“So what? You think you’re the only one with a manhood problem? Believe me, you’re not. Every guy I meet has one. But believe me, I know how to straighten them out.” Sappho took his hand and pressed it against her warmly heaving breast. “It’s all in the mind,” she purred. “Believe me, when the body takes over, you’ll forget all about it.” Her hot breath tickled his ear now. “Yes, it’s all in the mind.”
“Being a eunuch is not just in the mind,” Balzac pointed out.
“Don’t think about it, baby. Just leave everything to Sappho,” she panted. “Sappho and Lovelights will straighten you out in no time!”
“That I doubt,” Balzac said pointedly.
“You do? Then what’s this?” Sappho’s fingers trailed up the inside of his thighs.
“I have a pencil in my pocket.”
“With lots of lead in it,” she cooed.
“I tell you, it’s no use.”
“Don’t be negative. Don’t be a defeatist. All you need is a little encouragement. Now, you just lean back and relax, and we’ll see if little Sappho can’t encourage you. Just keep your eyes on me now.”
Sappho backed off, her body swaying sensuously. Wriggling, she leaned backward across a desk, raised one leg, and kicked off her shoe. She repeated the gesture with the other leg. Then, slowly and rhythmically, she removed her stockings.
Looking provocatively at Balzac, she tossed back her long, black hair and swung into a sort of dance. It was slow and sensual, as if some invisible lute player was supplying unheard music with a harem dance beat right out of the Arabian Nights. At first her body merely swayed to this beat, hips undulating, large bosom seeming to ripple under the silk of the blouse she was wearing. But as her fingers crept up the buttons running down the front of the blouse, her tempo quickened slightly as if to hint at the frenetic movements which would follow.
The blouse was unbuttoned now, and pulled free of her skirt. It flared out behind her as she picked up still more speed. The half-moons of her breasts rose enticingly from the bodice of her slip, the flesh swelling with her excited breathing. Her face grew flushed, and her eyes sparkled as she lost herself in the dance.
Now the blouse fell from her shoulders. Her hands moved over her body in a prolonged caress. She squeezed her breasts; her fingers pinched the tips so that they distended almost visibly under the material of the bra and slip; her hands continued down to her hips, kneading them, rotating them, and then moved around behind her to caress the plumpness of her derriere. Finally, her hands moved to open the zipper at the waistband of her skirt, and the garment fell to the floor.
Sappho stepped out of it and continued dancing. Slowly, buttocks jiggling, she turned her back to Balzac. She bent from the waist, her fingertips grazing the floor. Her slip stretched tightly over her vibrating haunches. The globe of her derriere described a lascivious orbit. She turned around. A shrug of her shoulders and one slip strap fell halfway down her arm. A wriggling motion, and then her hand was over her head, free of the strap. A duplication of the motion and the slip hung around her hips. Sappho swung into a frug-type dance, gyrating jerkily. The slip slid down her legs and she stepped out of it.
Balzac licked his lips at the sight of her in only bra and panties. His eyes traveled up from her ankles, admiring her long, beautiful tapered legs with their olive-skinned smoothness and the delicate pink flush at the thighs. His gaze grew hungry at the sight of the full, womanly hips under the flimsy black panties she wore. His hands clenched eagerly at the sight of the bosom moving inside her bra, the outlines of the nipples clearly visible now, the breast-flesh straining above Sappho’s small, naked waist.
She was moving like a professional strip-teaser now, the lower half of her body arching and retracting in a series of bumps and grinds. Her hands slid down the sides of her body until the fingertips reached the waistband of the panties. Slowly, she rolled them down until only the scantiest, Bikini-type triangle covered the lower part of her body. Then again, her rhythm changed, this time to suit a slow, undulating belly-dance. The muscles of her flat stomach quivered, and her navel contracted and expanded in a pulsating invitation. It was a suction-like illusion which half drew Balzac to his feet. Sappho waved him back without breaking her rhythm, and slowly turned around. The globe of her derriere was clearly bisected now, the naked, glistening halves rotating in opposite directions in a demonstration of truly remarkable muscular control. His eyes riveted there, Balzac almost missed it when her hand reached around to the middle of her back and unclasped her bra.
She turned around again. The bra hung loose in front of her bosom now, barely concealing it. Her large breasts jiggled, and as she swiveled from side to side, Balzac caught glimpses of the firm, uptilted flesh bouncing in time to her quickening heartbeat. She slid one arm free of the bra, her fingers holding the strap clear of her breast, but in such a way that the cup still concealed it.
She came very close to Balzac now. Her fingers opened and the bra strap fell. He gasped at the redness of the roseate, clearly etched and wide as a half-dollar, the nipple itself a darker red, protruding a good half-inch, quivering as if with a life of its own. Sappho’s hand slid under the breast as she guided it close to his face. She let the tip just graze his lips, and when he responded, she laughed huskily and danced quickly away.
But the contact had aroused her as well. And her excitement made her hurry. With a wild gesture she tossed the bra halfway across the room. Both breasts bobbled free now, sculpted ivory melons tipped with strawberries and separated by a deep, almost mysterious, womanly cleavage. A tiny trickle of perspiration ran into this crevice, the result of her energetic abandon.
She cupped her breasts now and propelled them into a circular movement in opposite directions. Then she took her hands away. The breasts continued to spin like twin doves straining to tear loose from her body. Again she moved closer to Balzac. His jaw snapped to trap one of the doves. He caught it on the wing, but it quickly flew free, seemingly none the worse for the slight tooth-marks now marring its plumpness.
Eyes closed now, head thrown back, blue-black hair cascading over her breasts, Sappho strummed the dark red nipples peeping through the tendrils of hair. Like an accomplished guitarist, her fingers flew over them until they quivered with yearning. Then her hands dropped once again to her panties.
Bending at the knees, she leaned far backward. Only her pelvis moved in a long, pulsating undulation as she pushed the panties down. The soft, ebony down pointing to her womanhood was clouded by aroused passion. She closed her knees tightly, and the panties slipped off altogether. Then, still straining in a backbend, she moved them slowly apart, farther and farther, until the entrance to her tunnel of love was clearly visible to Balzac.
Abruptly, her body straightened, stiffened for a moment. She stood stock still as if seeking control to hold herself back. And then she dived for Balzac, straddling his lap, her fingers clawing at the zipper to his pants. “Come on,” she panted. “Hurry up! You want me now, don’t you?”
“Yeah!” Balzac rasped, his eyes bulging. “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”
“Just a minute,” Penny shot out of her office. “What do you two think you’re doing?”
“Don’t be naive.” Sappho waved her away. “What does it look like? And how long have you been here, anyway? How long have you been watching us?”
“Never mind that.”
“What do you mean ‘never mind that?’ You could have at least coughed or something to let us know you were here. Some nerve! Spying on us this way!”
“Well, so now you know! And the least you could do is stop what you’re doing while I’m talking to you.”
“Why should we?”