Stu Boy - She Needs Some Pleasin

Bob turned his head away when her body stopped moving. He got up off the bed and walked quickly to the couch. He took a fresh pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one with a new match, then threw the spent twig on a seat cushion.

He looked at her with hate. He was still breathing hard, even panting. He took a drag of the cigarette as though it were fresh air. "You cunt," he said slowly, clearly. "You cunt!" Susie wondered who he hated more, her or himself.

Susie closed the file, and the pages fluttered as the manila folder covered them. She leaned back in the wooden chair and pushed back so that the rollers cut a narrow path in the small room's carpeted floor. She inserted her file in the first drawer of her desk. Her eyes closed as she tried to imagine what Harris Foster would look like. It was one of the few mysteries permitted in a job that took sexual intimacy for granted, and even that mystery did not last long-only until she came face to face with a new patient.

The buzzer rang, and she depressed a button at the telephone's base. In the receiver she heard the voice of Dr. Chiver's secretary. "Room 217, Miss Giver." She rose wearily and pushed the phone into its cradle. She had had sex twice in the morning, once with Bob-and once autoerotically, with a specially wired vibrator that was to test the convulsions inside her vagina as she came.

Her bent fingers rolled their knuckles under the numeral 217. But the door had not been completely shut, and it pushed open under the gentle rapping.

All she could see of Harris Foster was his face. Perhaps she had been conditioned by reading his file, but she thought she could read the unhappiness of his marriage in his face. His hair was short, dark, and curly. His eyes were a clear, almost fluorescent blue, but the comers of his mouth seemed bent down to his chin. He was in his late thirties. The features were those of a younger man, inappropriate to middle-age, but the skin itself was a creased patchwork of lines.

The rest of his body was just a smooth cylinder under fresh white sheeting; even his arms were shrouded by the small bed's linen. He seemed stiff, and he did not even blink as she moved closer to the bed in her white nurse's uniform.

"Let instinct be your guide," Dr. Chiver said constantly in his seminars for the associate therapists, and she was beginning to feel more confident of her own perceptions. She eased down at the foot of the bed. Her buttocks pulled on the sheet, which hugged Foster's body more closely as her weight settled. She rested her right hand on her thigh. Foster's eyes turned toward her, though his skull did not move.

"Did they tell you my name?" She knew that they had not, but she was experimenting with new ways to introduce herself, ways that seemed more casual and more natural.

"No." Mucus obscured the real sound of his voice. He coughed; and his arm came from under the sheet to cover his mouth.

"Susie." She was coquettish as she continued. "I know your name-Harris."

He did not move. Susie rose and walked two steps. Her body was even with Foster's neck as she looked down.

"Harris?"

"Yes!" He seemed surprised.

"Do you want me?"

There was an instant of silence. "Yes," he said slowly.

She opened her hand. Her palm pressed down on the sheet. His breast-bone was apparent. Her fingers rolled over the muscular flesh until he found the delicate cherry-colored nipples. He breathed deeply, and his hips rose from the mattress as his heels dug into it. He relaxed as Susie came closer. Her lips pressed down on the linen and left red outlines of their shape. Her tongue pushed from between them to wet the sheet with droplets of saliva. Harris Foster sighed as her breath flowed through the sheet and warmed his chest.

Susie rolled the slight flab that lined the man's belly. Blood pumped inside his cock; a gleaming bead of semen drooled onto the underside of the sheet. With her other hand, she raised the sheet and began to massage his sides. The white cloth obscured her head like a tent. He felt her hair float over his chest as her tongue moistened his short black hairs. Her right hand went back and forth over his waist, and the side of her hand -bumped first one pelvic bone and then the other.

She let her breasts, enclosed in a confining brassiere, rest at last on the mattress at her lover's side. She took his hand, which lay stiffly at parade rest, and her own tightened around it. Encouraged, he gripped one cone-shaped breast in his hand and squeezed it inside its case. The tit rustled awake, and the first sensations of pleasure stirred inside Susie.

Her pinky awkwardly bent below his stomach to discover the pubic hair, coarse and long. She looked at Foster. The pressure of the fingertip made him wince, and his eyes remained closed. She knew why. Gently, the four fingers swept down through the growth to a tiny erection, not much more than a two-inch phallic stump. The diameter was no more than a half-inch. Her thumb pushed in at the flattened side of the shaft. The third finger's sharp nail cut the wrinkled skin as it pulled it from the glans. Instinctively, Susie spread her legs as she dove for the tiny cock.

Harris Foster's hands sweated as he pushed the palms into the mattress. Her tongue rolled over the prick like the soft waves a patient ocean delivers to the sand. Her mouth was still for a moment, and the edges of her front teeth held him clamped between enamel borders. Foster moaned softly and bit the comer of his twisting lips.

Susie stopped abruptly. Every muscle in his body tensed as though he were waiting for assault. As her mouth left his body and she -stirred so that she lay on top of him, he opened his eyes. The lids drew back on the white. The pupils dilated, as if with fright, though she did not notice.

"What's wrong?"

"I was going to ask you that."

"What? I don't under-"

"Your body is like a spring, like an alarm clock ready to go off and wake someone up."

Foster's brow wrinkled. He began to speak, but gave up with a sigh.

Her fingers began to play absent-mindedly with his flesh. She scraped the skin softly but did not push in toward the bone. "Can you tell me why you won't relax?"

"Come on," he said, cynicism the message of his slow smile. "You didn't even have to open your mouth wide to blow me."

"But this way I could have all of it inside my mouth. That's nice for a woman, instead of having to struggle."

He looked suspiciously at the woman whose weight pressed his. "My wife married me, and she doesn't even like it. It's not big enough for her." He paused between sentences as if to catch his breath during a series of sprints. "She makes me wear a fake. "

"Why do you let her get away with that?"

"Huh?" Foster was disappointed as she rolled off of him. Her arm fit under his neck, and her fingers pressed at his naked shoulder. He felt her stomach pulse with breathing against the outside of his leg.

"I asked you why you -let her get away with that. "

"I wanted to make her come. She couldn't come with… just me."

"Have you ever read a single book that said the size of the penis makes any difference."

"Maybe they don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. But it matters to Ruth. You should hear her talk- about dongs. I see her in a roomful of people, and her eye scans every male crotch there. Later she tells me which ones had hard-ons, and how big they were."

"She sounds like a bitch."

"Not really." Foster was defensive. "It's not her fault I'm so small."

"The clitoris is what's really important. And the size of a penis doesn't matter there." Susie took his hand in hers. She pulled at the hem of her uniform and bowed her body backwards. Below the layer of sheer white panty the bristle of pubic hair was obvious. Her thumb pulled at the elastic band, and she shook her hips as the brief brushed her thighs.