Chapter 8

Barbara slept badly. She had been dreaming about that hard penis she had watched during yesterday's demonstration. Several times in her dream she had tried to get her hand on it, but it had eluded her. Now, lying awake, she found that she had her finger on her clitoris and she was sure she had come several times during the night.

She looked over at Betty, sleeping in the twin bed alongside her. Her sister was smiling, as though she might have captured that incredible cock where Barbara had failed. She opened her eyes and put her hands up to rub her face. "You know what I was doing?" she murmured, still only half awake.

"Fucking, of course," Barbara guessed. "What else?"

"Oh, yes! It was so great I can't tell you."

"Molly's husband?"

"No. Tommy. I dreamed we were out at the lake again. You remember when we sort of wandered away and got lost in those trees?" Barbara nodded and she went on. "I know now that the football team was hiding there but that came later. Tommy went down on me after we screwed. I came three times before he quit. It was the greatest, believe me. That's what I was dreaming about."

Later, after their mother had gone out, they sat in the living room and had a council of war.

Barbara dug in the pocket of her robe and produced a slip of paper. "Here." She passed the paper to Betty. "Put that in your address book. It's Hank's pad. Sam didn't know his phone number. He thought it was unlisted. But at least we know now where he lives."

"You called Sam?"

"I walked down to the corner and used the pay phone after you'd gone to bed. He said to tell you hello."

"Damn." Betty chewed at a fingernail. "I wish you had let me call him. I've got a thing about Sam. He was the first guy to really screw me."

"I thought your hero was Tommy," Barbara teased.

"Well, that's different. Tommy's-well, we seem to understand each other, if you get what I mean."

"How come you didn't make another date with him?"

"I was going to but that damn bunch of guys sneaking up on us like that screwed everything up. But I have his phone number. The only thing-" she broke off and a wistful look replaced the smile.

"Go on," Barbara prompted.

"Oh, what's the use?" Her sister looked as though she was about to break down into tears. "That bastard Harry has spoiled everything. I can't c-call Tommy when I have to lie down for any guy Harry brings along. Don't you understand?" There were tears in her eyes now.

"Yes. Take it easy. We're going to do something about that right now."

"What can we do? I've thought of everything."

"We're going to get dressed and call on Hank."

"Now?"

"Now. If he isn't in, we'll leave a note for him to call." Betty got up briskly. "Get your clothes on. This just might work."

"What if he calls and Mother answers?" Betty hesitated.

"We'll tell her he's your new boyfriend. Hurry."

Harry put the tray down on the coffee table. He was the genial host again as he handed the twins a drink apiece. "Bottoms up," he said tritely, taking a swallow of his own highball. "Here's to fucking, the glorious adventure."

Barbara looked at the glass in her hand reflectively. "I guess this means you've fixed things so we screw again. How much were our fair white bodies worth this time?"

"Plenty. And I'm going to split the take with you."

"How interesting," she needled him before taking a sip. "Selling ourselves for half price."

"Does this have a pill in it?" Betty inquired.

"Yes, it has a pill in it," he retorted, mimicking her. "Why else would I waste good whisky?"

"I can't taste it." She sampled her drink gingerly.

"Get it down. You're going to need it."

"Who did you dig up for us this time?" Barbara broke in. "A couple of visiting VPs or a brace of rich mobsters, maybe?"

Harry laughed and reached for his drink. "This is going to tear you up," he chuckled. "A father-and-son combo. Doesn't that grab you?"

"I don't get it."

"You will. Dad's hot to trot and he wants his kid to learn about the birds and the bees from some nice girl who won't get knocked up or give him what the old boy referred to as a social disease. Jesus, J thought that went out with high button shoes."

"I'm laughing myself sick. How old is the kid?"

"Old enough, apparently. I didn't see him. His father's around forty."

"Ugh!" Barbara made a face. "Some old billy goat who'll want his tassel sucked or his nuts twiddled. Why can't you pick someone younger?"

"Because," he countered, obviously trying to be patient, "the young jack-offs don't have enough bread, while the older ones are usually loaded. It's as simple as that."

"I suppose he's fat and flabby and shakes when he walks around," she predicted gloomily, looking pessimistic. . Harry chuckled again. "Wait until you see him." He stopped laughing to drain his glass and rattled the ice as he set it down. His face hardened as he looked up. "Stop bitching, will you?" She knew that he was reminding them who was running things. "You should worry. After yesterday, you should be able to handle them all. Molly and Pat showed you just about everything."

He got up and headed for the kitchen when a knock came at the door. Still carrying his empty glass, he went to answer it.

"Oh, no!" Barbara whispered, as he stood aside to let his visitors troop past him. She stared, then smothered a laugh. Betty, in the chair next to her, widened her eyes as she looked at them.

The large one, evidently the father, must have weighed three hundred pounds. He was enormous. His belly quivered as he walked across the rug and plumped himself down on the couch. It creaked under his bulk as he patted the space beside him. "Come and sit down, son," he said to the gangly youth who was following him. "Nobody's going to bite you."

The son looked to be sixteen or seventeen, around their own age. He was thin and suffered from incipient acne, of which he seemed to be conscious, because as soon as he was seated, he put a hand up to finger a pimple. He kept his eyes away from both girls.

My God, Barbara's mind groaned, what a hand to draw to.

"I want a drink," the father bleated.

"Coming up." Harry, hovering in the kitchen doorway, winked at the twins and disappeared.

For the first time, the obese one appeared to notice the girls. "What's your name?" he leered at Barbara.

"Daisy Mae," she told him easily. Indicating her sister, she said, "This is Petunia." Harry might be able to make her fuck but he couldn't compel her to socialize.

"How delightful. A little old-fashioned but fresh and beautiful, like the flowers themselves. I love flowers."

"How original." Barbara was about to say something cutting when Harry bustled in with the drinks.

"I didn't know about Cecil-is that his name?" he said to the father as he handed him his highball. "I imagine he's a bit young to indulge, isn't he? A Coke, perhaps."

"Oh, give him a drink, too," the fat man rumbled. "Do him good. Put hair on his chest" He laughed wheezily at his little joke as Harry went back to the kitchen.

After guzzling a good half of his drink, he let a hairy hand fall on his son's knee. "How about it, boy?" he inquired. "Do you like them?"

Cecil cut his eyes at the twins, then dropped them and spoke for the first time. He took the drink from Harry without saying thank you and tried a sip of it and grimaced. "I guess so." His voice was so low that they barely heard him. He sipped again and the whisky seemed to taste better.

"Come on," his father urged. "Buck up. Say something to the girls. Which one do you like best? Take your choice."

Barbara felt sorry for the kid, because that was all he was. His old man was putting him on the spot, the blubbery bastard. She glanced at Betty, then got up. "Come over here, Cecil." She gave him a friendly smile and pointed to her empty chair. "Sit with Bet-Petunia while I talk to your dad." Without waiting to see if he took her up, she went over to the couch. "I've told you our names," she reminded the porky man. "What's yours?"

"Ah, yes, I forgot. I'm Quincy Adams Smith." When she looked at him doubtfully, he took a billfold out of a hip pocket and produced a card. That was his name, believe it or not "Quincy Adams Smith. Flowers for All Occasions. Wedding Bouquets. Wreaths for Funerals." She returned the card, getting a glimpse, of a thin-lipped woman's picture as he put it back in his wallet. Cecil's mother, probably. She looked as though she had been drinking vinegar. No wonder the stupid idiot liked flowers. He was a florist. And if that was his wife, it was a wonder that he bothered to go home. She sat down, as far away from him as the couch permitted. "What do you know?" she murmured because she couldn't think of anything else to say.

Bringing his drink, he nudged his grossness closer and his heavy paw found her knee as it had Cecil's awhile before. "I like you," he told her. He lifted his glass and tilted his head back to let the last of his drink drain down his throat. She did not see him swallowing and wondered if he just poured it into that capacious gut.

"You're a pretty girl, Daisy," he mouthed at her when he had finished. "How about you and me cutting up a bit? It looks as though Petunia over there is taking care of my boy." He tried to put a ponderous arm around tier but she dodged it by bending over to straighten her hose. She hadn't noticed Cecil taking her chair. The whisky seemed to have cured his shyness. He was chattering animatedly with Betty. I'm stuck with the fat slob, she told herself dismally. Well, she reflected, better me than her. This one would need watching. He could trip and kill you. How did you go about screwing an elephant?

Harry caught her eye and pointed with his chin in the direction of the bedroom. He rubbed his finger and thumb together as though counting money and nodded suggestively. The son-of-a-bitch. All he had to do was sit there and get stoned while the loot rolled in. She took a deep breath and stood up. Best get it over with. "Come on, Quincy Adams." She reached for his hand and led him along the hall.

"You know what?" Cecil stuttered a bit as he leaned closer to Betty and looked at her owl-ishly. "I've never been in a place like this before." He peered around the living room as though there was something special about it.

"It's just an apartment," Betty answered. Then she understood what he meant. "Oh, it's not-"

"It's a whorehouse." His voice squeaked a bit when he said "whorehouse" and he seemed to have trouble with his hands. "Dad told me."

"Your father made a mistake," she replied quickly, refusing to admit even to herself that he was right. "This is Harry's pad. We're friends of his."

"What's the difference?" He sounded as though he half drunk. "You-you screw, don't you? Both of you?"

She glanced at the chair in which Harry had been sitting. To her surprise, it was empty. He must have gone out while they were talking. Vaguely, because she didn't know whether she wanted to be left alone with this suddenly brash drip, she heard him speaking again.

"My dad thinks I'm a dum-dum." His voice was a low monotone, as though he was talking to himself. "He thinks I'm still a kid. Well, I'm not. He brought me here to get laid. He doesn't think I know the score." He was obviously trying to reassure himself. It was so evident, even ludicrous, that Betty in spite of her misgivings wanted to giggle. The firm approach, she decided, was the only way to deal with this one. For all his bragging, he was just a brat. "Get your clothes off," she ordered.

"What?" His voice went up an octave and stayed there.

"You heard me."

"But-"

"Oh, cut it out." She tried to sound severe. "You're such a tiger with the women. Let's see how you tick."

"But I-" He gulped and looked over at the door.

"No, you can't get out." By now, she knew Harry's technique. "It's locked. Now come on." Without giving him a chance to answer, she reached over and began to unbutton his shirt.

"Wait!" He caught her fingers and the contact seemed to calm his near panic. He held onto her hand for a minute, then released it and undid the last two buttons himself. "You won't laugh at me, will you? Promise?"

"I promise. What is there to laugh at, Cecil?" She felt like asking him if he had three testicles or a pimple on his penis.

"I-I've never undressed in front of a woman." He swallowed again. "Not even my mom."

"I thought you knew your way around with the girls." She could not resist needling him.

He looked down at his feet. "That was just talk," he said miserably.

She liked him better now that he was leveling. His glass was still half full but he made no move to drink again. She got the impression that he desperately wanted her to like him. Just a lonely kid, as she had surmised. "Look,"-he told him. "I'll coach you." He wasn't bad-looking, except for the pimples and that was just kid stuff, too. "Get going. There's nothing to be ashamed of. We can use the couch. No one will bother us."

To hurry him up, she unfastened his belt and opened his zipper. She was tempted to put her hand inside and do a little exploring but changed her mind when she noticed his red face. She remembered that she hadn't seen anybody blush like that in a long time.

His penis was starting to make a bulge in his slacks, she noticed and a glow ran through her. She had never had a kid fuck her. Barbara had told her once that teenage boys came like horses, more than most grown men. She thrilled as she wondered what it would feel like. Would he be better than Sam or Tommy? She caught her breath at the idea. He would be clumsy, naturally, but she wouldn't mind that if he kept good and hard.

Slowly, not looking at her now, he got up and peeled his slacks off and took his time folding them and hanging them over the back of his chair. He kicked off his loafers and removed his socks. Then, a little defiantly, he got rid of his undershirt and shorts.

"Well, hello," she said, when he was quite naked. She was careful not to smile. "I knew you could do it, Cecil. Come here and let me feel." When he moved closer, she put a hand on his penis and moved the foreskin back. The pink head emerged like a rabbit's nose as she slid her fingers down the shaft. He was only half hard but she could feel it growing in her hand. She glanced down at his balls. They were still low in his crotch. There was no danger of him coming before she was ready. She stroked his cock for a little while until it was standing up. Regretfully, because the urgent newness of it was exciting her, she took her hand away and began to undress.

"It's no good," Barbara declared a little breathlessly. "We can't do it that way. We'll have to try the chair." She brought her leg back over Quincy Adams' vast hips and sat on the side of the bed, wishing that she had another drink. Her cigarettes and lighter, as usual, were in the living room.

Her obese partner grunted and sat up. "Don't get upset, now, my dear," he mumbled. "It's not your fault."

How obvious could you get? She couldn't help it if his big belly pushed her back when she tried to sit on his cock. When he had tried to take her horse fashion, his gut got in the way again, so that he could barely get his horn between her buttocks. In desperation, because she wanted to be screwed, she had stretched out across the bed and raised a leg so he could do a "walk-in." That hadn't worked, either. There was just too much bulge and not enough prick. He had gone soft on her and all the rubbing and teasing she could do failed to get his penis up again. She had to lick the head and squeeze it between her tits in order to make him hard. She didn't want to suck him off. It would be too much like licking a bag of lard. The chair might be the answer, if it didn't break under them. Molly had stressed that position for stout people.

"Get up," she directed him. "Go over there and sit in the chair. Not that one. The straight one under the window."

When he padded over and lowered himself with another grunt, she felt his prick to see if it was still hard enough. Satisfied, she sat on his knees and turned around to straddle his hips. She had to lean back to find his erection and work the head between the lips of her cunt. She managed to get it in at last and took her hand away, catching her breath as about half of it slipped into her vagina, sending shudders through her as it rubbed against her clitoris. "Stay still," she warned him tensely. "Let me do the work. You don't have to do anything."

He sat there like a fat Buddha while she put her feet on the rug and moved her buttocks up and down, feeling as she told Betty later "like a monkey fucking a football," trying to get the whole length of him into her and failing because of his jutting stomach. However, it was better than nothing at all. The head was nearer to her clitoris than if he had been fully inside and by measuring her strokes, she contrived to get as much friction there as when she was being screwed properly. It was exciting enough to satisfy her, although she missed the thump of balls in her crotch and the punishing prick stretching her pussy right back to her womb. And he was too small. She liked to feel her cunt straining around a stiff horn until it hurt. Now there was no pain; only the grinding action, with her clitoris catching against the head when it came back.

She was afraid to do that too often for fear that his prick would slip out. Finally, she settled for short strokes, raising up a mere inch or two before pushing down. That way, the top of the head stayed near the sensitive area and when she did it quickly, she felt an almost constant stimulation-enough to make her come if he stayed hard.

She realized that she was not going to make it when he caught her arms and began to breath harder. Ignoring her advice, he started to screw with her, meeting her hard when she bore down, then relaxing on the chair seat when she raised off him, until she was afraid she would lose what little she had of him, just when things were getting interesting. She tried to think of something to help her come quickly, pinching her thighs until they smarted, remembering the whipping and Hank's great prick thrusting into her until it seemed to be breaking her cunt wide open; that fuck to end all fucks, she told herself. Still screwing cautiously, she found her nipples and played with them, reveling in their hardness under her fingers and the waves of pure delight surging through her.

But it was a losing race. Sensing that she was going to be left behind, she screwed faster but, save for the wonderful sensation, it did not help. In desperation, she bit her lips until they were sore and cupped her breasts in both hands and rubbed them together to make them hurt. Just when she had hopes of being able to come, he made a sound like a goat having its throat cut and she felt the first gush of semen spray her clitoris and drip out into her crotch. Frustrated and mad at him, she stood up quickly and let him finish his fuck in the air.

"I'm very sorry." She wished he'd stop his goddamned apologizing. He had been doing it ever since he came out of the bathroom. She scarcely listened as he waddled over to sit on the edge of the bed beside her.

"I want to make up for what I did. Do you believe in-er-frenching?"

It took a little while for her to realize that he was referring to a blow job; either that or eating pussy. Why, the old bastard. If his tongue was as short as his prick, there wouldn't be much fun in having him go down on her. But the more she thought about it, the more it intrigued her.

He owed her something for coming before she did. Whether he knew it or not, the only way to get the full flavor was to finish together. Otherwise, it was about as satisfying as jacking off. A girl might be excused for getting her jollies a couple of times during the action but once the guy had blown his nuts, he was usually finished, at least for the time being. If he came too soon, he left the girl stranded, with her nerves screaming.

"What are you talking about?" she asked him.

He cleared his throat and his stomach quivered like a mountain of Jello. "It's-well, some people don't think it's right but I don't mind. I'll be glad to do it to you if that will help."

So she was right. He wanted to carol up the canal. Bless his fat soul, anyway. He was a bit of a dear, after all. "Come on," she said. "What are you waiting for?"

In the living room, Betty was having a hard time convincing Cecil that he was not ready. As soon as they got onto the couch, he seemed to forget his inhibitions. All he wanted to do was climb on top of her. His penis was hard but not hard enough. She could still bend it in the middle when she stroked it. It needed a little tongue work. She took his head between her hands and guided his flushed face down to her breasts. She had to rub his lips with a nipple before he caught on. Then he began to suck like a calf nuzzling its mother. It felt so good that she knew she wouldn't be able to stand it for long. She rolled away from him, then came back to bend down and take the head of his prick in her mouth. He pulled away when he felt her tongue probing the eye but she caught his balls and popped them lightly until he quieted down. Then she began to suck him again.

She found that he liked her to play with his balls, so she kept on kneading them gently while she ran her tongue up and down his stiffening penis and slid it round and under his head. Every time she licked the underside, starting just in front of his ball sack and coming slowly up to the division of the head, his cock jumped, sharpening her own desire.

She kept it up for a couple of minutes more, then raised her head and went to work on his nipples, first pinching them until they stood up, then nibbling at them, with an occasional soft bite. She put her hand where her mouth had been and stroked his prick, holding it in her warm hand and squeezing it up and down until it got as hard as a stick. For good measure, she kissed him and sucked his tongue and darted the tip of her own into both of his floppy ears. She bit his neck twice before sitting up to inspect him.

When his prick bounced back after she pressed it down, she pronounced him ready. She thought briefly that if his penis got any harder, it might explode. It was a beauty, just thick enough and not too long. Betty didn't favor long cocks like her sister did. They went in too far and hurt. Now that it was fully erect, the foreskin had peeled back, making a ruff behind the head. She could imagine what that ridge would do to her clitoris. Barbara had mentioned how a bunched foreskin felt. She had compared it to the thrill she got when a rubber on a guy who was screwing ruptured and creased up behind his cock-head. "First you think it's going to scrape your inside out," her sister told her. "Then it mashes the clitoris and you feel like something wants to fly out of your butt and can't."

She bent down to kiss his young hardness before stretching out on her back. "Come on, Cecil." She wanted to encourage him more in case he had any lingering doubts but there was no need. He was on top of her like the tiger she had teased him about, knocking the breath out of her with a careless elbow in the pit of her stomach before his weight came down on her belly and his hand fumbled with his hard cock, trying to find her pussy.

"Wait a minute." She pushed him up far enough to arch her back and shove a cushion under it. She relaxed then, opening her thighs wider and reaching down between them to help him enter her.

He thrust into her cunt like a young stallion, jerking his hips to drive his prick all the way inside. She heaved a sigh of contentment and closed her eyes when she felt his testicles crowd into the fork of her thighs. It had been worth all the trouble. He was fucking her furiously, as though afraid that something might stop him before he could finish. His hardness, driving in and out like an accelerating piston, kept an enduring pressure on her clitoris. She sighed again as she lifted her legs to wrap them around him.

Without prompting, he reached back with both hands and caught her ankles, pushing them forward and out until she could feel her rectum straining. Now she had all of his cock. His balls were slapping the wet area below her cunt, battering her like little hammers every time he thrust in. She came almost at once, chewing her lips because the sensation in her clitoris was driving her up the wall. It had to end soon or she'd bite a piece out of him or grab those slamming balls before she went totally ape.

She opened her eyes to see where the noise was coming from and heard him singing. At least, it sounded like singing until she listened harder. Then she found that he was repeating one word over and over. It turned into a chant and she had a flashback to the last time she went to church. He sounded like the priest. "Mother . . . Mother . . . Mother . . . Mother!" Maybe he had laid his old lady when his father wasn't looking.

The ecstatic feeling drove everything else out of her mind. They weren't there, really. Only the pleasure was for real; the cloying exultation that turned her out of herself into a medium of utter physical perception.

Afterward, she had no clear memory of when they came, except that they finished together. Barbara came back with Cecil's father, barely giving them time to get some of their clothes on. Betty slipped her dress over her head and went to the bathroom to clean. The kid had squirted like a fire hose. She felt wet all over. There was as much semen in her pussy hair as in her wet cunt. Neither Sam nor Tommy had come that much. Perhaps he wasn't a jack-off like most guys his age and had been saving it up.

She smiled at her reflection in the mirror as she ran the water into the basin. It had been a good fuck. It couldn't have been better if she had been screwed by Barb's whole football team.