before?
She knew it was going to happen. There had been just enough acceleration in the burning intensity of his bussing to give her clear indication of what all that slow gentle build-up around her firm young tits, and down midriff and belly, had been leading up to. She knew damned well Mr. Costello was not planning on kissing her toes.
She could feel that part of her destined for the piece de resistance in his production number getting all tingly and even just a tiny bit damp as love's elixir trickled. She ought to fight and at least go through the motions of protesting but she was so filled with curiosity, with desire, that she knew it was too late. To Mr. Costello's piece de resistance she could offer no resistance.
He oozed up a little farther onto the bed and she suspected that if she just had the strength to move, to turn her head, she would be treated with a full frontal view of that organ which separates the men from the girls. But it felt so good just to lie here and wait to see what was going to happen next that she couldn't even muster the energy to look at Mr. Costello's cock. She felt his hands grasping her knees, slowly pushing them apart.