Chapter 3
One of many things Clay liked about Alison Spencer was that she seemed natural. If she put on false fronts, airs, he had not detected the unreality. Even though he should have, it had not occurred to him that she came from money. Had he stopped to cogitate a few seconds on all the latex she wore, and the price of the stuff, he'd have been prepared for the estate, and the house.
The country house was more than big. The barns were big; the house was huge, with tall white pillars and outside porticoes around the second floor rooms. Below the barns, handsome saddle horses grazed. Near the house there were no less than three cars, including one of those super-expensive new small Cadillacs, GM's shot at taking some of the business away from the Mercedes-Benz people.
Wealth, Clay thought, and grew a bit more nervous about Alison's surely old-fashioned parents. That was quite enough-that they were more than well off just added to his apprehension. He did his best to prepare himself, and walked up to the house and onto its broad sweeping porch, hand in hand with Alison.
The door was opened by no less than a butler, a tall, slender man, fifty-ish and imposing in his black suit Alison introduced Clay as "Mister Clay McConnel" and the butler as "Sexton." Gotta remember that, Clay told himself. I call the dude Sexton, not Mister Sexton! Then he saw the next person he was to meet, and he thought, Oh dear God!
Her name was Mary, and she was the maid. She was not tall and skinny and she was not old and fat. Mary was young, brown-haired, and vehemently well-constructed. She wore the traditional maid's uniform, but...with some kinks. The long-sleeved black dress fit her arms and her torso as if she had been sewn into it, and it made a silent but unconditional statement about her imposing breasts and her tiny waist. The dress was mini-skirted, really mini-skirted, so that she showed what appeared to be a yard or so of shapely leg encased in black mesh hose. They vanished into stilt-heeled shoes, with buckles.
Mary's skin was a beautiful deep tan, and Alison explained as they went on through the vast entrance hall that Mary's full name was Maria Concepcion Quinonez.
"A Puerto Rican," Alison said, and added matter-of-factly, "Daddy laid her in New York City and brought her right home, over a year ago."
If this were a movie or a comic strip, Clay McConnel thought, I'd say: Gulp!
That's what he'd have said when he was introduced to Alison's mother, too. He stared.
The woman with the jet-black hair alleviated in front by a streak of white, a "skunk-lock," was both tall and big. Imposing; Wagnerian. She was also youthful looking, with a vast jiggly bosom beetling like cliffs over a tiny waist. The long-sleeved black turtleneck fit her the same way the maid's long-sleeved dress did, and Alexandra Spencer's skirt of purple leather was just as mini. Clay recognized her hose, which fit like a second skin though smoother: black latex. They vanished under the abbreviated skirt, and if Mary seemed to display a yard of leg, this woman must be five-ten, over four feet of which, surely, was leg.
Her blue eyes met Clay's very directly, and her hand clasped his firmly.
"We've heard about you, Clay McConnel," she said. "You're very welcome here."
"Thank you, Mrs. Spencer," he said, and then was ass-hole enough to blurt, "you certainly aren't what I expected."
She gave him a cool smile. "I imagine that's a compliment. And call me Alexandra, please. Ah-this is Alison's younger sister Melanie. Melanie Clay McConnel."
Melanie was shortish, but with the "family bust" and a tiny waist-Clay knew why! She too wore latex hose, red. And her blue eyes gazed just as directly into his when she took his hand.
She tickled his palm.
Clay had not recovered from that new surprise when he was meeting Monica. This was Alison's older sister, divorced and returned home, almost but not quite as tall as her mother, busty and tiny-waisted, and wearing a plunge-front white blouse tucked into a short, shining skirt Clay knew was latex. Her sky-high black hose were nylon. Her eyes were blue and her nose very straight, a trifle overlong. Her chin was dimpled like Alison's-and Alexandra's.
She took his hand, but did not tickle his palm. Clay sighed in relief. He was unable even to look at Melanie. What a brat-tickling the palm of her sister's man, with her sister and mother standing right there!
There was a brother, over six feet tall and reed-thin, his eyes blue-gray and his hair dark brown, reddish in the mustache. He was Edmund, and he had a firm grip, too, and he didn't tickle Clay's palm either.
He was about 25, Clay reckoned. Monica was either a little older or a little younger. Melanie would be under age twenty. As for Alexandra: the woman whose womb had produced these four good-looking children looked hardly older than thirty, though Clay knew she had to be in her forties.
He felt a little dizzy, in that huge high-ceilinged house, surrounded by tall people. Both Edmund and Alexandra-who wore old-fashioned stilt-heeled shoes-were taller than Clay, and surely Monica was his height, five-eleven. Only Alison and Melanie were shorter-and not by much.
Clay was then taken outside to meet the gardener-handyman and his wife; they lived in the second barn, which was a sight nicer inside than Clay's apartment. Tony was short (hurray!), dark, stocky, well-built, with curly black hair framing a bony, not unhandsome face. His wife was the real creature from the outer world: Debbie was tiny and really short, five feet or perhaps slightly less, with wide girlish eyes, blue, and sunny-blonde hair. Tony and Debbie were about twenty, maybe a little older.
Back inside, surrounded by family in a living room the size of a four-room apartment, Clay was attempting to chat and wishing desperately for something cold, liquid, and flagrantly alcoholic To his rescue came Brian Spencer, in a fourth car-a bright red VW bus!
Alison's youthful-looking father was Clay's height, meaning the man was shorter than his wife when she wore heels. His figure was excellent, and Clay subsequently learned that the man with the fierce-black mustache and bushy sideburns wore a size 42 jacket and had a 31-inch waist! There was no way Brian Spencer could buy clothing off the rack; the man had to make money!
Twenty seconds after Brian Spencer was inside the house, he and Clay were shaking hands. Ten seconds later Mary materialized, as if by sorcery-mercifully bearing a tray containing a tall, frosty pitcher of martinis and a set of stemmed glasses, all of which had been frosted. Clay gratefully accepted the alcoholic largesse.
He watched Brian Spencer drain his glass at one tilt and two swallows. Great, Clay thought, and did the same. He shuddered, smiled in response to the beaming grin Brian gave him, and joined the older man in handing his glass to Mary.
The blatantly sensuous maid poured them each a fresh martini-in a fresh glass.
Brian said, "Alison says you love latex, Clay."
It was gulp time again. Clay wondered what the hell else Alison had told her old man-who looked like anything but. Did they know he dug latex corsets and bras, or just...what showed?
"I do indeed. Beautiful. Very...sensuous. Better than satin or suede to the touch."
Brian beamed. "You've never felt it next to your body?"
Clay shook his head.
"Well remedy that. I wear latex shorts, always." He broke into a huge grin. "Don't worry I Latex does melt off fat and control the figure by making the wearer sweat, because it doesn't breathe. But there's no danger to a man in latex shorts, since I assure you cock and balls are not composed of fatty tissue!"
At that statement of the man he'd expected to be such an old-fashioned Victorian, delivered in front of the entire family and the maid-who grinned from ear to pierced ear-Clay did indeed gulp. Then he managed to laugh, for which he should have got some sort of medal.
"Great!" he said, sounding only slightly choked.
Brian leaned close. "Actually Fm convinced that heated underwear generates more sperm and desire, Clay."
Clay got out: "Far out."
It was then that Clay learned Brian Spencer owned a latex manufacturing company...that is, a latex goods making company. Spencer did a big mail order business, and had retail outlets only in big cities.
"Latex," Brian said, "like leather, is a common fetish and sexual-enhancer that a lot of people love. It isn't cheap, of course. Not to make, and not to buy. There is also the problem of volume. Anything sexy in this poor country never sells in really big volume, which is one reason it has to sell higher, per item."
Clay nodded. Fascinating. Far out. The martini made him warm and mellow. The second one; he was careful to drink it far less swiftly than he had the first, though Brian kept looking hopefully at his guest's stemmed glass. Clay did not empty it
Two of these, he thought, and I'd be slightly woozy-and probably jumping Mary's ass! Or Monica's. Or Melanie's.
Or...gulp...Alexandra's!
About that time the latter reminded them that dinner would be ready in forty-five minutes or so. Mary confirmed Alexandra's silent query. Alexandra looked at Mary with thick black eyebrows elevated; Mary nodded.
"Alison," Alexandra said, "show Clay to his room-and come right back down, mind!"
Alison did; the room was on the second floor, facing front.
"Yon could at least have warned me," Clay muttered.
"What? Warned you of what, darling?"
"That your parents are...that your family's...shit. I was expecting Victoria and Albert!"
Alison left laughing, dutifully going right back down.
Clay checked out his spacious room, which was done in red, burnt orange, brown and mahogany. A bathroom with shower was part of the room, like a hotel.
After all that sweating downstairs, he mused, a shower is most definitely called for! And he stripped.
As if on cue, Mary the maid entered two seconds after he'd peeled off his shorts. Instead of turning his back or covering up with his hands, his first reaction was to spin around at the sound of the door's opening.
"Mister Brian sent you a pair of latex shorts, YUM!"
Bosom jouncing and legs flashing, Mary hurried straight to him. Her hand shot out to flip the shorts she carried onto the red bedspread. Her lips were parted in a nice little O, and her eyes were fixed on Clay's cock. Just as he started to put down a hand to cover the thing up, she hit both knees in front of him. With one hand she brushed his away. With the other she cupped his balls. And gave his penis, which flinched at first, a long, long soul kiss.
Jesus, he thought, as she sucked it into her mouth. Jesus H. Christ!
She sucked and licked, working his non-erection around in her capacious mouth while her fingers kneaded his testicles with expertise. Clay was suddenly in mind of Heston's anguished shout in Planet of the Apes: It's a ma-a-ad-house!
Clay did not shout it. He didn't even say it. He just stood there and stared down at the sexy maid-Mary the maid, surely not maid Mary-while she knelt and sucked his cock. And he thought things like Jesus H. Christ and Holy Shit!
His long, lanky hunk of penis soon began becoming a longer, thicker, and far harder, hunk of erect cock.
Now Mary had to work hard at the big swollen bone that widened her lips' aperture and formed a bridge between her heart-shaped face and his loins.
When the sexy little bitch tightened her teeth, pulsing warmth invaded his balls and flared up into his belly, which tried to knot with sexual tension.
He stared down at the top of the dark young woman's shining black head in a trance of lust.
In a long, slow and thoroughly lascivious leave-taking, she eased her pursed, straining lips back off his cock. It glistened wetly with a thorough coating of her saliva. The girl kissed its tip, and came swiftly up to her feet.
"Oh, it IS a beauty! You'll let me have it, won't you Mister Clay?"
"Jesus, you incredible sexpot, get your damned pants down and make it fast!"
With a happy smile, she spun away from him, reached up under her mini-skirt, and, grinning directly into his eyes, swiftly rolled down a pair of black panties-latex, naturally. Next she popped his eyes and half blew his staggering mind, by turning around and bending over. Up came her round tan ass, elevating like a big gun in search of a target. Her skirt she held up in the small of her back, and her legs were well apart A plump pussy with a lot of black fur curling back between her thighs seemed to stare at him like a vertical eye.
"like this?" she asked, slapping her hands onto the floor and looking back at him between her thighs, with an upside-down smile.
"like that! Hold that pose, you doll, and grab a deep breath!" He swiftly covered the few feet between him and her delectable self. Standing before him, his big hard-on swung and bobbed wildly.
"Oh, I am ready for that pretty thing of yours, Mister CLAAAAYYYYY I"
Her voice went straight up, both the scale and in volume, as he plunged his erection into the black jungle between her forked thighs and slugged her pussy full of thick, hot meat.
Her cunt didn't grab him. She was big inside, wet and slick as greased rubbed. His knob plunged all the way and gave her cervix such a gonging stoke that she tottered and squeaked, her arms and legs both stiffening against the floor to hold her in place. "GAH! Quecipote!"
"No habla Espanol, or something like that," he said, skewering in with all his might, grasping her hips and trying with all his might to flatten her ass against his flat belly.
She was almost sobbing as she said: "I said: What a cock!"
"You've sure got room for it, you darling sweet little whore!"
She wiggled her ass. "Oh! What a sweet thing to say! We've only just met and already you have a pet name for me!" She gave that upturned butt such a torque that he momentarily wondered if his cock was about to get screwed off inside her.
No way. She had plenty of room for it.
The top of her black, white lace-trimmed maid's dress was quite low and round. He hadn't known she was braless until her naked tits flopped free and started tracing out wild circles under her bowed body. Impetus was provided by the vigorous hip-twisting strokes he gave her, jamming big cock in and out of her big soft pussy and enjoying the slight pain as its swollen head bounced off her cervix, again and again.
She groaned, wiggled, her hips and large oval-shaped tan cheeks wildly oscillating and gyrating while he pumped. His thighs slapped those beautiful buttocks time and again, and the cracking smacks were loud in the room. So were her groans and exclamations-in Spanish.
The big stalk of his reaming deep-seating cock drove far within the over-bent girl, then sloshed forth her juices on its partial withdrawals, so that his pubis fleece was drenched with flowing cuntal syrup.
It felt great. He tried to knock her flying across the room into the wall. But the tawny-skinned girl remained firmly positioned like an over sized croquet wicket, and took every powerful lunge of outsize cock up her outsize pussy with great relish and never a stagger.
"You'd better...get ready for building an ark," he gasped. "Fm about to-oh NO!"
The last two words were elicited by the girl's jerking her cunt off his throbbing erection. But she had no notion of leaving it out in the cruel air to pump its cream. Instead, she spun around, naked tits bouncing about in front of her uniform, and dropped to her knees again. She grabbed cock and balls with both hands and popped the great staff into her mouth.
Next instant it went off, and she sucked and swallowed, sucked and swallowed, and then kept on sucking until he had to step back and pry her loose; all that suction on a highly sensitized and totally emptied prick was agony.
She looked up with dancing brown eyes and licked her lips. Then she rose, bent to kiss his cock, snatched up her panties, and flew out of the room.
"Holy shi-it!" the staggering Clay McConnel exclaimed, and tottered into the bathroom to take his shower.
Brother, he thought later, as he emerged from the steamy bathroom and headed for the bed and his new briefs, I've been in hotels smaller than this place. And the maid service was never so super-have I ever been serviced!
Then, having to wriggle a little, he drew the slicky latex shorts up his legs. The briefs were black. When he looked in the mirror, his belly and thighs looked very pale by contrast. The shorts felt odd, but not unpleasant. They were skintight, forming a bulging package of his genitals, which reflected the light in a pale strain-point. They were also warm; non-porous. And they held him.
"Whew," he muttered as he went for some clothes, "these things'll be a constant sexual reminder!"
And, as he drew on his pants, "I hope to hell Brian's right about there not being any fat to melt off, in the cock and balls department! If I lose weight there I'll KILL that mother!"
Then, well-fucked, showered, and dressed, Clay McConnel left his room for his first meal in this huge and strange house. Even then, after all the openness of manner and talk, and Mary's "seduction" of him, he had no idea just how odd that household and its occupants were.