Ron Taylor: Hot for dad

Cheryl rapped on the door but there was no answer. Taking for granted her right to do so, she opened the door and stepped inside. "Hello!" she sang. "It's your friendly neighborhood typing service!" Under her arm was an envelope full of final draft copy.

Ed Bogart appeared at the head of the stairs.

He was shirtless, his chest broad and hairy. Cheryl could just make out the USMC tattoo he'd picked up in Seoul, '56, but she didn't have to see it. She knew it by heart. "I didn't hear you," he said in his rich deep voice – he'd have been perfect for radio, in the old days, before it became a vehicle for commercials and disco music. "You've finished already?"

"Finished and perfect," Cheryl said, starting up the steps to join him. "Double-spaced, margined, and carbon ribboned – courtesy of Cheryl and her Selectric. I even corrected the spelling errors. Most of them, at least. You know, it amazes me that a man of your stature in the world of letters can't spell worth a damn. They can't all be typos."

"They're not," he said. "I'm a functional illiterate." He took the envelope. "And how much do I owe you, Cheryl, love?"

Cheryl Haskins scratched her chin for a moment, pretending to be rapt in thought. "Well," she said, "you could start with a big, wet kiss – if the coast is clear."

He put his hands on her hips and pulled her up the last step. She joined him on the landing where he stood and their bodies melted together. Cheryl was a tall, lithe girl, but she had to tilt her head ever so slightly to bring her mouth into position. It was a tilt worth making. His lips slammed down upon hers, open and wet as per her request, and she opened her own mouth to give his tongue free rein. It snaked into her mouth, where she caught it for sucking, and at the same time she locked her arms around him, allowing his bare chest to experience the thrusting fullness of the firm tits which were bound only by a clingy knit halter.

Their crotches ground together as they embraced, and Cheryl rotated hers in a provocative twist which made his dick tremble with interest inside his pants. She pressed him more tightly to let his growing hardness caress her tight crotch, and she was certain that beneath his trousers Ed wore nothing.

"That was pretty good for a start," she admitted breathlessly, their lips parting. "But it doesn't cover the entire bill."

"What would you suggest for the next installment?" Ed worked his groin against her once more, giving Cheryl another thrilling rub with his hardening cock. She reached between his legs, her fingers testing the lumping bulge in his pants.

"This, maybe," she said thoughtfully, her fingertips seizing upon the protuberant tip and squeezing it with wanton invitation. "But, like I said, if the coast is clear."

"Let me put this in the office," he replied, "and we'll start coast-watching – in the bedroom."

She looked through the door while he took her manuscript package to his desk and placed it beside his battered Olivetti portable. No wonder he needed a professional typist to put his scripts into shape, she thought. The Olivetti looked and typed as if it had been through half a dozen wars. Which it had. Ed had carried it with him as an essential part of his field gear in Lebanon, Suez, the Congo, Cuba, and every other hot spot of the last twenty years or so. The carriage was out of line, some keys were so bent they refused to type at all, and unless he pulled on the ribbon from time to time, it refused to advance. So much the better for me, Cheryl thought. If he hadn't needed someone to type his manuscripts I'd never have met him.

It couldn't last. Ed was only renting this place for the summer. By Labor Day he'd be nothing but a memory to be stored in Cheryl Haskins' book of memories. Ah, but a whole chapter! At the very least!

She could scarcely believe lucking out today, too! Usually their meetings had to be circumspect and careful. Ed's daughter was staying here with him, a pretty but shy girl of eighteen, and Ed, who had faced bullets all around the world, seemed scared shitless of this little Sibyl finding out that he had some beddy-bye action going on the side.

He took Cheryl's hand and led her into the bedroom. The sheets were rumpled from his last night's sleep, giving the place a deliciously sexy ambiance. One of Cheryl's favorite fantasies was that she was a whore, giving sex to man after man on a busy Saturday night, and the sight of an unmade bed made her pussy drip in excitement. Particularly when, as now, she knew that she was in imminent danger of being fucked silly on that same bed.

"Strip," Ed commanded, indulging her fantasy.

He unsnapped a button on his slacks, undid his belt, and let the pants fall to his feet. Just as she'd expected! He was bare as a baby underneath. But what baby ever sported a jiggling, hard eight inches of cock. Cheryl stopped in the act of undoing her halter. The flaps fell aside, baring her brown-tipped boobs, and she dropped to her knees, hands fumbling after his dick.

"Wanna suck it first," she moaned, each word separated from its successor by the swipes of her tongue on his hot, red prick. His hands came down to trap the fat points of her nipples and he began to pinch them while she tongued him. Cheryl sighed between licks, feeling her tits becoming firmer and harder with each twist of his fingertips, and she couldn't wait any longer. Opening her mouth wide, she brought it down over the point of his cock. He lunged into her as she began to suck and his cock seemed to thrust itself into the upper reaches of her throat.

Cheryl fought the urge to gag and she concentrated on sucking instead. Her head angled away from him, causing most of his prick to slide free, and she locked her teeth behind the enormous cock-head. As she sucked it furiously, like a lollipop, her tongue scrubbed it with quick scraping passes that made him throb in spite of his experience. She was good and she knew it. If she'd wanted, she could have fucked the tip of his prick with her tongue, tickling the slitted opening till he couldn't resist and let his cum roll into her mouth. But she didn't – sucking was only a turn-on, as if either of them needed it. He was hard for her and she was dripping for him. The oozy wetness already seeped from her gash, and she'd barely begun to undress. God, she dug him!

He was a gorgeous man, big and sexy and dripping with masculinity. He had money, he'd traveled everywhere, he'd been the most widely published war correspondent of the day, and now he was turning into a best-selling writer of adventure fiction. Cheryl had never been more than a hundred miles from home. She'd never seen an ocean – a real, white-capped, blue ocean, just pictures – and she'd never been to a foreign country and she'd never interviewed Fidel Castro. But for the past two weeks, as often as possible, she'd been bedroom – tight with someone who'd done all those things and so many more she couldn't remember. It was almost the next best thing to being cosmopolitan herself, and besides her whore fantasy, Cheryl liked to pretend that Ed Bogart dug her as much as she dug him – that he was on the verge of asking her to give up the dull, sedate life of Albany, Ohio, and join him as he roved the world in search of adventure and news copy.

Join him, she thought, sucking his cock like a maniac. Join him and his precious, sheltered daughter. The dream deflated like an untied balloon and all she had left was his prick in her mouth. But if it was all she had, she could make use of it while she had it. Cheryl sucked him harder, faster, till she was certain he was about to come in her mouth, and then she slacked off immediately. His cock popped from her lips, red, raw-looking where she had caressed it with her tongue, and she saw the bubbles of saliva she had left upon his stiffened flesh.