Ann Griffin - Skin summer

"Fill me up," she whispered. "Let me milk you dry." She began flexing her cunt muscles, squeezing the prick tightly. He gasped, felt his nuts jerk. Another spurt of cream jetted out of the meatus and spattered over her warm tunnel. Again and again, the prick bounced and heaved, though there was no longer anything for it to produce. When it was over, he understood that he had had at least one orgasm beyond the usual, probably as many as three.

He rolled off her magnificent body, onto his back on the sand beside her. He looked up at the sky, at the few white clouds that floated there. She had given him as many climaxes as he had given her. There had never been any woman who had come close to that. One was his limit. This was no way to conserve his energy.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, rising on one elbow and looking down on him. Her tits hung over him, delicious mounds of soft flesh. The nipples had softened, but they were still large, and the roseates were still enormous.

"You were good," he said.

"Me? What about you!" She reached forward and took his wet, limp organ in her hand and fondled it. She went down and licked and sucked it until she had cleaned it of his glistening sperm and her own cunt liquids. She dried it with her pitch colored hair.

He watched her, knowing she could not arouse him for at least another hour. Even then, she might have trouble. He needed rest and time for recuperation before trying her again. But he could still use his mouth, and he thought that might be wise. He had only given her four orgasms, when his trademark was to make them come until they nearly passed out. Even if he had a limp rod, his tongue would be active enough. He got to his knees and pushed her back.

"Again?" she asked, wide-eyed. She had such a little girl face to go with such a shocking body.

"We came out even so far. I always like to give more than I take."

He went down between her legs to the soft mound of her box and ate her as thoroughly as before until she had bucked and kicked and come twice again. Then, satisfied that they were on the basis he liked – with her owing him something – he quit.

"What time is it?" she asked suddenly, sitting up.

He found his watch in his pile of clothes.

"Four-thirty."

"We have to get back," she said. "If you'll drive me most of the way, I'll walk the last hundred yards. They shouldn't see us come back together."

He took her in his arms and squeezed her, feeling her, kissing her long and hard. "Will we be doing this again?" he asked.

"What do you think, Sam?" She giggled as she slipped into her clothes.

"Tomorrow?"

She looked surprised. "If you're up to it."

"Here," he said. "Tomorrow. At three o'clock. Wait a couple of hundred yards out from the camp. I'll pick you up in the jeep and we'll come up here."

And tomorrow, he thought, I'll hit her for a little money. Not much. And I'll have to give her a better time than today. But she ought to be good for quite a pile. And it'll be a pleasure to get paid for beating my meat off in that kind of skin!

Unfortunately, Sam Walker had made the mistake of thinking only on the physical level. Some girls – many girls – he had known could be bought with his body. Susan Calderwood-Logan was somewhat different. He would find that out before long…

Linda Mock stood looking down at the bed, then pulled the sheets back and began to undress. She piled her clothes on a chair, then stretched out on the sheets. A moment later, the door opened and Sam Walker came in. He closed the door, turned, saw her for the first time. He looked at her a moment, then said, "I don't think I can tonight. I have a huge headache and my stomach is tender. I got a bug or something."

She sat up in bed, and watched him as he went into the kitchen and came back with two cups of coffee. "Maybe a little ride is exactly what you need to make you feel better."

He looked her over, smiled wanly. "If any broad could cure a man with her body, it's you. But I'm afraid I don't believe in faith healing."

"This would be sex healing." She sipped her coffee.

"Sorry."

"Damn!" she said, slamming down the cup.

He looked at her, saw that he was losing her. "I could eat you, if you want. Though I know I couldn't get hard. Not the way I feel."

She sat up and drew her clothes from the nearby chair, struggled into them. "No. It's less fun when you don't make it. I don't want to be a bore."

"I want to," he said.

"I know," she said.

When she finished dressing, she came to him, bent over and kissed him. "You take care of yourself."

"Yes, ma'm."

"Take some Anacins."

"I have. I'll take more."

She walked to the door, turned and looked at him with a new expression on her face. "A headache?" she asked.

"That's what I said."

She watched him a moment longer.

"What's the matter?" he wanted to know.

"Nothing," she said, and left.

He watched the closed door for a long time after she had gone. He knew what she had been thinking as she stood there. She had suddenly wondered if he had been with Brenda Markwell again and couldn't get hard for her because there wasn't any juice left in him. If she only knew how right she was!

He finished his coffee, washed the cup and put it on the drying rack. He had eaten ravenously at supper, but he was still hungry. He made a Dagwood sandwich with the fixings he had in the half-sized refrigerator, ate that with half a bag of potato chips and a bottle of cola. When he was finished, he went in for his evening shower and calisthenics.

When he finally fell into bed, naked between the cool sheets, he was more exhausted than he had been at any time in his life. His prick, depleted, had shrunk pitifully between his legs until it was little more than a button. He rolled over only twice, then fell into a sound and velvet sleep.

Though there were dreams.

Dreams…

All sorts of them.

They danced behind his eyes.

Little scenes that washed across his mind, eddied a moment or so to be looked at, then were carried away by the following wave which brought yet another scene…

They started out very pleasant, then alternated from happy to sad to frightening.

And it seemed, as the night wore on, that the percentage of frightening dreams grew and grew, until he finally woke with dregs of a nightmare clinging to his tongue. But to start with, they were pleasant…

A Dream: He was very small, perhaps as young as three. There was a man at the house, a man who had been coming quite regularly for some months, the first father-figure Sammy had ever known. He was a big man, tall and blond with wide shoulders. And most interesting of all, he had a mustache, the first Sammy had ever seen on anyone he knew. He liked to sit in the big man's lap and play mustache, tweak it gently until the big man – pretending – cried out that he was being hurt and begged Sammy to spare him any further suffering. The big man used to bring him gifts. Little things. But to a boy unused to gifts, they were the brightest moments in his life. A picture book, a box of candy, a toy truck. Anything that cost more than a quarter seemed like one of the most valuable riches of the ages. Sammy's mother, Helen, seemed to dislike the attention the big man paid the boy, but she could not – even whining – get him to completely ignore her son in favor of herself. Nice days…

A Dream: A black dream. Bordering on nightmare. Sammy woke one morning, a Saturday, and went downstairs to get something for breakfast. He was four, going on five then. His mother would be sleeping, he knew. It was barely nine o'clock and she would not rise until just before noon. He poured himself juice and took it in the living room to drink; there he saw the overcoat and hat he associated with the mustached man. He ran from room to room downstairs, looking for his friend, but could find him nowhere. Finally, he decided to disturb his mother to find the mustached one, even though he knew that Helen would be angry at being bothered for something she would consider so trivial. At the door to her room, he paused, doubtful now about the wisdom of waking her to ask about the man's whereabouts. Then his excitement won over his fear. He pushed the door open and went into the room. At first, he grinned, for the mustached man was here in this room. Then the full scene came to him, and he was frightened. The man was on top of his mother, both of them naked. The man was supporting himself with his hands, flat palms open on the mattress, one on either side of Sammy's mother. Sammy could see the thing between the man's legs stabbing his mother. His mother was gurgling, clawing at the man, trying to fight him off. The man wouldn't let her. He stabbed and stabbed. Sammy screamed. And again. And on and on for almost twenty minutes before they could calm him.