Jean Sifton - The scandalous stewardess

"Sure, baby, if that's the way you feel about it," he answered a tone of annoyance. He rolled over and lay flat on his back, placing his hands behind his head. "It's OK with you if I eat your pussy, if I stick my tongue in your snatch and suck you unto you cum all over my mouth… that's fine, isn't it?" he said contemptuously. "But when the ball is in your court, you don't want to play!"

"It's not that, Randy, it's just that… well…"

"Forget it, sweetheart. I get the message. We'd just skip the oral stuff from now on – both of us. I mean, it's too bad, a damned shame, really – I could acquire a real taste for that sweet little cunt of yours… but, it wouldn't be fair to either of us, would it? One-way streets always lead to resentments, don't they?"

The clever youth made his point – in spades. Davie felt a seizure of panic as she considered Randy's threat he didn't intend to go down on her again… not unless she "played bag"…

She was wavering, torn by a desire to please this man, her first male lover who had already given her so much pleasure. She couldn't bear to think of it coming to an end, or being something less than complete. Yet, she felt frightened and repulsed at the thought of putting his rigid member into her mouth; she kept seeing her mother blowing that horrible faggot. Besides, she'd never done it before. How do you do it? She didn't want to make a fool of herself. But Randy was right, she knew: turn about's fair play. She sighed heavily and turned to him, letting her arm rest on his chest.

She snuggled closer, wanting him to put a reassuring arm around her, but he continued to lay sprawled on his back with his arms behind his head, his eyes closed and his face expressionless.

She put her head on his chest. Still no reaction. He was mad at her! She looked down his body, which was elongated from her perspective. Her drugged brain saw him as a column of flesh stretched out like a sun bronzed Plastic Man in the comic books. His erect cock was thrust in the air like an angry middle finger of disdain. Slowly she let her fingers slide down his chest, down his belly, down to has sparse forest of crisp, dark blonde pubic hair… Randy's prick bobbed in welcome to her hand. She paused there.

"I… I don't know how to do it, Randy. I've never done it before," she said haltingly.

"Done what?" he asked dryly. (He knew perfectly well what she was talking about. He had to suppress a self-satisfied smile.)

"Put a man's thing into my mouth… kissed it." She was grateful that he could not see her face embarrassment was written all over it.

"Oh, that…" he said nonchalantly, "just forget it, honey. Forget I ever asked you to kiss it, or lick it, or take it in your mouth…"

"No, Randy. I want to do it for you. I don't want to be a one-way street," she answered firmly, but in a lithe girl voice. "Only you have to tell me what to do…"

Peter Knight stole another long glance at his passenger as they drove south along the narrow, two-way road in his sleek silver Porsche. Trish had greeted him wearing the briefest and sexiest of black bikinis and a thin gold chain around her neck. She was all smiles, and gave no indication that she bore any resentment towards him for his callous treatment of her the night before. She looked so Goddamned exciting, so sensual, that he had torn off his own swim trunks and fucked her right then, this time treating her like a partner and not a whore. He felt he couldn't get enough of her.

Now, scanning her bikini-clad body again, he found his cock once more straining under his trunks as his eyes roved over the generous expanse of breast flesh that was revealed above the skimpy top, and the smooth, flat belly, her golden thighs and long, beautiful legs. She wanted to go to the point, she said… she had been there before… the beach was secluded and the water warmest there…

His thoughts weighted his right foot and the Porsche went faster, accelerating with the increase of his desire.

"What's the rush, lover?" she teased, giving him one of her sexy, all-knowing looks. She placed her hand on his sun-warmed thigh, adding another ten miles an hour to the gauge.

Finally, they rounded a bend where the highway narrowed into a dusty road. The handsome resort owner shifted down and let the Porsche slow to a crawl to minimize the fallout created by the grooved, Michelin tires. He suddenly jammed on the brakes when he spotted Randy's red MG parked in a shaded turnout about 75 yards ahead. Trish saw the little red sports car, too. It was there, thank God… just as she had planned it!

"What the hell?" Peter said, his brow furrowed in a frown.

"Looks like somebody beat us to it… to the point, that is," Trish sad slyly. "What a coincidence…"

A sense of dread creeped over Davie's father. What the fuck was she doing way out here? Why had Randy brought her here for a swim unless… Christ, why had he allowed her to go with that kid anyway? He should have known better…

"Oh well, we might as well go for swim with them, lover. Then we can find another spot of our own…" the scheming blonde said casually. "It'll be fun to surprise them."

Peter didn't answer. His jaw was set and the frown deepened on his forehead. From force of habit, he grabbed the ignition keys and tucked them into a shallow pocket inside the waistband of his trunks. Then he got out and walked purposefully towards the beach, leaving the cocksure stewardess to follow in his wake.

As he got closer and closer to the stretch of white sand, his scowl deepened and his apprehension increased. He was close to the clearing now, and he peered out into the water, looking for splashing young bodies, hoping to see his precious daughter cavorting in the crystalline ocean with the devil-may-care young buck. Instead, his heart sickened as he heard sounds, grunting animal sounds on the beach. He stopped short. Oh no! God, no! his mind screamed. Those sounds could only mean one thing! It was like a grisly replay of the shocking scene he had witnessed twenty four hours ago, on another beach. Only this time, it wasn't a female – it was Randy Ferris. God, what was he doing to little Davie?

Randy Ferris wasn't doing anything to little Davie – little Davie was doing it to him!

A startled, disbelieving gasp burst from Peter Knight's throat as he took a few steps further and his eyeballs ran smack into the sight of Randy Ferris lying on his back with his arms stretched out at his sides, getting his cock sucked royally by DARLING LITTLE DAVIE!

He swayed on his feet, as though he had been hit by a battering ram, and stared in utter stupefaction at the carnal sight. He closed his eyes, but he couldn't close out the reality of what was happening on the beach blanket. It was horribly, brutally real… Davie was sucking the bastard's cock, and doing it with obvious enjoyment, of her own free will…

"Jesus Christ," the older man felt his cock lurch into hardness as he watched his teenage daughter sucking wetly at the cum-filled cock of the young, teenage boy!

The shocked and anguished father fought to sort out his thoughts, to collect his reason and do what a concerned parent would do in such a situation. He wanted to rush forward, to teat Davie away from the kid's loins and rip his privates right out of his groin. He wanted to kill the sonofabitch and give Davie the beating if her life. But he knew he couldn't do that. The one unassailable fact of the matter was that Davie was sucking the kid's cock of her own free will! That was obvious. She was turned on as hell, mewling over him with unintelligible slurping calls from deep in her throat, gnawing at him like a dog with a bone, pulling on the this casing of his long, rigid prick as though it were a lollipop; as though she couldn't get enough of it!