Chapter 3
About a week later, Harry and Angela were sitting around the beach house, drinking California burgundy and relaxing.
Except -- though she was relaxed, he was still feeling a bit uptight, still kind of pissed off about that wild gangbang they'd gotten themselves involved in on the beach.
Oddly enough, she didn't seem to realize what had actually taken place, how many guys had got-ten into her. To her, it seemed like Harry, and Harry only, had screwed her in the sand. When he'd tried to impart upon her what had actually happened, her eyes had gone opaque, slitting like the cat's eyes they resembled, and she'd simply said, "Harry, you were drinking too many daiquiris to really remember what actually took place."
He sipped his wine, letting the rich red liquid trickle down his throat and warm his insides.
What to do with this crazy, childish cunt he was living with, that he desired so much.
"Angela?"
"Yes, Harry?"
She looked up from her movie magazine, an innocent, querulous expression on her beautiful face. There was just a hint of irritation in her voice. She had just been reading about another young girl, much like herself, who had been "discovered" at a discotheque while doing a most revealing dance, and this girl had just signed a three-picture contract with Paramount. Angela, secretly -- and sometimes, not so secretly -- had always had dreams of becoming a movie star.
Or, at least some sort of "celebrity" -- some kind of performing position in show business. Even a dancer in a night club ... possibly a singer ... she would even consider (not so surprisingly) a career as a stripper.
"Angela, you've got to stop taking it off in public," Larry said flatly, trying to keep any emotion at all out of his voice.
She gave him a "so what" look, saying with a nasty edge to her voice, "What I do in public, Harry, is the same as I do in private. Unlike yourself, I have nothing to hide."
Then, she pointed at his crotch.
He had nothing to say; not with his rod of joy beginning to erect again, poking at his pants like a pole.
He thought: maybe a nudist colony would be the best place for us to move to. Then, he remembered; he'd tried that once. She got bored within hours, and he'd gotten an erection so fast the director had thrown both of them out.
Suddenly ... he remembered something ...
Lowering his wine glass, he said, "Say, Angela, don't forget ... Jim and Betty are expecting us ..."
She hadn't forgotten; at his words, she excused herself, and when she came back she'd changed from her bathrobe into a pair of worn blue jeans and a loose-fitting white T-shirt.
Jim and Betty lived about five minutes away, at the other end of Venice West. However, since they walked slowly, Angela being in no rush once she got out of the house, it took them about ten minutes to arrive there. Jim and Betty's place was simply a one-room shack, something Jim had put together himself, but it was neat and clean inside, though quite sparsely furnished.
Jim was a tall, bearded fellow with an easy, relaxed demeanor, and Betty was a short blonde who came on as effervescent as a freshly-opened bottle of 7-Up. Jim was a musician; he had played flute in a variety of symphony orchestras and stage bands, when he felt like it. When he didn't, he just laid around on the beach and got brown, sometimes playing his flute for kicks and Betty passing around the hat for coins.
"Hi there," Jim said, passing around a bottle of cold Chablis. Their life was quite informal; every-body drank from the same bottle, like Indians puffing on the same peace pipe.
"Oh, Harry! Oh, Angela! Oh, I'm so glad you could come, we're really so happy to see you again!" said Betty, throwing her arms around both of them and giving them each a big, wet kiss right on the mouth.
Harry, of course, couldn't help it if his prick started stirring at such intimate bodily contact. He sat down in a corner ever so quickly, so that they wouldn't notice it.
Angela sat down beside Jim, and took a short sip from the bottle as he offered it. Her lips opened wide, to close about the top of the bottle as if she was sucking cock, and the sounds she made from her throat sounded not very different from those she would have made if she was.
This seemed to turn Harry on all the more.
He sat cross-legged, to conceal his ever-erecting member. It was not too comfortable a position, but he managed to keep his cool, at least for the moment.
"Say, Angela," Betty said, her gaze admiring, "I heard you really had some great fun last Sunday."
Harry coughed, as if he'd swallowed his wine too fast. But, Betty continued, "I think it's really great to have the guts to get up in front of a bunch of strangers and do your thing, no matter what they think or who they are. I admire that, you know. I mean, it was just like you were on stage, like you were a performer and they were your audience."
"Well ." Angela replied, feeling her pussy growing, glowing wet and warm with Betty's compliments.
"She's right, Angela," Jim commented. "I think you must have had a real ball doing that. Now, take Betty, she's too shy to pull off anything like that ..."
"I am not!" Betty said, indignantly.
Harry said nothing; he just gulped that cold Chablis and hoped it would cool off his cock, at least for the moment.
"Please ... don't fight over me," Angela purred, not hiding the pleasure in her voice. "You sound as if you wished you had been there to watch me. But, since you obviously weren't," she added, winking at Betty, "if you like, I'll be glad to repeat the demonstration."
Harry coughed, choking on his wine; he swallowed hastily to keep from spitting the stuff all over the floor.
Angela didn't wait for him to grant approval, either (not that he would have). She turned to Jim, and said, "I need the right kind of background music, Jim."
Jim caught his cue. He excused himself, heading for the bedroom; he was back in seconds, holding his long, slender flute in his hand. The way he pointed it at Angela, it looked like he wanted to fuck her with the flute. Betty frowned slightly; she'd caught that motion, too.
Jim, leaning against a wall, looking casual and cool, placed the flute against his lips and started to play some of the more exotic, erotic passages from The Dance of the Seven Veils. Angela, who'd once studied classical music, knew the composition well; it was one of her favourites, no less.
She began to dance, like a Middle Eastern maid-en, slowly and sensuously, moving her hips into some acute angles that seemed almost geometrically impossible. She was shimmying from side to side, her hands gesturing obscenely, and her hair, of course, streaming in the breeze like a witch's shroud.
"Hey ... that's pretty good!" Jim cried out.
"Oh, Angela, you should be on the stage! You're much too good to be an amateur!" Betty complimented her.
Harry thought: that's all I need ... a stripper for a sex partner ...
Angela, it seemed, was now all over the room, lunging like a dueler, moving like a startled fawn. Her dancing, so far, was really sensuous, but not seemingly obvious; in fact, compared to that last Sunday, it was fairly restrained.
Until ... she slipped off her T-shirt.
"Oh, Angela ... oh, how I wish I had breasts like that!" Betty cried enviously.
Jim and Harry didn't say anything.
They were to busy watching Angela's boobs bouncing as she used her T-shirt like a veil, holding it over her face, then over her breasts. It was almost as if she was sniffing it, trying to smell her own sexual scent.
Then ...
She tossed the T-shirt to Jim.
He caught it, held it between his fingers for a few seconds; then, as if inspired by Angela's actions, he started to sniff the part of it that had been placed over her titties. When he was finished, he flipped it over to Harry, who simply took the T-shirt and placed it on the floor.
Angela's breasts stuck straight out like Buick bumper guards. Straight, firm, conical as howitzer shells, they seemed to beckon to Harry. At least, his cock thought so, for it began its usual growth cycles almost the second she had started dancing.
And, she was dancing in front of Betty, at this moment, her body in perfect synchronization with the trills and melodic raptures of Jim's sensuous fluting.
Suddenly ... Angela thrust her crotch ... right into Betty's face ...
And, as Harry watched, wondering, Betty opened her mouth, letting her tongue come out, while her hands dropped to her own crotch, to slip underneath the sleeveless mini-dress she was wearing and fondle her own erecting clit and churning cunt.
Harry thought: Angela's really turning Betty on ... Betty must want to imitate her so much ... that she'll try and bring on her own orgasm ... that she thinks Angela's having while she's dancing ...
As Betty continued to fondle her own genitals, Angela began to remove her jeans.
She unzipped them first, slowly, every movement almost orchestrated; then, still moving, she dropped them to her ankles and quickly stepped right out of them.
Then, she danced right in front of Jim, shoving her palpitating pussy right into his face. She was wearing nothing under her jeans.
Jim -- whose fluting had become more improvisatory, with strange, sensuous little trills appearing as if imported from Saudi Arabia or someplace like that -- suddenly stopped playing.
There was dead silence for several long seconds.
Before Angela could dance away -- he was moving ever so slightly, still right in front of Jim -- Jim took his flute and quickly, like a swordsman dispatching his adversary, shoved his flute all the way up her cunt.
Angela gasped, cried with delight, feeling the cold metal against her hot membranes. And, it was the mouthpiece end that Jim had shoved in there, too.
"Now, just wait a minute!" Harry shouted, figuring that things had gone too far this time to let pass.
He tried to get up, but was feeling the wine, both the California burgundy he'd been putting away at home, and the cold Chablis he'd been downing here. His reactions were a little slower than usual; and, too slow to stop Angela, who immediately began to dance away from Jim, and toward Harry. Both hands gripped around the flute as if she were trying to pry it loose from her pussy.
She was not, of course.
What she was trying to do was to drive it even deeper inside, as her juice began flowing more freely, and she could feel the spasms of sex shivering, vibrating all over her body.
Jim let out a long, low whistle -- of both amazement and approval -- and started to take his own clothes off. Since he wasn't wearing a shirt, and since he was barefoot, all he needed to drop were his pants and his shorts.
Angela was now right in front of Harry, no more than a foot away, so close that Harry could almost reach out his tongue and lick the tip of the flute protruding from his woman's pussy.
"Blow it, Harry, make me some music," she purred, winking her green cat's eyes at him.
He was half-considering her proposition when ...
Betty suddenly came close, and, reaching for the flute, yanked it right out of Angela's cunt.
And, when she'd got it out, she started licking the mouthpiece that had been inside, lapping up Angela's pussy juice like a cat lapping up cream.
"Give me my flute back," Jim said, edgily, as he got to his girl and yanked the instrument from her hand. Then, he sniffed the mouthpiece, smelling Angela's cunt juice, what few drops remained; as he put it back to his mouth again, he started playing some esoteric Indian music, soulful and very sensuous, while trying to lick the juice off the flute at the same time.
While Betty whipped off her blouse, revealing small, but still well-structured, breasts with tiny, taut nipples -- and, grabbing hold of Angela by the ass, started to stick her tongue into Angela's front door.
Angela started to dance away. Betty, still holding on to her ass, hobbled along the floor, still licking and sucking at Angela's cunt, slurping up the delicious juice that was now waterfalling out of Angela's vaginal orifice.
At the same time, Angela reached down, perhaps trying to push Betty away. But, it seemed that she got her hands on Betty's boobs. Perhaps liking the feeling, she began to knead them like fresh dough, l stroking the base and letting her fingers fondle the little nipples.
From deep in her throat, Betty made moaning, mumbling sounds, almost sighing in sexual ecstasy, as she kept her mouth attached, almost leech-like, to Angela's cunt.
"You're crazy ... you're both crazy!" Harry said, feeling his own rod as stiff as a steel pipe. Everything had been turning him on tonight, from the wine through the women. He managed to stand up and start toward both women.
Jim kept on playing a wild, out-of-sight flute, his own erection growing almost as long as the instrument he held in his mouth.
Betty, as if she'd had enough of lesbian love for the time being, suddenly stopped her activities with Angela, and turned her attention toward ...
Not Jim ... but Harry.
She grabbed Harry's cock.
Grabbed it with both hands, holding it firmly like an iron pipe, as if she was afraid she'd fall on her ass if she let go.
And, at the same time, her thumb was tweaking the tip of his prick, causing him to feel those sexual shivers running up and down his instrument, causing his balls to rumble against each other in his ever-tightening balls. Not to mention the sweat that was pouring off him into pools of moisture on the floor.
She stuck her nose into his navel, breathing so passionately that it made him tremble with unfulfilled lust. She nudged his navel, then started to lick the sweat off his stomach, as she still kept a good grip on his cock.
"Come on, Harry, you need a shower, look at how you're sweating," Betty chirped. "Let's take a shower together, and get all cleaned up. What do you say?"
He didn't say anything, at that moment.
He was looking in Angela's direction.
Still dancing, her hips vibrating as if being massaged, she had taken the Chablis bottle, which was now empty, and was trying it on for size in her cunt, while Jim, his head nodding as if in agreement, he eyes noncommital, was blowing langorous, lovely melodies on his flute.
Discerning that his woman seemed to be other-wise occupied, Harry let Betty, still holding him by the cock, lead him into the shower and turn on the water at a medium temperature. The warm water felt soothing on his head and back, as Betty soaped him down, her fingers beating out subtle rhythms in the small of his back.
He thought: what the fuck ... Angela wants to fuck around with Jim ... I'll fuck around with Betty ... fair's fair ...
He could feel Betty now in front of him, sliding her cunt toward his cock.
Waiting no longer, he lunged forward, his instrument sliding inside.
But, her pussy was so small, so tight, he could only get halfway in. He lunged more, pushing her back against the wall -- no fancy tiles here, just concrete walls were all-and trying to get further inside, as she cried in his ears, "Come on, Harry, let her have all of you!"
Then, sensing his problem, she grabbed the soap and started soaping that part of his prick that was still outside. A few minutes later, soap and all, he was nestled inside her vaginal orifice so tight that he'd almost swear it would take a crowbar to pry them apart.
Her tits, small though they were, were nevertheless rubbing nicely against his chest, and her tantalizing tongue was lapping away at his left ear, urging him on to greater sexual achievements.
He could feel her liquid flowing loosely, and feel her membranes clamping him, holding him fast, as her body moved and grooved against his own. The water was still coming down, and he came suddenly before he even realized it. It felt like they were fucking in a waterfall.
Her juice poured from her pussy, mixing with the soapy water as it slid down her legs and down the drain. Her cunt twitched as if spastic, and her tight muscles really worked over his instrument as if shaking hands. He felt himself come like a shotgun, his sperm scattered all over her insides; then, again, the reverberation he felt was like a gun being fired, as his prick exploded more and more, each round being fired off as if his cock was a trigger and her cunt the finger squeezing it.
He had her against the wall, and she was bent almost backwards, as he rammed and slammed and jammed it to her. Though almost ready to collapse, he summoned up every ounce of strength he could spare, because she was having none of him pulling out so soon. Even as his rod grew limp from his exertions, he could feel her vaginal muscles still going strong, as if she was some kind of automatic screw machine.
"Do you mind if we join you?"
They turned, slightly, toward the voice. Angela, holding Jim by the cock -- he was still playing the flute -- pulled aside the shower curtain.
"Sure," Betty gasped out. "Plenty of room for four."
As they climbed into the shower, pulling the curtain closed behind them, Angela's tits touched the small of Harry's back. They activated him, as Betty's vaginal muscles were doing, into another burgeoning erection, for he could feel his main machine start to come to life again.
Angela and Jim were now inside, and, with the water still coming down, Jim stopped blowing his flute. He was about to put the flute outside, when Angela grabbed it, and, smiling like a mischievous Girl Scout, tried to stick it up Harry's ass.
"Hold on!" Jim said sternly. "That flute cost me over a thousand bucks!"
He grabbed it back from her, and placed it out-side, away from the danger of water. Angela, piqued, quickly got down on her knees and took Jim's cock into her mouth ... and bit it, right by the foreskin.
Not a love bite, but a bite like chomping into a piece of raw meat.
"Ouch!" Jim cried.
He grabbed her by the hair, forcing her back against the far end of the shower stall. Still holding her hair, his cock still inside her mouth, he said, as he could feel himself coming, "Bite me again, bitch, and I'll pull every last goddam hair out of your head until you're bald as a baby!"
She got the message and, heeding Jim's advice, let her mouth membranes, not her teeth, do the talking as Jim, his sperm spurting into her throat, exploded in a spasmodic series of climaxes, each one more powerful than the one before. His cock blasted off like a cannon inside her mouth. She could feel her own cunt juices churning, as she eagerly gulped down his juice, forgetting the pain and strain from his grip on her hair.
Harry, meanwhile, had finished fucking Betty. At least, as soon as he saw what Angela was now doing. He pulled out of Betty's pussy while he still had most of his erection left.
Betty started to complain. But Harry, his cock still ejaculating, shoved aside the shower curtain, grabbed Jim's flute, and rammed it -- again, mouth-piece first -- into Betty's cunt. Betty, feeling the cold metal urge her on to greater moments of lust, grabbed the flute, almost exactly as Angela had done previously, and began to fuck herself with it.
Harry, figuring it was was now or never, crawled over to Angela. Luckily, Jim seemed preoccupied enough with having her suck his cock not to notice Harry coming along like a submarine from the depth of the sea. Like a horny dog, Harry shoved his cock into her cunt in one long, strong thrust that rammed her back against the wall again, breaking Jim's grip on her long, red hair.
Harry could finally get the fucking he was entitled to.