Theodore Stickles - Prisoner Of Lust

With a suddenness that astounded her, a teenage Paula with a teen-age body surmounted by a thoroughly grown-up pair of tits had discovered herself no longer atop a ladder looking for a book while nice old Mr. Costello held the ladder and peeked up her skirt. She had known all the time what he was doing, had thoroughly enjoyed her power over this ageing pillar of the legal community.

She had not minded at all when the old man had been tempted into indiscretions by the sight of all that firm young flesh so tantalizing, so exposed, so eminently grabable at the top of his purposely unrepaired ladder.

And, reflecting on it with a wisdom beyond her years, Paula knew that she really wasn't sorry for the way things had worked out. She didn't yet know if she would ever become a lawyer but she had typed enough wills in Mr. Costello's office to know the wisdom of planning for the future. It was inevitable in her future that something hot, hard, and male find its way between her legs. And, she decided, the sooner the better.

But Paula had no patience for the pimply-faced stiff pricks of her peer group. She had no intention of being stuck in a mobile home tending three brats in diapers on whatever a box-boy in a supermarket could bring home. She knew it was inevitable that sooner or later she learn the art of fucking. But if it had to come, surely well-off men with four-figure bank balances and cool pads were possessed of pricks just as stiff and probably a lot cleaner than the grabbing, groping, grubby Don Juans of the junior class.

And now an old man, a widower, a man known to be discreet who would never ever brag in bars of his conquests-that nice old man was undressing her in the private room behind his office.

Had already undressed her, she corrected. With a sleight of hand she was unable to believe he had managed to undress himself without her knowledge and now he knelt beside the narrow day bed, knelt naked with his machinery decently concealed beneath the level of the bed.

By easy and imperceptible stages he had divested her of everything except her fuzzy white ankle sox and her green nylon panties. And at the moment he had eased both hands between her firm, delicately modeled little ass and was sliding his hands past the cheeks of her ass, down her long, smooth-tapered thighs and, unless Paula was misreading the signals, her too-tight green panties were accompanying his hands on this journey.

Sweet sixteen-practically never been kissed-and naked on her back being undressed by a dirty old man! Only, she amended, he was not dirty. He smelled clean with subtle hints of expensive lotions and colognes-totally unlike the pimply-faced, billy-goat stinking scrimmage men who usually struggled and gave up trying to coax her virginal panties off.

And, now that she thought about it, she wasn't really naked either. Mr. Costello had removed her saddle oxfords. He had unbuttoned the hundred-odd fastenings on her high-collared and long-sleeved blouse. He had undone the waistband of her below-the-knees skirt and both articles were now neatly folded over one wing of the easy chair.

Still smiling and urbane, Mr. Costello had managed to distract her embarrassment and discomfiture with small talk and dissertations on the sexual practices of the Oneida Community while unlatching the hooks on that double-barreled slingshot which confined her totally upstanding, onward-looking boobs. Now he had just removed her too-tight, bought-over-a-year-ago panties and put them carefully atop the wispy bra of the same green shade.

But Paula knew she was still not naked. As long as she still wore those fluffy, fuzzy, ankle-length sox nobody could ever say she had been naked. She wondered if Mr. Costello was going to remove them too.

He did not. Instead, he removed his bifocals and placed them carefully atop the mound of clothing. Then, still as unhurried as if she had presented him with yet another simple point of law for clarification, he bent over her thrilled and tremulous body.

Having never been seduced before, Paula was ignorant of the protocols involved in this delicate maneuver. But she had always assumed the session would begin with a kiss and work up from there. It did not.

Instead, Mr. Costello bent his white head over her chest, directly over those tremendous jugs which were at the same time Paula's greatest pride and her greatest embarrassment. Without his glasses she was sure he could see nothing but the blurry outlines of twin pectoral peaks. But Mr. Costello was not relying on his notoriously undependable eyesight.

Without hesitation he placed his mouth over the nipple closest to him. Before Paula even had time to get used to the novel sensation of a mustache pricking and tickling her tender body she was overcome with a wave of total rut.

Golly! Never in her sixteen years on this planet had she ever imagined anything one half this totally overpowering in its fascination.

It was mind blowing. For as long as she could remember she had been aware of these twin tiny buttons on her little girl's chest. Long before she had even dreamed of the joys of sex she had learned something of the mysterious tingle that could come from these tiny twin tips of her yet-to-sprout tits. In the dear, dead, pre-brassiere days of her childhood Paula's mother had, in winter months, clad her baby in wool underwear whose warmth, Paula was firmly convinced, came mainly from the increased circulation developed by constant scratching.

Even then she had marveled at the way a little rubbing could coax these twin contact points of sensation from a quiescent flaccidity up to full firm erection visible even through woolen undervests.

Now Mr. Costello's busy, white-mustached mouth was doing something countlessly more interesting than any scratching she had ever experienced from wool. She struggled not to move, to control herself and not surrender to an impulse to giggle and squeal and wrap her arms around that leonine white head and pull him deeper into her pectoral Cordillera.

Just as she knew she just couldn't stand it another second her senescent seducer switched from the titillating tip of one full firm tit to the other. Impartially, he licked and kissed until this nipple was just as hard, just as insistent on further gratification as her first one had been. Then when she was ready to pound her fists over his ears if he didn't do something else to quiet the pink-frothed wave of passion that surged through her inexperienced body, Mr. Costello abandoned both of her flaming-nippled tits.

She had supposed he would scoot around to kiss her on the mouth but her employer's interests lay elsewhere. Paula lay rigid while he kissed lazy figure eights down the full-fashioned undersides of her lushly proportioned tits, kissed his way past her midriff and past her tiny waist, past her deep, well-formed navel, past the gentle swell of her teen-age belly, past growing disbelief and right into the upper edge of her just-hairing pubic patch.

It wasn't that sixteen-year-old Paula had lived in some kind of a moral vacuum. For as long as she could remember girls had, whenever they were totally out of earshot of boys and or adults, girls had always been as eager to exchange scraps of newly acquired knowledge as any other group of students. She had heard of cocksuckers. She had heard of muff divers. She had blushed from belly to ears at the secret thrill that had coursed through her the first time a girl had explained to her exactly what and how a sixty-nine play was played.

Yet, despite all this knowledge acquired in bits and snippets during her sixteen years, Paula was still waiting to put some tiny bit of theory into practice. She was ready to believe people fucked. After all, dogs did; cats did; rabbits did. Once she had even seen snakes doing something very peculiar. But those other words… surely they were merely the outpourings of some fertile imagination's outrage at being trapped in a pimply-faced and eternally tumescent body. People didn't really do things like that-did they?