Andrew Laird: Young girl sex club

He lowered his head from her breasts to the taut skin of her stomach, his wet lips and tongue leaving a trail of moisture across her brown hide.

"Now do it to me! Oh, do it to me good, Jimmy!" she pleaded.

He mounted her and thrust his cock into her open and receptive vagina as she cried out in ecstasy. As he fucked it into her, she pulled his face down to hers and sucked his tongue into her mouth. Her hips rose to meet his and she felt his long, hard cock probe deeply, the head of it bumping its way past the mouth of her womb until it hit bottom. He continued to push at her, creating a little thrill of pain with each lunge of his body. This was what she loved most of all, the bigness and the length of him and the fact that he filled her so completely that doing it with him was both painful and heavenly. Tonight he was particularly rough with her, as though taking his earlier flash of irritability out on her body, punishing her for loving him too much, for demanding and getting too much of him. She cried out in pain and passion and strained for more, willing him to give her a physical pain to erase the memory of the other hurt he had inflicted on her.

Jimmy Murphy was actually neither very experienced nor very adept as a lover. But Kalola in her innocence didn't know that. She thought he was the greatest fucker who had ever lived. On the occasions when he came before she did, leaving her aching and frustrated, she forgave him easily, supposing that such was her lot in life and all she could expect as her share of intercourse.

Her passion mounted, welling and growing in her like the froth on boiling waters, until her body lost all meaning except as a chalice for his prick and a capsule to contain the screaming nerves that had become her. It was one of her lucky nights. She was able to have her orgasm just before he did. Their locked bodies continued to writhe and twitch in unison with the fading pulses of dying sensation that still shook them in surges of decreasing power.

"Jimmy," she whispered, her dark eyes adoring him, "I'll bet no other guy in the world can make love like you."

Jimmy frowned and looked uncomfortable. "I've been keeping track," he said, not meeting her eyes directly. "You know how long it's been since your last period?"

"Hunh?" She looked blank and then startled and admitted she didn't know.

"Nearly two months," he told her accusingly. "You aren't pregnant, are you?"

Kalola's eyes became round with mild shock as this new idea penetrated her mind, then she smiled radiantly. "Gee! Do you think I might be? Wouldn't that be wonderful, Jimmy?"

His frown deepened. "You better not be," he told her threateningly, "or we're in a helluva mess. I just got orders today that I'm being transferred back East… Brooklyn Navy Yard."

He had just dropped a bomb into the middle of her life and blown it to hell. Yet he seemed unaware of what he had done. He couldn't understand her heartbreak and grew angry with her when she cried and begged. As if it explained everything, he casually announced that he was already married anyway and what the hell had she expected?

A sunny disposition was not the only thing Kalola's conglomerate, racial heritage had bequeathed her. Her slanted eyes narrowed to slits and her lips curled into a snarl of rage as she hurled herself at him with clawing fingernails and flailing feet and knees. He managed to barricade himself in the bathroom until her temper had cooled, then he wisely gathered up his uniform and fled, leaving Kalola sobbing and screaming on the bed.

He had been gone from the apartment for an hour when she sat up and looked around her. Her face was puffed from crying, but her eyes were now dry and her mouth was set in hard lines such as it had never before known.

"Okay, you Goddamn sonomobeech. I show you pretty damn good, hunh," she muttered aloud, lapsing back into the pidgin of her childhood in the slums of Honolulu. She went to the living room, fumbled through the phone book and found a number. She dialed it, and when a man's voice answered, she said: "Mista Drew? This is Kalola. You no mad at me fo' kick you in nuts? Okay. You still wanta fuck me, I come you house. Sure, I come now, I stay you house all night, you fuck me plenty, yeah?" She hung up the receiver on its cradle.

"I show you, sailorboy shitty basta'd," she said as she pulled on her clothes.

A bewildered Herb Drew met Kalola at the door of his apartment. He wasn't at all sure what he was letting himself in for, but the powerful yen he had developed for the little brown dancer was greater even than his still vivid memory of an aching scrotum. "Come in," he greeted her. "I'm glad you've changed your mind. Can I fix you a drink?"

"Sure. We get plenty drunk, hunh? And we fucky-fucky all night, too."

"Suits me," Herb agreed, "although I'll be damned if I can figure why you decided to give me a little at two o'clock in the morning." He poured her a double shot and watched her toss it off with no apparent effort, a thing he thought strange when he knew for a fact she did not drink.

"Come on," she said, "let's go sackside. You bring one bottle, fella. Okay?"

Herb shrugged and followed her into the bedroom, noting that she was unzipping her dress and stepping out of it as she walked. He undressed and they had another drink, then he lowered himself to the bed and drew her to him.

It was no part of Kalola's plan to enjoy herself with Herb Drew. What she was doing was strictly for revenge. What she had not counted on was the stimulating effects of the whiskey and that Herb was an accomplished roue, quite expert at his chosen avocation. She did notice, with more interest than she had intended to have, that his cock was much larger than Jimmy Murphy's. She had been sure that the sailor had the world's largest prick, but now she saw that he had been only a boy after all.

"I know a few tricks, baby," Herb said as he squeezed her breasts and regarded her shapely body with all the honest appreciation of the true connoisseur. "How do you want it?"

"I no give a damn," Kalola answered coldly.

"All right," he agreed. "In that case, honey, I'd like to suck your cunt. I've had a tongue hard-on ever since I first saw you dance."

She had not the slightest notion what he meant, but she watched with some interest as he slid down on the bed and put his head between her thighs. When his tongue shot into her, she still did not understand, but when he began expertly sucking and lapping her clitoris, she suddenly got the idea.

She lay there, a withdrawn and frigid statue, hating him because he was a man and white but hating Jimmy Murphy even more. She managed to maintain her frozen pose for nearly five minutes. But Herb's cunning tongue was not to be denied. In spite of herself, Kalola became aware of a very pleasant sensation that was tingling its way up through her nervous system. It grew and grew, blossoming with every passing second and with every stroke of the educated tongue. She fought against it, not wanting to like what he was doing and not wanting to like him. But the whiskey was her undoing; it had both stimulated her and lowered the bars of her inhibitions. In a matter of moments her hips were rotating in time with the beat of Herb's tongue and her hands were clenching and unclenching on the bedspread.

With her mind, Kalola was hating him, and hating herself for what she was doing with him, but she was being like the priest in the story who explained why he seduced the nun by saying: "From the belly button up I am a priest; from the waist down I am still a man." Her body was treacherously refusing to obey the dictates of her mind.

Herb Drew was enjoying himself and deriving much more than the normal satisfaction from this erotic love-play. Not only was he fulfilling a burning ambition, but in a way he was also revenging himself for the misery she had dealt him with her hard little knee. Time after time he brought her to the very edge of an orgasm and then slackened his efforts, only to start all over again the moment she began to relax. He managed to keep it up for an hour, reveling in the mildly sadistic pleasure of knowing that he had reduced her to a helpless, moaning lump of over-sensitized jelly, her nerves so finely drawn that every touch of his tongue or fingers drove her to the verge of screaming insanity. Only when his own desire had reached the point where he could no longer control it did he relent. He suddenly reared up from his position between her quivering thighs and thrust his massive cock into her with ruthless force. She did scream then, but as much from pleasure as from pain. He could have made her come with one or two well-calculated strokes, but still he held off, tantalizing her while treating her to more excruciatingly poignant sensations that she had ever before known.