Chapter 3
Lucille Bryson remained in bed with closed eyes while she listened to her husband, Paul, moving around the bedroom in the early morning silence of the manse. She had opened her eyes once long enough while Paul was in the bathroom to observe that the rain had stopped during the night and a brilliant sunrise was in prospect. Then she had firmly closed her eyes again and remained motionless to simulate sleep.
Most mornings she rose with Paul, but never on the mornings after their scheduled mid-week lovemaking. For some reason she had* never been able to understand, Paul on such mornings showed an importunate ardency she found unsettling. No lady permitted such activity in the stark light of early morning, of course, so she had found it expedient to simulate sleep.
Once in the early days of their marriage after she had laid down a prohibition against early-morning advances on Paul's part, she had made the mistake of following him into the bathroom. She had found him there, standing over the toilet bowl, his swollen, enormous-looking penis in his hand, jetting long spurts of semen into the bowl. Lucille had removed her toothbrush from the medicine cabinet and returned to the bedroom without saying a word. Such a juvenile performance by Paul had nothing to do with her wifely duty which she performed weekly in good conscience if with no exhilaration.
She wholly failed to understand masculine preoccupation with sex, anyway. Procreation aside, she felt it had little to recommend it for the female. And procreation was denied her. They had had a tubular pregnancy in the second year of their marriage, and the resulting operation had effectively sealed off her pro-creational passage to Paul's sperm.
She had been secretly relieved, although she had never admitted it. She knew herself well enough to know that her bent was not domestic. In the kitchens of Paul's parishioners she had silently wrinkled her nose many times against the sour-milk odor of breast-fed babies and the ammoniac effluvia of unchanged diapers. No, she had never shared Paul's disappointment that they had no children.
Occasionally Paul's feverishly fumbling pre-sex handling of her full-fleshed body embarrassed Lucille. The little that she permitted, of course. Paul seemed to be seeking something she couldn't supply. Lucille felt in no way deficient as a woman, and she had come to the conclusion that it was something in the masculine psyche which made a male seek something in the marriage bed which wasn't there.
She had permitted his digital vaginal manipulation of her only because of the alternative he had proposed with a firmness unlike the usually mild-mannered Paul. He had told her that he was going to purchase a vaginal jelly, and she couldn't bear the thought of a local pharmacist or druggist's clerk knowing that much about the most intimate part of their marriage.
People weren't animals, but they surely acted like it, she was fond of saying to Paul when he related to her some episode which had brought a young female parishioner-or sometimes older-to him seeking escape from her predicament. It was incredible to Lucille the number of seemingly level-headed women in their comparatively small congregation who sat down in Paul's office to ask hesitant advice about their problems. Lucille had often thought that Paul couldn't be the easiest pastor in the world for a woman to approach in such a situation. Except on rare occasions, his response was intellectual, not emotional.
Lucille remained motionless in the bed until she heard Paul's footsteps receding along the corridor as he proceeded to the kitchen for his first cup of coffee. Then she rose and went into the bathroom where she removed her nightgown and stood in unconscious grape-nippled, large-breasted, sleek-fleshed, wide-spanned female magnificence while her bath was filling.
Early-morning sunlight was streaming in the windows of the room above the bakery when Jo Tucker woke Tommy to get him to show her the bathroom. Tommy returned to the room after escorting her with Jo swathed in the sheet from the bed. He stretched mightily to ease muscles cramped from his awkward sleeping position in the armchair.
"How are you feeling?" he asked when Jo came back to the room.
"Sore," she said frankly. "Not to mention lame and bruised. But I'll live."
"The face isn't bad," Tommy said. "The swelling has gone down and a little makeup will take care of the discoloration. Let's see the rest of it." He removed the sheet.
"Don't get any ideas," Jo warned after a moment in which he studied the mottled marks on her arms and stomach and his hand briefly caressed the reduced welts on her chubby buttocks. "I know I owe you a favor, but you're only a kid. I'd feel guilty."
"I don't have any ideas, Jo," Tommy said softly. "It's just my cock." He took her hand and guided it backward to the pronounced swelling inside his jockey shorts.
"Stop it," Jo said, but she said it with no real emphasis. She leaned backward slightly as Tommy's palm continued to stroke the red-striped warm ivory of her jutting backside.
His fingertip traced the course of a belt-inflicted ridge crossing from one plump globe to the other. "How long will it hurt, Jo?"
"Two or three days. Mostly when I squat to tinkle. That seems to stretch everything and make it more sensitive. And I'll have the marks for two or three weeks." Her own palm continued to support the swelling bulge in Tommy's shorts where he had placed her hand. His hand went between her whipped hind cheeks and traced the warm, deep crevice separating them.
She turned to face him, releasing his sexual apparatus. "Do you want to fuck me, Tommy?" she asked with the directness that was part of her.
"I'd love to, Jo," he responded at once. "You know it."
She took hold of the waistband of his shorts and drew them menacingly with a slight waggling movement. "That's a lovely piece of meat for a boy your age," Jo said in surprise. She dropped to her knees and kissed the tip of the erection, then took the bulbous purple-red head in her warm mouth and sucked it with slow, drawing movements of her clinging lips.
"Ohhhhhh, man!" Tommy groaned tensely. "Oh, Jesus! Quit it, Jo, or you're gonna get a mouthful!"
She released her mouth-prisoner and sank back on her haunches. "Not that I'd say no to that, you understand, but I take it you'd rather implant it elsewhere?" she asked.
"You bet your ass," he replied promptly. "Right in your red-haired cunt." He took her arm and raised her to her feet. "You like to suck a prick, Jo?"
"Love it, when it's a congenial prick," she answered.
He led her to the bed and sat down on it, watching her expression when her welt-crisscrossed bottom absorbed her weight. "Ass hurt too much, Jo?" he inquired. "I could take a rain check."
"It won't hurt when I'm on my back, Tommy."
He grinned at her companionably. "Now why is it I feel you're my kind of chick, Jo?" He sat down beside her before easing her onto her back after sweeping the pillow to one side. He dropped his head to Jo's breasts and lipped a strawberry-nippled excrescence into his mouth. His tongue circled the budding tip rapidly, and Jo's knees quivered. "Ahhhhh!" she sighed. "Where have you been going to school?"
Tommy made no answer as he switched to the other breast. He worked at it diligently as Joe made little cooing noises and tangled her hands in his short brown hair. She could feel his hard penis pressing against her warm thigh, and she reached for it and took it in her hand, feeling her own saliva still on its fleshy tip.
When Tommy finally raised his head, both of Jo's nipples jutted firmly from the center of their soft-fleshed twin domiciles. He stroked the sloping bowl of her stomach and then gradually worked his way farther down until his fingers were caressing the luxuriant lips of her febrile twat, expanding moistly to his fondling. "Why, Jo, you sinner!" he said in surprise. "You're all wet already."
"D'you think-I'm made of stone!" It came out as half-gasp, half-exclamation. "Oh, God, Tommy, you're getting me-hoooooo, boy!- soooo hotttttttt!"
He slithered over her body, then widened her half-parted legs. Crouching, he picked up her legs and threw them over his shoulders, then bent down and inserted his tongue in the musky-aromaed upthrust pink cunt. "Ohh, damn!" Jo panted huskily. She thrust her middle upward into his face. "Ohhhhh, lovely, lovely, lovely, Oooooooooh!"
He nibbled at the protruding lips and licked their sharp-tanged moistness. Jo's legs clutched at his neck while her hips swirled in involuntary response to the penetrating tongue. Tommy gulped two-thirds of her slit inside his mouth and sucked at it mightily. "OHHHHH-hhhhhh!" Jo's voice soared in a half-shriek. "That's - enough, Tommy! Fuck me now! PLEASE fuck me!"
He raised himself and aimed his fleshy sword at the well-moistened target. Jo's hand eagerly seized his circumcised penis and guided it into her slot. Her breath whistled between parted lips as he sank deep into her with a slight joggling movement of his lean hips. The youthful rigidity extended her hotbox deliciously, and the youthful vigor with which he began to pump his organ in and out of its fleshy, glove-fitting embrasure had Jo's eyes rolling in her head.
"Oh, damn, you're-really hitting-it! Oh, Godddd!"
Tommy humped his back as he slashed away at the sizzling cunt within which he was lodged. Jo met his every thrust, pain forgotten as she flurried her hips in wild abandon that induced redoubled response from him. "Tommy!" she exclaimed in sudden urgency. "I'm-coming! Oh, dear God, I'm COMMMMMing!!"
He felt her quivering explosion inundating his hard-boring tool, and he raised his knees slightly before returning to the attack. He pounded her belly with the vehemence of his prick-thrusts into her sex-grotto, and a slow, tingling vibration seemed to originate in his heels and race up his legs to his spinal cord. He jerked wildly in mindless ecstasy as his seed spurted in hot gushes through his vibrating joystick into the quiescent cavern in which it was submerged.
Jo's warm hands patted his shoulders lightly as he subsided upon her, spent. "You're some kind of lover, Tommy," she said quietly. "I never would have believed it of a kid like you."
"You're not-so bad-yourself," he returned with attempted breeziness. He rolled off Jo but then turned and drew her into his arms as they rested side-by-side. She snuggled against him contentedly. "I love to cuddle afterward," she confided. "With Tom he'd just about kick me out of bed if I tried to." She was silent then, Tom's name having recalled her to the present.
Tommy sensed her mood. "What about Tom?" he asked. "Are you going back to him?"
"No," she said positively. "He'll expect me to come creeping back with my tail between my legs, but I'm not going to do it. I know I can get a job clerking at Gamble's, and I'll find a place to stay. I don't mind rough handling before sex, but I'm all through letting Tom brutalize me."
Tommy raised his head to see her face. "What do you mean you don't mind rough handling?"
"You're too young to understand," she evaded him.
Jo Tucker knew herself. She knew, for instance, she wouldn't have enjoyed Tommys youthful exuberant lovemaking nearly as much if she hadn't been still hurting from the night before. A little pain always stimulated her sex response. It was what drew her to men like Tom Tucker. And Wade Sampson. She recognized it as an aberration, but had ceased fighting it.
She stirred in Tommy's arms. "I've got to get going. I'll find a place to stay and then get my clothes out of the apartment. I can't ask for a job for a couple of days until my face gets back to normal." She was silent for a moment. "It's going to be kind of tough trying to cut it alone," she said at last. "And that damn supercilious Lucille Bryson is the cause."
"The minister's wife? How does she figure in it?"
"It's too long a story to go into now, but she could have prevented the whole thing from happening. Instead, she forced it, and you can bet I'm going to plan something for her." She moved again in Tommy's arms. "I've got to go, Tommy."
He released her reluctantly. "You wouldn't like to try for an encore?" he asked.
She kissed him impulsively. "I really don't have time, but-" She hesitated. "I'll tell you what. You really saved me last night. I was at such a low ebb, and I didn't know what to do. I don't want to say no to you, Tommy, but I am in a hurry right now. Will you take a promise that I'll get together with you soon and give you the most beautiful blow job you've ever had? Would you like that?"
"You bet," he answered. "And thanks for this morning, Jo."
"Thank you," she replied with emphasis upon the pronoun.
They rose from the bed and began to dress.
Paul Bryson climbed the short flight of stairs leading to the entrance of Memorial Hospital. It was well before visiting hours, but he approached the reception desk confidently. "Mrs. Fiedler," he said to the girl behind the desk.
"Room three-twenty-three, Dr. Bryson," the girl said smilingly. "I know she'll be pleased to see you."
Paul took the elevator to the third floor. He made it a practice to call upon all of his hospitalized parishioners, but he called more often upon the younger hospitalized women. Early in his ministerial career Paul Bryson had made a discovery about hospitals. In the majority of instances ministers were regarded as so much furniture, and few of the privacy-covenants were invoked in their presence. His time was considered valuable, and he had made sickroom visits when female patients were being bathed behind a pretense of a modesty-retaining casually draped sheet, when they were receiving medication, even shots, and when they made necessary trips to the bathroom on his supporting arm.
Even walking grave-faced through hospital corridors there were titillating sights to be seen as nurses and doctors alike paid slight attention to his presence. The women's hospital bedgowns were so short, the building was so warm, winter and summer, and lying in bed produced such rumpled, sweaty sheets under perspiring bodies that tinglingly flashing glimpses of various feminine undraped postures were continually visible with no one seemingly concerned, least of all the patients who consistently greeted him heartily during sickroom situations to which they would have denied their husbands admission.
Then there was the natural feminine reaction when the first medical or surgical malaise was alleviated. Feeling friskier, and basking in the unaccustomed attention, what was more natural than to flirt lightly with the visiting minister, the most harmless of sports? The younger spirits seemed to have few objections to giving the poor dear man a slight thrill, him being married to that cold fish of a wife. And indeed where was the harm?
Paul Bryson entered Room 323 where Paula Fiedler was in the fourth day of recovery from an appendectomy. "Good morning, Paula," he said gravely. "And how are you feeling this morning?"
"Much better, Dr. Paul," she replied. Paula was a plump brunette with a hardworking husband and three small children. She had on one of her own nightgowns this morning in deference to her expected return home that afternoon, and its low-cut neckline permitted more than a glimpse of her corpulent breasts. "It's so nice of you to come to see me."
"It's nice to know you're feeling better," he returned.
"I'd really like to stay another day," she confided. "It's so heavenly without the children. But the doctor is pushing me out into the cruel world this afternoon." Her small mouth shaped itself into a girlish pout. Then she giggled. "I'd much rather stay here and have the interns hold my hand."
"I imagine they'd enjoy it too, Paula."
She giggled again. "Maybe if you put in a word for me as my spiritual advisor-"
"I'm afraid physical advisors are in the ascendancy here," Paul Bryson said with one of his rare smiles.
Paula Fiedler looked at him with renewed interest. "You're a different-looking man when you smile!" she exclaimed. "Even better-looking!" She turned in the bed until she was on her side, facing him. The upper halves of her substantial breasts bulged freely above the neck of her nightgown, and he could see the brown areolas centered by thrusting dark nipples trapped in the nightgown's almost translucent lace top. "You really are, Dr. Bryson!"
"Thank you," he said lightly. He nodded at the mammary display. "If you need any assistance in restoring order, I'd be glad to volunteer."
"Why, Dr. Bryson!" She hurriedly pushed her embonpoint further south in her nightgown. "I'm sorry!"
"Don't be," he advised her. "Even a minister has a right to a glimpse of green pastures occasionally." He smiled again at her almost childish confusion before he left the room.
The little interplay with the plump housewife amused him. And for a bonus he caught sight on the way out of a teenaged girl being capably wiped by a nurse's aide after using the bedpan. He returned to the manse and his study to begin preparing next Sunday's sermon in a more cheerful mood.
Wade Sampson reached for the phone on his desk when it bonged once with the melodious chime that announced an incoming call. "Sheriff's Department," he said gruffly.
"It's Jo, Wade."
His mouth screwed up in distaste. "Oh, yeah."
"I suppose you heard?'
"Yeah, I heard."
"I'm not going back to him, Wade."
It surprised him. "You got a sugar daddy?"
"I'm going to get a job. I've already got a room."
"Yeah? Where?"
"With Mrs. Colfax on South Second St."
He grunted recognition. For once in his life he was at a loss as to what to say. Ordinarily, it would have been simple: once the husband tumbled to the situation, Wade Sampson had no qualms about cutting the wives loose. He would have done the same with Jo Tucker except that he had a specific use for her and he didn't want to give it up. Besides, she hadn't asked him for anything. Yet. "You got eatin' money?" he asked finally.
"I'll be all right, Wade."
"Don't get your nose in the air," he growled. "I asked you a question."
"I really will be all right for a few days."
"Okay. I'll be in touch. Maybe day after tomorrow." He thought of something else. "Who you reckon blew the whistle on you?" He wasn't afraid of Tom Tucker-he knew a thing or two about Tom Tucker-but Wade Sampson was a man who liked to know from which direction they might be coming at him.
"Mrs. Dr. Lucille Bryson, that's who," Jo said grimly. "I'd give a year of my life to get even with her. If I ever get her in the right place, I guarantee you'll hear her squeak."
"Is that right?" Wade drawled. Damn, he was glad he hadn't cut Jo loose, which had been his first inclination. This could be interesting. "Maybe I could give you a little help with that."
"Really? How?"
"Oh, I dunno," Wade said vaguely. "We'll think of something." He continued before she could interrupt. "Say, Jo?"
"Yes?"
"Do you know the Aliens? Teachers at the high school?"
"I know her. We were in a ceramics class together. I don't think I've ever met him. Why?"
"I'll be talkin' to you about them later. Sure you don't need a little scratch till you get straightened out?"
"It's awfully nice of you to offer, Wade, but I'll be all right."
"Holler if you're not," he said, and hung up.
He sank back in his swivel chair, deep in thought. Finally he smiled, a hard, thin-lipped smile. Things were looking up. A pair of plums. A ripe pair of plums. All that was necessary was for Wade Sampson to shake the tree.
Cathy Riggins walked through the library parking lot, amazed at her own calmness. She had expected to feel all fluttery and squeamish; instead she felt only a mild curiosity and a tingle of anticipation. She had made two preparations for the afternoon date with Tommy Johnson; she had told her mother she might be a little late, and she had taken enough of her library money to purchase a pair of wispy, lace-edged panties.
Before she reached the end of the lot near the bus stop Tommy drew up alongside in his battered old car. He was smiling as she climbed in after he leaned across the front seat and opened the door for her. "Hi, baby," he said softly as she smoothed her dress down over her thighs. "How you doin'?"
"Fine, Tommy," she assured him. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"
"Beautiful," he echoed. "Say, I got us a place. Guy's out of town in an apartment in a building I clean, and he gave me his key." Cathy nodded, and he drove rapidly to the poorer section of town. He parked behind an old town-house that had been converted into apartments, reached in his pocket and handed Cathy two keys. "The first one opens the outside door," he told her. "Just walk right in. One flight up you'll find Apartment 2-C. The gold key's for that. We shouldn't be seen goin' in together, so I'll follow in five minutes. Okay?"
"Okay," Cathy said.
He put an arm around her waist, drew her closer to him, then fused his mouth with the girl's soft lips. Her mouth moved tentatively under his, and he darted his tongue between her lips. Cathy shivered, and her toes curled up inside her shoes.
"Oh, man!" Tommy breathed when he broke off the kiss. "I can't wait to get at you, Cathy. Hustle upstairs an' I'll be right there."
She smiled at him before she left the car. She still felt calm, aside from the stimulation of Tommy's kiss. But why shouldn't she feel calm? She'd been waiting for this day for a long time.
She negotiated the two locked doors with no difficulty. The three-room apartment proved to be much nicer than the outside appearance of the building indicated. The furniture was modern and the draperies and the artwork oh the walls tasteful. She returned to the corridor door after a quick tour of the premises and quickly admitted Tommy at the sound of his light tap.
He immediately took her into his arms again. "Oh, baby, baby, baby!" he whispered, running his hands down the clean lines of her back and then cupping her buttocks in his palms as he drew her to him more tightly. Cathy kissed his cheek, then nuzzled his neck with her soft mouth. "You're the sweetest thing!" he exclaimed. "C'mon, let's go into the bedroom."
They walked hand-in-hand into a tastefully appointed masculine-style room. Cathy eyed the old fashioned gilt mirror on the wall and the huge four-poster bed with approval. Tommy gathered her in his arms again while they were standing in the center of the room, once more thrusting his tongue into her accepting mouth, then seizing with his lips the first exploratory return movement of her tongue. He laughed gaily. "Now you're catching on, baby!"
"I want to catch on to everything with you," Cathy murmured with her cheek resting against his.
Sobered for an instant, he kissed her more gently. Then his vitality returned. "Right on," he said. "Now how about takin' off your dress an' slip so I won't wrinkle or tear anything?"
Her hands were at the back-of-the-neck fastening of her dress before he finished speaking. Unhurriedly she removed dress and slip, folding each neatly before placing them on a chair. Tommy's blue eyes darkened as Cathy's bare shoulders glistened above her bra and her long, slender legs shone whitely beneath the wispy panties.
He sat down on the bed, then beckoned to her. "C'mere," he said in a choked voice.
She went to him at once, and he placed her standing between his parted knees, facing away from him. He plucked the elasticized waistband of the panties from her warm flesh and pulled them down her thighs while she stood motionless. Cathy had one instant of regret that he hadn't appeared to notice the expensive lace, but she forgot that immediately when she felt the pressure of his mouth on the quick flare of her dainty-but-sturdy hind cheeks in half a dozen places.
She turned her shoulders without moving her lower body so she could look down at him. "Why are you kissing my bottom, Tommy?" she asked.
He nipped at a silky-skinned rotundity with sharp teeth. "Because you taste good,", he replied. He parted the soft hemispheres widely until a faint trace of downy, golden hair appeared in the deep furrow. He lowered his face again and sniffed at the depths of her fissure. "God, you taste good and smell good!"
"It's just bathpowder and me," she said apologetically. "And I never thought girls smelled particularly nice."
"That's because you're not a man!" he said jubilantly. He pulled her backward until she was sitting in his lap, and she curled an arm around his neck. "Hooooo, boy!" he exclaimed with a fingertip resting lightly upon Cathy's fleece-covered mound. "What I'm going to do to you!"
"You still have your clothes on," she reminded him.
"Not for long, baby!" he kissed her, fiercely at first, then more gently. Once more he probed her soft mouth with his tongue and sucked at her nubile lips, and a long, slow shiver rippled through Cathy from head to foot. "I'm getting goose bumps," she whispered.
He pressed his mouth to the silky juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Anything else happening, Cathy?"
"Yes," she breathed. "I'm getting - squirmy."
"Where?"
"You know where. Inside my pussy."
He could barely hear the murmured response, but it delighted him. He stroked her mound and labial lips for a moment, then cupped the whole of her sex upon his palm and squeezed gently.
"Ooooooooh!" Cathy gasped.
"Like it?"
"Mmmmmmmmm, yes!"
He inserted a fingertip into an already moist-feeling orifice. "Like that?"
"Mmmmmmmmmmm!"
He played with her for a few moments, during which her sighs, murmurs, and wriggling gradually increased, then picked her up bodily and sat her on the bed. He stood up and impatiently stripped off his own clothing, firing it at a chair. Cathy watched him calmly. After a moment she reached around and unhooked and removed her bra. Her hands soothed the faint red lines on the underside of her excellently-shaped firm breasts with their tip-tilted pink nipples as Tommy reapproached the bed.
She spoke before he could. "I want to kiss your bottom, Tommy."
He stared down at her, taken aback. "You don't want to kiss my hairy ass!" he protested.
"I do so want to!" she insisted. "I want to do everything to you that you do to me."
"Some of that might be a little difficult for you," he said drily. "But, okay, if that's what you want." He turned around and faced away from her.
She moved eagerly in behind him and lowered her face to his lean buttocks. "You are hairy," she said in a tone of surprise. "But I don't mind." She planted half a dozen butterfly kisses on Tommy's nude backside before she inhaled delicately. "Mmmm, you smell manly!" she declared.
He turned to face her. His prick, rampant while he had been playing with her, reduced to semi-flaccidity during his undressing, had soared again under the stimulation of her warm-lipped caresses of his backside. Cathy looked curiously at the stiff-pronged rigidity pointing red-eyed directly at her. She craned her neck to view better the blue-veined whiteness of its underside as it poked forth from his hairy belly.
She started to reach out and touch it, then checked her hand. "May I?" she asked. "It wouldn't spoil anything?"
"Help yourself," Tommy told her.
At once she took his erection in her hand. He came up on his toes tensely as her soft palm squeezed experimentally from side to side. "It's so hard!" she said in a hushed tone. Her hand dropped to his balls, and he flinched. She withdrew her hand quickly.
"Sorry," he said. "Very delicate. Very." He took her hand and placed his penis in it again. "Do you know what's going to happen, Cathy?"
"Partly," she answered. "I know you're going to put it inside me, although-" Her slim fingers massaged the unyielding inflexibility in her hand. "-I don't see how."
"You're a virgin?" She nodded. "You've never had anything in there?" She shook her head negatively. "Except your finger?" A deep, slow blush enveloped the pretty face framed in the long blonde hair. "Okay, I won't tease. You know it will hurt a little?"
"I've read about it. Don't mind if I yell. I'm an awful sissy."
He sat down on the bed beside her. "I'm going to look at yours," he told her, and pushed her onto her back. He took hold of one leg and raised it, then leaned closer to the parted thighs which had sheltered her cloister. Cathy's pale-gold fleece was of such a gossamer nature that it almost needed to be touched rather than seen. Tommy stared at the crinkled pink cupcake nestled in its silvery-blonde ringlets. Finally he lowered his head and kissed it.
Cathy quivered from the thrill-sensation of his lips on her most intimate place. Her hips writhed slowly as he licked at her pouting cunt, tracing its outline with his tongue. "Ohhhhhh!" she moaned in an expiring sigh. "Tommy! TOMMY!!"
He stopped his tongue-teasing of Cathy's fast-moistening girl-flesh. "Okay," he said briskly. "That's the dessert. Let's get the meat and potatoes off the plate first."
He flipped her onto her side, snuggled down beside her, and once more took her into his arms.