Gus Stevens: Love Me, Love My Dog

Groaning, I replied, “Unfortunately, I'm not one of the boys. I'm twenty-seven years old and you're sixteen. That's not a healthy age spread.”

She made a face. “One of my boy friends used to say, if they're big enough they're old enough.”

“Unfortunately, the law doesn't agree.”

She made a wide-eyed face. “You think there's a policeman looking in the window?”

“No, I suppose not.”

She reached over, placing her hand directly on my groin, fumbling around for a moment until she got her bearings, and then she pinched the head of my cock, a perfect shot. “Then what's the big hang-up?”

I made a noise somewhere between a gasp of surprise and a sigh of pleasure. “Miss Pipp, you're a remarkable young woman.”

“Thank you very much,” she replied, as though I'd given her a gold star for Sunday school attendance. “But you talk an awful lot for a man who doesn't have an awful lot of time.”

“That's what my wife says,” I muttered, regretting mentioning Amy a split second later.

Trudy pursed her lips and my penis got harder. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Brady. We'll need to get around to her someday. But we don't have to worry about her now… not as long as you know where she is.”

Feeling awkward as hell, I came closer and placed my arm across the back of the couch, touching her shoulder. She looked down at my fingers, an indulgent smile on her lips and, leaning back, she caught a finger between her teeth. She pulled it into her mouth, lipping it thoroughly. It was a peculiarly exciting sensation, her nursing on my finger that way.

“Careful,” I warned.

She released it and I wiped it on her collar. “Of what?” she asked, turning to look into my face again. “Of you? Don't be a nut, Mr. Brady. I know what you want and I don't see why you can't have it, as long as you don't take too long. You've got your card party and I've got to watch Jimmy Junkin.”

Screw Jimmy Junkin, I growled to myself, reaching my fingers down to cup her breast. God, but it was a delightful hill of flesh, full of life, warm and throbbing as though it had its own little transistor heart built in. She wiggled and looked up at me again, her lips parted. I kissed them gently, tasting the lingering cola until it washed away in the juices from my mouth.

She surprised me by pulling her face away. “Let's face it, Mr. Brady, you're not very good at cheating, are you?”

I frowned. “I've had few complaints in the past,” I protested, feeling as though I were testifying before a Senate subcommittee investigating sex symbols.

“Why don't you just relax and let me do everything? We both know that would be the best way.” She smiled, her face that of an angel. “What do you say?”

I could only nod, the defeated general handing over his sword.

Trudy went to work immediately, removing my arm from her breast and slipping from the couch. She stood before me, hands on her hips, staring down while her agile young mind darted from one idea to another, like a deer in the forest. Then she fell to her knees, her body making a thumping sound despite the heavy carpet. She leaned on my knees, smiling in a rather lazy and confident way, staring into my crotch. The bulge was all too obvious, I'm afraid.

“It looks as though you've got all the tools, as they say about a capable professional football player,” she mused, her tone thoughtful, like a physician examining a patient for the first time. “Let's have a little look.”

Deft fingers slid my zipper and my cock popped out, waving like a battle flag, rigid, red on the end, white with blue throbbing veins along the shaft. I stared down at my charger, admiring it with some pride, for no woman had ever complained that it was without adequate size or talent.

“Well?”

She was obviously pleased, leaning her face closer, the clinical look still in her eye. “Very, very nice. Good size, reasonably straight, although a bit knobby…”

“The better to stimulate you, my dear.”

She nodded, making a strange sucking noise between her teeth. “Do you mind if I touch?”

“I suppose that would be all right,” I said, fighting mightily to keep my voice under control.

She touched, placing her fingers on the top center of the shaft and letting them rest there for a few moments, as though she were taking my pulse. “There's quite a bit of heat and throbbing. You must be more excited than I thought.”

“That's very possible.” Sweat dotted my forehead and my chest was dripping into my undershirt. I looked at my stallion, watching a giant drop ooze from the slit in its head and slide down.

Trudy saw it, too, and she wiped it with her finger, popping the finger into her mouth and, in the process, opening a whole new line of thought into my imaginative mind. “Hm, good,” she purred, coming closer.

Her fingers went around the shaft, gripping it gently. “Good firm weight. Ought to pack a good punch with real staying power. Do you ever go soft in the middle of the fucking act?”

“Jesus God,” I groaned. “What the hell am I doing here? No, I don't go soft. I stay hard until I get relief, or until somebody pours ice water on me, as though I'm a stud in heat.”

Trudy nodded with satisfaction, surprising the hell out of me-but also confirming my wildest hopes- when she got her mouth down to peck her lips lightly on my head. It responded like a general quarters alarm in a deep-diving submarine, all kinds of klaxons going off all through my tingling body. She'd hit my central nervous system, which has its headquarters right in the head of my penis.

The touch of her lips made my head tingle and the sensation raced though my shaft and into my gonads and up into the pit of my stomach. My groin ached as though it had been kicked by a beautiful lady wearing a silver slipper. She purred like a sexy tabby.

“All right?”

“All right!”

She kissed me again and this time I felt the scraping dart of her tongue between her teeth, lapping the very tip with a fine sandpaper effect that grated all the way up to my brain, dragging sleeping nerves from their beds and sending them into action.

She used her hands once more, opening my zipper all the way and then releasing the catch on my belt. She freed the front of my trousers, peeling them away from my shorts and then tearing open the snaps on my drawers. She shoved the entire business halfway down to my knees and I felt like a man about to undergo major surgery.

Reaching down and under my horizontal shaft, she groped through my wiry hairs until her fingers encountered my balls. She placed them in her palm as though they were family jewels worth a fortune-which was, I suppose, entirely true-and she studied them like an Amsterdam diamond merchant. I half expected her to screw a magnifying glass into her eye socket.

“Are they genuine?” I asked.

“Huh?” She frowned. “Oh, sure. They look good, Mr. Brady. Full, trembling, loaded for action. I guess it's been a while since they've been drained. Something wrong with you and Mrs. Brady?”

“Nothing that enough time and the proper place wouldn't have made right,” I groaned, loving the sensitive feel of her baby fingers as they wormed into my gonads, fingering the stuff of my life inside the sack. “Unfortunately…”

“Unfortunately, you didn't have time to make out this week. I thought I walked into something tonight. You looked sort of frustrated and I guess your wife did, too. Golly, you poor married people have it tough.”

“Now you're talking too much,” I protested.

She quit talking, instead getting a firmer grip on my balls and again kissing the head of my cock. Her kiss was lingering, deeper, and before I realized what was going on, she'd parted her lips and allowed my head to penetrate. Ah, this new morality everybody was talking about had certain things to commend it.