Chapter 1
They were two hours out of San Francisco Harbor, slowly steaming south, when all hell broke loose in the wheelhouse. There was no threat from an enemy mine, or an ugly deadly torpedo from nowhere surfacing near the stern of the luxury cruiser of Italian registry. War was thousands of miles from this part of the Pacific, where the craggy California coastline was visible in the distance on a perfect bright warm day.
The captain, a ruggedly handsome Italian of forty-five, did not feel compelled to bark sharp commands to his subordinates. Instead he calmly lit a panatella and elbowed himself a place among his international officers and crew members who were pressed against the wall of glass overlooking the bow deck.
"Blimey, them's the sweetest pieces o' cake these eyes has seen this side o' Liverpool," said the valet assigned to the captain.
"Nein, Englander, not since Frankfort," corrected the man at the wheel, a well-built Teuton with closely cropped fair hair, his eyes lured away from the broad expanse of ocean highway by the sight below.
The captain lifted his binoculars. He had not seen the young women board in San Francisco. There had been hundreds of people marching up the gangplank to the ship, true, but it must have been a consuming distraction that caused him to miss their arrival.
The girls, epitomizing the beauty and wholesomeness the captain had grown to appreciate in American women, were taking off their short beach robes and stretching out on deck chairs to sunbathe. Why they had chosen a spot facing the wheelhouse, instead of the aft section with its fresh water swimming pool favored by the majority of guests, was a mystery to the man.
Both were wearing bikinis made of even less material than he had seen on the women at Riviera beaches. The darkly tanned blonde girl had chosen a brightly hued Hawaiian print. She unlaced the shoulder strings to prevent them from interfering with the work of the sun on her gently rounded shoulders. A light tug on the line dangling at her side would spring out one of the broad full white breasts battling for freedom with each breath she took. She pulled mirror-lensed sunglasses from the robe pocket and challenged the bright sun with her protected eyes, her chair adjusted to a half reclining position. She raised one knee slightly, revealing the soft golden hair of her inner thigh.
The captain turned his glasses on her companion. Her chair had been unlocked to the full flat length and the dark-haired girl lay on her belly surrendering her back to the rays of the sun. Her feet were spread wide with the toes squeezed between the mattress and aluminum frame of the lounge. The captain moved the powerful binoculars up her well-turned calves, over the firm inviting thighs, to a spot on her rounded buttocks where the black satiny bikini panties had slipped into the crevice. While he watched, the thumbs of her limp upturned hands slipped into the back of the tight elastic leg bands and tautly stretched the material gradually working into the crack, her pelvis imperceptibly undulating into the lounge as if the inanimate object had sprouted a prick for her to secretly admit through the fleshy lips of her cunt.
"Burton," the captain spoke softly, "please extend my compliments to the young ladies and ask when I may have the pleasure of their company for dinner at my table."
"The pleasure of their what, sir?" the valet said straightfaced.
Others in the crew who had served years with the captain laughed outright.
"Use your own discretion in the phrasing, my good man," the captain grinned, not taking the glasses from his eyes. "However, I don't believe 'the pleasure of your pussies' is advisable."
"Aye aye, sir," the little Englishman saluted smartly. "Your valet and chief pimp will carry out 'is orders."
He left and the wheelhouse rocked with lewd laughter.
Kathy raised a hand and combed back the long blonde hair hanging freely over an ear. She tilted her body to one side and reached underneath a hip, squeezing gently, relieved that while a dull ache persisted in answering her questioning touch, at least the ugly red welts on her thighs and buttocks had disappeared.
She wondered if the wounds that had been inflicted on her in the last weeks, the ones no eye could see, would heal and vanish as magically. Her friend, Jean, on the verge of an innocent sleep on the lounge next to her, looked no worse for wear.
Jean, in fact, readily admitted that she was ready for new adventures. Jean's voracious appetite was only whetted when others would be satiated, Kathy thought. A slight smile tugged at her lips. How much we have in common.
Kathy began to consider the first of a whole series of questions she hoped to answer for herself during the cruise to Mexico.
Had she been born the way she felt now, or was it something that had sparked within her at the age of ten and then smouldered, to be fanned into a roaring furnace by the unexpected events of recent days?
"Folks, now we're going to musically bridge the generation gap."
The leader of the combo winked maliciously at the well-dressed crowd milling on the dance floor and then the room exploded with the throbbing beat of a hard rock number, heavy on drums, electric organ and amplified guitar.
Parents and older guests at the Welcome Home Ball at the Seaview Country Club in El Camino beat a hasty retreat to the tables ringing the floor to get a better idea of what the thousands spent for tuition and room and board had produced in their offspring, home from their colleges for the summer recess.
Simon B. Carlson, the prominent San Francisco attorney, watched amused as his blonde only child, Kathy, writhed in faultless tempo to the deafening din. Her fiance, Craig Nichols, responded from a distance, his arms flailing the air like palsied pistons. Simon grinned across the small cocktail table at his escort, Kay Randall, a Bay Area fashion designer weekending at his home.
"Doesn't this kind of ritual usually end up with a virgin being offered to the flames?"
"Be prepared to sacrifice your daughter, lover," Kay replied. "Kathy probably is the only girl on the floor with her maidenhead intact."
He signalled a cocktail waitress to bring more drinks. Simon edged closer to Kay.
"It's a mystery," Simon sighed, lighting a cigarette and handing it to Kay, then lighting one for himself. "Three years away at college and I'm willing to bet a thousand bucks she's still cherry. It scares me a little. I think she's afraid to let herself go because her mother was such a slut."
"You mean she fears being a latent nymphomaniac?"
"Could be," Simon said, his mood suddenly brightening. "Did I ever tell you how I unhinged the judge at my divorce hearing? I described my ex as a 'porcupine in reverse.' Judge Fletcher is a pious old fart and he says, 'Please explain yourself, Mr. Carlson.' Then I let him have it. 'Your honor, my wife's got more pricks going in than she has coming out.' He nearly swallowed his upper plate."
Kay leaned her elbows on the table and slowly exhaled smoke in his face through her circled full lips.
"How are we going to behave later with Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes traipsing around the corridors with her milk and cookies?"
"You're a morally bankrupt old broad, aren't you?" Simon teased.
Kay fished under the table and gripped his knee, her hand tantalizingly sliding up the inside of his thigh and coming to rest against the tip of his prick. He felt the involuntary stiffening.
"One is as old as one feels. How do I feel, Simon?"
Simon first met Kay, almost by accident, as he was leaving his office one afternoon for lunch. He overheard the argument she was having with his young probate clerk and stopped by the door to listen and learn if the longhaired hotshot from UCLA was driving away another client. Her husband, a wealthy building contractor, had been killed several months before in a hunting accident and Kay was planning to cash in some stock. The goddamn kid, who read the underground press instead of the Wall Street Journal, was giving her advice that would cost her a bundle. Simon had intervened and wound up taking her to lunch. Afterwards he invited her to his townhouse where, to his delight, he found out that Kay loved to blow and had been starving for cock since the funeral. Their relationship had blossomed.
Kay made Simon feel like a young stud again. She sucked him until the sperm gushed from his cock faster than she could swallow it and flowed back down the length of his prick into the tight tangle of hair at the stump. After a brief rest, her talented and teasing tongue could rejuvenate his worn-out pecker into the driving tool he used to fuck her to the edge of madness. The second climax took much longer for Simon, and Kay would cum once, twice, sometimes even three times, screaming and thrashing on the rumpled bed in blissful agony at each mounting pleasure peak, until his testicles heaved and pressured out their freshly produced contents into the damp and dark depths of her twisting cunt.
Kay had a crooked smirk she could use to inflame Simon with guaranteed results. When he saw her lips curl in that telltale manner, a bell in his head sounded the news that Kay was drooling to taste his prick, to lick away the dewdrops that already would be formed in anticipation of her hot mouth sliding down the full length of his cock until it was fully enveloped in the moist cavern. While her tongue tried to force its way into the pee hole, or her lips tightened and drew the flesh of his blood-filled member in with the pressure of the backstroke, she would at the same time perform marvelous feats with her hands. Simon turned into putty as Kay's inhaling throat and probing tongue worked a corkscrew motion one way and her hand turned half circles around the stump of his prick in the opposite direction. Meanwhile the other hand kneaded his balls until the inquisitive fingers began to dance little designs in the soft hairs up the inside of his inner buttocks. Reaching the rubbery ring of his anus, the fingers would hesitate as if wondering what to do next. The fingers would withdraw momentarily, until one had been wetted in the flowing inkwell of Kay's pussy, and then returned. The underside of the dampened digit would lazily sketch circles around the ring of the asshole and then come to rest with the mound of the finger intruding into the rectum.
The twisting of the base of his cock by the one hand, the lips pulling and skipping along the wet length of his prick during the backstroke, and the other finger gently massaging and probing the outer edges of his asshole made Simon buck and snort like a rodeo bronc until that instant when his loins exploded into her mouth, spraying his seed like molten lava through the passage of her throat, where later it would be joined by the hot jizz he pumped into her womb.
Kay gently nudged Simon's semi-erect prick and then demurely removed her hand from his thigh as the waitress arrived with the drinks. Kay gave Simon that giveaway smirk, changing it into a decorous, Orphan-Annie-eyed, schoolgirl smile. He threw her a mock mean glare, telling her without words just what she wanted to know: "Just wait until I get at your furry little pussy, you prick-teasing bitch." Kay was certain Simon would fuck her tonight even if he had to scale the ivy-covered trellis under her bedroom window.
Youthful dancers were sardined on the floor as the sound of their generation continued to assault the eardrums and nerve ends of the elders. Most of the onlookers had given up their attempts at conversation to nurse their drinks and hold their breaths for a blessed break of silence, to be followed, they hoped, by the more recognizable melodies of musical standards from the World War II era.
Craig edited his dancing motions to a minimum, finding it much more enjoyable to keep his eyes on Kathy and see how she reacted to the savage music with utter abandon. She was an inspired dancer and replied to each suggestion of the rhythms with creative innovations all her own.
Her eyes were clenched and her luscious inviting lips were drawn back over the perfectly formed bright white teeth. She lashed her head from side to side and the long yellow-gold hair flogged violently at her shoulders and breasts. Her arms and hands drew surrealistic canvases in the air, and her hips and thighs struck out at wild angles, returning in place to gyrate sensuously.
Others on the floor had stopped dancing, many of the young men mopping perspiration from their brows as they feasted on Kathy's frenzied body, being burned from inside by the demons who possessed her, and her face, locked in an unfluctuating strained expression as though she were in a hypnotic trance.
Craig barely breathed as he saw Kathy's plump firm breasts fighting the confines of the bra, the harness that blocked her body from total freedom of movement. A deep tingling in his balls made him feel weak at the knees. Her mini-length cocktail dress was working up her tanned thighs. He thought, for a flash, that he saw the crotch of her panty hose. He pictured her on her back, naked, performing the same wild motions. Oh, sweet Jesus, he thought, it's as if she has a gigantic burning cock stuffed so deep and painfully in her belly that she's fighting for her very life to shake it out.
Kathy had grown more beautiful, if that was possible, in the year they had been apart, she finishing her junior year at Mills College up the coast in Oregon, while Craig completed the second year of law school across the continent at Harvard.
The guys in the fraternity house blew a lot of smoke up his ass about his girl humping every lumberjack in the Great Northwest while they were separated by the entire width of the United States. He took it in stride, good-naturedly, and turned the same line of jazz on the others at every opportunity. Once he found a terrific photo in one of those magazines from Sweden. The girl, a big-titted redhead with dimples in her cheeks, was an absolute lookalike for the steady of the jock from Tennessee who lived across the hall. Craig's roommate forged the inscription and the signature on the picture to perfectly match the writing on the portrait the student from Nashville kept on his dresser. Then they bought a gold frame for the magazine photo and shipped it to a mail forwarding house in Tennessee. The whole second floor of the fraternity house gathered around when the bundle marked Fragile, addressed in a feminine hand and postmarked Nashville, was unwrapped. The shit really hit the fan. The girl in the picture was being fucked dog-style by a giant black and the inscription read, "Dearest Powell: Until you learn to ball as good as he does, don't bug me." The slow Southerner had been completely taken in by the prank. He skipped a football game and hopped a plane home that very weekend to straighten things out. Craig would have liked to have seen that.
Small beads of perspiration had appeared on Kathy's upper lip. All eyes in the big dining room were focused on her and she didn't even know it. Craig imagined the churning of her pelvis working up dripping candied juices to line the walls of her cunt, a thick layer of wetness that would enable him to sink in his entire prick in one neat smooth thrust.
He had never eaten pussy before, only seen it being done in the pictures in the Swedish magazine, but he wouldn't hesitate to drive his sweets-seeking tongue to the roots inside Kathy's sugared snatch. He wanted to cannibalize her. He wished he could marinate the length of her body with his tongue, starting with her pink little toe. He longed to taste every crack and crevice of her frame, to propel his starving tongue over every hill and mound, to work his mouth on her sensitive parts until Kathy cried aloud for him to heighten the intensity of her pleasure by parting the lips of her soaking sweet vagina with his prick, driving through the membrane that attested to her virginity and plunging into the untouched region of her womb until his balls smacked hard against her upthrust little asshole.
Craig was positive he would be the only man ever to know Kathy's body so thoroughly, inside and out. But when? Her innocence, which made her so maddeningly desirable, formed the cornerstone of the pedestal upon which he viewed her. That very innocence was also his own worst enemy. She was firmly and unalterably opposed to premarital relations. Perhaps this explained why he could endure the bawdy fraternity house joshing in good spirits. If he had any reason to doubt, Craig would have gone out of his mind worrying that she was putting out. Craig saw nothing wrong with being intimate with the girl you were pledged to marry. It probably was a good idea. An introduction, so to speak, to smooth out the wrinkles of fumbling inexperience to insure a healthy, wholesome and pleasurable sex life after marriage. Craig had a good business head on his shoulders. That was plain or Kathy's father wouldn't regard him so highly and hold out the vice presidency in the law firm. Even Kathy's old man wanted Craig to give her a bang; he'd hinted about it often enough, telling the young man, "It's okay if you knock her down now and then, just don't knock her up." Craig was convinced, even more so as the music ended and a laughing Kathy threw herself into his arms in exhaustion, that she would thank him in the future if he slipped her the meat tonight. Fucking her now, later to gradually instruct her in the finer techniques he shared with the prostitute at the fraternity Pig Night, made sense. It was a good investment. A good fucking investment, he smiled to himself.
"Whew, I'm beat," Kathy panted, drawing away from Craig as she felt a disturbing pressure against her stomach. Her eyes fixed on his faraway face and then dropped to the front of his pants. She thought she saw the bulge twitch. She felt her face redden and she looked around quickly to see if any others had noticed. Fortunately the lighting was dim and the other couples were too busy threading their way to the tables around the floor.
He's gotten himself that way again, Kathy thought, hoping it would go away fast before someone saw. He had brought it on to embarrass her, she believed, not understanding that she was the party responsible for the semi-hardon leaking on Craig's thigh and making him squirm.
"Let's get over to daddy's table so you can sit down," she said reproachfully.
Craig followed, his famished expression replaced by a sheepish grin. She raised pricks all over the house, Craig shook his head, and doesn't understand how or why.
The young couple joined Simon and Kay. Carlson, moving his chair forward to let them pass, upset his drink and the glass rolled to the floor and shattered. He motioned to the waitress.
"Tell the janitor to mop up the mess."
Grayson, the country club maintenance man, appeared promptly with a broom and dustpan, and started to sweep up the glass. He worked double slowly beneath Kathy's chair, glancing longingly at the point in mid-thigh where her mini-dress ended. His eyes traced down her firm thighs to the smooth knees pressed together primly. Grayson wished she would uncross her ankles and part her young well-conditioned calves slightly so that when he stooped to pick up the glass he could sneak a glance up her skirt.
Kathy felt a strange chill and turned to look in the direction of Grayson. He had his head near her shoulder as he lazily looked for shards of glass on the floor. The man is staring at my legs, Kathy realized with a start, automatically tugging at the hem of her dress and feeling goose bumps rising on the insides of her thighs. Grayson detected the modest gesture and turned his face to hers, wearing a leering grin that disclosed stained chipped teeth.
"You'll have to move your dainty dancing toes, miss, so I can get my broom under there."
Kathy gripped the seat of her chain with both hands and pushed with her feet to slide back. Seeing her leg muscles tighten and her full breasts heave with the simple motion made Grayson's throat spasm and a cough escaped, a rheumy wheeze that brought phlegm up from deep in the lungs to his mouth. Grayson choked and his eyes watered. He pounded his chest with his palm. He couldn't control the coughs that crackled one after another from his pounding chest.
Through tear-filled eyes he saw the look of horror and disgust on Kathy's face as she shied her body away from him. Grayson clutched at his back pocket and produced a filthy handkerchief, pressing it to his lips. The coughing fit died and he spat the contents of his inflated cheeks into the rag.
"Christ, man, you better see a doctor. You shouldn't be allowed around food and drinks."
It was the voice of Kathy's father, Simon Carlson, a country club trustee. Grayson wished he had spewed the bloody mucus into his face, the wealthy unfeeling sonovabitch.
"Only a slight cold, Mr. Carlson. Too many cigarettes. Sure hope I don't pass it on to any of you folks."
The thought of picking up an infection from Grayson, or anyone like him, was repugnant to Kathy. His clothing was filthy and a size too large for him. There was a stale perspiration odor that combined with another pungent smell, possibly from something he used for cleaning the floors or toilets, that made it unbearable to be as near to him as she was now. His hands were raw red and chapped, the nails cracked and grimy. He had a whiskery stubble that was flecked with gray and grime. His breath, when he first spoke to her, was an assailing mixture of rotting impacted wisdom teeth and cheap wine.
Grayson stooped and stretched under the table, reaching for a last invisible fragment of glass. His head was level with Kathy's knee and she could see a reflection from the overhead chandelier on the baldness of his head. Kathy momentarily turned her attention to the table conversation, but when she looked back the custodian had turned his face and his eyes were brazenly searching the tunnel between her thighs formed by a small opening between her knees.
Kathy's mind raced, wondering what to do in near panic. She felt a wave of nausea flit through her intestines. She considered screaming, but she realized it would cause an awful scene that would crush her with embarrassment. Tears of humiliation welled up in her eyes at the thought of the dirty man attempting to look into the very fountain of her womanhood and she feeling totally helpless to stop him. Through the misty film in her eyes she saw that his face was twisted with a look of unbridled lust... and he was licking his lips as if preparing to make a meal of her body.
Kathy trembled, wondering why her father and Craig kept up their silly debate on judicial reform when they should be able to see in her face that something was very, very wrong. She wanted to lean over and nudge Kay, to alert her with a look another woman immediately would recognize, a terrified face to convey Kathy's great distress. But Kay seemed absorbed in the conversation, hanging on the every word of her father.
A hand settled on Kathy's shoulder and brought her up out of the chair with a stifled scream of alarm and a shudder.
"My God, Kathy, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a corpse."
It was Jean, Kathy's best friend and nearest neighbor. She felt like embracing her for freeing her from the predicament in which she had been helplessly trapped. She hung on Jean's arm and followed her away from the table.
"Am I glad to see you," Kathy said, trying to get a firm grip on her runaway emotions. "You have no idea what I've been through."
"What the hell are you talking about?
"That man," Kathy said, indicating the custodian at the table with a sharp nod of the head, "was staring up my dress. It was awful."
Jean's hand flew to her mouth to stifle the laughter.
"God, Kathy you're such a lamb. Why didn't you pop open your legs and wink at him. The poor old fellow would have had a seizure."
Jean's easy dismissal of her dilemma made Kathy's face color. She felt like a silly goose again. Jean was much more mature in worldly matters, language and conduct, although only a year older than Kathy. She depended on Jean's good judgment in coping with many of her personal problems.
Kathy now felt guilty for being stupidly unfair to the poor sick janitor. The sight of the living instrument in Craig's pants had set her mind to creating sexually oriented fantasies that had no basis in fact. The stooped fellow nearly had strangled during his coughing spell and the fact that he moistened his lips while appearing to be looking up her thighs merely could have been a coincidence. Yes, that had to be the case, Kathy decided, knowing the maintenance man never would make open advances to her.
"I'm sorry, Jean. I'm such a dummy sometimes. I must have worn myself out dancing."
"You wore out the eyes of most of the men in the room too," Jean said. "But look, sweetie, I have something important to discuss with you. Can't talk now. Can you make it for tennis tomorrow at one?"
"Yes, I suppose so. Won't you give me a hint? You know how I hate surprises."
Jean frowned, thinking. She put her head close to Kathy.
"Big problems spring from little seeds," she whispered. "Mull that awhile." Jean turned away.
Perplexed by the riddle, Kathy slowly returned to the table. The man straightened up with the last of the glass in the dustpan. He flashed a yellow-tooth smile at Kathy. It must not have been the awful leer she had first suspected, but the only way the poor ugly man can manage to grin, Kathy thought. Feeling awful for allowing her imagination to run amuck, Kathy graciously returned his smile.
"Hey, whatever your name is, get a mop under here before somebody slips and breaks their neck."
"Right away, Mr. Carlson. Yes sir, I'll be right back with the mop in a flash," the maintenance man said, bowing over and over in humble servility as he backed away from the table.
"Daddy!" Kathy protested when Grayson was out of hearing range, "You shouldn't talk that way to the help. You're never that harsh with the servants at home."
"That Grayson, now I remember his name... he's a regular deadass," her father said. "I've been meaning to have the club manager can him. He's keeping house in the boiler room and lays around down there most of the day with his pictures of naked women."
Kay stretched in the chair, arching her back like a feline caged too long without exercise.
"Those who can't... look," Kay drawled sensuously.
Her tone of voice did not go unnoticed by Simon.
"Look, you kids, it's time for us old folks to head back to the house and hearth." Simon faced Craig, raising his brow to be sure of having his full attention. "Be sure to buy Kathy an ice cream soda before bringing her home." Simon and Kay turned to leave.
"My stomach feels pretty empty. I bet I've danced away five hundred calories," Kathy said.
Craig, with her father's blessing clearly implied, was thinking of his own way to fill Kathy's belly.
So was Grayson.
The maintenance man slammed the door to the mop closet and gave it a vicious kick. He squeezed the handle of the mop until he thought it would splinter in his grasp. He thought of better ways of breaking it, either across the bridge of the nose of Simon Carlson, who treated him like so much cow dung beneath his expensive custom boots, or up the snatch of his full-titted rich bitch daughter after he first split her pampered pussy with his own hard-driving cock.
Grayson hated privileged people, unfeeling assholes who believed they were justified in spitting and shitting on others because of money that was handed them or they stole outright in sinister ways called legitimate. He despised them with each degree of fury he could muster, and he schemed with all the deviousness at his command to get even with them.
He knew for a fact that the women of the rich were dirty fucking pigs, because he had unplugged the plumbing packed with their bloody menstrual rags. And he was sure the men were no better than he, once parted of their money. He had watched them in the locker room after their golf games, preening, boasting about women they had made to one another and announcing the name of the new conquest-to-be. They were able to afford fancy meals and drinks in expensive restaurants, and then screw the shit out of their mistresses on satin sheets in costly hotel suites. The moneyed cock-suckers would notice him listening and shoot him a knowing grin, as if they thought Grayson himself often had the opportunity to dance with cultured cunts in exclusive bistros, dine on champagne and the finest cuts of meat, and then to sink his prick into the warm wet fleshy snatch of a broad whose earrings alone cost more than he earned in a year.
The truth was that Grayson's last piece came from the obese black slut who scrubbed windows at the country club until she was fired for stealing half-empty bottles from the bar. That was two months ago. He fed her wine until she was blubbery. When the goddamn nigger lush finally got around to removing her soiled panties and spreading her legs. Grayson had been repulsed by the layers of lard between her thighs. His cock met no resistance when he plugged in, and he discovered that her snatch was such a yawning wide-stretched cavern that there was no friction to trigger the blast from his swelling nuts. He felt that he could have driven in the flagpole at the front gate of the country club and she wouldn't have known the difference. Grayson humped over her for what seemed like ages, the tightly curled steelwoolish triangle above her vast vagina cutting into the tender flesh beneath his navel like the needle of a tattoo artist, until he collapsed in worn-out defeat on her fat belly and massive breasts. If he had the strength, he would have rolled her over and tried his prick up her asshole, where there might have been a better chance for success.
"You needin' some 'sistance, white baby?" the barrel-assed wench taunted him.
With that she had ringed his cock with her short fat thumb and forefinger and twisted her hand clockwise and counter-clockwise, hand masturbating him and seesawing her cunt at the same time so that the plum-sized clitoris rubbed rawly against the head of his unsheathed cock. Almost in spite of himself, Grayson's balls grew tight and he unleashed a few unenthusiastic spurts of cum into her bulging black belly to float in the sea of muscatel. She fell asleep while he was cumming and he held a lighted match to the tip of the thick slab of meat she called a breast to waken her long enough for him to boot her waddling black ass out the door. The next day he stole the liquor from the bar and fixed it with Barker, the bartender, so that she took the rap.
Grayson had stored it since then, what did not evaporate from his frequent nocturnal emissions, and now he was certain why. He was going to pump it into the mink-lined tight cunt of Simon Carlson's gorgeous daughter. He would spurt and flow until the cum ran out of her pretty little ears. Rich pussy was the same as poor pussy, only better. It would have a richer taste and scent. Her clitoris would smell like gardenias and the juices of her twat would resemble mulled wine. Once his prick was buried in her cunt, she would beg and cry for more. Her hips would ratchet the soft teeth of her pussy until his tool was pulled in firm and fast within the fleshy folds of her tightening vaginal walls. Then Grayson would bide his time, torturing her with his deliberate slowness, nibbling at the raised pink tips of her unlined breasts, stretching his tongue into the depths of her throat until the tip found her tonsils, sliding his hand into the crack of her ass and tantalizing her with tickling fingers that circled until the tight asshole pounded against them screaming to be plundered. She would cum over and over again, whispering impassioned entreaties for him to deliver the torrent of burning sperm into her belly. But Grayson would be running a tight ship, controlling the impulse of his balls to rocket their creamy ammunition into the womb of the enemy. He would pace himself and fuck her until the walls of her cunt no longer produced the natural lubricant. Then he would make her spread petroleum jelly on his relentless prick so that he could fuck her some more.
Grayson dreamed of fucking Kathy Carlson to the point that afterwards she would require a motorized wheelchair to get around. He would bang her until she passed out. He would grab her ankles and force them high over her head, splitting her snatch with the message that her father and all of her rich friends were no better than he. They put their pants on one leg at a time, the way he did. Kathy would learn from him that the rich don't make love as rawly or as well as the poor. And, with that lesson fucked into her, she would be back begging for more.
When Grayson returned to the table with the mop the Carlson party was gone.