Ann Griffin - Skin summer

It was a beautiful day. The sunshine slanted through the trees, catching what dust was held in the air and lighting it like fragments of diamonds. They did not need to talk yet. They enjoyed the view.

He parked by the pumps at the water, and they walked hand-in-hand along the sand, their shoes left behind them at the jeep. She was a super-dazzling wench in the sunlight, her black hair reflecting bits of golden light, her eyes sparkling the greenest green imaginable. She asked him about his college life, what he was doing there, what he expected to do when he got out. He told her about film making, about his plans for Hollywood, for working his way up through a major studio. He had big plans, and she did not laugh at them as most people did.

After a while, after walking several times around the little lake, they talked about her. Her father was big in frozen foods. He had started one of the very first companies. He had expanded into other things, picking up stock in major companies like most people acquired trading stamps. She loved her parents, though she admitted she knew little about them. She expected to go to some girl's college next to some ivory-walled boy's university. Though there was a year of high school to finish yet. What she would take in college was a mystery. She liked literature and little else. She thought maybe she would like to write. She realized there was not often much money in that occupation, but she was honest enough to admit she didn't have to ever become a real success, for she could live off a fraction of what her inheritance would eventually be.

Sam waited for her to become amorous, to touch him, so as to be touched. That was the way women were to act. She should have been bound to him. She had said that he was a fantastic lover, had made her come more often than ever before. Yet she seemed unconcerned about whether or not they would make it today. When four o'clock came and they had spent an hour talking, he finally broached the subject himself. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, worked his tongue into her mouth.

Although she had not seemed interested, she responded easily now. Her arms went around him, and she shoved her enormous knockers against him. Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt and worked them open. She allowed her halter to be unsnapped. It fell away onto the sand.

He sucked breath at the sight of her breasts. They were beautiful, more beautiful than he had remembered. He bent and kissed them, took the chocolate drop nipples between his lips and chewed them into ridiculous erection.

She pushed him back and took his shirt off, then unzipped his pants, reached in and brought forth his stick. "I was afraid it might have shrunk," she said, laughing.

"As you can see…"

She stroked it. "Yes, yes." She dropped to the sand, stretched out for him.

He knelt beside her, slowly stripped her of her shorts. She was not wearing any panties. "Dirty little girl," he said, making a tching noise with his tongue.

She giggled. "I read it in a book somewhere, about this girl who never wore any panties. She eventually became a nun."

"You're religious?"

She motioned for him to get out of his pants. He complied. She sat up and took his swollen meat in her hands and caressed it lovingly. "I could see this every day for the rest of my life and still not get used to it. It's so thick. Like it was overweight and then someone beat it with a hammer to spread it out."

"The worst beating it's gotten, Suzy, is when you smashed it up in that sweet little tunnel of yours." He worked a finger into her sweet, dripping honeycunt.

"Ahhhh," she said. She arched her back a bit, making her creamy tits jut up at him like twin mountains. He buried his face in them while he fingered her.

"I want to be fucked," she said in a little voice that caught in the back of her throat.

"My pleasure," he said.

She spread her astoundingly lovely thighs and engulfed his big organ on the first lunge, up to his hilt.

He tightened his stomach muscles and used his sphincter muscles to draw up on his balls. If he didn't take precautions right off, this fabulous cunny would drain him in minutes. Methodically, he pumped her, taking the longest strokes possible. Sinking to the base of his shaft, his testicles crammed against the split labes of her slit. He held onto her big breasts, gripping them tightly, while he plunged her, much like a cowboy holding onto a saddle horn.

She threw her long legs about him, beat at his back with them. "Uhhhh-oh!" she cried bumping and grinding with a solid, joyous orgasm.

He continued to stroke, faster than ever. He knew she must not be allowed to go down. It was easier to give her successive orgasms if he were already just below a high peak. And she exploded once more, the walls of her tunnel clutching his stick and trying to milk it.

He pulled out of her and slid down, buried his head between her legs, bit at the flesh of her thighs, leaving little red teeth marks on the sensuous curves. Then his tongue was teasing her secret flesh, and he was leading her on, further and further until she made it again. He moved up then, sitting on his knees, one to either side of her waist, caressing her boobs. His hot prick jutted out like a steel ingot.

Her face was the most exciting he had ever seen. It spoke of sex, of oral contact, of new heights of sensation. He longed to take his meat and stuff her pretty, innocent mouth with it. But that could come later. Now, he had to carry through with his plans.

"You didn't make it?" she asked.

"I guess maybe I'm worried about too much. But I can give you a few more rides."

She looked concerned. "What are you worried about?"

"It's none of your concern. Just enjoy yourself."

She rolled her head back and forth on the sand, her dark hair spilling out in an aura around her. "Now that's stupid. How can I have fun when you are too worried about something to come?"

"I'm sorry I said anything."

"Tell me, Sam. I ought to know. Maybe I can help you."

He made a show of deciding whether or not to say anything. "It's some bills I have at college," he said. "They gave me credit at the bookstore and dining hall. But my payment schedule is behind. Now they say I either have to pay in full or not come back next year."

"I can help you with money," she said. "I wouldn't want to ask."

"Why not? How much do you need."

"I couldn't…"

"Oh, hell, Sam! You'll pay me back. Now how much?"

"Say a hundred dollars?" he asked.

"That's all?"

He immediately wished he had quoted a figure at twice or three times that much, but there was no possibility of changing it now and maintaining credibility. "That's all," he said.

She pushed to get up.

"Where you going?" he asked.

"To get it."

"I want to screw you again," he said.

"The money's here," she said.

"You carry that much with you?"

"It's pocket change. I told you daddy was a collector of stocks instead of stamps. I meant it. He's worth something like forty million. You think his daughter can't have a couple hundred to spend when she wants?"

"The idle rich," he said. "But I will appreciate this."

He let her up. She went to her clothes, found her wallet, and extracted some tens and fives. She lifted his jeans and balled the bills up, stuffed them into a pocket. And suddenly froze…

She brought her hand out again, but this time she clutched two rolls of money. She laid her own hundred dollars aside, opened the other bills and counted a hundred and twenty. He stood, his erection lost now, and frantically tried to think of some explanation. They were, of course, the bills Brenda Markwell had given him. But he could not tell Susan that. The entire hustler's bit relied on each woman thinking she was the only one. Except in Brenda's case, perhaps. She might like the humiliation of knowing he cared not a damn for her, only for her money. But not Susan. Never Susan. She was a different sort of girl.