Champagne interlude.
IX
The Rawlings lay clasped in each other's arms and I felt sorta like an intruder. I reminded Margo of a semi-promise she'd made earlier. The worst they could do was dismiss me. I couldn't think of any verbal subterfuge, so I blurted out frankly, “Uh-remember you said you like to stick your tits up a guy's keester?”
Margo smiled happily. “Of course. I adore it. May I?”
“While she does it,” I said, to console him, “you can suck it.”
“No, you'd find that distracting. I'll tell you what-you get on top of me. That way we'll keep it in the family.”
Jon sprawled on the bed on his stomach. I climbed on top of him. Marge made it a triangle, delicately mounting me. I felt one soft tit rubbing against my hairy furrow. The other. Nipples make a quarter-inch penetration. Reamed by titty!
“Fuck him!” Margo goaded me.
It was so easy. My rod was lodged in the crack of Jon's ass. I found the rosy pucker of his bunghole and rammed it. My heaving butt was empty-Margo had withdrawn the fleshy stuffing. But as I fucked her husband, she climbed on me again. To rim me. Gee, that's how those two differed. Jon rimmed, then fucked. Margo tit-fucked, then rimmed.
Her tongue in my ass spurred me on to faster action. Too fast. She couldn't keep her position, but rolled off to watch us. Jon was already impaled by my buzzer; my balls flapped against his ass cheeks. I lifted his body to show her. “See, no prick!”
“Fuck him!” Margo shrieked. “Fuck him! Fuck him!”
“Jon's ass writhed impotently. Tight as a cunt, not as elastic, resisting. Resistance sweetened the plugging. I lashed into him.
“Hey! Go easy!”
That did it. He wriggled to escape the onslaught. Friction set my prick on fire. I pounded him mercilessly. “Kiss my ass!” I ordered Margo. She'd never get to it on time. My balls were unloading. I reached out blindly, pulled her hair, grabbed a tit, mashing it ruthlessly. I shot spunk down the slot under me.
“Darling!”
“Darling!”
Again they nestled in each other's arms, oblivious of the stranger. It was kinda late. I crept out of bed. “Guess it's time to go.”
“Of course-you're quite free to go,” Jon said. “Although we did uh-rent you for the evening.”
“I wouldn't wanna cheat you.” I tried to sound sarcastic. “If there's anything left undone-”
“There's lots left undone. You haven't fucked Margo's bottom. You never did get to suck me. We haven't pissed on you.”
I can see where that C-note wasn't really overpayment.
“We don't have to do all those things,” Jonathan continued. “I'm slightly exhausted. How about you, dear?”
Margo pouted. “You know I'm seldom exhausted. But the boy is anxious to go. Let's just finish off the evening and say good night.”
“Excellent.” Jon turned to me. “We'll just finish off the evening. You know, Doug, Margo and I are old fashioned. We pay well and expect full value. If we buy your services, when you leave us you should have no services left to offer. For instance, if you go out now and screw your girl friend, we consider it unfair. That fuck belongs to us.” Margo nodded her head in agreement.
Jon went on explaining pleasantly. “If we rent a young lady, we alternately fuck her and lap her till she cries uncle. One hardly expects a boy to cry uncle. But with a boy it's even easier to determine when he's given us full value.”
“How?”
“We jerk him. When he's dry-” Jon shrugged.
I didn't know how many loads I had left in me-if any. Whatever I had, they were entitled to. I advanced on Margo, holding up my limp tool for her. “Pull me off, lady.”
You'd be surprised how quickly the brunette had a bone in her hand. She rubbed it vigorously.
“Wait a minute. I think I can come. Lemme fuck it into you.”
“Of course, dear.”
I mounted her and gave her my fourth load of the evening.
Jon jerked my reddened whang automatically. Remounting. “I have an appointment to see Bailey first thing in the morning. If the car's fixed, we should be leaving right after lunch. Highway Fifty-four to Des Moines. Stiff already? That's pretty good, Doug.”
His fingers were pinching the sensitive underside of my weapon, making the vein jump. “Suck on it. Please, Mr. Rawlings, I'm gonna come in a second.”
He shook his head. “It's late. I don't feel like sucking.” But his fingers felt like beating my thumper. I dropped another load, in his palm, on the carpet. Jon wiped the mess off his hand onto the pillowcase. “At this rate you'll be coming till morning.”
“I think I'm dry now,” I mumbled. “Should we let him go?”
“No!” Margo was vehement. “I want to feel him spurt.”
I pandered to that unnatural feeling. Within a few minutes I spurted. I was resigned now. This was my mission in life-to keep spurting. The numbness in my dick seemed to spread all over. I didn't give a damn how many times they jerked me. Maybe I'd fall asleep while they were still pulling. Once I dozed off with my rod in a girl's mouth. But that girl was a lousy cocksucker.
Jonathon's voice seemed to come from far off. “You're a good kid, Doug.” He patted my shoulder. Margo kissed me on the lips. Sexy, though it was indubitably a good-night kiss.
I stumbled into my chinos and out of the Crystal Suite.
In the morning, I caught up with the old-fashioned, full-value couple as they were going out for breakfast. “Will you be leaving today, sir?”
“We expect to. Why?” Jonathon sounded brusque and tycoonish. Although silent, his dark-haired spouse looked expectant and ready to meet any indecent suggestion halfway, at least.
“I thought maybe tonight we could-”
“We don't go in for reruns,” Jon interrupted.
“Yes, sir. But you see, I have these friends. A couple. She's blonde, built, and gorgeous. He has fourteen inches.”
Margo squeezed her thighs together, right there in the hotel lobby. I'll tell you- I was embarrassed! Jon, however, continued on the brusque streak.
“We don't go in for professionals.”
“Professionals!” I squeaked, indignantly. “Beth and Matt aren't professionals.” I realize that the fusty old cabin would be an unlikely setting for the cream of Baltimore society. Even for kooks like the Rawlings. So I improvised.
“Matt happens to be a talented artist. He's a cock painter. Paints with his rod instead of a brush. Beth is his number one model. She's a nudist-but don't let that bother you.”
The front of Jon's impeccable trousers was unmistakably distended. “Hmmm,” he muttered. “Fuck it!”
“Fuck Beth and Matt?”
“No. Fuck Des Moines.”
The Rawlings were decked out in gear suitable for visiting an artist's studio. Margo had poured herself into the miniest of minis, virgin white, with not much above the waist either. Two slender, black shoulder straps matched her black stockings. Again, the only flash of color was her crimson lipstick. Tonight her dark hair was piled high, secured by an ebony comb sparkling with brilliants. In a word-devastating. She looked like a jet age Carmen.
Jonathon wore casual sport clothes. That bulge in his side pocket, I hoped, was a replenished bankroll. If it was his rod, during the day it must have got bent, not to mention weirdly elongated.
I had stopped in their suite for a cocktail, so we waltzed through the lobby together. Bellhops in mufti aren't supposed to mingle with hotel guests. But fuck the manager… if he didn't like it. As it happened, Norvin was away from his desk. Our exit from the hotel wasn't unobserved, however. Carla Grant must have been working overtime. She sat primly, murmuring a cool good evening to the occupants of the Crystal Suite, with not even a nod for their escort.
She didn't nod or say anything, just kinda glanced up at me. In that glance, I could feel she knew everything. Knew I was taking the Baltimore duo out to get laid, et cetera. Knew I was going out pimping. Or worse.