Chapter 1
You know how some girls get talked about, through no fault of their own? They don't. want to be talked about, usually. It just happens that way.
It happens, mostly, to girls who are much prettier than they have a right to be, or brighter, or livelier, or more open and honest in the way they talk.
Lynn Lautrec was one of those girls.
She had all the qualifies that trigger tongues with a tendency to wag: she was far prettier, far brighter, far livelier than any other girl in her high school, a bottomless well of bubbling vitality. She delighted in talking openly, candidly, joyously, of everything that interested her, including sex. And who was to know that her cheerful chatter was as often based on fantasy as on fact?
Another thing: Lynn Lautrec was blessed--or cursed--with a ripening, luscious, leggy body that was a magnet to male eyes; she had every straight male in school--student and teacher alike--grinding his teeth at the sight of her.
When girls started malicious talk about her, it was simply because Lynn Lautrec aroused envy.
When boys started gossip about her, it was be-cause she aroused erections, stimulated yearning young cocks, raised hope and hard-ons. But mostly hope, at least until her senior year.
So a lot of the gossip about Lynn Lautrec was started by boys out of sheer frustration. Out of their frustration, they told tales of how they'd fucked her, and how often, and how Lynn loved to fuck, and that she was crazy about cock; the tales the boys told were pure fantasy, not fact. Most of them, any-way.
But it was out of those malicious fantasy tales that Lynn's nickname was born, a nickname that stuck to her with all the adhesive tenacity of Elmer's Glue. She learned of that nickname in the spring term of her senior year, and almost dropped her art course, out of respect to the memory of a long-dead, de-formed, dwarfed French artist whose first name was Henri, and the second half of whose hyphenated last name was the same as hers.
The name the boys were calling Lynn--behind her back, of course--was "Too-Loose Lautrec."
"Too-Loose." Jesus.
They couldn't have been more wrong.
The few lucky boys who knew what they were talking about could have testified to the outrageous falsity of the "Too-Loose" slander about Lynn and her prized pussy. Those few lucky boys knew ecstatically well what a lie it was. They knew positively that Lynn Lautrec had as tight a twat--a few disadvantaged Presbyterian virgins aside--as any girl in school, as warmly, squeezingly snug a cunt as ever clutched a slender young cock. Not only was it tight, as tight as you'd want, but it was a supremely talented twat, a twat that did exquisite little tricks, a twat that, like Lynn herself, was full of surprises.
But the boys who knew better never said a word to correct the "Too-Loose" lie. They knew too well that their authentic testimony, however loyally motivated, might get back to Lynn. And not one of them wanted to run the risk of spoiling a good thing. A very, very, very good thing.
So when they heard other boys--under-achievers all--refer to Lynn as 'Too-Loose Lautrec," they smiled smugly, and r said nothing. And when the frustrated came up with other, triter, nicknames for Lynn, like "The Panting Pussy," and "The Pussy That Purrs," the select, knowledgeable few ignored the slanders.
One of the frustrated boys who never made it with Lynn dubbed her "The Velvet Vulva," pretending he'd experienced that heaven he was never to know. He went on to a career in medicine, and al-ready in high school was trying to speak in correct anatomical terms. But there was more than an element of truth in that accidental nickname, "The Velvet Vulva." Lynn's pussy was celestially soft and tender and moistly receptive; yes, warmly welcoming. Warmly welcoming, hell. Her squirmingly eager little twat was downright deliriously, hotly hospitable, once she'd made up her mind to fuck.
But the boys who had slid their lucky cocks into Lynn's lovely labyrinth ignored that nickname, too, uncannily accurate a guess--as it was. The luxuriant growth of hair around it was silky soft, and the pouting, delicate, dusky-pink lips of her pussy, moistly parted to embrace an entering cock, were exquisitely tender, gently yielding. Not unlike velvet. With "The Velvet Vulva," the doctor-to-be had chanced on a valid, very descriptive diagnosis.
On the few occasions when Lynn complained mildly to her few real fucking friends about the "Too-Loose" nickname, they'd say, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt . . . " and they'd kiss her opening mouth, and touch her slandered part And Lynn, as she spread her legs wide and opened her oozing prize of a pussy to greet their hard, thrusting, eager young cocks, would have to agree. Sticks and stones, she'd think idly, as her hips began to pump her gulping little cunt upward to welcome the in-thrusting shaft, may break my bones....
Even Lynn's friends "on the fringe came in for nicknames. "Group" or umbrella" nicknames, you might call them. Like all active, popular girls, Lynn was an ever-bubbling spring of vitality, and she drew around her a close little group of disciples, . a group which gradually took control of most of the school's extra-curricular activities. Lynn's inner circle came to be known around school as the 'City Hall Girls." Which, in turn, brought a new twist on another chestnut, "If you can't lick em, join 'em." But to understand that one, you need a little back-ground.
In her next-to-last year in high school, Lynn had not yet committed herself to all-out fucking--at least as far as anyone at school knew, and what she did at home with her doting stepfather was only her business and his--but on dates she did, take a very healthy interest in her escorts' cocks. The cock at hand, so to speak.
Hand was the word for it. When a boy's-demands on her became urgent, she'd give him a hand job, pretending to do it reluctantly. In truth, she loved the act of jerking boys off, loved the feel of the soft sliding sheath of skin over the hard shaft of a boy's pulsing cock. Depending on her mood, she masturbated them with quick, squeezing, expert strokes, swiftly and efficiently; or slowly, deliciously, letting her warm hand tease and hesitate along the throbbing shaft; and then, as the boy started to come, pumping her hand firmly up and down the bursting cock as it spurted and squirted, milking it forcefully in its diminishing throes until she'd squeezed out the last pearly drop. That's what she especially enjoyed, watching a cock as it suddenly came, spurting and jetting its juices from the loving grasp of her warm hand onto the dashboard, or onto the floormat, or onto the ground, or wherever.
Often, toward the end of that school year, she was tempted to take one of those delicious, hard, squirting hoses into her soft, moist, hotly hospitable, thirsting mouth. And maybe oftener, she--was tempted to take those hard young cocks into the juicy warm welcome of her oozing, craving little cunt. But, that year, she was still too conscious of how the boys had a tendency to talk around school. And so, that year, she never actually fucked anyone in her own age group. Or sucked a cock in her own age group. Until one night in May.
Her mother and stepfather were out somewhere that night, and she was alone in the house with her date, which was unusual. What was even more unusual was that she was wearing a skirt. A very short skirt, but a skirt, all the same. And she was feeling horny. That was not unusual, in itself, but for Lynn to be feeling horny in her own house even when her stepfather. wasn't there was a bit unusual. So unusual that it seemed to make her unusually horny.
Her date that night was a tall senior, a basketball player named Neal. His last name. His first name was Leonard, but Lynn had never heard anyone call him that. His basketball-player friends called him the Dribbler, and most of the kids shortened that to Drib. It was a good name for him. As good as any. Lynn had never been out with him before, and he was at the house now because he'd wanted to look over her records. They seemed to have the same taste in music.
He was sitting in an easy chair going through a stack of record albums on the floor in front of him when Lynn's hornies got the best of her. She got up from where she was sitting, went out through the archway of the living roam to the hall, stepped out of her underpants, and dropped them into an empty flower vase.
When she walked back into the living room, the air felt good against her pussy. The skirt she was wearing stopped only a few inches below her crotch.
She was glad to see that the Dribbler looked up from the records as she came back into the room, and was watching her as she sat down on the couch across from him. She raised her bare feet to the coffee table in front of her, seemingly careless for a moment about the angle of her legs, making it seem that if he did get a glimpse of dark fur between her thighs, it was an accident.
As she looked across at the tall boy, she saw that he'd lost all interest in the record albums at his feet. Lynn was not unaware of the magnet for his eyes the soft, shadowed undersides of her thighs had to be, especially for a healthy, growing young basket-ball player. She swung her knees slightly, keeping the warm young flesh-magnet of her legs minutely in motion, but angled slightly away from Drib's line of vision, so he could see at most only a shadowy hint of hair, not her pussy or any vital part of it. Lynn was very excited now, but she didn't know quite what she dared to do about it. He's only a boy, she told herself, my own age. And boys talk too much. She tried to concentrate on her iron-clad policy of never doing anything significant with boys who might talk.
"Jesus, Lynn," Drib said, staring fixedly at the flesh-feast of her luscious legs, "there's only one word I can think of for the way you look right now."
"What's that?" Lynn asked, her curiosity aroused, along with everything else. She kept the tantalizing, open display of her breath-stopping legs minutely in motion.
"Delicious," Drib said, choking a little on the word. "You look good enough to eat."
And that did it. She swung her knees directly toward him, together still, but the shadowy pink crease of her cunt was clearly there for him to see, under. the crept-up lower hem of her short skirt.
"Well?" she asked, and smiled at him. She knew exactly what she'd do, now. Exactly what she'd try to get him to do. It seemed at the moment like the most exciting thought she'd ever had.
The Dribbler didn't say anything. He just sat. And stared.
"Well?" she asked again. She let her knees come slightly apart, feeling the moistening lips of her twat part with them. The tall boy stared wide-eyed at the parted, pink, fur-fringed delicacy openly displayed in the soft warm frame of her under thighs.
Lynn saw him lick his lips, and had a glad surge of anticipation. But Drib didn't move.
"What's wrong?" she asked softly.
"I've never done that before," he said, in a tight, squeezed voice, tearing his eyes upward to look into her face as he said it.
"All the more reason to try it," Lynn said. "I've never had it done to me either." Which was a lie, but what she meant was she'd never had it done to her by a boy her own age. None of her cunt for con-temporaries. So far. No way. But this was different. Lynn thought she'd never been so excited.
She moved her bare feet on the coffee table, letting her knees come further apart, giving Drib a better angle, a dear view between the soft tempting swell of her upper thighs at the pouting pinkness of her cunt lips in their dark nest of dewy fur.
"I can't look at you," Drib said, and made a token motion with his eyes toward the ceiling.
"I want you to look," Lynn said, feeling herself begin to tremble in her excitement. She pushed the coffee table aside then, using both bare feet, and slid over to the end of the couch, directly across from where Drib was sitting hunched over the forgotten record albums on the floor. She raised one knee and draped her leg over the low arm of the couch, letting her other leg spread wide. She could almost feel the lips of her pussy parting wider, opening an invitation to the tall boy she was sure he couldn't refuse. An invitation to dine.
"Oh, God," Drib said, but he brought his eyes down from the ceiling, and he looked,. and he looked. His jaw muscles bulged. So did the front of his pants.
"Like it?" Lynn asked, her voice shaky.
"Love it," he moaned. "I told you. Delicious is the only word for you. And for--it." Jesus, she thought. He can't even say the word, can't even say cunt when he's about to get a mouthful.
She slid forward to The edge of the couch, spread her legs farther apart, opening her now-oozing cunt even wider.
"Well?" she asked again, when he sat unmoving, just staring. She wasn't shaky anymore. Just excited, to the boiling point.
"I told you," he said, sounding. hoarse now. "I never did that before."
"Don't you want to just kiss it hello?" she asked. Despite her excitement, she realized that suddenly she was enjoying herself.
He moaned.
"It'll kiss you back. I can make it kiss you back." He wrenched his eyes upward again.
"Just one little lick?"
His tongue was moving across his lips, his eyes casting wildly about the room. But always coming back to the glistening, bright-pink, moist magnet of her open cunt.
"No." He sounded as if he were choking.
"I'll open it up for you."
"No."
"Make it easier."
"No."
"Tastier."
"No."
"Tenderer." She was whispering now, as she moved her hands down and with the tips of her fingers spread the soft yielding lips, exposing the tender pink folds of moist membrane, the swelling little twig of her clitoris.
"I can't," Drib said. His lips said it. His throat made no sound.
"Don't you really want to suck my cunt?" Lynn asked softly.
"Oh, yes." He was trying again to look at the ceiling.
"Kiss my cunt?"
"Oh, yes."
"You said it looked delicious. Don't you want to taste it? Eat my delicious, warm, tender twat?"
"Oh, God," he said, staring upward.
"I'll suck your cock if you do." She hadn't meant to say that. It just bubbled out.
Drib brought his eyes down from the ceiling and looked at her.
"You will?"
"Yes. Afterward."
Drib stood up slowly and drew himself straight. God, he was tall. And trembling.
Lynn lay back on the couch, trembling again herself, her legs wide apart and her thirsting twat thrust upward, waiting.
She didn't have long to wait. Drib stepped over the pile of record albums and stood in front of her for a brief moment, looking down, then sank to his knees, his eyes drinking in the soft delight of her ripely swelling inner thighs, terminating in the dark nest of silken fur around her moist, pink, open cunt.
His trembles miraculously gone, he kissed his way gently, worshipfully, up along the insides of her calves, her knees, then along the incredibly soft expanse of her inner thighs.
Lynn felt her skin tingling at the touch of his tongue and lips, and she felt herself oozing. Then his fingers were parting her twat lips, tenderly--what good instincts this boy has, she thought crazily--and she watched as the tip of his tongue appeared, coming out further and further, until it touched, very tentatively, the tender pinkness just below her tingling clitoris.
Then, all at once, his whole mouth covered her open slit, in a deep, sucking kiss, and his tongue delved deep.
"Oooh," she said, and shuddered. She brought her warm thighs together softly over his ears.
He began licking up and down the tender, responding inner folds of her slit, along the whole inner length of her neat little quivering cunt. She felt her hips begin to move, all on their own, and she put her heels behind his back, to urge his tongue deeper.
"That's it, Drib," she murmured. "Lick my cunt. Eat my cunt. Gobble my cunt."
But she knew he couldn't hear, with her soft warm thighs embracing his ears. It didn't matter. He was lapping at her twat like a man slaking a desert wide thirst, with his tongue, his mouth, his lips. Her hips were thrusting and bouncing in wild abandon on the coarse fabric of the couch.
She wanted more, much more, than his plunging, probing, licking tongue, his hungry, sucking mouth devouring her cunt, but at the same time she didn't want him to stop, didn't want the warm, pulsing sensation in her rapturous twat-depths to cease even for a moment, ready and willing as she was now to be fucked.
So she put her hands behind his head, spread her thighs wide as if she were being fucked, and ground her cunt with spasmodic thrusts up against his mouth and tongue, literally fucking his face.
Drib was game at indoor sports other than basket-bail. He gobbled heroically, lashing her panting pussy with his tongue, lapping, probing, sucking, gobbling, And all at once, shuddering and whimpering, she came.
"Ooh," she murmured weakly. "Aah." Over and over again.
Finally, when her spasms had subsided, she looked up at him and smiled.
"That was beautiful," she said. "Thank you."
"You haven't forgotten?" Drib asked, looking down at her with a worry crease between his eye-brows. His pants bulged.
"No," she said, reaching for his belt buckle, smiling. "I'd love to suck your cock."
And she had sucked Drib's cock that crazy night in May, sucked it deeply, warmly, expertly, and had swallowed his spurting come, every last drop of it. And that, she thought later, was what had done all the damage toward the end of her junior year in high school.
Because Drib had talked, and he must have told the boys everything. She knew it when she heard the line the boys were using about the City Hall Girls. Not just about Lynn, but about her whole group.
"If you can't join 'em, lick 'em, the boys were saying.
And it was an easy step from that, the next fall, when she actually started to do a little discriminate fucking with a chosen few of the boys, to her unshakable nickname. Too-Loose Lautrec.
She was very glad when Graduation Day finally came.
And gladder still that she was going to college in another state. A faraway state.