She was a talented little thing, wiggling like a juggler balancing three balls-or, in this case, two-sliding her hips about on the carpet until I felt my dork being rammed into her pubic hairs. They seemed to part on command and, looking down the narrow chasm between our quaking bodies, I could see her open gates.
My head fit inside, even though she was surprisingly tight. I would have expected, from the way she'd been behaving, that her vagina would have been well broken in, even though she was only sixteen. But she was a snug little piece and my cock enjoyed the sensation of being hugged on all sides as it slid along her canal.
“Everything all right?” she breathed into my ear, her breathing coming in little pants. Even though she was almost as excited as I, she could still giggle deeply in her throat. “You don't need to answer that.”
I didn't, instead pushing more deeply and, before knew what was happening, my week of abstention began paying its generous dividends. My dork was beginning to spill its stuff, the sperm raging down my shaft, racing for my head and, beyond, the rear wall of her womb.
She felt it and, giving her hips a half dozen rabbit-like jerks, she brought herself to the brink. These kids are usually loaded with power and she apparently could time herself almost to the second.
She proved her talent, a giant shaking possessing her for an instant, and then I joined her in the orgasm, my sperm rocketing its boiling stream into her midsection, tumbling out like anxious pupils on the last day of school.
We came for perhaps a minute, the sensation thoroughly draining and satisfying as I sagged against her, perhaps crushing her but not giving a damn. I was already thinking ahead. There were the two people waiting at the Champions, there were the bottles by the front door… and there was Trudy Pipp.
At the moment, Trudy was the only thing that mattered in the whole wide world. She nibbled my ear while I cooled off, my cock gradually softening and slipping from her, leaving its puddle on the carpet.
“You, Mr. Brady, are something else,” she whispered between nibbles.
“And you, Miss Pipp, are a problem which is assuming major proportions,” I groaned.
CHAPTER FIVE
I lay in a daze on the carpet and, when I was able to focus, my eyes fell on the battered baby-blue heap that had been Trudy's pants. They lay there like a pathetic forest creature that had been shot and left to die by a heartless hunter. Was that how I was viewing the sixteen-year-old blonde? Had she been my victim in the forest, where only the fittest could survive?
Like hell, I snorted, climbing to my feet, clutching at my trousers. Working fast, like a man late for the office, I straightened my clothing and Trudy got up, doing the same, except that she remained barefoot. Jesus, but even her feet were sexy, her toes pink and wiggling like cute puppies lined up for a nursing.
“They'll be thinking I took a wrong turn and drove into the ocean,” I muttered, checking myself in a wall mirror while she stood behind me, looking as demure as a child waiting for Sunday school to begin.
She made a face as I turned back to her, something that might have been a pout. “Do you really need to run off? A girl likes to know her man's really interested.”
“I dare say my interest has been demonstrated,” I grumbled, heading for the front of the house.
“What about my panties?” she whined. “The seams are all torn out.”
I pulled out my wallet, handing her a five dollar bill, “Keep this inside your brassiere,” I snapped. “Don't let Mrs. Brady catch a look at it. When we get home I'll pay you for your sitting time, all right?”
“Yes, sir, whatever you say, sir.”
“Cut the sass and keep your ear open for that monster in the garage. Remember, he's chicken after dark. I suppose you can let him inside, if he starts to fuss.”
She nodded. “I wondered about that. Lordy, he's a big one, but I think he's kind of cute. Maybe I'll cuddle with him and we can watch TV together.” She smiled like an angel.
“He loves Jimmy Junkin.”
She followed me to the door, where I picked up my supply of sauce. “What will Mrs. Brady think?” she asked, her voice all innocence.
“She won't think anything, except that I'm a slowpoke.”
She barked a high laugh, sort of like a French poodle. “You know better, Mr. Brady. She'll know something's been going on. She was looking daggers at me while we were being introduced.”
I went out on the porch, glaring back at her, resisting a wild impulse to get back inside and to hell with the bridge party. “Just do your job,” I hissed. “Alexander's your beat, kid, at a buck fifty the hour.”
She was laughing again as I closed the door and I wondered how long it would be before I would manage to get myself alone with that torrid piece once again. Hurrying out to the car, I roared back to the Champions and hurried inside, looking breathless as hell. Amy and the hosts were sprawled about the living room, heavy-eyed, staring at me, so I took to the offensive before their questions started.
“God damned liquor stores,” I blurted, wiping my brow and holding up the Jim Beam. “The place up the street was closed and I had to drive halfway across the state to find somebody who would let loose of a couple of quarts.”
They blinked, looking at one another. “Halfway across the country seems more accurate,” Amy murmured, glancing at the wall clock with a toss of her shining brown hair. I was pleased to see that she looked as exciting as before, despite Trudy's tapping of my reservoir of semen. “You could have gotten something at home far easier.”
I nodded. “I suppose you're right, but I was mad and finding somebody became a matter of principle.”
“Well, break something open,” Sam muttered, heaving himself to his feet. “This party's been idling out of gear for damned near an hour.”
Alice stirred at Amy's side, peering at me from under black bangs, her dark eyes still warm from our bout by the kitchen sink. “How can any party move without our Donny?” she purred in mock-seductive tones, drawing a sharp look from Amy. “Come on, mister man, and serve us something good.”
I hurried into the kitchen and Sam followed. Together we mixed drinks, he shooting glances at me.
“Where were you, partner? I was ready to call the cops.”
“I told you. Prowling all over town.”
A nasty sound came from his nostrils. “The place up the street is open every night of the year, including Christmas Eve and Guy Fawkes Day.”
“God damn it, he's closed for inventory or some crazy business, I tell you. Go look for yourself.” I prayed he wouldn't call my bluff.
Shaking his head, Sam led the way back to the front room, a brimming glass in each hand. I came close behind, determined to be a good little boy for the remainder of the evening.
Again we settled around the bridge table and, sure as hell, a knee was touching mine all over again. I looked wearily at Alice, for I'd always known she wasn't being satisfied by Sam but, Jesus, how many times did I need to drain her oil in one night?
Either Alice was an even better actress than I'd believed or it wasn't her knee against mine. I turned to look at Amy and she was staring into my ear, her eyes focused like one of those magnifying glasses that starts Boy Scout fires in dry leaves. Her lips were parted and shiny and her breasts were rising and falling as though there might be a tidal wave heading her way.
Her eyes shifted to mine and she began shooting code that could only mean one thing. She wanted to get me alone and play a game other than bridge and, despite my earlier exercise with Alice and Trudy, I found my dork beginning to weave like an awakened cobra.
Sighing like a steam engine at ease in a roundhouse, I dropped my cards on the table. “I don't have a thing, including any desire to go on with the game. I'm sorry, kids, but it's not my night to be good company.”