Don Keye: Sexual Free-For-All

Alana chuckled as she said, "You honkies always did go for a piece of black ass!"

"Shut up, bitch, or I just might take the whole thing instead of just a piece!"

"Promises, promises, promises!" she retorted.

Bert had always wanted to be an explorer searching out undiscovered lands. That night, with Alana, he discovered new vistas-and ones which were very close to home.

Bert talked with Cruncher for a few minutes after school, then left his friend to speak with Alana when he spied the sexy black girl coming out of the building.

Alana spoke first. "Well, if it isn't the honkey stud with the orange popsicle. How are you, Bert?" Bert smiled. Only a week ago, if anyone had said something like that to him, he would have been mortified, humiliated, and tongue tied. No longer.

"Still hot and hard for black ass. But what I wanted to know was the schedule on the paper. Did we get everything in on time… to the printer?"

Alana sighed, her shapely shoulders sagging the most minute fraction in disappointment under her yellow crushed velvet jacket. "I was hoping you wanted to know something else… in the Biblical sense." Bert flashed a toothy smile, and Alana continued, "To answer the question, everything got to the printer before the deadline. The edition should be out tomorrow with your photo layout in it."

Bert casually leaned against the building, then said, "Photo layouts are fun to do. Maybe we can get together for a lay… out sometime soon."

"Love it!" the black editor exclaimed. "But I've got to run now. I'll talk with you later about that… special assignment."

"My editor's wish is my command!"

Alana brushed Bert's arm with hers and a black hand lightly touched his crotch as she passed him on the steps. In a flash she was gone, leaving only a warm feeling in Bert's loins. That warm feeling began to grow exponentially, and soon Bert felt as if he'd blow his cool in public simply from the fantasies he was building in his brain.

He decided that his hard-on was too good to waste. He'd go to Carole's and see what could be done about relieving the insistent bodily urges that were becoming more and more important to him.

Bert sauntered to the van der Hoff household, taking his time and deeply breathing in the fresh, crisp autumn air. Thoughts of photographic compositions raced through his mind; the thoughts were not on photographing scenic outlooks or falling leaves. Not unless the scenic outlook or pile of leaves had a naked and completely willing blonde Carole van der Hoff spreading her legs in wanton invitation to his throbbing cock.

As he approached the house, Bert saw Carole racing out to get into the snazzy sports car driven by

Tony diMaria. Bert wasn't very good with cars or identifying them, but he thought the school's student body president was driving an Italian car, possibly an Alfa. Whatever it was, the car was red and small and flashy, just the type of thing the lovely blonde who inhabited Bert's wet dreams would really groove on.

Bert's imprisoned cylinder of lust pressed firmly against his trousers. It was lucky for the boy that the zipper release was on the outside. His needful, lusting cock might have been able to slide the zipper down and free itself if the means had existed.

The young photographer considered the dilemma. It would do no good to go see Carole. She had just left with her current paramour. But Robin van der Hoff was something else.

Was she ever something else!

Carole didn't want anything to do with him-for the moment-and he desperately needed a tight sheath of warm female flesh around his hard, edacious organ. Robin had been more than willing once, she could supply the source of his gratification again. And this time, he would be the one to take the initiative.

The Alfa roared along the street, the top down. Bert watched Carole's long, flowing locks flutter in the breeze, a golden pennant and tribute to her femininity. He sighed, then turned his attentions toward the front door of the house.

A moment hesitation struck him, then he plunged ahead. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead! And would he ever torpedo Robin's ship in its snug harbor this time!

Bert rang the doorbell and waited. When no one came to answer, he rang again and, simultaneously, Robin answered.

She looked momentarily surprised to see him but covered it well. "Hello, Bert What can I do for you?"

The youth with the raging hard-on had to bite his tongue to keep from answering that like he wanted. He decided to play it cool.

"I came to see if Carole was around. Could I speak to her?"

A look of relief crossed Robin's fine features. I'm sorry, Bert, but she's gone out and I don't know when she'll be back. Possibly not for several hours."

Bert glided in past the woman as he was saying, That's all right. I'll wait." Almost as an afterthought he added, I'm sure we can think of something to do while I'm waiting."

Robin was startled as Bert walked into the living room and seated himself. Her hands shook slightly, and the young photographer noted that she was not the completely austere, haughty woman she pretended to be. He had somehow managed to breech her barriers of reserve.

He was planning on breeching other, more delightful barriers before he left the house.

"Uh, look, Bert, I think I'd better have a talk with you about this."

"Certainly, Robin, dearest Come sit here beside me." He patted the spot next to him on the loveseat Robin was growing more and more uncomfortable. Bert inwardly relished the feeling of power he was wielding over the woman. For so long, he felt as she must be feeling now. Uncertain, hesitant, even a little fearful

"Bert," she started to say, going to a chair on the far side of the room.

"Robin." His voice was flat, commanding. "Sit here." Again he indicated the cushioned seat next to him.

Robin swallowed, then came and sat next to Bert Her body shook slightly and, from Bert's point of view, delightfully. The patterned blouse housing her twin peaks of wondrous, snowy white titflesh could not conceal the sensuous swaying. Her chest heaved in reaction to the sudden stab of fear that she had lost control of the boy she had made into a man.

Bert's eyes burned with feverish intensity. And it was the unmistakable fire of unquenchable desire that flared.

"Bert, that time… it… it wasn't what you think. My husband is gone so much of the time and I get… I get… "

Robin seemed at a loss for words. Bert had no trouble supplying them for her. Not now.

"Horny? You get horny, isn't that it?" His brown eyes worked upwards from the dual mounds that were her sheathed breasts until he locked his eyes on her radioactive cobalt-blue ones. Robin's hair had become a trifle disarrayed, and a strand of the fine golden hair fell across her forehead and partially hindered her view.

Bert reached out and gently moved the wayward strand of silky hair back into its proper place. Robin flinched involuntarily. She had no desire to continue the one time fling she'd had with the boy.

"Please try to understand me, Bert. Please," she begged. "You're a nice boy, but you're just a boy. You're young enough to be my Son for God's sake!"

"Does that really matter, Robin? I'm not too good at remembering things, but I saw this in my World Lit book the other day, 'Age is a tyrant who forbids, at the penalty of life, all the pleasures of youth. Doesn't that seem appropriate to you?"

Robin shivered slightly and mumbled, "La Rouchefoucauld also said "Few people know how to be old. I think I should try to act my age."

Bert's eyes continued to roam over her slim, girlish figure. The slender legs, encased in smoky nylon, protruded from under the tight black skirt Robin wore. His eyes caressed the smooth flow of her hips, the trim, round ass, the delicate, almost fragile waist But he kept returning to the high hemline and tracing down the length of her legs.