"Fuck sucker, you say!"
"I already sucked two today," I hastily lied.
Debbie came around the table. Slowly she undid the button and zipper at the hip of the shorts. The garment slithered down her legs, to her ankles, lay dusting the linoleum. "Take off my panties," she told Popsy. "There's more hair. It's coming in oodles now… more every morning. Soon I'll be all furry and kinky down there."
Popsy's hand flew from my jeans. I watched him hurriedly oblige Debbie. He shimmied the panties off her hips, down trim little legs, made her lift first one foot, then the other, and tossed the shorts and underwear across the kitchen. The panties landed forlorn and cum-stained on the sink… near the cups… on the drain board.
Boy! I thought. This was sure getting to be some rinky-dinky place. There was enough material here to keep Masters and Johnson busy for forty more years.
Popsy dropped with a thud to his knees. "That's some snapper," he wheezed, minutely examining the puffy pink mound and tiny black springlettes sprouting above the cute dip to Debbie's wet gash. He fingered her love hole; extracted the finger, sniffed, popped the tip in his mouth. He repeated the finger maneuver… this time driving far up Debbie's shiffer, and drinking deep of the smell of sticky 'brown goo. Loudly he proclaimed, "Motherfuck-a-suckfuck!"
"He's getting kookier," I observed.
Debbie giggled. She looked from me to the table. A sudden mischievous light came into her eyes. Abruptly she snatched the jar of strawberry preserves, squatted, and, while I watched, while Popsy backed off, giving her room to work, dipped two fingers into the gook, brought out a gob, and packed the gooey sweet stuff up her pussy. "Do me first," she told Popsy. "Strawberry pussy."
"Fuck-a-lap-suck!" squealed Popsy.
I blinked. Still skeptical about the whole thing, but cunt sopping up nonetheless, I watched Popsy's tongue dart after the preserves. Boy! I thought. What next? How many ways were there to turn people on?
Debbie giggled and strained, and said, "OWWW! UM!" Tremors ran the length of her body as Popsy lapped. She planted her feet wide, held his head for a moment, then tore at her blouse-popping buttons halfway across the bright kitchen. She closed her eyes. Covering the small braless bumps on her chest, still mostly nipple but becoming more and more tittie every day, she kneaded, pinching the peaks taut while she churned her hips round and round, mashing her picnic pussy in Popsy's flushed face.
I moved closer, watched Popsy's tongue work like a shovel. The tip flew lightning fast into Deb's gash, came out with a scoop of preserves, and stoked the stuff greedily into his mouth.
Then out again, in, out… until the mound and split were lapped clean, the pouting lips glistened, and the entire area between Debbie's thighs was swollen, hard, bright new pink, throbbing, I knew, wanting, I was certain, something longer and stiffer and fatter than a wet tongue.
"Wow! That was something else!" Again the mischievous light came into Debbie's eyes. Abruptly she turned her small round behind toward Popsy. Scooping another huge gob of preserves from the jar, she packed the sweet stuff deep in the crack of her ass. She bent forward, cheeks spread. Sticky red goo, mixed with the clear juice from her pussy, oozed down the inside of her widespread young thighs. "Now the back," she told Popsy. "Suck out my ass, the crack, everything… then me and Katty'll do you."
"Uh-uh," I objected.
Debbie's laughter was a high-pitched teehee-hee.
Popsy leered at me. "Sweet little fucker you."
"Maybe!" I said firmly.
Again Popsy lapped. I watched his tongue catch first the red streamers snaking down Debbie's trembling thighs, then lick up to her asshole, up the crack, down… shoveling the stuff from shitter to mouth, shitter to mouth. I reconsidered the cock sundae. I could imagine Daddy's big pole covered with whipped cream, cherry on top-mine!-preserves packed at the roots, on his nuts, in the coarse hair. It was freaky. And thinking about it sort of turned me off. But watching Debbie and Popsy, seeing them groove, made me want to participate. Only thing was… even more than the picnic thing, the jellies and jams, doing it in the kitchen, with pots and pans and dishes all over the place, left me cold. The kitchen was the place for dishrags and ladles and like that. What I wanted was hot meat.
"Let's go upstairs," I suggested as Popsy scooped the last gob of preserves from Deb's cute behind.
Debbie straightened. "What about…?"
I followed her pointing finger, to the line of assorted English Guardsmen on the table. "Can we carry it all?"
Debbie shrugged.
Popsy burped.
We three looked at one another.
Suddenly I started to laugh. It tickled up from my belly, poured out and rang through the kitchen, the house. I eyed Popsy, still kneeling on the floor, mouth covered with strawberry preserves. I eyed Debbie, naked except for the torn blouse, about two dozen little black curlicues radiantly aglitter atop her tight pink twat. I eyed the jellies and jams lined up along the edge of the table. It was hilarious. I laughed even harder.
Hands on hips, Debbie glowered at me. She stomped her small foot. "What's so funny, hey?"
I couldn't reply. I was laughing too hard. It was all too much! Again I saw myself as an old lady, as I had done the first time with Mr. Hotsy Levine-this time picketing Daddy's athletic club with a sign that read CHERRY WITH WHIPPED CREAM ON TOP. I ran to the table, motioned for the picnickers to help, all the time laughing and thinking me and Debbie and Popsy were the absolute silliest sex maniacs I ever knew.
We stomped through the living room, Popsy at the head of our three-man parade, Debbie behind, her behind still bare, jars and cans and bottles clutched like treasure to her breasts. We marched up the winding stairway, me in the middle, arms loaded with treats. Reaching the upstairs landing, we goose-stepped silently and severely down the hall, to the big master bedroom-the one we'd never sucked in, because it was Popsy's room, and ole weird Popsy had a "thing" about that-and set our paraphernalia down on the night table and bureau beside the huge bed. Popsy flopped. Debbie raced from the room; But she was back in a moment with a soft back book with pages turned down and the appearance of having been read and reread by every conscientious lover in town..
I was still feeling silly. Winking at Debbie, I grasped Popsy's left leg. He eyed me suspiciously-then roared like a baby panda when Debbie lifted his other foot and, heaving together, we threw him back on the bed. Cackling laughter like two old hens, we undid his belt buckle and fly and yanked the pants and shorts from his bony white legs.
"Lookit his thing." Debbie pointed.
I looked. It was hard. As usual. But there was a piece of lint from his shorts stuck in the uncircumcised head, and the cute little red tip was trying unsuccessfully to pole through. I fell on the bed, wrapped my hand around the smooth base, bent, and, with several playful bites, extracted the fuzzy obstruction. The red rabbit's nose poked through. Affectionately I licked it.
"Katty!" said Debbie indignantly. "You're the only one with fucking clothes on. Take off your jeans and stuff while I sweeten up Popsy."
Reluctantly I deserted Popsy's hot member. I hopped from his side and began to strip. I watched Debbie sit sidesaddle, thighs wide, cunt gaping, on the bed. Opening the book to a turned-down page, she reached for the whipped cream and knocked it off the night table. She bent to retrieve it. Popsy drove a finger high in her ass. She sat back-on the finger. Pensively she studied the page. "Spread from head to base," she read… as if reciting a recipe for roast duck. Then she held the whipped cream spout to Popsy's cock.
By the time I was out of my clothes, Debbie had Popsy well greased. We flanked him.