Hugh Kissasse - A Little Night Nookie

"Aaagh!" Harold yelled, and went off, a lovely wet hot jet squirting way up inside. But enjoying it as I was, I was still trying for number three; I rolled free of him, heaving around and grabbing in a kookie way, and caught Dottie, who wrapped up with me in a head-and-tail arrangement. I felt her mouth busy down there in my little pink slit, her tongue diddling away; and I could hardly do less. I was shorter than she was, so I had to stretch just a bit, but I managed to do it. I got my tongue inside her, and lapped swiftly, and as expertly as I could, considering my confused condition.

Number three happened just then; it was like a small atomic bomb, more or less. From the shriek that Dotty let out, I knew she had done it too, and we collapsed, gasping, over Harold, who was utterly and completely shot to hell.

Now, there are lots of things I don't understand, and men are the first things on the list. I mean, if you listen to the average male-type citizen, you'll get the impression that he feels perfectly capable of coping with six or eight chicks at a time, dashing from one to the next, dipping his wick like a crazy candle maker, right? One chick is simple not enough to cope with such a stud, no, not at all. Two chicks, why, that's barely sufficient to keep him in practice.

Oh, sure. And, there was Harold, a big healthy boy, all sacked out, even -after Dot-tie and I recovered completely. Of course, if we had waited indefinitely, he might have started taking an interest again, but a girl hasn't got all night, not usually.

Dottie and I discussed the subject at length, but we just couldn't seem to come up with a reasonable answer.

"It's your fault, you know," Dottie told me, pouting. "I like it now, and I wouldn't have, if I hadn't tried it. But I've got a feeling Harold isn't going to be up to one of us, let alone two. Maybe we ought to toss for him."

"We did," I said, thinking hard. "All the tossing that would help any."

"Gee!" Dottie said. "Funny, funny. But I keep thinking you were right. My psychology needs men. I bet my marks are going to get better next week."

"Maybe we can get Harold alone again before they go down again," I told her.

"Golly, Honey, do you think we're nymphomaniacs?" Dottie asked, with a worried look. "I mean, I keep wondering if maybe we couldn't… uh, try a different fellow."

"Two or three different fellows, I said. "Hey! How about that? Who, for instance?"

There was a sort of deafening silence. We were stuck.

Either we'd have to trap one, as we had trapped Harold, or no go. The town males were an elusive and scary lot, or else immature. In other words, we would have to extend our hunting range, and lie about our ages, too. But both of us had come to some fairly definite conclusions about one thing. We like balling, and we liked it lots and lots; and if there was any way we could possibly get enough of it, we would.

Of course, we had no idea about methods or anything; just ambition and hot pants. And a three-day weekend; the following Friday was a school holiday, which was just as well, because psychology or- no psychology, neither one of us was doing too well in school.

Friday morning, bright and early, Dottie appeared at my house with the car, a fantastic fireball that belonged to Creeps Kuroski who worked at the garage. It had no insurance, and Dottie had no real driver's license, but Creeps would have loaned it to her in any case. He hoped desperately to sink his oily.

fingers into those boobs of hers, but he was always too busy to try. I guess he thought of the car as laying a ground-work, sort of. In any case, he had no particular worries, since he had excavated the car out of junk originally.

It was bright orange, with aluminum trimmings, and some of it was Ford. but lot of it was Kuroski.

I climbed in, and slung a bag of things into the back; Dottie pushed down the accelerator, and we were off in a cloud of smoke.

"I told them we were going to the beach," I said, above the noise of the car. "And we might stay over with your aunt in Portsville."

"Crazy," Dottie said, taking a curve with abandon. "If we can't find something like men in three days, we aren't the Terrible Twosome."

We were dressed for the hunt, frilly dresses, lipstick, stockings even… the works. We looked eighteen, we hoped.

Our plans were a little indefinite, but we actually did intend to start operating at the beach, above Portaville. It was far enough from home so that we wouldn't be too likely to run across old acquaintances. And if nothing else, we could always swim, too.

As it turned out, that was about it. Swimming, hah.

We had arrived, and strolled around the town, which was one of the antique-and-quaint ones we've got around our end of the country. Then, up and down the boardwalk, and finally we sat and absorbed sodas, thoughtfully.

"Plenty of admiring glances," I said, under-toned.

"Married men," Dottie said, "and with their wives."

"It doesn't look like a good day," I said. "And I'm hot. Let's swim."

"I'm hot too," Dottie said, and aimed a bedroom glance at the soda jerk, who turned bright red, and retreated behind the milkshake machine. "But I don't think swimming will help. Still… I've got this bikini."

She did indeed, and if the town constable hadn't been absorbed in a copy of Playboy magazine, he'd have had to arrest her. It was an ultimate sort of bikini; mine, while fairly skimpy, was practically a Mother Hubbard next to it.

We lolled a little, but it really was terribly hot, and the sea looked calm and cool. We went in and swam out; after while we floated on our backs, with those jugs of Dottie's up over the water like water wings.

There was a shining white hull, quietly lying a distance away, on the blue horizon.

"Oh, my," Dottie said, dreamily, staring at it. "Sailors."

"Millionaires," I said. "Dried-up ones, I'll bet."

"Sailors, too," Dottie said, rolling over lazily, and stroking slowly toward the distant boat.

I followed, but called out. "You can't swim all that way."

"I know, but…" Dottie said, and then uttered a small shriek. "Eee!"

I thought of sharks, but – after all, we were buddies. I splashed on, toward her, hurriedly, while she performed some odd antics, diving, and surfacing, and shrieking some more.

"I – glub! – lost the top!" she screamed loudly, and dived again.

And so she had. Expecting a two-inch band-aid to hold in those bobbing boobies was a bit much, if you ask me. But it was gone, all right, and there was the Town Constable, back there on the beach, ambling up and down. He'd finished his magazine, damn it!

"Indecent exposure!" I said. "Wow!"

We're very big on indecent exposure and lewd carriage and all that, up here in Connecticut.

Both of us tried diving, and splashing a good deal, but no go. But without it, we had a large problem, so we kept trying. We came up for about the fourteenth time, and there it was, plowing along toward us with a white spray of foam under its bows, shining gold-leaf letters reading Cailipygee II, and a voice, booming at us.

"All right, girls, keep calm!"

Keep calm, he says. And there are these beautiful big brown male types, leaning over and hurling lines and so on, and an enormous male' grabbing at Dottie as he leaned down, with both hands. She kept trying to explain. But she was lifted hastily, as if she weighed nothing at all; his big brown mitts were under her armpits, and up she went, into the yacht. I felt another pair of male hands under me, and up I went, absolutely twanging with it all.

However, Dottie was the main item in the show.

The large gentleman who had pulled her out stared at her lush boobs with an expression of total stun, stepped back a pace, and looked again. He was big, with iron-grey hair, an enormous nose, and skin the color of mahogany, which you could see a lot of, since he wore only shorts.