Iris felt her own hips begin to jerk like a whiplash, and suddenly her entire body took up the dance, and she was flailing like a dervish. An overwhelming tide of pleasure washed over her and spasm after spasm of convulsive rapture shook her body. Gurgles of insane shrieks tried to escape from her throat but the words caught and blew unheard into the wide splayed cunt of the girl sitting on her face. But then, as surely as if she'd said it herself, Iris heard: "I'm cuuummmiiiiinnnnggggg!!" It was Carla, and she began to pound her loins even more brutally into Iris' gasping face, until she thought she would be broken into bits.
Through her satiated eyes, Iris could see Carla's arms waving akimbo, and her body was thrashing and spinning out of control. Her own body still twitched from the last licks which Nancy was administering, and the madly cavorting figure of Carla pulled Iris over until all three of them were writhing in unadulterated passion, arms and legs and cunts and mouths entwined, until they all finally lay still, the warm juices of their orgasms still flowing from their womanly orifices.
Chapter Eight
Slowly, sanity returned to Iris' lust-depraved mind. Her body felt sticky and hot and it was with an effort that she managed to drag her frame up off the ground. She was aware of John standing over her, staring at her. He had been enthralled by the lewd sight of the three naked women fucking each other, and he was only just recovering from the spellbinding sight.
The two girls were swimming off the outward evidence of their lust, and were romping around like water babies, and just as innocent.
She stared back at the triumphant stare of her husband, and then, averting her eyes, she struggled into her dress. Turning her back on him, she limped into the forest, where she found her horse waiting.
She rode slowly back to the house, her cunt still sore from the intense oral fucking she had experienced. Her thoughts were full of the two girls. She was surprised at her own reaction to their lovemaking — it had never occurred to her that she could be aroused by female sex. And yet, here it was. She had been awakened like she had never been before!
She thought about John, remembering how she had come upon him and the girls naked in the woods. He had been giving them lessons, all right, but not in swimming, she thought.
Approaching the house, she was surprised to see a strange car in the driveway. It was a large luxurious limousine, and she could see somebody, who looked like a chauffeur, sitting inside it. Feeling worried, she turned the mare out in the paddock and hurriedly walked toward the house, trying to smooth down her wrinkled shift and shake the brambles out of her hair.
She went directly into the office, and stopped short when she saw a tall, strikingly handsome man seated in there, leafing through a magazine.
He stood up when she came in, and smiled at her, a dazzling smile which transformed his face from merely handsome to totally sensual.
"I'm Peter Stafford," he said, extending his hand. "You must be Mrs. Harrault."
"Yes, I'm Iris Harrault," she stammered, shaking his hand.
"I've heard a lot about you," he went on. "Carla wrote and told me that she is really enjoying camp this year, for a change!"
Carla! Her numb brain shouted, then this must be her father! Good God, what does he know? Did she tell him?
"Carla tells me that she has really grown up in the last few weeks," he went on in his smooth sophisticated voice. "It looks like quite a place you've got here!"
"I–I'll show you around if you like!" she said, avoiding his eyes.
Grown-up! she thought dazedly. Does that mean that she told him everything about John, and that he's here to take her away — and God knows what else? Her confused thoughts rambled on, as she lead him out of the office. She knew that Mr. Stafford was a very influential man, being a magazine publisher, and that if they could only get a good recommendation from him, their financial troubles would be over and the future of the camp secure.
"How is Carla, incidentally?" he asked, stopping, halfway down the drive, and looking at her intently with piercing blue eyes.
"She — she's fine," Iris mumbled.
"I had some business in Albany, and I thought I'd drop by here and say hello, on my way back to New York. Is she around?"
"She's at the lake; she'll be back in an hour or so," Iris answered, her face beet red.
They walked around the immediate grounds, and Iris showed him the buildings and stables.
As they walked back towards the house, Stafford said: "You know, it seems like a great place here! I think I'll tell my friends about it so their kids can get the benefits that Carla has!"
Iris could contain herself no longer. She burst into harsh, racking sobs which tore themselves from her very core.
Stafford was surprised, but immediately took the situation in hand.
"What is it, Mrs. Harrault?" he asked, "is it something I said?"
"N-nooo…" she blubbered, clutching at his lapels.
He put an arm reassuringly around her, trying to soothe her, and they walked back in the direction of the house.
Chapter Nine
When they reached the house, Iris turned to him.
"Would you like a drink?" she asked, tears still streaming down her face.
"Sure!" he answered enthusiastically, his arm still protectively curled around her shoulder. "I'll just go tell Jason, so he can stretch his legs."
Iris waited at the front door, as Stafford walked over to the limousine. After a minute, Jason got out of the car, and Iris was surprised to see how tall, and how alike he was to Stafford. After another minute, Jason ambled off down the wooded drive, and Stafford joined her at the front door. She lead him out to the summer porch, and he settled himself comfortably on one of the wicker chairs.
Iris went out to fix the drinks, leaving Stafford alone.
A sophisticated man of the world, Stafford was able to immediately discern that when a woman appears, flushed, her lips red and swollen, her hair and dress in disarray, it can mean only thing — she has just been fucked. He was sure he was not wrong about Iris, and her sudden bursting into tears seemed to him to be a confirmation of his assumption.
He figured it must have been someone other than her husband, or else she wouldn't be so distraught over it. No wonder, Carla is so enthusiastic over this place, he laughed to himself, fully aware of his daughter's penchant for eavesdropping and peeping into open doors and windows.
Just then Iris re-entered. She was looking a lot better. Her hair was brushed and her tears had disappeared. She brought in a bottle of Scotch, a pitcher of water, and glasses with ice.
She poured a liberal amount of Scotch for them, and offered the water to Stafford. He refused, smiling, and she decided to drink it straight also. Her good spirits were returning and the sight of this handsome man in her front porch made her feel decent, and somehow respectable again.
"Just what is it you do, Mr. Stafford?" she asked, turning her attention to him again.
"For a start," he answered, "call me Peter. I don't feel old enough to be called Mr. Stafford by such a lovely young woman as yourself!"
Iris blushed from his casual compliment, and was sorry she hadn't spent more than a minute tidying herself up. She was beginning to relax more, feeling quite certain that Carla had not mentioned to him the real reason for her sudden maturity, and she was enjoying the company of a suave sophisticated man.
"My company," he went on, "Publishes six different magazines," and he explained the inner workings of the publications, several of which were high fashion monthlies.
It sounded very exciting and Iris felt drab in her workaday dress and even more uninteresting when she mentally compared her life's work with the occupation of this fascinating man.