Chapter 3
The world was his arms around her. She snuggled against his large, secure feeling chest and signed with contentment and, with a naughty grin, let her hand go into his lap to find a bulky softness. "Hi, Carl," she said.
"O.K., " a voice said. Stanley "We'll go that route."
"Hi, Carl," Angel said. "I feel you. I feel you growing. Don't try to hide that." She giggled happily as the world became lust. Forgotten were the others, the terror of the night, the strangeness. She knew only a calorific closeness of the male body, the hard, engulfing arms of Carl Peurter. She knew great tensions in the gluteal muscles of her buttocks and a lubricous flowing of glandular action as, for the first time, lips found hers and pressed as she fought wildly to devour the mouth which was on hers, taking her eager, pointing, searching tongue.
"Carl, Carl," she whispered. "I want you Carl. I want you terribly. I want you immediately. I want you big and hard and now. Now. Now."
"Wait," someone said. "Not so Goddamned fast."
"Now," Angel said, not hearing, hearing but not registering the voice. She was trying to crawl out of her skimpy bathing suit and Carl was holding her hands so that she couldn't shuck the halter to answer her burning need to push her bare, firm breasts against his chest.
"O.K. We're ready."
Big hands were on her, working with her bra, her halter. Big hands were on bare flesh, cupping her breasts as if they were tiny things which they were not. She was a small girl but she was all woman. She felt herself cupped, squeezed in the big, hard hands of Carl Peurter and she moaned with the ecstasy of it and let her hand push eagerly down the front of his trunks to find response, not fully grown, but growing, coming to pulsing life in the circle of her fingers.
"Oh, God, Carl," she was saying. "Oh, Carl. Oh, Carl."
Transported, lifted into a supernatural world where sensualism was all, where her femininity was all that existed to be ravaged, taken, used by the hard prick she clasped, she was oblivious to all but the sensations of her body. Eagerly she ripped away her bikini pants, arched her trim loins, pointing a beautifully protruding mons veneris hungrily upward to receive the first caress of that huge, hard hand. His hands on her. His palm against her, rousing the lust to shaking fury in her, causing her breath to come in burning gasps as she reached, pulled, tugged, until he, too, was freed of clothing. "Not yet"
She was pulling him toward her, wanting his weight on her, panting, clawing her need. The world spun on lust, passion making a brightness in her eyes so that she had to keep her lids tightly closed.
"Angel," he was saying, and he was trying to get her to do something. He wanted something and she was so willing, so eager. He wanted. . .
Down she went. Hair fell around her cheeks and there was the slim column of his passion and her warm lips touched, enclosed, because that was what he wanted and she was woman, she was passion. The lubricity of him. The heft of him. Her gasping as he hardened his loin muscles and pushed and filled her until her lips were spread, soft, red, wet and then heaven was coming, was nearing as he pushed her away, positioned her, lifting her lightly to put her on the center of the bed and his hard, gentle hands pushed a necessary message into her by a soft pressure on the inside of her thigh so that she allowed her long, white, smooth legs to spread for him, open, expose the waiting flower of lubricity, of womanly need to the approach, as she held her breath and the world spun dizzily, of lustihood and then, impaled, deep, straining, lifting herself from the mattress to take more of him, throwing her legs into the air to clasp him she was thunderously there and the world stood still while rhythmic contractions told him of her bliss and lifted him, even under the circumstances, to extravagant movements, up and down plunges which made her his, filled her, gorged her. She was near bliss when she felt the abandonment of his lunges, when she knew that he was nearing and she strained, reached, impaled herself gladly with little sobs of joy to reach and find as he became a throbbing thrill deep inside, filling her, washing her, giving her his male strength in outflowing gushes of pleasure.
"Goddamn," someone said.
She was a languorous, floating entity consisting of nothing more than her oozing cunt which was filled and sated. Illusion grew until it was reality as she heard the music of the universe and felt her body open, become one huge, wet, warm thing of passion to hold him, engulf him, take him head, heart and heels to her and then she was reaching for him, crying out need as he left her, left her cold and lone and needing him back to make her complete.
"Carl! Carl!"
"You got all you need?" Carl asked, but he wasn't talking to her, although she didn't know.
"Carl, please," she begged, writhing, needing him.
"By Gawd," Alan Govern said, from behind the movie camera which he had stopped when Carl dismounted. "-She's really turned on."
"I've had it," Carl said. "I feel like a prime stud on exhibition."
"I just feel," Alan said with a leer in his voice.
"You put on quite a show, buddy."
'That stuff hit her hard," Stanley Richmond said. "How long before it wears off?"
"Who knows?" Carl shook his head. "I'm not exactly a hophead. I'm no expert on that junk."
"God, she's turned on," Alan said, staring at the writhing form of Angel, her pussy moist, used spread for more use as she continued to call for Carl.
"Maybe you'd like seconds," Stanley said sarcastically.
"That's probably a better offer than I'll get from you, Ice Maiden," Alan said.
"You can bet your life on that," she said. "I pick my own, buster. You lay your hands on me again like you did on the beach . . . "
"We had to make it look good, honey," Alan said, laughing.
"I'm going to take a bath," Carl said. "You two can stay with her until she comes out of it." He left, carrying his bag with him. Alan Govern shifted on his feet, moved, sat on the bed not occupied by Angel, who was moaning softly, eyes closed.
"It'll be a long wait, doll," he said. "We might be able to amuse each other."
"Not a chance," Stanley said, sitting down in an uncomfortable straight chair. She sneered in disgust as she looked at Alan. He was watching Angel with feverish eyes, his tongue coming out to wet his sensuous lips.
"Look, doll," he said. "If you'd like to go somewhere and get a cup of coffee or something . . . "
"You pig," she said. "You dirty animal."
"To each his own, baby. Me, I'm a normal, red blooded American boy and that was a pretty sexy show old Carl just put on for us. I'll admit that I was not unmoved." He shrugged. "Course, if you're bound and determined to protect your little Angel . . . "
"She's a snotty little bitch," Stanley said nastily. "Then take a walk, doll."
He waited until she'd closed the door. He rose, tongue running over his lips in anticipation. He walked to the bed, looked down on the small, perfect body. Taut breasts with rosy nipples. Tight belly. Long legs. Things so soft.
"Angel?"
She moved, tongue in the comer of her mouth, thrusting up her loins blindly. With quick movement he reached for a towel, cleaned her as best he could, cleaning her, at least, of the evidence of passion on the soft interior of her thighs, wiping as she pushed blindly upward, reaching for him. He stripped away his trunks, mounted her, began to assault her with determined rhythm.
She, feeling him touch her, became alive again, swimming up from a fantasy of color and light to the reality of gluttonous joy as his hands scrubbed her roughly and she became aware, once more, that she was changing, changing, becoming a huge woman thing to swallow him, to feel with interior sensitivity not only that masculine part of him, but, with her heightened awareness, all of him, the strength of his torso in her arms, the hard thrust of his mouth against her. She lived for that. She existed only for the filling of her body and for the thrills which radiated out from that core of her which he was taking with deepness. She was one vast maw of woman, swallowing him, knowing him, knowing bliss never before achieved on this earth and the sound of it was music, the rush of breath, the moans which escaped her own lips as she ascended a mountain of sensation and clung there to the highest point for long years before, with a wild cry, she plunged, loins flailing wildly, and closed tightly in deep, strong pulses around him to know him more intimately.
She took his release with a sweet smile of acceptance, loving it, feeling the pulse of it on secret inner things, nor would she release him. She kept him there, forcing him to go through the period of non-passion with small movements, keeping him alive with kisses, cooings of meaningless sounds until, rearoused, they fought the battle of love to another temporary conclusion.
She would not remember that night. There would be vague flashes, sensuous flashes of knowledge. Somehow she was atop, using him, sitting high, leaning back, bending him, feeling him up there, possessing him as he had previously possessed her. And another picture which would stay with her through the fog of forgetfulness was him holding her against the wall of the shower, the water cool around them, holding her feet clear of the floor, since he was so much taller, taking her there with her back against cool tile, that awareness in her anything but cool, boiling hot, boiling over into climax, still another glorious reaching and finding of heaven. And the tenderness with which she woke him later, her head clearing but unreality still upon her, to kiss him on the chest, on the stomach. Fingers clasped in the hair of his chest, pulling gently to wake him, mouth finding lax man and stirring him into non-laxness and then mounting to reach, to reach. A frenzy of passion which went on and and the world still not there. Dark. Not seeing him. Feeling him large and man, muscular and hard. Hair on legs and chest and hair on head sometimes-and this was entirely in keeping with the other unreality-long and sometimes short. She slept.
She awoke with the sun coming in through the windows, shades drawn. She was nude, rumpled into a disturbed bed with one pillow on the floor, the other clasped against her breasts. Sheets twisted, bedspread kicked off the foot of the bed. She opened an eye and the room was there. She could not remember why it was there because she'd been on the beach. Hadn't she? Wasn't she on the beach screaming? No. Silly. Why should she scream?
She looked for Stanley and saw an empty bed. However, the bed had been slept in.
"Hey," she called. She moved and winded. God! Talk about sore! She ached. She moved her legs and found that she was sore in a very delicate spot.
"Whoops!"
How had it happened? She remembered walking from the beach. She remembered coming into the room with Carl. She remembered waiting for him to finish his shower and she . . .
Flashing vision of her, legs lifted, impaled.
"Whoops!"
Hangover? God, she must have been wiped out not to be able to remember, but there was no hangover. Her head was clear. She got up, stretching slowly, easing sore muscles. My God, she'd never been that sore. Not even after the first time.
"Whoops!"
Her standing, rather being held against the shower wall . . .
As Captain Marvel used to say, she thought, or somebody, "Holy Moley!"
And her body was feeling soiled. She needed a bath. She explored sensitive places with a tender hand, found suspicious moisture, sniffed to confirm her flashing memories, found the ripe aroma of stale semen.
The door opened with a sudden sound and she whirled, relaxing when she saw it was only Stanley. "Hi," she said.
"Why don't you take a bath?" Stanley said cruelly. "You stink." And, in Stanley's eyes, where there had been friendship, was a cold hate.