"I see," Paula said soberly, thought she actually didn't see at all, mainly because she couldn't guess what was about to happen next. Was he just going to leave his hand trapped between her tight-clasped thighs? There couldn't be much fun in that.
They sat in companionable silence and she caught herself thinking in terms of those apocryphal strip poker games that boys and girls are always hearing about and never getting to play. If they were to get into a game, who would win first?
There was little doubt of that-unless she were to have a phenomenal run of luck. Paula mentally inventoried what separated her just-budding body from total exposure. She wore fuzzy, ankle-length bobby sox and saddle oxfords. She wore a skirt that might be considered daring at some parochial schools but nowhere else since it came well below her knees. Her button-up-the-back blouse was high-collared and long-sleeved. Beneath it she wore the only garment in her closet that had not come from the junior miss counter. Her bra was thirty four "C". On her slight, just-rounding body the effect was devastating whenever she forgot to keep her arms folded across her chest and or her shoulders hunched.
Apart from the aforementioned, the budding lady lawyer wore only a pair of sheer green nylon panties. She recalled abruptly that they were an old pair, bought a year ago when she had been much smaller across that portion of her anatomy covered by panties and, should anyone ever happen to see her in panties alone, it would be interesting to see her go.
But it wasn't going to happen-not for years after she had worn out and thrown away these getting-too-tight panties. Meanwhile, why couldn't she relax? Mr. Costello had given bona fides of a total lack of fogginess. Surely in his presence she didn't have to continue that arms-folded, shoulders-hunched posture which was her only defense against pimply-faced conquistador's. She threw her shoulders back and stretched.
The movement pushed her phenomenal pectoral protrusion forward startingly, until her blouse threatened to burst. For the barest of instants it seemed as if Mr. Costello might burst too. But the movement loosened her death grip on his hand for the barest of instants too and her mentor improved on the interval by moving his hand an inch closer to disputed territory before she remembered and clasped her crossed legs tight again.
The book of Oneida Colony pictures fell to the floor as Mr. Costello turned half-around to face her. "Tired?" he asked. "I often get tired in the afternoons. I find it very relaxing just to lie down for a few minutes." While he talked he unobtrusively got his hand out from between her thighs, leaving Paula with a vague sense of disappointment. She allowed him to scoot her down the day bed a few inches and swing her legs up on it. Soon she lay at full length and Mr. Costello sat-rather uncomfortably, she suspected-beside her on the narrow frame, half-turned to look down on her.
Smiling gently, he patted her shoulder and flicked a stray strand of long straight blond hair from atop her full firm tit. His hand came to rest where the strand of hair had just lain-square atop her tit. Paula felt a funny little twisting, turning sensation inside herself. It felt deliciously wicked. She wondered what would happen if she were to put her hand over Mr. Costello's. Not push him away-just put her hand over his to let him know that she was grown up and knew all about the interesting experiments they must have performed in the Oneida Community.
She wanted to try it, do anything that would keep this lovely old man near her. It was funny how she had never noticed before the utter maleness of his well-barbered, well-bathed body. Some kind of cologne, she guessed. It was several hundred percent nicer than the grubby goatiness of her own age group with their zits, their sweaty athletic preoccupations, and their eternal petroleum stinks from crawling around under ageing automobiles. Mr. Costello smelled nice.
But, like every woman of every age, Paula was endowed with a certain native caution. "There must have been accidents," she insisted. "What did these Oneida people do when something went wrong?"
"Accidents?" Mr. Costello raised his bushy white eyebrows. "Oh, you mean pregnancies. Of course they had a few. Young ladies of your age are notoriously fecund, just as are young men. On the other hand, we of the geritol set have been known to contribute on occasion to people pollution too."
"But what did they do?" Paula insisted, suddenly aware of all the disastrous implications involved in Mr. Costello's hand over her full, firm, never-been-kissed tit. Her taut young body was suddenly suffused with yearning for more hands in more places-a yearning rendered more piquant by a knowledge of the danger involved. If she were to suddenly end up pregnant it would mean the end of law school-the end of everything. What was she going to do?
"Modern technology," Mr. Costello said, "Is amazingly resourceful. And even if we were living in the stone age, there are certain methods and procedures which are infallible in the avoidance of pregnancy. Not only are these procedures totally foolproof, they're also much more fun and that's the ultimate name of the game, isn't it?"
Paula's eyes were much wider than they had been a moment ago. Now how, she wondered, had Mr. Costello managed to get all those buttons down the back of her blouse undone without her even knowing?
CHAPTER 10
Paula's memory of another time had been fleeting. She was still staring at Harry Riggs's lean, compact body, staring at his cock which was so close to her face that she could feel heat radiating from it like a branding iron.
He squatted atop her chest, his thighs pushing her full, firm tits upward like some carnal corset. His hairy scrotum lay between her tight-squeezed jugs, tickling her faintly but she had other problems more pressing than being tit-tickled by a man's balls.
If only she could get her body under control. Here she was facing the ultimate in degradation. He was going to make her do something infinitely more male chauvinistic, more porcine than even his semi-rape of an hour ago. And what was she doing? She could still gain the advantage over him, she knew. She could grab him where it hurt and have him quite literally by the short hairs. But it required movement and she was paralyzed, fascinated by that full-sized, hot, throbbing hunk of maleness.
Eyes half-crossed, she focused on the heavily strung underside of his virility. It really was as large as she remembered-a full eight inches long. My god! Had she had all that inside her? No wonder she had felt-ravished.
The knob on the end of this breaker and enterer's crowbar was perfectly round and as big as a golf ball. His foreskin was rather short and now that his cock was in full flaming erection, its round head glistening and glowering with purple engorgement, she could see the single blind eye in that head staring at her from the stretched-open tip of his prepuce. It would take only the slightest pressure to force that foreskin all the way back and present her with a weapon field-stripped and ready for any eventually.
His foreskin was heavily veined and each swollen vein was pulsating in time to his heartbeat. Unconsciously, Paula found herself counting and realizing to her mortification that he was not as excited, his heart not racing half so fast as was hers.
She remembered the feel when that prodigious prod had been sliding in and out of her belly, pushing her insides this way and that, churning her into a pink-frothed mist of eroticism. Why couldn't he do it that way again? If he was destined to do it at all, why couldn't he just pour his eight inches to her in the way God intended for men and women to mitigate the burnings of the flesh. Now why did that old parochial school phrase pop into her head just then?