Grace Eddy - Her little crew

Ted caught her breath. Would he actually do it? She didn't know whether she wanted him to or not. She knew enough to realize it wouldn't make any real difference, she would still be a virgin even if he went at her with a spoon arid a fork. But was it true? Did men actually eat pussy?

Mr. Hammel sure acted like he was working up to it. He was kissing her belly, kissing her legs, nuzzling the soft tender skin of her inner thighs as he circled ever closer to her secret slit.

Ted didn't know whether she wanted him to do it or not. But abruptly she realized she was letting her legs fan wider apart, drawing her heels up and bending her knees to make it easier for him to find his tender target. She could feel the cool air of the office on the open lips of her vulva. It felt just as if she were doing the splits without any tights on-except that she wasn't stretching and straining and hurting and going to need an hour in a hot bath afterward. Instead, this felt good. It felt so good she knew she wouldn't mind lying here all afternoon and letting Mr. Hammel kiss his leisurely way up, down and around her naked little body. It sure beat dancing.

But would it get her the part? She put a hand on the back of his neck and asked him.

"Yes!" he assured her. "It's yours. You'll be the prima ballerina for as long as you want it."

Ted thought it was crazy. She wouldn't do it even if she was paid for it and here he was doing it for nothing. But even if it was crazy and kind of dirty, it felt-interesting. She lay back and let her flexed knees fall wider apart.

Mr. Hammel lost no time in accepting her invitation. Both of his hands grabbed her muscular little dancer's ass and drew her to him. His face penetrated hitherto unplumbed depths between her thighs. Ted felt a funny tingling in her belly. It felt good. It felt like something nice was going to happen soon but she couldn't guess what. She wondered what would happen if she were to close her thighs in a scissors over Mr. Hammel's head. Chances were this florid middle-aged man had no idea of the strength in a pair of legs that had spent six hours a day for the last seven years at the practice bar. But then, Ted decided she'd better not let him find out.

It was much nicer just to lie back on Mr. Hammel's couch, clad only in black patent leather shoes, white ankle socks, and a pink hair ribbon. She wondered what Mr. Hammel was going to try next. Surely there couldn't be much fun in what he was doing. All he was doing was to put his head between her legs and kiss the soft inner surfaces of her thighs, working ever closer to her pee hole but never quite making it. She wondered if he ever would.

What would it feel like to have somebody's mouth on her pee hole? She had heard the boys talk about doing things like that and she knew some of the older girls in the troupe did some very odd things among themselves. But boys and girls alike had always been nice to her. She was the youngest. Maybe that had something to do with it.

She tried to relax and just let it happen. If Mr. Hammel wanted to lick her pee hole it wasn't as if he wanted to fuck her and destroy her virginity. It might feel funny but she was sure it would be nicer than six hours practice. And it couldn't hurt half as much as the first time she had spent two hours doing the splits.

She wondered… Ted had seen the boys' cocks often enough as they shed street clothes and hurried into tights. She had seen the older 'girls' cunts too and it had always been a puzzlement how anything as big as a boy's cock could go into a hole as small as… maybe, she guessed, that was why it ruined girls for dancing. Something that big might start a split that-once a girl spread her legs and settled to the dusty practice floor, maybe she would just keep right on splitting…

Mr. Hammel was moaning and crooning as he nuzzled her crotch. His hands left her ass and she saw him struggle with his belt. A tiny spurt of worry shot through her. If he was going to take off his pants maybe he was thinking about… Ted knew she didn't really have to worry. If Mr. Hammel tried to put his thing into her she could break his arm.

But he didn't seem to be trying. He managed by super-human effort to get out of his trousers and shorts without removing his face from her crotch. But he didn't try to climb on tap of her. Instead, still kneeling beside the couch with his head buried in her crotch, he captured her hand and guided it to the hot hardness of his throbbing cock.

Ted didn't know what to do. Was she supposed to squeeze it, rub it, or just hold it? She closed her tiny fist around it the way he seemed to want her to do. Meanwhile, Mr. Hammel was diving deeper into her crotch. She could feel his breathing quicken, feel the warm dampness of his breath in her open lips. Then suddenly his wide open mouth closed over the gaping hairless lips of her vulva, shutting out the cold air and enveloping her with a soft damp glowing warmth. It felt good.

After a moment she felt his tongue begin its first timid exploration of the tender territory between the lips of her cunt. It tickled but it tickled so nice she liked it. She didn't care how long Mr. Hammel kept his mouth down there as long as he was as soft and gentle as he was now. But what was she supposed to do with his cock?

Suddenly and unexpectedly she felt one of his hands on her ankle.

Ted roused from her reverie of those dear dead days. There wasn't any mouth on her cunt. But there was a hand on her ankle. Fourteen-year-old Albert who had been slathering mustard on hot dog buns had somehow managed to drop the spoon. On hands and knees ostensibly, cleaning up the mess, he had a hand around her ankle.

"There's no need to hang on," Ted said. "I can't very well fall overboard from inside the, cabin."

Reluctantly, the boy let go. "I'm sorry," he said and she knew be really was-sorry he had to let go. She felt a tingle in her belly and a premonitory trickling sensation as she thought of the possibilities in this eager untried male. But what could she do? She knew better than to get involved with an underage boy. Besides, there were two of them. Even if she should throw caution to the winds, drop anchor and spend the day milking the virility from this indefatigable young cocksman, what about the other boy? It was impossible.

"Why don't you go up and steer for a while and let John come down and help me?" she asked.

The boy was glassy-eyed from passion and she knew the slightest touch would make him cum right in his skintight Levi's. He gave an unintelligible croak and went out up the cabin scuttle. A moment later the curly-headed thirteen-year-old came down. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

Ted still wore the revealing shorts and halter. She wondered if this boy was old enough to notice things like that. One wild corner of her mind wondered what he would do if she were to say, "I want you to take off your clothes and get in the bunk up forward of the mast and fuck me."

But she knew she would never say it. She wasn't as crazy as poor Mr. Hammel. At least she hoped she wasn't. She was thirty-nine. How old had he been?

Older than she was now, she guessed. She felt a fleeting sympathy for Mr. Hammel. The poor man had been a slave to urges he could not control. She was luckier. She was on a small boat with two boys-the kind of situation middle-aged spinsters dreamed and fantasized about. But there were no two ways about it. Ted was going to give them an afternoon's sail. Nothing else!

She could just imagine the consequences if she were to give in to the tingling urge in her belly. Let either of these hardcocked boys ever fuck her or even get the idea that someday he might and she would never be rid of them. Night and day they would be hanging around the docks, trying to sneak aboard her sloop, making her the laughing stock of the whole marina. No way was she going to spread her well-turned muscular legs for these young snots. But it was interesting to think about it.