She was enjoying it as much as I, her orgasm rocking the boat in the same instant. Her vagina was snapping at my fingers like lobster claws, trying to nip off the instruments that were giving her so much sexual torture. I aimed my hands a little higher, wiggling them into new nooks and crannies, triggering a fresh response with each discovery.
“Saints preserve us,” she wailed.
“Ah, an Irish lass.”
“Irish, English, German or Yiddish,” she cried back. “Who cares? Just keep that stuff coming. I think I can taste it. There's something wiggling in my throat.”
“I'll try,” I barked, “but I'm beginning to run low. I've got to save a little for next time.”
“Fuck next time.”
“That's what I'm saying, little girl.”
Then, thank goodness, Trudy also began to run low on fuel and her ups and downs became less frequent. She held on more tightly to my shoulders and I knew she was close to losing consciousness. She was sighing like a freshly milked cow and her eyes fluttered.
Then she sat heavily, giving me all her weight on my still firm cock. This final gesture caused a last small squirt to escape from my sack, along my shaft and into her bottom. She felt it and, smiling wearily, she tilted her head in tribute.
“A soldier to the end,” she acknowledged.
“The end, indeed.”
Then she fell back, her upper body disappearing between my legs as my softening penis allowed itself to escape from her bottom. Just before it gave its final gasp and also plunged between my legs I caught a glimpse of the overworked trooper. It was rather brown over its red and blue, but it didn't look dead yet. I wondered if a rest period would bring my forces back to life, ready for more action. At that moment Trudy rolled from me completely, struggling to her knees and crawling slowly, painfully from the room. I must have dozed, through my haze hearing water running somewhere, and then she was back at my side, leaning over me.
“Are you alive?”
“The issue is in doubt.”
She produced a washcloth soaked in warm soapy water and, as my heart went out to this Florence Nightingale, she washed my loins, taking special care to remove every trace of fecal matter from my Long John Silver. She hummed under her breath as she worked, very much the little mother, and I realized that, with her youth, she was already snapping back.
“How's your bottom?”
“Probably as sore as your prick,” she replied at once, her language as blunt as always. I reminded myself never to escort this young lady to the mayor's birthday ball.
“That's sore enough, but it's a good soreness, you understand?”
She smiled, leaning down to kiss me softly on the lips. “Sure, tiger. I understand that this is what living is all about. Who wants to do dumb things like going to work and paying bills? Why can't people just play all the time? I know that's what they want.”
“That isn't realistic. Somebody must work. Somebody must pay. Haven't you ever worked?”
She raised her eyebrows. “At sixteen? Not at anything I'd want to report on an income tax form. The same goes for Buddy. He picks up a little on the side… or maybe I should say on his back, but it's fun, fun, fun all the time. Don't you see the difference?”
I nodded. “All men do, Trudy, but we're trapped in that establishment you've heard so much about lately. We'd all love to smash our alarm clocks, sleep in and live the lives of beachcombers. But…” I ended with a sigh, shrugging. The truth was, I was having a hard time defending the system before this girl's beautiful and simple logic.
“Speaking of beachcombing,” she mused, sitting back on her heels and giving me a panoramic view of her body, “I wonder how the other guys are doing at the pool. Let's go look in on them, huh?”
I thought about that for a minute. Suppose we were to catch them in the act, walk in on Buddy Pipp in the process of pouring it to my wife. Would I stand there and smile like a cuckolded fool, or would I haul off and knock him off the high board?
That wouldn't be fair, I reasoned, because I'd let them go, knowing that was what Amy had wanted and, after all, I'd had my fun without Amy raising hell by storming into the front room. After listening to my lecture for a while longer, I sat up, nerves flexed, muscles relaxed.
“All right, let's go peek.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Still naked as the legendary jaybird who goes around without even feathers to cover his body, we clasped hands and crept out of the living room, headed for the rear patio and the swimming pool.
Slipping through the sliding doors, we stepped out on the patio, pausing behind a thin screen of foliage, some large-leafed stuff that hid our white bodies well enough in the darkness. The pool was beautiful, the blue-green glow from its depths providing the only light in the back.
We strained our eyes for a minute until they became accustomed to the darkness. Then I could see Amy sitting on the pool apron, wearing her brassiere and pants, which were damp. Her hair was streaming down the back of her neck, but her body looked beautiful, even if her ten-dollar coiffure was shot to hell. The glow behind her placed her in soft silhouette, so that every curve showed up in exciting relief.
Buddy was kneeling by her side, also dripping, and he wore a pair of bathing trunks. He was a tall kid, thin as a rail, but as he half turned his body, I saw a pouch between his legs that looked like a bucket of chicken parts under cloth. Christ, I mused, no wonder she'd been mesmerized as he stood at our front door earlier that evening.
Trudy looked up at me. “Let's not interrupt them.”
“Why not?” I whispered, my voice almost as soft as hers.
“I have an idea they haven't done anything but swim. Can you imagine? Give them a few minutes. It looks like the action may be warming up.”
I didn't like what she was saying, but I followed her suggestion, crouching lower behind the foliage and finding a new hole to look through. Trudy curled up at my feet like a puppy, which reminded me of Alexander. I glanced around and there he was, on the far side of the pool, out like a drunk on the morning after.
As we watched, Buddy waddled closer to Amy, still on his knees. He said something very low and I heard Amy laugh, her chin lifting. It was a familiar gesture, one she used on me before we were married, when she was showing me that I was the greatest guy in the world. Something in me sat up in anger, but I forced it back. Pretend they're two strangers, I reminded myself. This doesn't mean a thing.
Amy was waiting for him to make his move, all right, still seated quietly, leaning back on her hands so that her well-stuffed brassiere shot forward like naval cannon looking for targets of opportunity. She left her head high, her eyes on the distant stars, so that her long, white throat was exposed and inviting as hell. If Buddy had the desire to use that equipment between his legs, now was the time.
He must have heard me, for he leaned over her, still balancing himself, planting his mouth on her throat. Even from where we were, maybe thirty feet away, Trudy and I could see the shudder go through her. Amy had been torpedoed below the water line and she was taking water fast.
I sat down hard, rustling the shrubbery, but those two were beyond hearing. Trudy turned to stare at me, her eyes wide, her lips curved with vicarious delight. “What's the matter, Daddy?”
“I can't stand the idea of that brother of yours throwing the blocks to my wife, if you must know.” I made a face. “Call me an old-fashioned guy.”
She shook her golden head. “Don't worry about Buddy. He always gives them something special the first time around, and it doesn't include fucking.”
“Always?” I breathed.