He pistoned his hips to ram his turgid cock further into her mouth. He grabbed her head, tangling his fingers through her hair, urging her to pump faster and faster as the urge to come swelled in him like a balloon accepting too much air, about to snap, explode, and be no more.
He jammed the cock so far back into her throat he should have killed her, squirted sperm down into her stomach until she gagged.
He stroked part way out, lubricating her mouth with another splash of hot liquid, stroked deep again to fuck another wad down her throat.
He pumped and pumped for a dozen thick bursts of cum. She was gurgling and swallowing as fast as he could pour it to her. She was loving it. She could feel the heat of his cum all the way into her belly. She loved the intensity of his orgasm and somehow knew that she would quickly be able to bring him off to another one.
She was the power. She gave him a lust for cunt, for coming, for bursting loose with wads of cum that never quit. It was she who forced his mind to concentrate only on her, on her sensual body, on the lush tits that rubbed his thighs as she sucked him off. She made his eyes see only her high, smooth, round ass, thrusting it into the air as she knelt between his legs and ate his cock and his cum.
"Shoot for me," she urged him. "Come, come… don't stop, darling. Don't think of anything at all but coming and creaming, creaming, creaming for me…" She licked his prick, a long lovely tongue lap that made him gasp and blow a wad of sperm over her lovely face. Slimy wads spurted up over her nose, gummed her eyelashes, then ran down her rosy cheeks, dripped off her nose and over her ripe lips.
She licked her quick tongue around the spermy edges of her mouth, sucking up the swift gift he had given her in such glorious quantity, in such inhuman quantity.
"I want to fuck you," she said.
"No," he said.
"Yes," she said, flopping over onto her back, tits bouncing, spreading her fabulous legs to reveal the dripping cleft of her fatty-fleshed cunt.
His cock jerked, dribbled sperm across the sheets. "Fuck," he said.
"Stuff me," she said, making her slit pulse invitingly, drawing him quickly between her legs where more strings of hot spunk splattered out of him and slimed her thighs, thick gooey cream that should not possibly be left in him after all he had done thus far.
"I can't satisfy you," he said, his cock hard but his body trembling.
"Yes, you can," Marcy hissed. "You can, David, you can!"
"I'm afraid," he said.
"Fuck your dick into me, David! Hurry! Screw me hard!" A tremble of anticipation, of hard-core animal sexual heat washed through her and made her body twitch and writhe as it waited for the hard length of his male rod tote stuffed home.
He sank his meat to the balls in her honey-coated cunt, spurting cream on the first stroke, one jetting splash of it that made him groan as the beginning of a heated climax shook him and carried him on and on.
Pussy juice mixed with cum and squirted from her cunt.
"Jesus, what a cunt," he said.
"Yes… my cunt is beautiful, David. Fuck me."
He drove into the core of her womanhood. Her pussy sucked the very life from him. "Cunt, cunt, cunt!" he screamed as he pumped another load into her.
"Cock, cock, cock," she whispered, and her eyes popped open.
With one hand she reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. Then she pulled the covers back from her body. The fingers of her other hand were shoved far up her cunt.
She was a virgin in mind only.
Marcy never saw David Banks again. He was too embarrassed to call her and she felt no need to call him. She was still not totally liberated from her parents' fanatical, puritan views, but she was drawing away from them almost daily.
By the time she met Bruce Moran, she was more than ready for a real man. It was during the summer of her eighteenth year. She was ready to start junior college the following fall and in order to save money she had taken a job as secretary in the church. She was working in the office the day Bruce Moran breezed into her life.
"What's a beautiful girl like you doing in a place like this?" he said, sitting on the edge of her desk and taking a sip from her cup of coffee after lifting it unceremoniously from her hand.
"Working," she said, taking the cup back. "What can I do for you?"
"Oh… you could do a lot for me," he said, smiling and not bothering to disguise the lusting look in his eyes as he scanned the two rising breasts that threatened to burst from the front of her blouse.
"In the line of work," she said.
"I'm Bruce Moran."
"Swell. I'm Marcy Whalen."
"I don't think you understand, little doll," he said. "I'm the Bruce Moran, of the Moran Brothers, gospel singers. We're doin' a gig all this week in your little church."
The cocky, breezy type usually didn't turn Marcy on, but Bruce Moran did. He was different in many ways from the youthful, shallow young men like David Banks she had known. She felt that the tall, muscular blond could hold his own in any situation, especially in bed.
She quickly found out that the three Moran brothers were anything but what their press releases said they were. They drank, they swore, and they put the make on any female that said more than three willing words to them. None of this was in the open, however. For public consumption, they were as pure as the driven snow. In private they were Bacchus, Satan, and Casanova, all rolled into one.
And their leader was Bruce.
Marcy attended their first evening performance at the church. Bruce spotted her in the audience and made a beeline for her during the intermission.
"You like ice, cream and cake?" he asked, a strong hint of sarcasm in his voice about the bill-of-fare.
"I like anything sweet," Marcy said, spooning ice cream into her mouth and running her tongue over her lower lip.
"There's a lot of sweetness in my hotel room after this is over," he said bluntly.
"I'll be in your car," she replied.
They hadn't even needed the words. Their eyes talked to each other and said everything.
In the car, as they drove to the motel, he pulled her close to him with his arm and dropped his hand over her shoulder to fondle her breast.
"How did you know?" she said.
"Your, eyes, the way you looked at me," he replied, "and the way you move. Everything about you is sex."
"You, too," she said.
"I know," he whispered, "it's all I live for. Silly question, but are you a virgin?"
"Why ask that?"
"I don't know," he replied. "Just a hunch, I guess. Something I felt… like I knew you were ready, and you were willing but there was just this little something…"
"Let's say I'm a partial virgin," she replied. "Does it make any difference?"
"Shit, no, honey. Not the way you look."
Now that Marcy had made her decision, she was in a rush to go through with it. She barely touched the drink he fixed for her before dimming the lights and stretching across the bed.
"You're really ready, aren't you?" he said.
"I've been waiting a long time," she replied.
The lusty gleam in her eyes said worlds about her wants, needs and desires as he brought his face down onto hers. Their kiss was very warm, very long, and very passionate.
As their lips pressed together and their tongues sought each other out, his hand ran across her back. Its path was sure and steady as he unbuttoned her blouse button by button, until his hand was beneath, fumbling with the snap on her bra.
It was exciting, wonderful for Marcy. And he was exciting. There was no frustration or meandering about Bruce. He knew what they both wanted and he went right to the task of preparing them.