Nan Bangcroft - Putting Out For Pop

When he had come out, she had been waiting for him, in bed, in his bed, nude and luscious and lovely. The covers had been thrown casually off the bed. She had been there on the white sheet, her naked body a study in pink and white, with auburn hair.

She had cuddled his head as he nursed on her tits. He had tongued her rosy buds until they were stiff and hard, and glistening with spit. Then, dear God, she had eased him onto his back, straddled him, and lowered herself on his aching hard-on. The hot, wet, velvety sucking glove of her cunt had swallowed his thrusting phallus yet again. He had looked down, and watched it vanish into her red muff.

She had ridden him like he was a stallion. She had bounced in the saddle without getting unseated. His prick had been burned numb from the endless stimulation. He had reached up and clutched her breasts. She had thrown her head back like a spirited mare as his fingers bruised her soft, tender flesh. While he watched, she had reached down and found her clit and diddled herself to a flaring peak while pogo-sticking up and down, up and down, up and down on his aching, exhausted, rock-hard cock.

He hadn't thought he could possibly come a third time. But she kept doing it, kept bouncing and bouncing and bouncing, until he thought his prick was going to get wrenched off. She had swung her hips with a whore's skill, until finally his aching groin had reached the flash point and erupted. Only there wasn't any cum left to pump, so he just spasmed in dry heaves. He had felt like he was being hacked in two with a dull ax.

Then, his dick still in her wet, warm hole, she had slumped on top of him, and sunk into a deep, contented sleep. They had spent the night that way: cuddled together on the same bed on which he had asked her.

And now he was afraid to go home, for fear he'd do it again. "No!" he said, slamming his glass down on the bar.

"You all right, Mr. Kelly?" the bartender asked.

"Do you have any daughters, Sam?" he asked.

"No, no daughters," Sam answered sadly. "No sons. No family at all.”

"You have no idea how lucky you are," Mike answered, reaching for the chit. He added a generous tip and signed it. "You have no idea how lucky you are.”

Leaving Sam standing there looking puzzled, Mike made his way out of the bar. He managed to walk a reasonably straight course in spite of the three drinks. Once he was in the car, he gripped the wheel. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to be there when he got home, or not. One part of him didn't want her there, but another part, the aching, itching part between his legs, was praying that she would be. The scotch tipped the balance.

The five minute drive seemed to take an hour. He was shaking when he turned in and parked in the driveway. Christ, it reminded him of when he had been fifteen and first dating. It took all his courage to go to the door. He was afraid that she wouldn't be home, that she'd stood him up. He was afraid that she would be home, that he'd have to spend the evening six inches from ecstasy.

Music was coming up the stairs from the basement rec room. That meant that Gabby was home. He felt a wave of relief. The confrontation with ‘Caela had again been put off-for a few hours or a few days. Getting a beer from the refrigerator, he stopped at the top of the stairs and called down to her.

"Hi, Daddy, come on down," Gabby called gaily. "I didn't expect you home so soon.”

"Bad day at the practice tee." He felt desire stir in his guts like a hot worm at the sight of her. Her trim leotard fitted like a second skin. A few strands of her blonde hair had escaped her ponytail and hung loosely around her finely shaped face. Christ! Why couldn't he have had homely daughters?

"Want to see my new routine?" Gabby asked, apparently not noticing his growing erection.

"Gosh, Hon, I don't know," he said, holding his beer in front of his crotch.

"Come on. It'll only take a minute. It's really neat!”

“Well, okay, but just for a minute," he agreed reluctantly, trying not to study the gentle roundness of her breasts, the way the leotard cupped her pussy, the sleek line of her graceful legs. The scotch and beer boiling through his bloodstream did nothing to help.

"Sit over there," she directed, pointing to the old couch.

Meekly, he obeyed. He clutched the beer like a security blanket, and wondered why the palms of his hands itched. Hoping to hide his hard-on, he started to casually cross his legs. She shot a sharp glance at his tented pants, and he froze, leaving his legs the way they were.

She deliberately stuck her trim ass up when she bent over the record player to start the music again. Then she turned, and waited for the music to start.

When she began to dance, he wished he had never come down the stairs. Her slender, lithe body made his pulse pound, and his prick stiffen like a telephone pole. Sonovabitch! Didn't she realize how sexy she was? Her long, graceful fingers played over the hills of her breasts, up the insides of her thighs, drew his eyes to the soft mound of her pussy. Her hips rolled and twisted, invited penetration. She kicked high, and he thought he was going to melt into a puddle right there on the couch. The view he got of her crotch was incredible.

Jesus! The leotard had ridden up into her slit! When she turned her back, he could see that it had bunched in the crack of her ass so that half of both ass cheeks were exposed. Half of each: that made a whole cheek. He frowned at the feeble joke.

He tossed down the last of the beer, and crushed the can as she retreated across the room.

Suddenly, she turned. All the play was out of her moves now. He froze. He felt like a rabbit being hypnotized by a snake. Her bright blue eyes bored straight into his. She moved, slowly, toward him, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. He tried to move, but his muscles were useless jelly.

When she hooked a thumb into the scoop neck of her leotard, he prayed she wasn't going to do what he thought she was going to do.

She did it. She eased the leotard off her shoulder and slipped her arm out of the short sleeve. Her bare shoulder gleamed in the hard fluorescent light. The leotard hung on the gentle slope of her small, dainty breast.

"Guh-Gabby,” he choked.

Her lips pursed, silently shushed him. She took another careful step, and hooked her left thumb in the right shoulder of her single garment. Very carefully, she extracted that arm from the leotard. She never moved her eyes from his. He couldn't wrench his off hers no matter how he tried.

Another step, and she was easing the leotard down her body. More and more of her pale chest came into view. So gentle was the mounding of her breasts it was hard to tell where they began. One moment they were just bare skin, then there was softness and creaminess, then suddenly two rosy pink peaks appeared. His hands itched to touch them.

"Oh, my God," he groaned. He was a captive of his own mad lust. His cock ached and throbbed in his pants as sweat poured down from his arm pits and soaked his shirt. "No, Honey. No.”

"Shshshsh," she said softly. She eased the leotard lower and lower and lower on her trim torso. There was her navel, and the smooth expanse of her flat tummy. There were the grooves where her thighs joined her body.

A thin, pale muff sprang free as the scrap of nylon tumbled around her ankles. She stepped out of it. She was nude. She was beautiful. She was desirable. He wanted her so badly, his whole body hurt.

"Oh, Baby," he moaned as she stood in front of him.

"Stand up, Daddy," Gabby ordered softly.

Like a robot, he obeyed. She was so tiny, so dainty, like a china doll. She reminded him of something out of a painting. Her fingers were unbuttoning his shirt, stripping it off him, tickling through the wiry curls of his chest.