"You can lunch later," he told her. "I have a pussy to choke with this load!"
He climbed into the vee of her legs and she lifted her thighs. He set the tip of his dick in her gash, slid it into the winking hole of her cave, and gave it a mighty shove.
"Yes!" she gasped. Her ass was working around on the bed before he had it all buried in her hole. "Oh, plow my cunt with that thing, Dur!"
She screwed him with a greedy grasping that took his cock into her cunt up his balls. Then they started thrusting at each other. It was an even match. Durward wanted to shove his cock into her so deep it would come out of her mouth, and Shelley was so hot she lusted to be torn up by brute force, wanting to engulf his huge prick in her and have it explode its sticky wealth into the smallest cranny of her body.
They fucked with a feverish haste, and it seemed that the longer they screwed, the harder and meaner grew Durward's erection and the steamier and more clasping Shelley's twat became.
The sweat spread out between them, making their bodies slide at every contact. Shelley's juices oiled them both, covering their bellies, crotches, and thighs. There were gruntings and gasping and moaning as they struggled together.
Shelley had reached a high level of excitement, but she could not seem to make the last step that would lead her to the blessed relief of total orgasm. And Durward was just as desperate to help get her there before he lost control.
He plunged into her snatch fiendishly, feeling that he must certainly disembowel her if he plowed into her belly any more forcefully. But she only whimpered and gasped and begged for more, struggling to reach her goal.
Then she thought she was on the way. She started a series of grunts that made moaning sounds at the end; the tone rose, making her utterances sound like questions.
Sweat poured off Durward's brow and dripped on her tits, and still she continued her weird wailings. He remembered his ill-advised use of the rubber-titted clit-tickler, when he had thought she was losing her mind as he screwed her. But this time she was not ghostly pale; if anything she seemed highly flushed.
He stroked into her quim with renewed determination; his cock was starting to feel slightly numb, he had been fucking so long. And as he was ready to give up the fight, Shelley's eerie grunting moans changed in pitch, taking on the sound of a siren.
"Mother of God!" she cried. She farted explosively, then became as rigid as if her body were made of steel. Powerful waves shook her for a moment, and she whimpered like a punished child. Then she went limp. Durward thrust his cock into her boiling hole and felt his load pump forcefully into the already juicy maw of her cunt.
He spent himself to the limit, then pulled out of her so he could check on her condition. She had seemed to collapse like a rag doll. But as he looked more closely at her, he saw that she was recovering.
It took her several minutes to reach the point where she could speak. Durward watched her wet her lips, then croak hoarsely.
"I need… a drink!"
He rushed to the bar, splashed whisky into a glass of cubes, and added a little water. When he handed it to her, her hand shook, so he held it while she took a healthy swallow. Then she lay back and smiled up at him sheepishly.
"I thought, for a while, you weren't going to make it," he told her.
"I never would have believed," she replied, "that I could reach such a high pitch and… stay there so long without… losing my mind!"
Durward gave her another slug from the glass, and she swallowed it eagerly.
"Hah!" she exhaled with a sound of satisfaction. "Another good drink like that, and I'll be as good as new again. Now, what was that about your offer to feed me lunch?" She reached for his tired, limp, tingling prick. He backed away with a chuckle.
"I believe you told me that we had all night," he reminded her. "I think I'd like to nap a little about now, or at least get some rest. You can wake me later if you want that lunch."
"If you sleep too good," she warned him, "you might miss all the fun. But I'm sure you'll wake up at the last – just as lunch is being served!"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tom was sitting on the front porch, waiting for Sandy on the beach for their morning walk. He studied the sky and decided that it would be sunny the rest of the day; the brief shower that had passed over in the early morning had wet things good, but everything appeared to have dried out.
He heard his mother come onto the porch, and he turned to look at her. Coral was holding out a raincoat toward him. He felt a momentary irritation; he thought he had outgrown the "don't-forget-your-raincoat-and-rubbers" routine. But he relaxed when he saw that the garment was not his.
"Would you drop this off for Dur?" she said. "And thank Shelley for me. If she hadn't insisted on his wearing it home this morning, he might have caught pneumonia. That was cold rain while it lasted."
"Sure thing, Green Eyes," he said, taking the raincoat from her and giving her a kiss. "You won't forget peanut butter while you're at the market?"
"No. And don't you forget your snakebite kit if you do any more exploring today!"
Tom would have mentioned the lack of pockets in his birthday suit, but he saw Sandy appear on her porch, so he merely grunted an affirmative, waved, and jumped from his porch railing to the beach. He ran to meet her, raincoat trailing behind him and long cock swinging and slapping his thighs as he coursed over the sand.
They met halfway between the two cottages. Tom explained the raincoat, and they started walking around the south end of the lake to deliver it. The Cartwrights were swimming near the west dock as they approached the Ordwell cottage. After the raincoat and menage of thanks were delivered, Tom rushed to get away; Shelley's pink slit shone wetly through her blonde bush, and he was about to get a hard-on. He hurried Sandy back the way they had come.
Jack and Rhoda, back Mom their swim, were hanging their wet suits on their porch railing to dry. Tom would have passed on after waving, but Jack motioned for them to stop by, so they detoured.
"Come in for a bit," Rhoda invited. "We need you to help drink lemonade. I made too much. You can have it plain or spiked."
They followed her inside and accepted lemonade. Both of them took it straight, as did Rhoda. Jack spiked his with vodka. They sat in the casual chairs around the living room as they drank.
Sandy kept her legs demurely crossed. She was sport enough to go along with the idea of turning Harp Lake into a private nudist camp, but she was still self-conscious about exposing her crotch any more than was necessary.
In contrast, Rhoda was anything but modest about the casual exposure of her pussy, shifting position carelessly all the time. Tom, having acquired the taste during his "peeping" days, found it impossible not to feast his eyes at every opportunity, and Rhoda was well aware of the reason for his frequent lip-licking and the seeming discomfort that made him keep his hands in his lap.
"Sandy," Rhoda said, "Denise tells me you have great taste in decorating. Would you see if you can think up something to do to the wall in my bedroom? Show her the clock, Jack. Maybe she can give us some ideas."
Jack took Sandy into the master bedroom, and Rhoda hoped he could stall the girl for several minutes. She held out her glass toward Tom and smiled petulantly.
"Would you pour for me this time?" she asked. Tom had to get to his feet and use both hands to take their glasses to the bar. As she had suspected, he had the beginnings of a hard-on. When he came back with her lemonade, she managed to have her cunt split widely and smiling at him from her crotch.
His cock jerked slightly as he saw the juicy flesh of her uniquely flared swat. When she took her lemonade from him, her other hand slid up his thigh and she patted his ass warmly.
"Thanks, Tom," she said. "There's nothing like having something tall and wet to suck on." At the word "suck" his prick made another jump; she had emphasized the one word with a Mae West sultriness that he could not misunderstand.