Chapter 2
Babbs was so appealing in her naked, blonde glory, that it was really hard for me to tear myself away from her lush tits and steaming cunt. A certain portion of my anatomy namely, my still-stiff pecker, also found it hard to leave, and Babbs giggled charmingly as I found it somewhat awkward to slip my cock and balls into my suit. But I finally made it.
"Reunion to be continued," she said as she kissed me goodbye at the door.
"What are you doing for a living these days?" I asked.
"Oh, I'm sort of a private nurse," she smiled as she closed the door....
I dashed to the beach. I was late and the lovely Gretchen would give me merry hell. This could turn out to be serious. Not only was the fetching Gretchen my intended, but also the daughter of my employer, Conrad P. Hammond-the crankiest, richest ball-busting real-estate man in the Hamptons.
He had a reputation for firing people and running them clear out of town, should they happen to raise his ire.
Lady Luck, the fickle wench, seemed to have deserted me. When I arrived at the appointed place, out of breath and with my toes smarting from my mad dash over hot, gritty sand, Gretchen had departed. I was sunk.
I flopped on the sand, studied it carefully, let it drift through my fingers, and wondered if a deep enough hole in it would form a cozy grave for the doomed.
"Yoo-hoo!" a voice sang out, behind me. "Hi there, Phil! Yoo-hoo!"
Unable to trust my ears, I swiveled for a look and what do you know? It was Gretchen ... and she appeared in the best of spirits.
"Have you been waiting long, honey? I'm so sorry to be late. But that stupid peon at the hairdressers had me looking like a goon. I made her do it all over. I'm terribly sorry, Phil. But it really wasn't my fault. Are you horribly angry?"
"Well," I said. "I'm not exactly happy. Sitting here for hours waiting, under the blazing sun, may be a joy to some, but I don't particularly care for blisters."
Pretending a highly vexed and sullen mood, I erected the orange and green umbrella she had brought, twisting it in the sand. Hell of a note, her showing up at this late hour. Just who did she imagine she was? Cleopatra? Just because her old man held clear title to all of the acreage bordering on the Atlantic Ocean didn't give her the right to keep me hanging around waiting for her like a common slave!
When her blanket was spread and we were on it, she tried to become real cute so she could con me out of my unforgiving state.
"Tell you what, darling," she said leaning close. "Don't be mad at me now and I'll do something special for you tonight. It's a promise."
I condescended to look at her. "Like what, for instance?"
I had to admit, though grudgingly at the moment, that Gretchen possessed some real female attributes in her own right far above and beyond a father who owned this beachfront footage of the universe.
Getting down to those delectable assets, she had the whitest arms and legs I ever have seen. Her skin was a sheer, delicate substance, without blemish. Gretchen had a nice, voluptuous figure, and every movement was one of regal grace. Top this off with the loveliest red hair this side of the Mason-Dixon line, and you begin to get the picture.
"Wait and see," she said.
She dropped her fingers on my arm and gave me a mysterious hazel-eyed glance. "I think you'll find it to your liking, Phil."
"Do you have to keep me in suspense?" I complained. "Can't you lay it on the line? Mysteries drive me nuts."
"Oh, be patient!" she said. "Can't you guess?" Gretchen slung back her abundant red hair. The perfume she affected was distracting. I stared, hopefully. "You mean?...."
She smiled, but she wouldn't say any more. But if she meant what her words hinted, I was going to find myself one cunt-happy lad, come this nightfall.
To date, in the torrid game of dilly-dally, I had never reached home plate with the desirable Gretchen Hammond. She had insisted that screwing before marriage displayed a weakness of character, a sordidness of nature, and that she intended to remain aloof from such base animalism as a good hot fuck!
"If such degrading thoughts occupy your mind completely, Phil, then I suspect you had better look for some other girl to become engaged to," she would point out on the numerous occasions when I became overwhelmed with the sinful desire to shove my cock up her tantalizing cunt.
"You may kiss me," she would say. "We're engaged, so naturally you're entitled to some privileges, but I certainly do not appreciate your getting sloppy about my titties and, er, other things!"
"But Gretchen, honey, you're so desirable! I need you so much!"
"A mere matter of biology," she insisted. "What you need, Phil, instead of humping me is more will power, more self-control. A person who allows himself to be dragged down by base emotions can only be called a weakling. I do not want a creature of lust for a husband."
All of which left me frustrated to say the least. Though I hesitated to admit it to Gretchen, I was forced to admit to myself that, as far as being a creature of lust was concerned, I was strictly from Honryville. But what's a guy to do with his stiff dick in a case like this? So many women ... most of them ... want it that way!
I wanted to really fuck Gretchen the most. But I couldn't afford to overplay my hand, I could not take a chance of queering my chance of marriage to the delectable Gretchen. Because there are other sides to marriage, besides shoving your prick up the girl's twat. Position and money, for instance. Especially money. And Gretchen presented the pathway to these attainments, the desire for which had been a thorn in my breast for, lo, these many years, ever since the day that my own family fortune had gone down the drain.
I was an Overton, suh. A Philip Overton, to be more explicit. And to be an Overton is supposed to be a mark of distinction hereabouts, just as a crest is in England. All it meant, in these lean days, is that I was known as a "blue-blood". Moreover, I was a "blue-blood" without financial backing. Which meant that I possessed a very lower-bracket wallet, a highly embarrassing situation to a sensitive Overton.
My family had been in the chips for something like a hundred and fifty years ... maybe longer. I had been born to a background of the best. But by the time I had reached the age of ten, reverses had begun to set in.
Our holdings disappeared at an alarming downhill rate of speed, and within what seemed like a very short space of time, we awoke one morning with hardly a sou with which to bless ourselves.
My father, a man of great sensitivity, promptly shot himself. My mother, unable to face the embarrassment of a penniless future, took off with a traveling canned-milk salesman. Which left only my granddaddy, Cassius Overton, and me, to carry on the esteemed Overton name.
It is curious to note, I might comment, that the family fortune began to careen along its downward course to oblivion just about the time when Granddaddy Cassius, who was the self-appointed head of all our financial ventures, had fallen desperately in love with a sixteen-year old blonde piece of ass by the name of Inge.
Well, I won't delve too deeply into that. It's too embarrassing even to contemplate. Anyway, it's all in the past. Suffice to say that Granddaddy Cassius eventually regained his senses. But by this time the gong of doom had tolled. He sent Inge away and he attempted to get his mind back on business, but we all knew he didn't have a chance. His frenzied second-childhood hump playtime had washed us out.
So you can readily understand my uncomfortable position. A "society boy" without money is only half a man. Something had to be done. No Overton worth his salt could bear to continue floundering in the polluted waters of poverty for very long without plotting a course toward higher and firmer ground.
The day after I graduated from college, my Granddaddy Cassius requested that I be seated for a man-to-man powwow on the subject of finances.
"It's going to be up to you to re-establish the Overton resources, Phil," he pointed out. "I am too old, or I would tackle the problem, head-on."
I looked at my grandfather and nodded, solemnly.
"How would you suggest that I proceed?" I asked. "I don't know where to start."
Granddaddy stared at me through shiny black eyes. He was a tall, elegant man, with a shock of bushy, gray hair.
"I have been giving the matter a great deal of thought, my boy," he said. "While you were away at college, I examined the situation from all angles. I see only one hope for us."
"And what is that?" I asked, leaning forward.
Granddaddy was enthroned in his favorite rocker, with a fifth of Jack Daniels close at hand on the floor. He swallowed half a glass that he had been holding, reached for the bottle, and again filled the glass.
My grandfather could sure put away his booze. He was a two-fifths a day man, normally. But now and then, he was wont to forget moderation and go on a tear. When that happened he would become a three-or-four-fifths-a-day man, which is not good for anybody.
"I've decided that the logical solution is for you to get married, Phil."
This shook me. "Married?"
"Yes, and just as quickly as possible," Granddaddy Cassius said.
I threw up my hands, exasperated. "But I can't support a wife, Granddaddy Cassius! I've just finished school. I haven't got a job yet. I'm afraid Granddaddy, that you've been hitting that bourbon a little too hard. It's obvious that you're having hallucinations."
My grandfather leaned back and roared with laughter. Then, just as suddenly, he became serious.
"Phil, I wonder how in the world you managed to graduate," he opened. "It's a puzzle to me. You, boy, haven't got sense enough to come in out of the rain. I don't mean for one minute that you should marry some young lady whom you have to support. The sort of marriage I had in mind is one in which the girl will have sufficient means to do the supporting."
"Are you suggesting that I degrade myself by marrying purely for money, and not for love, Granddaddy?"
The old man took another swallow of his bourbon, then informed me, without mincing his words, that this was exactly what he had in mind.
I said, "I won't do it. I have too much pride."
"Then we'll be as poor as field mice for the rest of our days," Granddaddy said, miserably. "I'm disappointed in you, Phil. I had hoped you would see it my way. I am an old man, and I dread the idea of going to my grave with the Overton name still in the quandary. I suppose it's hopeless. Apparently you have been endowed with moral virtues. This is most unfortunate. No Overton with morals was ever worth a damn. Other members of the family had to carry his weight. I have earnestly hoped that you would not turn out like your father. He was entirely too honest for his own good, and also too sensitive. If he had been otherwise, he would have done something more constructive than merely shooting himself."
"Now, I don't know what they taught you in school, Phil, but whatever it was, I'm afraid you've been led astray from the true value of life. For instance, did you know, boy, that honesty is nothing more nor less than form of fear? A man is honest only to the extent that he is afraid of punishment. Therefore, you might keep in mind that the more honest a man is, the more scared he is. And you can believe what your old granddaddy tells you when I say that scared men never get anywhere in this world of grab."
I looked at my grandfather and felt impelled to express my horror at hearing him say such terrible things to me, his only living relative.
"I'm surprised at you, Granddaddy," I said. "Do you mean to tell me that you advocate greed and dishonesty as a way of life? Surely you're joking. At least, please tell me you are. I have never heard of anything quite so ridiculous, nor so uncalled for."
I waited painfully as Granddaddy shook his head and snorted in utter dismay. He took a quick swallow of his bourbon to quell his disgust.
"Oh, hell," he said. "What's the use? I might have known you'd be one of those honest Overtons. And what a shame it is! I had such grandiose plans for you, boy. But I may just as well have been saving my energy. You are a lost cause, and alas, the fine old honored name of Overton will never rise again. I blame your stupid daddy for this. He was the weak skunk in the woodpile. Morality! Bah! The only time a man can afford to be virtuous, boy, is after he is rich and sitting on top of the heap. Not before. Meantime, you have to be a regular bastard. But I can see I'm wasting my breath trying to convince you to make out big with your cock, Phil."
Listening to Granddaddy's words of doom dampened my spirit to an alarming degree. I always had been fond of Granddaddy. I had thought him such a great, fine man, a pillar of integrity. Now, for the first time, I was discovering his true character and I was shocked.
Finally I asked, "Just a matter of curiosity, Granddaddy, what sort of devious plans had you formulated for me? I mean, in regard to reestablishing the Overton fortune through marriage?"
My grandfather shrugged, staring at the floor between us. "What difference does it make now?" he inquired. "You are one of the scared Overtons ... you have no guts. So why should I waste my breath explaining the facts of life?"
"Please tell me anyway, Granddaddy. I'm very interested to know just what kind of a crooked scheme you've worked up in that wicked head of yours. I bet it's a dilly."
Granddaddy reached for his bottle, poured a waterglass full to brimming with the amber fluid, and immediately emptied it. He coughed, took a short sip directly from the bottle as a kind of a chaser, then set it aside.
"Well, if you must know, Phil," he said, shuddering the booze down deep inside him, "I had decided that the best thing you could possibly do after graduation would be to marry that redhead daughter of Conrad Hammond's. Hammond is the richest man in this state by far. Then, with any initiative at all on your part, worming your way to the top of any one of Hammond's enterprises should prove a simple feat. In six months, you'd be right on top. Then we'd be in like Flynn. You see what I mean, boy?"
"But Granddaddy," I gasped. "I don't understand. I thought you hated Conrad Hammond with passion. I thought it was he who brought about your ruin. Isn't it true that Conrad Hammond grabbed off all the Overton holdings while you were messing around with that teenaged piece of twat? What was her name? Inge?"
My grandfather looked away, coughed a couple of times, then turned back to me with fire blazing in his drunken, beady black eyes.
"That's right," he said. "That's absolutely right! Now I'll tell you something else, Phil boy. It was old man Hammond himself who sent that damned tasty little blonde cunt to set me up for the kill ... so he could grab off everything we had left. I tell you, Phil, it was a foul trick. Hammond is the crookedest, meanest, sneakingest son-of-a-bitch ever to draw breath. Believe me, he is. If I had my way, I would boil him in oil. And that's one of the very reasons I want you to marry his daughter, Phil. Can't you see? This would put us in a position to strike back. With you sitting at his right hand, we would soon discover his weaknesses, and when we knew enough, we'd jerk the props out from under his ass real fast. Before he knew what hit him, we would have him scooped. We would end up with everything he cheated us of, and a lot more to boot.
And then, I would personally enjoy kicking his ass right back in the gutter from whence he originated. Why I remember when Conrad Hammond was nothing but a gutter rat. He came up the ladder by the way of tooth and claw. He stomped on people, lied, cheated, stole, fought his way up by pure brute strength. He was an animal, that's all Hammond ever was and still is. A strong, ruthless, wild, mad dog. He didn't care who he hurt."
Staring at Granddaddy I could hardly believe my ears. I wondered if he had gone senile on me. Was all this he was telling me the truth about Conrad Hammond? Had this rich schemer really put a piece of blonde pussy on Granddaddy as a means to steal the Overton fortune, like a thief in the night? It seemed too wild a probability to swallow. But, on the other hand, why would Granddaddy tell me of his disgraceful actions with that female teenaged cock-sucker if it were not so?
Finally, I told my grandfather, "Even if what you say is true, Granddaddy, I don't think we should lower Overton standards of behavior for the purpose of retaliation. Just because Conrad Hammond is a dirty fighter gives us no excuse to stoop to his level. There should be more ethical means of overcoming Mr. Hammond. Personally, I prefer a clean fight, all open and above-board. Now in college they taught us...."
I have never seen Granddaddy look so disgusted, so abruptly.
"Phil, what was it you majored in at that nutty school?" he asked. "I never have known."
"Sociology," I told him.
Granddaddy shook his head slowly, looking sick. "What an awful waste of time and money," he said.
"Tell me, Phil, why did you pick such a worthless course? Do you plan to become one of those stupid social workers who always are sticking their noses in other peoples' business?"
"Not necessarily, Granddaddy."
"Then why, boy? Tell me, for goodness' sake, why you took such a silly course of study?"
"Well," I said. "If you must know, I majored in sociology because everyone said it was easy and that nobody ever flunked it."
"I might have known," Granddaddy snorted. "Well, at least I'm glad to see you had sense enough to choose a sure thing. But I still say it was all a big, fat waste."
"You may be right at that, Granddaddy. I don't say you aren't. But don't forget ... I never even wanted to go to college. And the only reason I did was because the family insisted that it is a prime requisite for any Overton to be a college graduate, whether he learned anything or not."
"I can see you sure didn't learn much, either," Granddaddy said. "Sociology! Bah! If they had given you training and a degree in dirty business tactics your education may have been of some value."
I left my grandfather then because I had had about all of his dirty old lip that I could take for one day. But during the week that followed our conversation, I couldn't quite shake off his words of condemnation.
I found myself trying to remember what Gretchen Hammond had looked like back in her school days. The only picture I could conjure up was that of a snaggle-tooth, freckle-faced, conceited girl with hair like the hide of strawberry roan. Nobody had particularly liked her. And now, I thought, Granddaddy wants me to marry an ugly cunt like that. He must really be off his rocker. Of course, I admitted to myself, Gretchen may have improved some since high school. I decided to check on it.
That very afternoon, I strolled down along the beach, and I managed to locate her. Imagine my surprise! She had just come in all shiny and dripping wet from the ocean, and when she took off her bathing cap and fluffed out that strawberry roan hair, I actually caught my breath. She was by far the loveliest hunk of pussy adorning these sandy shores.
"Gretchen...." I called, dashing forward, "Gretchen Hammond! Remember me?"
She favored me with a condescending glance. Then recognition brightened her hazel eyes.
"Oh. Yes ... of course. Philip Overton, isn't it? How are you?"
"Fine, Gretchen, Just fine. We haven't seen each other in a long time, have we?" I gushed eagerly, noting her perfect figure and her unblemished ivory hide. "I just graduated from college, you know."
"How nice," she said. "You'll have to excuse me, Phil. I have friends waiting. Good to see you again."
"Great to see you, too, Gretchen. How about getting together sometime?"
"I don't know, Phil. I stay pretty busy. But call me, why don't you?"
"I'll do that, Gretchen; I certainly will!"
She walked away, then. Watching her go, noting the way her skin glowed, enjoying the elegant movements of her classic ass, the sweet contours of arms, legs and throat, and the proud way she held her head, all of this made a lovely, desirable hump-image in the back of my mind. I concluded that my sharp old grandfather had been right, after all. I really should make an all-out effort to marry Gretchen Hammond. Every doubt on that score had been dispeled.
An intense passion, combined of greed for loot and anticipated hot possession of that gorgeous cunt gripped at my heart as with octopus tentacles.
This beautiful creature, this glorious Gretchen Hammond, whose twat out-lined with the sweet shine of gold, would be mine!
Once having made up my mind, however, I ran into unexpected snags. Though I pursued my beautiful objective with relentless determination, with unflagging purpose, I got absolutely nowhere fast. She always had some excuse for not seeing me. Over the telephone, her words of refusal were polite, but coolly aloof.
"I have other plans for this weekend, Phil," she explain, liltingly, but with the gleam of ice on the lilt. "I'm awfully sorry, but please do call me again ... won't you?"
This was all I could get from her. In the meantime, I made a habit of showing up wherever she happened to be, at the beach, at a social affair, at a dance, at any one of the dazzling night clubs she frequented; anywhere. This, likewise, gained me nothing.
When I spoke of my failure to Granddaddy Cassius, he just scoffed and shook his head sadly.
"Do you mean to sit here and tell me, Phil, that you graduated with a degree in sociology and didn't learn enough to socialize a female out of a simple little piece of tail? Why, boy, if I was your age, that Hammond cunt wouldn't stand a chance. I would have her panties off and my pecker in her pussy so quick she wouldn't know what happened."
My conceited grandfather infuriated me to no end. He had a way of making me feel like the most incompetent dunce who had ever lived. He played havoc with my ego.
Under my breath, I cursed him roudly and swore I would show him a thing or two before I would up this deal.
"If you had one iota of red blood in your veins, boy, you would drag that Hammond babe off by the hair on her head and rape hell out of her." Granddaddy continued to chide.
"Oh, don't be absurd," I flung back. "You're drunk. If I did anything half so foolish as that, Gretchen would never forgive me ... never speak to me again. Then what chance would I have?"
My grandfather laughed in my face.
"Man, you're an ignorant fool, Phil," he scoffed. "I'm amazed at your stupidity. I honestly am. Didn't you know that every female who ever lived secretly harboured in her breast the hope of some day being thoroughly and utterly raped by some strong, handsome, devil with a big cock?"
"No kidding, it's true. It all stems back to the caveman days when a man was violent enough to take what he wanted from a piece of ass without even bothering to ask. But ... "
The smug old cunt-lapper held up his hand in mock defense. "Never mind. I know you won't believe me. How to really fuck a broad they didn't teach you in college."
Right then I could gladly have strangled my dear, old, depraved grandparent. Instead, I hopped up, eyes blazing, a fired anew.
"You disgraceful old bastard!" I shouted heading for the door. "I'll show you!"
Behind me, Granddaddy Cassius laughed drunkenly.
That's when the telephone rang. I grabbed it in passing and slammed the receiver to my ear.
"Hello, and what do you want?" I blurted angrily into the instrument.
"May I speak to Philip Overton, please?"
I nearly fell over. It was Gretchen Hammond. I recognized her voice instantly. "Uh ... I ... this is Philip."
"It is? Philip, I didn't recognize you. Is anything the matter? This is Gretchen."
"Oh, hello, Gretchen. No, nothing's the matter."
Then Gretchen was talking just as sweet as you please, as though we were buddy-buddy sweethearts from way back.
"By a lucky coincidence, Phil, I am going to be free tonight. I was wondering if you would care to come over."
I somehow managed not to drop dead with shock at this sudden turn of events.
Keep your cool, Phil boy. You've got to keep your cool! I kept telling myself.
Contrary to what Grandpa Cass thought, I did have something besides empty space under my plentiful brown hair. Thoughts went whirring around so rapidly that my head began to feel like an over heated computer.
Now Gretchen Hammond had matured into a very attractive piece of ass. How come she was calling me, like all of a sudden? She's either knocked up, or had a fight with her regular prick-pushing boyfriend, or both, I thought. Either way, I was going to be damn careful not to be made a patsy by Gretchen or anyone else.
I turned toward Grandpa Cass to make sure that he'd see that his bloodlines still had class.
Then, I nonchalantly said, "Eight o'clock? Okay, I'll drop around, Gretchen."