Gus Stevens - Love Me, Love My Dog

Grunting lightly with each thrust, she continued to come down on me and my hips were trying to lift from the carpet to meet her drives. It wasn't necessary for, with those little hands doing their job, I was soon pulled all the way inside and it felt as though my distended dong must be all the way into her belly, navigating her alimentary canal like a Columbus of the bedroom set. I wouldn't have been at all surprised to have heard her cough and choke with the emergence of my staff from her mouth.

“Lordy,” she was gasping, looking down into my face as though from Olympus, “a Tiny Tim you're not. I'll go this route as often as not, but you've taken me farther than anybody else who entered my back door.”

I smiled, a little smug, perhaps. “There's a bit more, if you're able.”

“I'm able.”

It was a fact. With a final bit of special straining, we were able to get me another millimeter inside and then my balls were flattened against her bottom. I was, finally, all the way home and snug in my bed, ready to enjoy a warm bit of play under the covers.

Trudy wiggled her bottom from one side to the other and I felt the muscles grab my shaft and pull it with her, working the skin. Not much of that sort of thing would be needed before it would be all over. She knew this, and I could tell from her breathing and the change in her pupils that she was on the very brink of orgasm.

Sweat was beading on her forehead, running along her nose and then dripping from its tip to my face. I didn't mind. It was like a separate orgasm, a preview of the main event that was to follow in seconds.

“Don't just lay there,” she barked, surprising me, breaking the spell I'd slipped into. “Do me. This is a two-way street, I hope.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Stand by for a head-on collision.”

I looked down my front to see the top of her pussy undulating against my lower belly, the lips stretched wide so that it was like looking into an open wound. Nobody had ever convinced me that a woman's box was a pretty thing, but it couldn't be matched for interest and drama. I suppose a diamond in the rough isn't considered beautiful either, but it tends to hold one's attention all the same.

I reached for her center, managing to get a couple of fingers inside the very top of the lips, the remainder of her vagina being buried between our bodies as she worked on our rather complicated union. I thrust as well as I could and it seemed to be adequate. Trudy almost fell from me as she swooned, her eyes rolling up into her head for a few seconds. Her body rocked forward, bending my cock badly as she lowered her head almost to my face.

“Stay aboard,” I barked. “Steady as she goes or we'll sink with all hands.”

“Aye, sir,” she barked right back in a London accent. “Steady as she goes, but I'm finding the weather a bit heavy topside, sir. Makes handling the ship a mite difficult.”

“Not much farther to a safe port,” I replied.

We sailed on, she flexing her legs so that she rode up and down over the waves, up and down, up and down, up and down until there simply wasn't any time left.

“Thar she blows!” I called.

“Sail ho!” she cried right back.

Digging her fingers into my shoulders, Trudy held on, riding out the storm, taking the battering rams of passion that I was throwing at her. My sperm was beginning to surge, rocketing the length of my tube and into her bottom, filling her rectal cavity and shooting beyond until I truly believe some must have fought its way into her stomach.

She was enjoying it as much as I, her orgasm rocking the boat in the same instant. Her vagina was snapping at my fingers like lobster claws, trying to nip off the instruments that were giving her so much sexual torture. I aimed my hands a little higher, wiggling them into new nooks and crannies, triggering a fresh response with each discovery.

“Saints preserve us,” she wailed.

“Ah, an Irish lass.”

“Irish, English, German or Yiddish,” she cried back. “Who cares? Just keep that stuff coming. I think I can taste it. There's something wiggling in my throat.”

“I'll try,” I barked, “but I'm beginning to run low. I've got to save a little for next time.”

“Fuck next time.”

“That's what I'm saying, little girl.”

Then, thank goodness, Trudy also began to run low on fuel and her ups and downs became less frequent. She held on more tightly to my shoulders and I knew she was close to losing consciousness. She was sighing like a freshly milked cow and her eyes fluttered.

Then she sat heavily, giving me all her weight on my still firm cock. This final gesture caused a last small squirt to escape from my sack, along my shaft and into her bottom. She felt it and, smiling wearily, she tilted her head in tribute.

“A soldier to the end,” she acknowledged.

“The end, indeed.”

Then she fell back, her upper body disappearing between my legs as my softening penis allowed itself to escape from her bottom. Just before it gave its final gasp and also plunged between my legs I caught a glimpse of the overworked trooper. It was rather brown over its red and blue, but it didn't look dead yet. I wondered if a rest period would bring my forces back to life, ready for more action. At that moment Trudy rolled from me completely, struggling to her knees and crawling slowly, painfully from the room. I must have dozed, through my haze hearing water running somewhere, and then she was back at my side, leaning over me.

“Are you alive?”

“The issue is in doubt.”

She produced a washcloth soaked in warm soapy water and, as my heart went out to this Florence Nightingale, she washed my loins, taking special care to remove every trace of fecal matter from my Long John Silver. She hummed under her breath as she worked, very much the little mother, and I realized that, with her youth, she was already snapping back.

“How's your bottom?”

“Probably as sore as your prick,” she replied at once, her language as blunt as always. I reminded myself never to escort this young lady to the mayor's birthday ball.

“That's sore enough, but it's a good soreness, you understand?”

She smiled, leaning down to kiss me softly on the lips. “Sure, tiger. I understand that this is what living is all about. Who wants to do dumb things like going to work and paying bills? Why can't people just play all the time? I know that's what they want.”

“That isn't realistic. Somebody must work. Somebody must pay. Haven't you ever worked?”

She raised her eyebrows. “At sixteen? Not at anything I'd want to report on an income tax form. The same goes for Buddy. He picks up a little on the side… or maybe I should say on his back, but it's fun, fun, fun all the time. Don't you see the difference?”

I nodded. “All men do, Trudy, but we're trapped in that establishment you've heard so much about lately. We'd all love to smash our alarm clocks, sleep in and live the lives of beachcombers. But…” I ended with a sigh, shrugging. The truth was, I was having a hard time defending the system before this girl's beautiful and simple logic.

“Speaking of beachcombing,” she mused, sitting back on her heels and giving me a panoramic view of her body, “I wonder how the other guys are doing at the pool. Let's go look in on them, huh?”

I thought about that for a minute. Suppose we were to catch them in the act, walk in on Buddy Pipp in the process of pouring it to my wife. Would I stand there and smile like a cuckolded fool, or would I haul off and knock him off the high board?

That wouldn't be fair, I reasoned, because I'd let them go, knowing that was what Amy had wanted and, after all, I'd had my fun without Amy raising hell by storming into the front room. After listening to my lecture for a while longer, I sat up, nerves flexed, muscles relaxed.