Paula Cash - Closet Queen

She lay in dazed euphoria while Scotty knelt back away from her with pure love shining in her eyes.

"God, I love to drink a man's cream," Scotty confessed. "Especially if I hardly know who he is, or was. When I do it, I masturbate later in bed, all sexed up and crazy, with me knowing I've got a guy's spunk in my belly and he doesn't even know it.”

Talk about your freaks! But Abby only smiled a motherly smile at the happy freshman.

"You fu-have sex with guys, though?”

“Oh, sure. I couldn't live without it. But that's a totally different trip.”

The two girls heard rapid steps outside the door and then the rattle of a key in the lock.

"Uh, you'd better zip into the bathroom," said Abby. "That's my roommate, and I'd rather she didn't know that-uh-”

"You bet!" said Scotty, and whisked off into the bathroom. She made it safely because Cheryl, not knowing the door was unlocked, had locked it, discovered her error, and had to unlock it again.

The real reason Abby had packed off Scotty was that she didn't like the rangy girl as well as Cheryl and didn't want Cheryl to know she'd enjoyed a little extra sex. She needn't have worried. Cheryl was in a high state of excitement.

"Oh, Abby, you're home. Good! Listen, we've got to act quick!”

"I had the date with Tom-" Abby started to explain, but Cheryl waved her down.

"You can tell me all of that later, Abby. I've tracked down the Gypsy. We can get it if we act fast. A freshman at the Sig house has it. His name's Harold and I met him once. But if we act fast-"

"What-who-where?" asked Abby.

"Wake up, girl. What have you been doing? Wearing out your clit?”

"Uh, a friend brought by this kooky vibrator," said Abby to explain her nudity.

"Never mind that. Get dressed. Hurry.”

Cheryl explained that she'd traced the missing necklace past Spider. Spider had given her a bad time… then taken her to dinner to explain that he'd passed Salt on to a frat brother who was into art objects. This Harold.

"I'm tired of dragging this thing out," said Cheryl. "I've been on the trail of Harold for the past couple of hours. I found him at the White Fountain on Adams Avenue. He just started to glug a hamburger and coke when I left. If we hurry we can run him down and strip him of the statuette.”

"Right now?”

"Right now, Abby.”

"I'm with you, kid. We're partners," Abby sang out as she began to jump into her clothes. With Cheryl's father secretly in town, and raging, it would be a great idea to grab that necklace before she had to meet him at midnight.

Often Harold Lissac skipped the frat house meal to eat at the White Fountain. As a young man with a French father and an American mother, who'd spent half his life living in Paris, he did not seem to fit into either Brighton University or the Sigma frat house. He was brilliant at art, which was why they'd pledged him. For the rest, forget it. What could you say about a Parisian dumped down into a small Midwestern college town, whose best friend, whose only friend, was a professor's wife who was gone on art?

He did not understand football, basketball or any of the American sports, habits, hobbies or past times. In the classroom he was great, but life stopped for him outside those walls. At the Frat house he was either ignored or ridden unmercifully about his exotic background. The White Fountain was more comfortable, and the meals not much worse than the Sigma kitchen, run by a serious nutritionist grad student who treated recipes like chemical formulas and produced artless, serious meals.

He debated whether or not to go to Professor Foster's house on campus to talk to his patron, go to the library, or back to the Sigmas. If he went to see Lisbeth Foster, at least he'd have somebody to talk to. Still, she'd told him she had a bad backache, so she wouldn't welcome company. He wanted to find a Swedish masseuse for her, but Americans snickered at massage; somehow in their overheated minds massage was confused with sex. Now if he were back in Paris-

As he started out of the White Fountain, two attractive females appeared. One was a blonde, the other a redhead. He blushed and lowered his head so that he wouldn't have to meet their eyes; he could not stand the direct, appraising glance of Brighton coeds. Dating was particularly hard for him. He was supposed to be the suave Frenchman, but he always dropped and kicked things. His frat brothers, obligated to get him dates in fraternal comradeship, soon found out that he used up one girl per date. There were no repeats for Harold. He appreciated the dates all right, but when the girl was fast he was slow, or if he pepped up his conversation and approach, he was too fast and the girl too slow.

He tried to brush past the two girls. Good looking females especially disturbed him. Since he was small and a little portly he thought they scorned him.

Suddenly he was captured. Abby took his left arm, Cheryl his right.

“Hello, Harold.”

"How are you tonight, Harold?”

He stood there, blushing, astounded. The girls locked arms with his and moved him up the aisle. Other students stared at him, especially the males, as he was escorted through the White Fountain with a lovely on each arm.

"Ah, hello. Hello there," he said. There was something vaguely familiar about the blonde. He blushed furiously.

"Where's your car, Harold?”

"We want to talk to you in your car.”

"My car-car?" he stammered. He felt captured, like in those gangster movies where the hard types came for you.

"Yes, your car-car," said Cheryl..

One wore thin beige pants and a satin blouse. The other wore cut-off jeans that showed thigh and boots. A cape across her shoulders made concessions to the cold fall night outside.

"I-left it outside," he said. "My car, that is, I mean.”

He felt very hot in the grasp of the two sexy girls. He saw that his mind was not going to function well tonight, saying dumb things like that.

"Good thinking, Harold. Leaving your car outside.”

"It would be stupid to send your car into the White Fountain while you stood at the curb," said the other.

"Still, it would be easier on your stomach," said Cheryl.

They eased him into the car between them. The blonde took the driver's seat and the redhead the other side. Four well shaped thighs graced his front seat.

"Are you comfortable, Harold?" The redhead put a warm hand on his cheek and turned his head so that their eyes met.

"We want you comfortable," said Cheryl.

She undid his necktie and the top button of his shirt. Harold was the only student among the Sigmas who wore neckties.

"What-what is this?" he squeaked.

The redhead put a hand on his thigh and ran it up toward his crotch. The blonde did the same on his other thigh, only the hand traveled to his zipper. She unzipped his pants and he felt the cold night air on his belly.

"This is a conversation in the front seat of Harold Lissac's car, with Abby and Cheryl," said Abby. Still holding his head, she kissed him on the mouth. At that moment Cheryl reached inside his pants and lifted out his soft cock and balls.

Harold almost went through the roof of the car. Nothing like this had ever happened to him. One minute he was living his ordinary, miserable freshman life, the next two beautiful creatures appeared, taking him to his car and beginning to fool with his cock.

"Zut!" he said. He rattled off a startled sentence in French and squirmed. "Do you-are you-should we-" he stammered.

"Yes, yes, and why not?" said Cheryl calmly. Harold had a small prick, but in her warm, soft hands it began to uncoil rapidly. She'd laid down the strategy to Abby as they raced toward their target.

"So far we've failed to get Salt back because we've taken the logical, feminine approach," she said. "All we've gotten is screwed by those boys with hot balls. Let's do it different with this Harold. Overkill. Spider tells me he's a turkey. We'll move in fast, capture him, take him to his car and boil off his pronger before he starts games. Once he's de-spunked he won't use Salt to get freebies.”