Allen Whitten - The teaser next door

Wendy felt it collide with her cervix, knew that her cunt was adjusting to accommodate the stiff shaft.

Ted had been right. His cock filled her. Not a single inch of her pussy seemed to be out of touch with his prick. The hunk of maleness seemed to have forced every molecule of air out of her cunt. When Ted Johnson stabbed his hard-on into a girl, she knew it.

Wendy kissed him, drinking deep of his tongue, letting it search out the insides of his lips and cheeks.

Ted began to move then. His cock, so tightly enveloped by her tight little snatch, stroked her with languid motions. Her pussy strained outward as he withdrew, the lips pouting around his prick, not wanting to let it go. Then when he drove forward, they moved inward, as though they were glued to the surface of his cock.

Wendy tried to match his rhythmic bursts inside her. It was easy at first, because he was moving so slowly, but the more he kept up his plunging, the faster his rhythm became.

"That's it. Fuck faster! Your cock is really fucking me now."

Ted reached down and took hold of her asscheeks, not missing a stroke with his pistoning prick. When he had her firmly in hand, he really began to thrust. His ass rose as though pointing at the ceiling, then delved ever so deep into her clasping cunt. Waves of pleasure washed over Wendy. She moaned and clutched his back, her nails digging into him.

He was fucking so hard that Wendy had to grip his ass to keep him from pulling himself all the way out on his backward motion. That would be the worst of all possible happenings. She threw up her legs, letting her heels dig into his ass and her hands circle his waist.

He began to fuck faster, her sweet cuntflesh yielding to him, then clasping tightly to him, yielding, then clasping. Ted's cock buried balls deep inside her made her feel as close to heaven as she would ever come, and her body tingled in all the wonderful places.

He fucked harder and harder then, their mounds grinding mercilessly against one another.

It would not be long now. Already the fierceness of his fuck had gotten to her. She clutched his back and pulled him deeper and deeper with her heels.

"This is it, baby! Shoot it deep in me!"

He rammed his cock into her, once, twice, three times, then stiffened.

"Unnhhh!" he bellowed, and his balls emptied for the second time. When she felt the cum striking her cunt walls, her juice began to flow, and she was swept asunder by the raging warmth and wetness of her own orgasm. She felt the walls of the bedroom reeling about her.

Ted stood shy and silent, fully dressed in the clothes she had first spied him in this morning. But there was now a difference. She had shared something with this man, manipulated him, then been manipulated by him. And in the process they had both profited, had both come away winners.

Wasn't that the way it should be? She hoped so, but she wasn't yet sure.

"It seems foolish to leave you with a mere thank you," said Ted. He sat on the bed beside her. She was still naked, still basking in the glow of the exquisite fucking and sucking she had been given.

"It's enough."

She kissed him then, not with passion but with tenderness. He seemed to understand.

He caressed her cheek, let his hand run down her throat traced an imaginary line down her chest to circle one nipple with his forefinger.

"Good-bye, Ted. You gave me something I'd been missing. I'm glad we got together."

"Good-bye, Wendy."

And he was gone.

It was mid afternoon when she awoke. She felt refreshed by the few hours of sleep, as though she had never once tossed or turned.

She showered again (it was becoming a habit, wasn't it?) and selected a blue blouse, which she disdained buttoning and knotted just below her tits. It showed off her tits to perfection, in an even more blatant manner than had the pink halter.

She also took a pair of faded hip-hugger blue jeans, which she had cut off very short. Plenty of belly and plenty of thigh were left visible. When she slipped her ass into them, her cheeks protruded out from behind.

Slipping her feet into sandals, she stopped in front of the mirror and admired herself.

Honey, you got it. Make no mistake about it, when they passed out the extras, little Wendy was at the front of the line. Nothing second class about her lithe body.

She pranced downstairs and out to the garage, feeling the best she ever remembered feeling. She supposed that was because she had been royally fucked. That made all the difference. Yes, all the fucking difference in the world.

Passing the houses in her neighborhood she thought of all the men who shared them with their wives. How many were there who were unhappy with their sex lives, who had women who did not understand their needs, their secret desires, and who, failing to understand, were cheating not only their men, but themselves?

She pulled into the supermarket, needing a few things to carry her through the weekend.

She had gathered a few staples, bread, eggs, a steak for her dinner, when she rounded a corner, and almost ran down Professor Martin Wynn.

"Whoa," he said, skirting the metal cart she was pushing with some deft steps. "I'd hate to be the unwilling victim in a hit and run."

Wendy smiled. "Sorry, Professor Wynn. I guess I wasn't watching where I was going."

Martin Wynn was an English professor at the city college whom Wendy had met during a three-week seminar he had conducted at her high school during February. Open only to honor students, Wendy had been proud to have been chosen by the faculty to participate. The course had been called Modern Communications. She had found the course exciting, even if Professor Wynn was often a bit stuffy in his strict professionalism.

She became aware that Martin Wynn was sizing up the nonverbal signals being given off by her swelling tits and tight pants. She wondered exactly what she communicated by her dress-a come hither ripeness, blatant or subdued sexuality, mere wantonness? Whatever she communicated it was getting a rise from the professor.

"And where might you be heading in such a hurry?"

He smiled then. The gray at his temples gave him a sage appearance, but his face was strong, and the lines in it seemed precisely placed. She could not imagine him with the unlined face of youth. He seemed to exude the wisdom of maturity. He was born serious, erudite, wise.

"I guess that what I'm hunting here could wait. How've you been?"

"Just fine. I haven't seen you around for a long time." His eyes twinkled. Were they undressing her, or was she just imagining that she saw a familiar look in his gaze?

"And I have missed your pretty face," he continued, his voice trembling a little as he spoke.

"I really enjoyed the party we had at your house the last day of the seminar. You have a beautiful place."

Professor Wynn probably had the most exquisite house on the block, a two-story stone home that radiated elegance.

"It was my pleasure. Good company is always welcome."

"I'd like to come again sometime, really look it over. You have some truly beautiful paintings."

"Thank you. You'll… have to come soon. I'd… we'd, my wife and I, be glad to have you come."

She agreed to visit soon, and they stood awkwardly silent for a few more moments, before Professor Wynn dismissed himself.

She watched his back retreating, going through the checkout stand without stopping, and then out the door.

Wendy smiled to herself. Whatever Professor Wynn had come to the market for had been forgotten. He was leaving empty-handed.

She went on with her shopping.

It was a couple of hours later when Martin Wynn pushed himself away from his desk and lit his pipe. He was tired of reading juvenile rhetoric, of pouncing on plagiarism's, of reading garbled interpretations of the poets he had sought to enlighten his students about in class.