I went on the bum again, traveling from town to town, figuring what I would do. I didn't give a shit. I had plenty of dough from the hustling I'd done across the years, and I couldn't care less for anything. I just decided to pass the time. All the while, though, I was figuring things out, thinking what I'd do next, making plans for the future. And finally I decided to move in on some new cunt territory, as the saying might be, when I felt like moving.
I spotted her one day in the rush hour in a town I was driving through. She was a big girl, something nice. I liked the way she carried herself. She wore tennis shoes, little red things with a white trim, and hose, and had a short skirt and it was tight and really made her ass come on big. She wore a frilly blue blouses and her hair was just average and nothing special in the coiffure department. She was sort of reddish-brown, and her face was all peaches-and-cream. I estimated her to be about twenty or maybe twenty-one at the most, and I figured she belonged to a junior college a couple of blocks away that I had passed.
So I circled the block and decided how I would make the pass. There's one thing that doesn't always work, and more guys should know it; that's the business of pulling in close by the curb and asking them if they want a ride. For one thing, too many mamas have warned their little girls to beware of accepting rides with strangers. It actually goes back to their childhood, and it's a hang-up with them. They refuse you nine times out of ten if they're the good girl type.
Note that: I call it a type. It doesn't mean they really are good girls. For my money, no good girls exist. The same broads who won't accept a ride with you when you're in the car meeting them for the first time are the same broads who will accept that same ride if they meet you otherwise and talk with you no more than maybe a couple of minutes.
That's why you've got to go on foot if you want to make out with that type. I pulled into a spot off the street where I saw her, swinging around the block and almost returning to the scene of the first passing. Then I went right behind her, eyed her legs perfectly; she was a beautiful creature, big-boned and nice in every way; and then figured on the way I would make the pass.
A traffic signal is always perfect for the meeting. If you both happen up to it at the same time, and there aren't too many people around, things work out perfectly sometimes. For instance, you can say something about the length of time it takes for a light to change. Or if it's one of those crossings where the pedestrian has to push a button for a "Walk" signal, you can ask her if she's already pushed it. Or you can make a comment on the outfit she's wearing. There are all kinds of possibilities.
I met her at such a signal, and tried for the maximum. It's shock value sometimes that counts. So I led off with a bangeroo. "You've got nice legs," I said, as sweet as you please.
She blinked. She flushed. She didn't know what to say. Her big blue eyes just popped, and finally she said dumbly, "Well, thank you." And she flustered some more.
I ran it for all it was worth. "Have you ever appeared in any magazines?" She didn't know what I meant, blinked again, shifted position, looked to the light, and I could tell that her heart was pounding at eighty per. "I thought I've seen your picture in some men's magazines. Haven't I?"
She shook her head, unable to say anything. She knew damned well I was loading it on, and yet I knew she was intrigued. After all, I happen to know this: it's the secret ambition of every broad to get into a girlie mag. That's right. Oh they might say it's shameful and disgusting the way those girls "prostitute" themselves – that's the righteous ones' words, if and when they say anything about it – but secretly they all want the same thing for themselves. And they'll do anything to show their bodies off for a guy, I know.
So I kept running it all the way. "Or maybe it was a topless bar," I said, knowing I was pushing it to the limits. For, I knew, she was wise that I was piling it on. But I was counting on her natural woman's vanity to tide me over. They all want to take off their clothes for men, want to think their tits are the greatest in the world, want to believe they have the most beautiful stems around the countryside. And they'll listen to you even when they know you're putting it so high that a shit collector couldn't shovel it all away in a month of Saturdays.
She shook her head again nervously and concentrated on the signal. It didn't change, and the passing traffic forbade her from going against the light. I had the scene all to myself. "Well," I said, "are you interested in modeling?"
She looked at me again. She was suspicious, and yet she was biting the bait. I could see it gently locking itself in place in her sweet cheek. And I added, "I don't have a card with me to introduce myself, but I would very much like to have you model for me if you're interested. I do some things that you'd enjoy seeing, I'm sure."
"You're a photographer?" she asked, starting to get with it at last.
I nodded. I knew she was biting. There's one thing in our day and age that turns broads on and that's thinking they might be considered for the sex scene. Though they're suspicious of the line, they still like to explore it. Everyone of them dreams of being "discovered" somehow or other, even if they have no dramatic ambitions in the world. And all of them want to show off their bodies. They'll pose for pennies if they think it will get pictures of them in magazines. They're crazy. All they have from it is a lot of photos of themselves afterwards, but I suppose a lot of women want to grow old and remember the good tits they had when they were young.
Anyway, I pushed the proposition, and it carried us across that street when the light changed. We talked about the possibilities, and she said she might be interested. I asked for her address, she hesitated, and finally she compromised by giving me a number to call.
I don't like taking phone numbers. It's not that I think broads will give me phony ones. That's not true. They usually don't. They're not smart enough most of the time to compose wrong digits. But they're dumb enough, especially when they're excited, to put the numbers together assbackwards, and I end up getting the local plant nursery instead of their home phones. So I was suspicious, and I took the number, and decided to do my own checking in the meanwhile. I left her discreetly, not pushing my position, thanked her gentlemanly for her time and interest and promised I would call her.
Then I dropped into the crowd away from her, watched from a distance where she went in the shopping center where we parted, and proceeded to cover her the rest of the way. I found out where she lived by losing the afternoon following her that way through several stores and the meeting with a couple of girl friends in a drugstore, and finally went behind her to her house, noted the address, and left. I had double protection, in other words. If that bitch had put me on with a wrong number, I would follow up on it, believe me, and see her at her house some way or other.
But the number was valid. I waited till the following afternoon, taking a flop hotel room in that town, getting to know the territory better, staking out things and making plans for that broad. If everything worked well, it would be perfect. And when I called her the next afternoon, though she wasn't home at the time and her fruity-voiced mom answered, I found out the number was a valid one, and I knew I was part way down the track.
Later I called her again, she was there, and we made a date for the next afternoon to meet. You'll note that I didn't push the time factor. That's important. Keep the broad on the string. Never make a pest of yourself. And when you look like you have something to offer, it works perfectly. Because then it makes them anticipate seeing you again even more than you're thinking to be with them. It juices the road ahead.
The following afternoon we met as planned at the same traffic signal where we first had talked together. I purposely planned it that way for the sentimental angle. Keep that in mind, too, if you're working a broad. They're goofy as all hell, and if you can line up a series of incidents that center around a certain event, like the way both of you met each other, they'll build a lot of crazy castles in their heads that work in your favor.
We went to a little cafe in the shopping center, too, where we had left each other two days earlier, and we took a back booth and talked about things, about her possibilities, about my interests, about everything that would juice her up all the way.
For instance, we discussed her beauty. Every broad wants to hear that kind of talk. If you make it very professional and tell them how attractive they are objectively and all that shit, they'll hang on your every word. They'll ask you all kinds of stupid questions, pretending just to be interested in themselves objectively, as I've said, and you can ply them with flattery till it comes out their ears.
For instance, once that conversation got going, she wanted to know why I thought her legs were so beautiful. I gave her back, very gently, "Someone once said, 'It's not what a girl's legs look like, but where they're going, that counts.'" I took a long chance on that one, but it's important to move a little sex into the conversation, too, because that teases cunts, too, never forget.
"Oh?" she said. "Well, do you think…" And she let her sentence fall, playing the virgin act, of course, wanting to talk more about where girls legs go, but hesitating because she didn't want to look like she was the not-so-nice kind; bullshit.
"Let's face certain facts," I said very authoritatively. "A man likes a woman because it's the natural thing. But beauty is something that's definitely related to sex. A girl with pretty legs always excites a man, because, frankly," and I hesitated, making it look like I was really trying to phrase it another way, "well, it just so happens that every man looks at every woman with the thought in his mind of going to bed with her if he ever got the chance."
She said nothing. She wanted to say something, I could see, but she just sipped her soft drink, and looked at me. She was almost there, I knew, almost down the track; but she was still in the virgin act.
"I'm going to ask you something very personal," I said then, again trying for the long ball, not wanting to waste time and yet knowing a little daring – do sometimes can work wonders. "Would you tell me something quite honestly if I asked you?"
She shrugged. "It depends what you want to know," she said, trying to be funny.
"Well, never mind." I tossed it aside. But not really. Because she bit immediately and insisted I tell her what I wanted to know. So I came back again with a little hesitation and then a blurt in which I said, my eyes solidly and most sincerely on her, "Would you tell me frankly if you've ever done it with a boy?"
That's a tough question to bring off, and many a man hesitates to say it, fear. And yet it's a question that brings results more often than you might think. It has a kind of shock value that hardly can be matched by any other conversational gambit.
For instance, it set Lucy – that was her name – back immediately. She did the old blinking act, actually hit by it, and swallowed nervously, and flushed, and lost control of the situation. That's one reason for asking the question; a girl is never quite the same once it's been asked. She wants control of the situation, though, and she falls further into the trap because she does.
You see they always answer it some way or other. And, because they're in a conversational situation, having met with you on their own, they can't very well get up and leave. So they answer your question, nervous and not prepared for it, and yet determined to get control of the situation again, determined also not to be considered anything square even though, a minute before, they might have wanted you to think their shit didn't stink. So they always tell the truth.
Oh they won't admit they fuck like minks, maybe, if that's the kind they are. But, if you've caught one of the good girl types, they'll always admit at least that they've fucked. And since you're working to break down the good girl type, their answering you with that truth is just what you want. It moves the barrier down just a strong bit more.
She admitted she had laid a boy. But she came right back, saying, somewhat agitatedly, but really just to control the situation, "But why does it matter? What's the point of your question?"
They never gain control again once they've been faced with that question, though, and you needn't worry about their anger. They want to know an answer only to put themselves at ease, not really to hurt you. That's why I said, according to the formula, "Well, in my business, a girl performs best if she's experienced sex." It's straight flattery.
But it works every time. Girls want to be experienced nowadays. They want to feel "in" on things. Though they would like you to think their pee doesn't have a urine odor, they still want to be experienced; so they'll confess that their pee really stinks, if it helps their cause as they see their cause to be.
"Oh?" she said. "I didn't know that." And I could see she was fishing on a new situation.
"Sure," I answered. "If you've known sex, you know how to handle a situation. For instance, you know how to put into your pose all the charm that only an experienced woman can show. I noted that right away with you, the way you walked everything about you. But I just had to know. Please excuse me."
"Oh, think nothing of it," she said with a feeling of being in control again. But, of course, she wasn't.
And I made sure she wasn't when next I said to her, "Tell me, what's your favorite position?"
It floored her again. She gulped, and then laughed, and tried to make it a big joke, saying that I surely was nosy and all that. But she answered, nevertheless, telling me that she liked "all kinds of positions". Big deal. She probably hadn't done anything except the missionary one, on her back, and that was all.
But I said, "That's great. It helps in this business. You'll be able to convince anybody then in any pose."
So it went. She was turned on. We discussed all kinds of things about her beauty and about sex and everything right down the line, but not making it supposedly dirty and all that. For instance, I hinted at the fact that she excited me, but I never descended to an outright statement of fact. Oh no; it was all very professional.
So our relationship began, and we started seeing each other regularly, discussing other aspects of her future career. Naturally I didn't bring anything directly into play about when or where she would start that career, and that gave her a sense of freedom from pressure which permitted her to be the big deal without taking any risks; in other words, she didn't have to put her money where her mouth was – yet.
Then we went into a courtship, and it passed beautifully that way, starting at first with a few afternoon dates that lingered into the evening and ended with dinner somewhere before I took her home, finally went into late dates before she got back to her house, and then became a steady night diet of courtship. It wasn't that we had forgotten our first purpose; rather I was juicing her all the way, making her dependent on my attention, making her go the full route.
And then one night she said, as she had said various times during our time together, "Well, when are you ever going to ask me to take my clothes off, anyway?"
I hadn't even put the make on her sexually until then, I should let you know. This was to be a masterful seduction, one that would pay off all the way. So I hadn't done a thing besides a few well-turned kisses. Oh, we had talked enough about sex all the time, in some way or other, to keep her turned on, but nothing more. I was working a time schedule, trust me.
That was why I then told her, "I can't, Lucy. I'm sorry, but I can't. I love you too much to share you with anybody else."
She looked at me in the car where we were parked on a rise high above the city. Below and away from us sprawled the plain, and it was strung with lights, like a Christmas tree turned on its side and blazing forever. "What do you mean, Ace?" she asked in that hesitant little voice that girls always have when they think they're hearing something they very much always want to hear. There's nothing that gets to a broad faster and more solidly than the thought on such a victory!
I played out the game. I led her down the path. I told her how much I cared for her. And then I said I was going away because I couldn't face even bringing myself to doing anything to her.
Between a sudden fright at the thought of my leaving and a certain intrigue at what I might want to do with her besides professionally posing her, Lucy bit the bait I strung out for her, and it wasn't long before she was pleading that I stay and do anything I wanted to do with her. I was sure she would have let me undress her in that vehicle right then if I had wanted to do so, if only to feast my eyes or do anything else I wanted to do with her terrific body.
But I had other plans, and I played my cards close to my chest, and finally left her with the promise to call her the next day and let her know if I was leaving or staying. She parted tearfully and in a fright. And I measured the situation and was sure she was ready for the next step.
It came with the phone call the next afternoon I set up a date for us to meet, and said it was the last time we probably would see each other. She pleaded with me that such not be so, consented immediately to see me as planned, and then came tearfully for the get-together. It was then, casually, when the time was ripe and we were into the session awhile, that I suggested she go away with me if she really cared for me.
Naturally she hesitated. In the past I had moved conversations in that direction, and we had mentioned the prospect in passing most briefly, but never had confronted its likelihood thoroughly. Now I worked it to that point. She hesitated, and then finally said she was willing. I withdrew the offer immediately. She insisted that I take her along. I said we couldn't get married. She hesitated again, but finally said she would come with me regardless of whether we married. We batted that ball back and forth across the conversational net several minutes, her insisting, me declining. And finally I accepted her bid. She became frightened when she saw how far into the trap she had fallen. But not knowing it was a trap, and being involved with her pride, she ran it out all the way and we made plans to leave the same night.
There was, of course, the problem of her mother; but we surmounted that when we lied and said we were going away to get married. I knew it was a weak ploy, and mothers don't like the idea often of seeing their daughters heading for a shack job. But sometimes mamas will yield if they think their daughters are making a good catch; her mother was the grubby kind and always had thought I was a good deal once I appeared on the scene. So it played right into my hands again, and we got the hell out of there that night with the old lady's profound wishes for our happiness and early return.
Together we slept at a motel that night, and still I didn't do anything to her. Though I had insisted we stay in separate rooms, played the gentleman all the way, she wanted us to register as man and wife. I did, and she actually undressed for me. She was a beautiful thing, believe me. She wore the same outfit, for sentimental purposes, that she had worn the day we met. I watched her slip off those tennis shoes; saw her raise her skirt as she sat at a vanity table, turned away from the mirror; and saw her unsnap her garter belt from her stocking tops, and I wanted to go through the ceiling.
Then she rolled down those stockings, pulled them off, and dropped them to her shoes. Standing, she began unbuttoning her blouse, and revealed a black lace bra. Her white crests were full and big in that cloth, and I wanted badly to hold them, to suck them, and love them. She was a terrific prize, I assure you. And when she zipped down her skirt and stepped from it after removing her blouse, and revealed herself in black nylon panties that matched her bra, I wanted to cream my drawers. She was a marvelous thing, something the Greek sculptors would have slit each other's throats to have pose for them. She put Venus de Milo to shame, but definitely.
Then she came to me where I lay on the bed, looking at her, unable to look away despite my determination to do so. And she asked me to unhook her bra. I rose from the bed and did as she bade. She shivered when I touched the flesh of her back at the cross-band, and my fingers sent a tingling feeling through my body just from coming in contact with that flesh. Then she slipped away her bra, dropping it over her shoulders and leaning forward and letting its cups fall from her lovely big and firm breasts. She walked across the room and dropped the bra to her other clothes.
Turning, she began slipping away her panties, rolling them slowly and gently over her well-molded belly flesh. I looked at those orbs now in full view even while I peered at her belly, and my prick was a solid rock in my trousers. I went onto the bed again, but now didn't lie down. I sat there and tried to cross my legs. She was working against my plan. It was my intention to make her ready by not juicing her vag. And she was running me out on my own plan, making me want to abandon everything just to hold that flesh in my hands and know the good feeling of my rock in her vag. It was driving me out of my mind.
Then I saw her pussy, a brown-reddish thing to match her other hair, and it was big and furry and popped out beautifully as she slipped her panties down over it. She definitely was putting the tease on me, and she even gave me a little hesitant smile to go with it. All I could do was return the smile and say nothing. I just watched her.
She had beautiful legs, full and round and long and lovely. She was a big girl, and I really went for her. There was curve to her, everywhere. Her whole body was a series of well-carved curves. Flesh abounded and yet was taut and perfect, smooth and wondrous. A certain vibrancy came off her body, and enticed me. Her breasts were solid and her aureoles were wide and full. Her nipples were taut and they beckoned me. And her pussy was glorious as she lifted one leg from her pants, and then lowered it casually to the floor as she raised her other leg to draw away that band of nylon, and she tossed it to the heap of other clothes.
"I'm ready," she said then, standing momentarily before me, her hands to her side and slightly away from her flanks in a neat little pose. "Are you ready for me?" And she started to me on that bed.
"I told you there would be nothing," I said. "I told you we would go someplace else first."
"We are already someplace else," she said. "Oh, Ace, I can't stand it any longer. I can't stand it another minute." And she came to me on the bed, fell to her knees before me, and rested her elbows to my lap, looked up to me beggingly, and whispered, "Please, Ace. I can't stand it any longer at all."
I looked down at her. The contact of her flesh to me, her elbows to my knees, her body near me, drove me insane. My dick was throbbing. My gut was aching. I felt cream surging in my balls, wanting and demanding to be released.
"I'll do anything," she said. "I'll do anything. Please let me do anything to make you happy. Anything."
I shook my head. I knew I had to see it through on my terms. I definitely couldn't let anything happen. I wanted to bring that bitch all the way down the line. I had big plans, and she mustn't upset them.
Yet I wanted to drive her out of her mind, and show her I could control her, show her that sex couldn't move me the way she thought it could. That's something you have to show a broad sometimes. They have the idea, and often rightfully so, that the mere sight or feel or nearness of their flesh can turn a man on and that they can have just about anything they want if they handle their bodies right. You've got to show them once in awhile that such is not true. I felt it was the time for that with her.
So I brought her onto the bed with a terrific embrace and we sank our tongues together as she tried rolling her body against me, her pussy at my trousers, her tits at my chest, her warm flesh practically wrestling all over me. And I began working her snatch, moving fingers back and forth in its wet world; she was solidly soaked already, and that was a good sign, too, for what I had in mind. I needed a broad that wanted to fuck more than anything else in the world, and I was sure I had one.
So I juiced her more, and she turned in every direction on that bed, and was struggling like crazy to get at my cock so she could play with it. But I kept moving in such a way that she couldn't find it directly, and she was too lost in her own good time to protest much; after all, she was sure that I would send my yang into her the minute I thought she was fully primed for the ride.
But I had other plans. So I kept at her vag, finally working up four fingers and a thumb, and managed to get a whole hand inside her. I turned it to a fist and began pumping her with it. She moaned and turned onto her back and spread her legs and shut tightly her eyes and held me and begged that I go all the way to the roof of her cunt. She practically had forgotten that she wanted a dick in her slit. Which was all right with me.
I began punching that fist up her hole, moving it perfectly, giving her plenty of action. Her cunt juice soaked it, and the ride was smooth; very little friction, and I felt my fist go up and down the walls of her hot and wet twat. Soon I brought her to a wild good come. She rocked and rolled and went insane. She moaned to the stars. She was crazy all over me, totally insane from my powering fist-fuck.
And I knew the next step was ready. It wouldn't be long.