Eileen Over - Eager To Bed Bunny

A waiter took his order, then shortly afterwards placed a glass of rosй before him. Hugh paid and raised the glass aloft, thinking, well, I am on my way.

The cafй was large, catering to all types, the rich, those who hoped to appear rich, and some indifferent souls, mostly young, who did not seem to care one way or another. They laughed, shouted, drank, smoked and listened to the sound of raucous rock coming from the speakers of the enormous jukebox.

Hugh glanced around, disinterested in the older people, surveying only the young boys and girls while his mind whirled with events of the past. His eyes fastened on a shapely brunette sitting by herself. A type similar to Jennifer.

The girl returned Hugh's gaze and slowly, almost deliberately, he knew, crossed her extremely long legs, giving him a flash of tanned thigh under the denim skirt.

He examined her, looking up from the luxurious legs with their round calves past the curved hips and slender waist to the full breasts. She was truly a dream, the sight of her making his breath catch in his throat.

The brunette looked in his eyes, smiled slowly and slid the tip of her tongue along her heavy lower lip. No more than nineteen years of age, he figured, and in another second she would be here.

Some women needed a neon sign to advertise their profession, but not this kid. She had plastered her well-developed teen-aged body with a tight blue shirt, and any man with a hundred francs in his pocket knew the score.

A whore. She had to be one.

Sorry, I can not accommodate you, baby, Hugh said to himself, I've got a man waiting for me and he has first crack at my time because he is holding the money.

He abruptly stood up, gave the dream girl a final look and left. Maybe chauffeuring won't be so bad, he hoped. At any rate that voluptuous maid will be around to make things more pleasant. With him on the scene she wouldn't have to run to garage mechanics for her pleasure.

With the uniform of his choice, a pale blue mohair, boxed and under his arm, Hugh left the tailor shop and strolled down the winding, cobble-stoned street, past a nightclub now shuttered, where he had once spent too much time and money. Those days are past, he knew, long past, and now I am a working stiff.

It would be strange to be in this town where he had played so hard, taking all the fun of a lifetime in a few weeks, working as a chauffeur. He wondered how many people with whom he had associated would see him.

Well, he would just look the other way, making them think they had confused him with someone else. Hugh, the renowned playboy, chauffeuring people about! Oh, no, it can't be him.

"Hello!"

"Huh!". It was the brunette from the cafй, the kid from the cafй leaning against a wall with her out-thrust hip. "What're you doing here?"

"I followed you. Don't you remember me?"

He looked at her, searching his memory, and shook his head. "Frankly, I don't. I saw you for the first time about a half-hour ago."

The girl smiled and mentioned the name of a man Hugh was acquainted with. "There was a big party here last year on his yacht. I was one of the girls invited."

"Wait a minute." He stared at her, recalling now a slender blonde he had spent the night with.

"It is me." She slapped a rounded thigh. "Of course I have added a little weight since then. After all, I am still a growing girl."

"Your hair…"

"Dyed. Straight out of the bottle. Now it's natural again. Looks much better this way, don't you think?"

"You must excuse me. Sometimes my memory is bad."

"You've had far too many girls, that's why."

"Yes, well… " he did not know what else to say. "And you are back here now, on vacation?"

"I live here. You really don't have a memory. Don't you know What sort of work I do?"

He had guessed it back there in the cafй, but decency prevented him from saying he was well acquainted with her profession. "So there are no more parties, eh?"

"No. Money is tight, even in this part of the world. The yachts are still there but those who own them are not interested in girls like me. C'est la vie!"

"A shame. But, that's the way things go. Now I really must be getting along."

"Of course. With me." She took the boxed uniform from him and started off, presumably in the direction of her place.

In a daze he followed her, seeing how her rounded bottom, deliciously round and firm-looking, swung from side to side, each lovely cheek grinding away beneath the short denim skirt.

Man, she had not waited for his answer, had not even discussed a price, in fact. She was taking him for granted simply because she knew what men were like. Then he thought of the Baldwin's, that conniving trio, the fat bastard, his horrible wife and that beautiful but dangerous daughter. And Hugh hurried after the whore, determined to screw that terrific ass off her.

On the stairs she allowed him a fast feel because he was a buyer who rightfully should squeeze up the goods. But her apartment was an oven and he recoiled.

"Hot as hell inhere. Wow!"

"It always is, but let me open the windows and maybe some fresh air will clear the heat" She moved about like a ballerina, easy, happy, whistling, startling slender and proud.

He was trying to remember the past, remember a girl like this was straight out of a dream; but the past was too elusive.

Her smell came swimming in thick waves of perfume and woman's odor and hot apartment air, sweeping away everything presently troubling him, and Hugh knew that shortly her lovely body would be thrusting up, twisting in upward jerks, the rounded thighs wide apart, her wet mouth open, her pretty head rolling and her bottom making slow and wide circles.

He thought about it and was so exhilarated that the tingling in his loins made him too sharply aware of everything, of senses, of touch, of desire. Even before his manhood reached the state of erection he wanted desperately to be in the girl's body.

Some of the sun trickled feebly threw the closed windows, laying a partly white, partly yellow bar across the floor. Slowly he looked around the room at the badly papered walls, the cheap woven rug, the old chandelier, so art deco with but a single dusty bulb in the center, the hard stare of film star Charles Bronson on a poster covering part of the wall and, most of all, the strong odor of a woman in the hot air.

The space between these two people, the man who was fleeing trouble and a strange girl, perhaps a whore, was filled with passion as it fit was flowing from her body to his. He kept thinking she was like a dancer, strong, steel-sharp and supple, capable of all strength and smooth movement.

The windows were opened, a transistor radio switched on, the covers peeled back from her bed. The girl was ready for business. She had such a carefree manner, but he acted like a shocked parson, unable to accept the situation.

The girl opened her blouse and her breasts, bared, were dazzling, perfectly shaped like tanned gourds tipped by coral nipples. As she unhooked the skirt to reveal womanly thighs her red lips moved in warm phrases, murmuring about the yacht party and his performance as a lover.

"I still remember; you were fantastic." Her light eyes, as if fueled by lust, were melting.

He looked at her insinuating pose and' knew he ought to forget everything and abandon himself to passion for a few moments. His shoes went flying, his trousers dropped and then he was naked, his fingers stretching to grasp the sensuous breasts and roving thighs.

She held him off at first with three swift kisses and then was away, her hips writhing and her liberated buttocks rotating. "Oooh, someone I know is very excited."

The breasts were sizeable, but not the shape he had imagined. No sir, those things were fantastic! Uncovered, they were out-thrust, soaring in the air.