Gus Stevens - Love Me, Love My Dog

Amy blinked at Trudy and then me, but there was no jealousy in her look. She knew what she wanted and, for all she cared at that moment, I could hit the sack with a Shetland pony.

Taking Buddy's hand, Amy skipped from the room, laughing like a kid, her various parts bouncing lightly as they tripped along. Buddy grinned over his shoulder at his sister. “See you around. I don't guess you'll be hurrying into the yard, huh?”

“I suppose not,” Trudy called back as they disappeared.

We stood looking at each other and I expected romantic music to start pouring from the ceiling, like in the movies, but the only sound was Alexander licking himself at our feet. I glared at him until he lifted his muzzle from his cock and balls and then I pointed toward the rear of the house.

“Out. Go get your mistress. Bug her for a while.”

He surprised me by obeying. He'd always been too much of a coward to give me any sass, but I thought he was too dumb to know what was expected of him.

“Well.” I rubbed my hands like a jewelry salesman looking over a bride-to-be. “Here we are.”

“Time for more fun and games, huh?” Trudy replied, her voice sweet but not very soft. “Time for you and me to fuck again.”

I rolled my eyes. “Diplomatic you ain't, girl.”

“Who says I should be? You want to pour it to me all the time and that's all right, just so you don't go around pretending. Why do you think I brought Buddy with me? I told him about Mrs. Brady and he thought she would be nice.” She giggled. “Seems like the feeling's mutual.”

I sighed, taking her by the shoulders, feeling the tingle race up into my hands. “Don't you and your brother have friends your own age?”

“Sure we do, but we want to get ahead. After all, what can kids fifteen and sixteen do for us, except give out with a lot of drippy romance stuff and gripe about how broke they are all the time.” She waited, her eyes fixed on mine.

“I see, you're here for profit as well as fun.”

“You win first prize, Mr. Brady. Please don't call me a whore; I wouldn't come right out and hold back until you paid up.” She grinned like an infant in its crib. “But if you were to add a tip to the sitting money, that wouldn't be so bad. I don't like the idea of turning pro all the way. Then you get involved with pimps and lots of other middlemen who skim away the profit. I'd rather free-lance and pick my own friends.”

“I suppose I should be honored.” My voice was dry, but the palms of my hands weren't.

“That's up to you, “but I don't sleep around all that much.” She stepped closer, touching my collar and running her finger along my buttons until she reached my belt. “I liked you right away, and that's no fooling. I hate the phonies and you're a real person.”

I was gulping like a woman in traffic court. “So what happens now?”

She winked. “You've been awfully nice, Mr. Brady, so I thought I'd take charge tonight and show you a good time. It doesn't look as though the others will walk in on us, does it?”

I shook my head. Amy wasn't going to let loose of that stud horse and Buddy had been drooling during their exit.

“Good. Then I'm the boss from here on out, and I'm going to give it to you forty ways to breakfast, whatever that means. Anyhow, you just relax and let me take charge, okay?”

Was it okay if a stranger came up to me on the street and gave me a sack of money? Hell, yes, it was okay. But I only nodded, to preserve my dignity for a few more seconds.

The little blonde went to work, humming like a seamstress fitting a hundred-dollar gown on a good customer. She opened my shirt, helping me out of it. Then she untied my shoes and allowed me to lean on her shoulder as I stepped from them. My socks were whipped away and then she loosened my belt, zipped my zipper and, pulling my pants from hip to ankle, she had me to my shorts in seconds.

She paused nibbling her lip in thought, as though measuring her strategy. Then she opened the snaps and allowed my shorts to flutter down like a symbol of surrender. Everything was pulled off and heaped on a chair and she stood back to look, the artist examining her creation.

“You're real good, Mr. Brady. I've seen my share of cocks here and there, one way and another, but I must say you've got plenty of size and you know how to use it.”

I was glad my old mother couldn't see me now. My sixth-grade English teacher, too. They'd never understand.

She took a turn around me and I half expected she'd kick one or two of my tires before she hopped on for a test spin. “Do I pass?” I muttered.

“You pass. Let's get going.”

She grabbed me by the head of my penis and held on, laughing like a banshee.

I put my finger to her lips and she quieted at once, looking sheepish. “Golly, I got carried away. I guess I'm going to love this as much as you.”

I stiffened and nodded my head like a Von Krupp, but my dignity was fading fast. My penis was not, however. It was growing to prodigious size under her grip. I was in the same shape as the last time, all worked up and not yet relieved of my load.

Trudy wiggled her fingers on my shaft and I felt the electricity zip all the way up to the fuse box inside my balls, where the sperm cells were lined up, anxious to be trooped out for inspection. Her hand went to my head and again I got the message, feeling my belly tighten and the muscles in my thighs turn tighter, anxious to propel my loins against the target.

“You're ready already,” she observed, looking like a clinic physician.

“Yes. And you?”

“First you'll have to take my clothes off. I'll allow you to do that much.”

I was as surprised as she when I shook my head. “Nope. You said you'd do everything. I'm your guest, sweetheart, so you take care of yourself. As a matter of fact, I'd like to watch you removing your clothing. Put some style into it and maybe we can write it into the act.”

She was giggling again, suddenly the child, and my heart went out to her. I wanted to cuddle her, almost like a father-but not quite. She caught the mood, sucking her thumb and making her knees knock as she put one foot on top of the other.

“Don't suck your finger, child,” I said, “and get out of those dirty clothes. Come on, dance for your old man.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she exclaimed, kicking off her sandals and reaching behind her to pull the long zipper. Her mini split open like a banana and she had it down over her hips to the carpet in seconds, giggling and casting shy glances at me all the while. She had nothing on but her pants and they were a baby blue with lots of pretty lace around the bottom and up into her crotch. I could see a few blonde hairs sticking out through the material, waving hello to me.

“Like me?” she cried.

“You're a lovely child,” I exclaimed, my cock standing straight out from my body, daring me to vault onto her, but I held back. “Now the dance.”

She began to skip around the room, humming a childhood song that was vaguely familiar even to me. As she pranced, I kept turning, my eyes glued on her, watching her hair fly back, her stiff breasts quake, their nipples dancing. Jesus, but she was built like a mermaid with exquisite legs, her waist thin, her hips flashing back and ahead with each leap from her strong legs. Her toes gripped the carpet like a mountain goat and even that was exciting.

She had everything: youth, beauty, grace, talent and a style all her own.

“Trudy?” I whispered as she flashed close to me, her fingers shoving her pants over her hips so that they barely clung, like a sagging bikini bottom.

“What?”

“You're not real, are you? You were sent here to me as a reward by some hand greater than us.”