Gus Stevens: Love Me, Love My Dog

“Don't fret, pet. You don't need to say anything. I know a starving face when I see one.”

The world was going mad, or else I was. I'd walked in on a mature woman of breeding, one who had been dressed like a lady and living in Victorian surroundings. Now, as she whipped off her horn-rimmed glasses and tossed them aside, the picture was complete. She wore no underwear and her body was hot with desire, desire she was counting on me to cool.

“I'd better be leaving now,” I blurted, trying to rise. I was thinking again of Amy waiting at home, ready for me to sample her pleasures like a normal husband. Instead…

She was pushing me back in the chair, her skirt dropping-thank God-with the gesture. Then she was falling to her knees and leaning on my limbs, staring up into my face. Lord, she was exactly like her niece.

Her hands were fast, like twin machines, as they ripped open my fly and released my cock, digging into my shorts until the monster became untangled and waved in the cool night air of the parlor.

“Ah, how lovely,” she purred, reverting to her staid speech of a while before. “How absolutely delightful. No wonder my niece was so pleased with her baby-sitting duties at your house. She told me all about you, of course, but words couldn't describe adequately that magnificent thing I see before me now.”

I cleared my throat. “Get away from me.”

The words were like the peeping of a canary in a covered cage and I was almost tempted to join her laughter. She knew even better than I that I didn't mean a word of my protest.

She was on her feet again, pulling up her skirt and tucking it into her waist. Her legs were gorgeous, like Trudy's but longer. Her hips were somewhat wider and, if anything, more handsome than her niece's. Her vagina was larger, too, and obviously had been used more, but if it were overused it didn't show at first glance.

“Do you like it?” she asked, spreading her legs and holding the lips open with her fingers, like a saleslady displaying quality merchandise.

“Does it matter?” I snapped.

“Not a bit.”

Shoving my legs together, she straddled me and sat hard on my thighs. Seizing my cock in both hands, she worked at it for a moment or two.

“Nothing to get ready there,” she muttered, her voice businesslike. “You're primed.”

Aiming, she shoved her hips higher, forward and then down, forcing me to pierce her vagina dead center and sink my head into her tunnel. She paused, closing her eyes and smiling in the ecstasy of the sensation. Then she came down farther until my shaft was halfway home. Relaxing her knees, she slammed down the rest of the way, hard, but on the money so that I sank in to the hilt, my balls being flattened by her smothering thighs.

“Wonderful,” she breathed.

I said nothing. At least, I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of verbal compliments.

She didn't give a damn. She was getting what she was after and she began to take more of it, pumping, up and down, sideways, back and forth, screwing her hips in one direction and then the other. She was an efficient and talented bitch, I'll give her credit for that. She was milking me quickly so that, much as I wanted to-or, at least, so I told myself-I had no chance to hold back an ejaculation.

In less than thirty seconds I was coming, splattering semen against the back of her womb, feeling her tremble with an orgasm of her own in the same instant. She was convulsed with passion, her vagina gripping my cock and stroking it like it had a hundred pairs of hands, each dedicated to taking one more drop of semen from me, determined not to let a single wiggling sperm escape.

I fell back in exhaustion, feeling my penis begin to soften at once, realizing I wasn't as rested as I'd believed. Even as I felt guilty about neglecting Amy, I was glad she hadn't taken me when I was this weak, so she would have been disappointed.

If Aunt Charlotte was disappointed, it didn't show. She rose from her perch on my thighs, her face glowing, her pussy dripping. She wiped my dork with her lace handkerchief and sniffed it before tucking it into her bodice, between her breasts. Then she packed my cock inside my fly, as though she were wrapping a sterling candlestick.

“Ah, those fortunate children,” she purred. “If you and your wife are to break up with them, my darling Mr. Brady, it will be you who will do the breaking, not them. I can promise you that.”

She allowed me to rise, offering me a fresh drink as she lowered her skirt and brushed at her chaste dress. “Please, don't rush off. I have plenty more tricks in my bag and, besides, the children will be home soon, Think of the fun we can have as a group.”

I stammered something wild, as I recall, and broke for the door. Another session with this creature and those wild young animals would have driven me totally insane. I jerked the door open and rushed into the night. As I started the car, I looked up to see her framed in the doorway of the grand old house.

She was waving the lace handkerchief, calling something soft and gracious into the darkness. Beautiful and charming as she looked, quaint as was the setting, harmless and precious as the house seemed, I knew one thing I would never forget.

That handkerchief she'd pulled from her bodice was still soggy with my semen.

I arrived home much later than I'd planned, of course, and the party that Amy and I had planned was off. Amy was already in bed, even though it wasn't all that late, and she was fast asleep. Unless she was pretending. Remembering that she hadn't felt well, I didn't bother to wake her, instead slipping in beside her and lying wide awake in the darkness for the better part of an hour.

As I at last fell asleep my thoughts were on Aunt Charlotte. God, that Pipp family. They had more talent in their collective sex organs than a bank of computers at IBM.

I knew the deep freeze was on for certain when Amy arose early the following morning and flitted about, without waking me. She was already off to work by the time I rolled out of bed.

All right, so she was sore about my too-long visit with Charlotte, but it was a one-shot deal. I had made that resolve as I lay in bed the night before. We wrap up the whole sinning outfit-Trudy, Buddy, their pals and, finally, Aunt Charlotte-and bar the door to one and all.

I was ramming around the house, a bundle of tough energy, when the telephone rang. It was Trudy Pipp and the girl had picked the wrong time to call.

“What do you want?” I growled. “Forget your bowser bag?”

She giggled. “Golly, you sure are sharp for so early in the morning, Mr. Brady. I knew I'd need to call early to catch you. Are you still mad about yesterday?”

“You bet your sweet one I am.”

Her voice came back lower, seductive. “I think we can make things right. Suppose Buddy and I drop by tonight so we can discuss future baby-sitting ideas.”

“Suppose you go to hell. Tell your aunt ditto for her.”

“Come on, Mr. Brady. You know you can't put us off. We'll just drop by and patch up our lovers' quarrel, okay?”

“It's not okay,” I hissed. “Stay out of my sight and stay off this phone, Trudy. It's finished. No fooling. Finished for good. Goodbye.”

I imagine the Red Chinese in Peking could hear the slam as I brought down the receiver, breaking the connection. It helped firm me, because I wasn't kidding. It was time to save our lives, time to return to sanity, time to clear the Pipps out of our present and future, leaving them in the fading past, where they belonged.

I rushed off to work, where Sam and the office girls seemed genuinely pleased to see me. For a couple of hours I went through the piled-up papers like they were dry leaves and I was a bonfire. After a while Sam wandered into my office, a funny look in his eye.