Theodore Stickles - Prisoner Of Lust

The head of his cock was swollen to an angry purple. It glistened with lubrication and while she watched yet another tiny drop of crystal-clear and honey-thick liquid appeared like a single tear at the blind eye of his urethra. She wondered if this was the stuff that made babies, then remembered that it was supposed to be white and supposed to come out with a tremendous rushing gush. And most especially, not yet.

It felt so good just to lie here and look at it and feel his arms around her svelte little ass, feel his mustache brush and tickle her belly and thighs, to revel in the warm lubricity of all the things he was doing to her, had done to her, was going to do to her that Paula somehow managed to put a little watertight compartment in her mind and not think about what, if anything, was required of her. Surely Mr. Costello was going to want to do something. She was sure too that when the time came there would be time enough then to worry about it, to decide whether she wanted to do it or not.

But meanwhile, for the first time since she could remember, Paula's firm young body was not bursting with nervous energy. For the first time in her life she was content just to lie there and do nothing and let Mr. Costello's arms, his hands, his mouth, and his mustache do it all. Golly! Why hadn't somebody ever told her how nice it felt to have a man's mustache tickling circles round and round her belly, up one thigh and down the other, kissing the cheeks of her ass as he ran in ever-tightening circles around the blond-fuzzed rose between her slim thighs?

It wasn't as if she hadn't had experiences like this before. But always before they had been hurried gropes in the back seat of a borrowed car and always she had been disgusted by the frantic fumbling haste to cop a feel. And Paula knew perfectly well that all those boys had wanted only one thing- the very thing she had been determined not to give them.

Moreover, she had always known in her heart of hearts that someday someway somehow she was going to find a man, a mature man, clean, smooth, suave, sophisticated-a man who was connoisseur enough to appreciate her pristine, still virginal little body with the tremendous tits-a man willing to pay proper obeisance before the shrine of her youth and beauty.

Instinctively, she had always known no groping grabber of her own age would have the sensitivity to know what to do. Mr. Costello did. Without her even telling him or even hinting, he had gone straight to doing what she had always dreamed of even though she had never quite believed anyone apart from herself was perverted enough, wicked enough even to dream of such a thing.

She caught herself wondering if her mother and father ever did things like this. She remembered nights when she had been put to bed early-nights when there had been strange squeakings and rumblings and trips to the bathroom and annoyed suggestions that she go back to sleep. Could they have been fucking? With bemused amusement, she guessed they had.

But had they ever explored the avenues of eroticism beyond the simple-minded joys of fucking? Had Papa ever kissed Mama the way Mr. Costello was kissing her now?

Who cared? If he hadn't, that was Papa's loss, and Mama's. Paula was sixteen and she didn't intend to miss out on anything. She had been born a girl, which was something of a disadvantage but she intended to make up for it. If boys had all the fun, they must get a great deal of it from girls. And Paula intended being one of the girls-one who won, who took her amusement from men and who used them up instead of sitting around waiting for them to come whenever they were damn good and ready.

Mr. Costello was filling the bill quite nicely. Sooner or later, she would have to apply a little leverage, have to let him taste her honeypot first and learn how delightful, then she could set the hook and the next time they were in this delicious position there would be a subtle difference in the pecking order between them. But for now…

But now, Paula abruptly realized, now was no time for planning and scheming and daydreaming. Mr. Costello had finally finished with his buzzing around the flower. Now he was spreading her petals and he was putting his tongue right on her blossom.

Golly, did it ever feel gooooood!

Mr. Costello's tongue dipping into her honeypot felt so good that suddenly Paula was incapable of thinking, planning; incapable, it seemed, of anything except wailing and kicking and writhing and moaning and her whole belly was suddenly tied in knots and all the knots were coming untied and oooooohhhh!

That ooooooohhhhhh signaled an end to her oral virginity for Mr. Costello's brimful, half-peeled prick had an intelligence of its own. While her mouth gaped wide in involuntary song his lance drove smoothly, effortlessly through her lips, past teeth and tongue and right past her palate to penetrate her throat.

Paula was so deep in the throes of her first full-fledged orgasm that she didn't clearly understand what was happening. She knew only that suddenly Mr. Costello's mouth was so much busier down there, his tongue driving so deep that without hesitation she was piling spasm on top of spasm, her I belly writhing, her will dissolving, everything coming apart as his tongue touched her secret triggers, doing all the things she had always dreamed of but never suspected anyone might ever actually do.

Hardly thinking, she let her body revel in spasmodic joy, sensing his cock in her mouth, down her throat, but thinking only of the wonderful things his tongue was doing to her. It felt so wildly, so wondrously good that she didn't care what she had in her mouth-didn't even realize it was there until suddenly Mr. Costello stopped licking her long enough to emit a heartfelt "Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!" and abruptly her mouth was full of sticky liquid.

She guessed later that she must have fainted for a minute because when she was once more aware Mr. Costello still lay entwined with her, naked as she was, and very still. It was only after several minutes that she realized Mr. Costello was dead. By the time she got her clothes back on and by the time she got clothes back on Mr. Costello and got him laid out on his day bed like an old man who'd had a heart attack and died in his sleep Paula had had all the fucking she needed for the rest of her youthful life. Not even the money he left her in his will was enough to erase from her youthful mind the memory of that cooling, stiffening body that had just finished turning her on.

She opened her eyes in the midst of an orgasm as intense and durable as that first lovely turn-on a dying Mr. Costello had given her and it was years later and she was being lustily raped fore and aft by a pair of convicted felons. God damn Harry Riggs and his red-headed friend! God damn any man who could do this to her, could make her see how badly she needed a man. God damn all men!

God damn a social system that made it all right for men to fuck themselves silly with anything that wore a skirt but which labeled a woman as loose if she had the same desires! And god damn her traitorous body for accepting all this abuse, for accepting a double rape and-for enjoying it!

God damn! Especially, god damn Hizzonner the Mayor and his brother-in-law's maintenance company and their woman-eating escalator. These two stiff-pricked bastards were fucking her right out of her mind and still she could hear both telephones jangling. She wondered who had put them back on the hooks.

Christ! She was coming again but she had come so many times now that it was no longer the cataclysmic catastrophe that it had been the first time she had felt twin pricks working at cross purposes within her straining body. Now even in the midst of her come she could think, could know, that those goddam news hawks and cameramen were probably hanging from every branch in her yard waiting for a shot, an interview, to ask if she was going to sue the city, to ask if she had ever considered going in the movies-any goddam thing except-oh shit!