Chapter 1
There were six men in the Wizard Chef when the rumpled old guy came in. That is, there were six men if you call Cesar a man, at seventeen. None of them knew the rumpled old guy, who said his name was Driessen, Doc Driessen. He had the sex formula that was going to give them the most fantastic night of their lives.
The rumpled old guy had a little trouble, at first. The biker acted as if he wanted to fight. The trucker was worse than surly. But Doc Driessen accomplished his purpose. He got them all together, at a table in the back corner of the little restaurant.
"My name's Driessen," he told them. "You can just call me what everyone else does—Doc Driessen."
'What's up, Doc?" Fred Foster asked, and he and Cesar Perez chuckled.
Doc smiled, then un-smiled, just like that. "I'll tell you what's up," he said, and he did. He didn't use a lot of fancy language, either.
Doc Driessen was a chemist. A master chemist. He had invented a formula and mixed it up, in liquid form. An elixir. The complicated formula and its liquid preparation worked very simply.
"It turns on females!" Dave Griffey echoed.
"Absolutely," Driessen said, nodding his head with its thin cover of soft-white hair. "Like animals, like bitches in heat."
"Rrowf!" Cesar barked.
"Shi-i-ittt," Mickey White drawled.
"Why tell us, Doc?" That was Cesar Perez, who was almost virgin and perpetually horny. He was so excited his voice quivered.
Driessen leaned closer to the five heads bent over the formica top of the table. He wanted to share his elixir with his fellow men, he said, and had chosen them purely by chance, because the five of them happened to be here, in the little diner called Wizard Chef. The sixth guy had left. Poor dummy.
Driessen did not tell them that he wanted to field-test his formula, that the university would throw his ass out in the street if they knew to what purpose he had put their lab and chemicals, and that these five happened to look to him like a good cross-section of American masculinity.
They were.
Cesar Perez, seventeen, worked in a filling station. A lean, dark boy of medium height, with curly, dark hair and eyes like round pools of melted chocolate. And he was almost a virgin.
Dave Griffey was twenty-three. He was a tough looking dude, hardly clean, his long auburn hair pulled back and tied with a thong, real leather. His jeans and denim jacket were grease-marked, and his biker's boots looked as if they'd been through a war. His big Harley-Davidson was parked outside, shiny and clean.
Fred Foster, twenty-nine, had come over to the Wizard Chef from the supermarket across the street, where he was assistant manager. He was nice enough looking, recently divorced and feeling it, even if Angeline had been a do-it-in-the-dark Southern Baptist who at the last minute voted for Ford because Carter said he dug women. No one had yet told Fred that his mustache wasn't really right on his squarish face. His brown hair looked done, and was; since the divorce he'd been going to the stylist every other week. It was chewing the hell out of his salary.
Mickey White, thirty-four, lived a long long way off. The big Peterbilt tractor-trailer rig outside was his. Interested, he wasn't about to mention to Driessen his wife Betty and the kid. Six-two, he wore a size forty-four jacket and was both the tallest and biggest man in the group. And he seldom took off his cap, which said CAT just above the bill.
Bill Martin was forty. His hairline had sneaked way back off his forehead and there was gray at his ears and some in the beard he shaved off every morning. Bill was credit manager in the local IBM sales office. He was a quiet man, dumped-on by the others in the office—and by his wife. Bill knew it. He was too easygoing, too quiet, took too much. They even made fun of him because he read so much science fiction, the dummies. Bill didn't know how to get out from under. Mister Meek.
Right now all of them were excited, wide-eyed, and not—quite convinced. After all ... a sex elixir! A formula for fucking! Shit. Griffey and White were openly scoffing.
"What you're saying," Doc Driessen said, "is 'show me'. All right, fellows. I will show you."
He produced a little glass vial, no thicker than Mickey's thumb and maybe as long as his middle finger. Stoppered, it looked as if it contained nothing but slightly yellowish water.
"Observe," Doc said. "Oops, easy now. Dave, isn't it? Dave Griffey. Easy, Dave, don't jar my arm. One ... drop..."
That's what he let fall into his coffee. One drop. For a moment the coffee looked oily on top. Then it looked like nothing but coffee. Doc stirred it. The old guy looked, Fred Foster thought, like somebody you'd get to play Santa Claus, although he'd need a lot of stuffing under the uniform. All that sweet kind face needed was a beard. Doc was a slim man, about five-six, with only a little pot that was developing under his belt. Hell, the trucker had more gut than the old boy—though of course Mickey White was built as if he pushed weights or something, aside from the stomach, that is. That came from too much sitting in a truck, and too much bread, mashed potatoes, and beer.
Driessen straightened. So did the others, as if on signal. Instantly they started trying to look cool and casual. To the waitresses, who were watching, the sextet looked guilty. Maybe they'd been bent over dirty pictures, Carol thought. Nasty filthy men!
But now the old guy was looking at her. He beckoned. Carol went over, her hips swiveling and her breasts joggling. They were bare under uniform and apron. She did that to tease men, the nasty filthy bastards.
"There's . . . something wrong with my coffee," Doc said. He spoke apologetically, very quietly. "I'm sorry. It's just . . . would you . . . would you please just taste it?"
Mickey opened his mouth and Driessen kicked his booted shin.
Carol was incredulous. "Taste it!"
"I—it's odd. I can't quite place the taste, and I should be an expert. You see, I'm a doctor. Would you please just taste it?"
Doc Driessen looked, as sweet as Santa Claus, up at Carol, a blonde who was in truth both attractive and shapely. Fred Foster had been hopeful about her ever since the divorce. He got nowhere. Now she was gazing back at Driessen. A little frown appeared on her face. A worried look.
Five men and a boy held their breaths.
"Please," Driessen said again, very quietly.
Carol's gray-eyed gaze shifted to the mug of coffee. It looked untouched.
"Oh good grief," she said, and picked it up as if it might be burning hot or bitter or ready to bite her.
She sipped.
Four men and a boy released their breaths.
"Hmp." She pursed her lips, looked pleasantly thoughtful, moved her lips, tasting. "Nothing wrong with this coffee, Mist—uh, Doctor," she said, and deliberately took another swallow to prove what a silly ass he was and how superior she was.
Driessen was frowning as if in concern. "Nothing? You don't taste anything... odd?"
"Not a thing. I think it's a pretty good cup of coffee." She smiled. "Of course, what do I know. ... I drink the coffee here all the time!"
Everybody released tension by laughing. Driessen shook his head.
"Maybe I'm coming down with something," the rumpled old guy said.
"Doctor, if you are and you've given it to me,"
Carol's color was deepening. Her lips parted and Carol said, "I oughtta sue you!" starting to scratch her breast but stopping herself, she breathed through her mouth. Four men and a boy were again holding their breaths.
"Well, I'll give you free care, anyhow. No no, I'm fine, I'm sure. It's just . . . that coffee certainly tasted funny to me."
"You're all right aren't you, miss?" Driessen said. "Feeling perfectly fine?"
She was trembling, licking her lips. "Well, I . . ." Her eyes darted over the collection of American manhood at the table. "I . . . I'm . . . whew! What a hunk of men at this table! Six of you, no less!"
"You want a man, Carol?"
"Shit," Fred Foster muttered.
"You kiddin'?" Carol said. She was fidgeting, starting almost to dance. Her hand darted up and scratched a breast that, bare under apron and uniform, jiggled softly with her activity. "Me want a man?" She sidled a little closer to the table, seemingly scratching one thigh against it. "Me?" A long shiver went through her and expelled a breath in a gust. "Damn," she muttered, and began scratching her other breast. She visibly pressed her thighs together, tight. "I—I'm working! Besides, I—Christ yes I want a man!"
Smiling, Mickey White slid a hand straight up her leg and under her skirt. She made a little humming sound and her legs came apart. Mickey's hand found a lump of very wet flesh, tightly cinched up in wet nylon, and he nudged it with his thumb. Carol groaned and hunched that wet pussy mound to his thumb.
Time for my break, Carol!" the other waitress called. She sounded snappy.
"Yeah," Carol breathed, unsteadily. The word came out in a loop-the-loop. "Sure, OK Deb—hit the road. I can handle things."
"You want anything?" Deb asked, hanging up her apron. A man!
"What?"
"Nothing, thanks." "You all right, Carol?" "YESSS!"
"OK, OK." And Deb left
"How long's Deb's break," Driessen asked, reaching around to rub Carol's skirted ass. "F-forty minutes."
"Whew. We don't have much time. We'd better pull the blinds and lock the door, hmm?"
"Yeah! Right! Jesus, am I horny! Umm . . . here, big boy, let me get these rotten dam' panties off and you can get your thumb right in."
The six males stared—one of them smiling benignly, a beardless Santa Claus—while she did just that. Although Fred reached for her, Mickey pulled
Carol into his lap and began playing with her breasts. She reached back and down, and Fred's eyebrows went as high as Mickey's, although it wasn't Freds cock she was snatching at.
Smirking, Mickey said, "You want a cock, sweetheart?"
"Damright I want a cock! I need a cock!"
"Uh, Mickey," Driessen said quietly to the trucker. "I want to test my formula on a large cross-section of young womanhood. Tonight, if possible, if all of you gentlemen will be so kind as to help me."
T'rific," Mickey White said, groaning as Carol bounced.
"Now if thirty or so young ladies were clamoring for our attentions—" "THIRTY!" Cesar burst out.
Driessen nodded. "As I was saying, to Mickey-could you do your part if you, ah, climaxed now? It's two-fifteen in the afternoon," he said, adding the last three words in the event that the hot-and-both-ered Carol had Mickey so hot and bothered he didn't know day from night.
"Uh-"
"It is for that reason that I suggest we allow our youngest member to seek to aid Carol in her desperate need," Driessen said. "When one is seventeen, one can climax many, many times!"
"Hell, shit," Dave Griffey said, "what's so damned old about twenty-three? I'm a grade-A stud, man!" Cesar, meanwhile, stared at Carol and looked ready to pass out from sheer excitement and longing—and now, hope.
"What's all this dam' chatter," Carol demanded, reaching over and squeezing Fred Fosters leg. "Why don't we all go in back and I'll show you you don't have to sweat who balls me. After I've worn you all out, maybe we can round up an army or something!"
"Jesus," Mickey mattered.
"Cesar—" Doc Driessen said.
"Damn blabbermouth men," Carol said, and lurched up from Mickey White's lap. She had been eyeing Fred's crotch, seeing how his fly had grown tighter and tighter. She bent, her eyes bright, and whipped that zipper down like a champ. Fred, who had been hot for her for so long and who had been steadily put in his place by her, now proved that he didn't wear shorts. Five or six inches of red erection lunged from his open fly and stood tall and arrogant in the air, quivering with the throbbing of his heart.
Hoisting her skirt, Carol nudged his legs together, moved swiftly at him, astride his trousered legs, and held up her skirt with her arms clamped to her body while she opened her wet, shining cuntlips with both hands. She drove herself straight down the shank of his dick, and with such suddenness and force that Fred cried out.
Smiling, sighing, grunting, she began whipping her hips up and down with lunges and plunges and gyrations that could only be called frenzied.
Not a man of them had ever seen a woman go after cock with such gusto. Her strained face had gone slack. Her eyes were almost vacant as she bobbed up and ground down, standing, squatting, fucking herself in a sensual delirium. Wild wet sloppy noises filled the air, as rocky-hard cock sluiced up and down in juicing, flowing, steaming pussy.
Up and down she drove, up and down, with a grinding torque action that made Fred's eyes bulge. Again and again hot prime cock drove up through the pouting, cherry-red lips of her bottomless pit. The frenetically-gyrating young woman groaned and thrashed, stuck like a lovely butterfly on the standing pin of his long, thick column of maleness.
Driessen, White, Perez, Martin, and Griffey stared while the former tease rammed and crammed her pussy up and down on the seated man's big bone. Her juices rolled down it and darkened his pants. Both he and she were fully dressed, although her unbra'd breasts were going wild inside her uniform. And Doc Driessen wore a sweetly benign smile.
Suddenly the youth among them was on his feet His chair went over backward. He lunged around behind Driessen's chair and faced the bouncing waitress. With one jerk of his hand, Cesar Perez whipped down the zipper of his skin-tight black pants. His hand went inside; the poor kid had to hunch forward to get his hard-on out of his white briefs. And then everybody was staring at him, not at the fucking pair. Rather, everybody was staring at Cesar's cock.
The lean dark boy was maybe five-seven and weighed maybe one-hundred-thirty pounds. Unless the nine or so inches of big swollen cock he unreeled was capable of adding another fifteen or so pounds to his weight It looked capable.
"Doc's our leader," Cesar cried, "and he said me!"
"Shit," Carol cried, "what a hunk of-"
"—sausage," Dave Griffey suggested.
Leaning forward, Carol gave Fred a swift peck on the lips. "Mustn't disobey our leader," she said, and unsocketed herself in one upward heave of her legs.
Fred groaned as his liquid-streaming tool bobbed and waved naked in the air, dark-red and drooling pussy-juices onto his pants.
"I'd like that from behind," Carol said, her eyes bright as cat's-eye marbles on Cesar's pride.
He blinked, but she was grabbing his hand as she brushed past. He turned, to find her already standing against another table and bending forward across it. A little bowl spilled white packages of sugar and pink packages of artificial sweetener across the off-white formica. Carol didn't seem to notice. She wagged her upturned tail—then hoisted her skirts and showed it to Cesar Perez.
With a little cry, the wide-eyed boy lurched forward.
"YOWch!" she yelped, for he'd missed the one available aperture and bounced the big head of his dick off the other, higher-set one between her large white buttocks. She reached back and tucked him into her cunt in a hurry.
"Hunnnnghhhhh!" Cesar grunted, and shivered all over while the elastic flesh of the turned-on waitress's cunt, a very meaty and unusually snug cunt, enclosed his mighty bone like warm oil.
That long, massive hunk of male meat went into her, all the way into her in one shot, and like that his zipper was snugged right into a warm womanly ass like a pair of big peeled eggs while his tightly-clothed thighs pressed the backs of hers.
"God dammit!" Fred Foster said plaintively, grasping his cock.
"No no," Doc Driessen told him," don't do that You don't want to do that. Save it! Put it away!"
"Shit," Mickey White said, grinning. "He cant put it away. Not till that thing goes down."
"It's not fucking fair!" Fred snapped.
"It looks like a pretty dam' fair job to me, man," Dave Griffey said, getting up so he had a better view of the youngster shagging the waitress.
The softly-fleeced lips of her creaming cunt flowed like liquid up and down the youth's long, stroking staff. Slapping sounds rose as her naked white tail was paddled by his surging body. Moaning and almost sobbing, he was rocking back and forth to punch into that wet pink complex, his second, with sheer carnal thrusts.
Wagging her ass, the bowed woman pushed back in an effort to plug herself to the throat, from behind and up through cunt and belly and rib-cage. Inside her dress her tits jumped and swung wildly about, tugging hard at her chest. She was weeping in pure pleasure and relentless need.
Sex-syrup flowed. Her thighs grew shiny with it. It puddled on the floor, thick and whitishly clear. Lost in exquisite pleasure and chemically-enhanced need, she writhed her hips and thrust her butt back to grind into his crotch. The waitress's mouth dribbled moans and grunts. The moaning, abandoned woman's quaking cunt-hole fucked urgently up and down and back and forth on his supersensitized probe, all the way back to the balls.
And Cesar Perez stood there and sobbed and hunched and groped her naked hindcheeks.
Hung with a cock some women couldn't take, much less the girls who'd seen it and changed their minds, the youth soared about in the seventh heaven.
Every fraction of a centimeter of thick hot cock buried itself between her thighs, in and up and under her bare jiggling asscheeks, and in the squirming young woman's torrid cuntal corridor. Its juices splattered.
His lustful cravings matched the hot needles of lust that were tormenting her own flesh. She hung onto the table, moaned, and grunted out little cries of pleasure mingled with continuing need.
All the while, Doc Driessen sat there urging the boy to make it last, make it last, think about the World Series, think about the NFL playoffs, think about a car he wanted, think about the Super Bowl . . . think about anything but pussy and bare white ass and his dark hands on it and golden-furred cunt and cock and fucking.
Cesar hung in there and kept hunching. His loins splatted against her bobbing trembling ass.
Dave Griffey couldn't stand the inaction while her naked breasts jumped and jiggled around like a pair of waterballs on rubber strings. He reached out and got himself a double handfuL While Cesar kept balling and the waitress kept hunching back to him, Griffey's unclean hands cupped the smooth flesh of her shimmering, luscious tits.
He lifted them, fingers pressing in and palpating the soft surface of each succulent white ornament. His manipulations combined with the boy's deep-balling made her tremble and whine in swift-surging lust. Her breasts swelled even more in a beautifully helpless, totally automatic erotic response, seeming to balloon, thrusting forcefully forward. She stared at the tabletop, hardly seeing it through lust-soaked eyes.
The young enthusiast standing behind her worked and grunted. His jerking butt, small, lithe, and tight, slammed him in against rounded womanly haunches that swayed with catlike grace. He growled deeply in pure pleasure.
Copious secretions drooled down his thick cock-shank, which brought out more spurts of that lubricating juice with each partial withdrawal.
Then back he'd splatter it, hammering the oval-shaped jouncers of her ass. She murmured incoherently and writhed her eager body. Had anyone told her she'd said a thousand times that she hated men, she'd have said he was crazy—and she'd have said it loudly and with certainty.
Blond cunt worked hard on dark thick cock. She tried to remember to squeeze. That wasn't easy, with an orgasm rolling through her, with one guy balling her bowlegged and another handling her breasts as if they were oversize, offcolor tomatoes he was testing for ripeness.
She murmured incoherently and writhed her eager body. That's been said? Well, she kept it up. She did a lot of it. She was a bitch in incredible burning needful heat.
"Easy, Cesar," Doc Driessen said. "Think about ... Darth Vader. Make it last."
"Think about ya mothah," Mickey White said, and laughed. He was staring with eyes bulged out like gemstones set badly in undersized eye-sockets.
Cesar did his best to think about anything but f— anything but this great juicy delicious—Cesar tried to think of other things. And he kept moving, fucking as if his life depended on it, with his mind about to blow with the unbelievable luck and the thrill of it
Just a cawfee in a diner, and this kooky ole guy—and what a fuck!
The bouncing of her voluptuously ripe haunches added to the feeling this standing, doggy-style balling gave him. It increased the wonderful mindblow-ing sensation of giving in entirely to a primitive almost savage animal lust—right there in the brightly day-lit Wizard Chef!
Juices jetted and flowed, slow in their thickness, down her silky thighs. And Cesar's mounting rut was an ache in his skin-flailing balls. Boy, he tried to make himself think, and concentrate on; boy, did that Jackson ever knock that fuckin ball right outta the fu—the goddam park! Christ, what a ball player that black dude is, man. Oh Jesus, I'm going to co—
"Clamp those titties, you hippy bastard," the bowed blonde cried. "You afraid of 'em, man?"
The biker's face writhed in anger. "Clamp 'em, huh? Afraid of 'em, huh? I'll show you clamp, you fuckin' slut!"
Gripping the supple ivory balls of her tits in grease-dark hands, he twisted the meaty flesh in callous fingers. A throaty murmur accompanied her gasp as his hands mauled the breasts hanging out of the open front of her uniform.
He crushed those brazenly rounded pillows together until their cleavage all but vanished and she quivered in his grasp—and Cesar, grunting, jammed it in. Griffey clamped, worked the throbbing milky masses, pawed and squeezed until their nipples surged pinkly out into impudent, incredibly long extrusions. Strong fingers sank cruelly into the naked, soft flesh of the swollen, ripe bulges while he stared into her eyes, daring her to make a protest, oral or physical.
"Take it easy, uh, Dave" the scientist said.
He received a scowl. "She said clamp these jugs! I'm damned well fucking clamping 'em, man!"
"Take it easy," Driessen said more sternly, "or— you're off the team."
"Shit," Griffey said.
"Fuck," the woman said, and jammed back so hard that Cesar had to hang onto her nicely padded hipbones to keep from being hurled backward across the Wizard Chef and into the line of stools at the counter.
He hung on. Her cradling buttocks squirmed back while she crooned happily, urging him on, sucking him in, his crotch trying to crush her pulpy asscheeks and his cock losing itself between the muscular walls of her vaginal canal. He was muttering aloud—multiplication tables!
He heard their harsh grunts, hers and his, while he rooted into that tautly stretched, dripping slot With his youthful asscheeks drum-taut with strain and striving, he drove hot young cock up to disrupt pulpy inner women-meat.
Her Griffey-handled nipples were hard and purpled, in constant motion at the ends of the jiggling jumping masses of her truly splendid breasts.
Her cunt approached another orgasm with spasmodic clenchings.
A wonderfully soft though taut bundle of naked, ultimate femininity bowed before his rutting body, she responded hotly to the youth's vigor. Rich-breasted, taut-thighed, swivel-hipped, molten-puss-ied, the manhating waitress worked away under his rearward ministrations to her need.
Griffey sulked; unbelieving his good fortune. Fred Foster had approached and twisted around to suck a little titty. He loved that. He loved breasts, Fred Foster did. He'd loved his wife's. It was just that that damned Angeline had been jealous and tight with them as if they were each made of solid gold—or breakable as the finest white, blue-veined china.
Now Fred had all he wanted, and he hoped ole Cesar made it last, while he did his thing with all this naked jumping titty.
Artful male mouth massaged the pencil-thick nipples. Teeth and lips plucked and twisted, pulling them until those scarlet nubbins were even more rigid and aroused. She liked it too. She said so very clearly, though not in words; she was no longer able to say anything coherent.
Unconsciously, she parted her thighs even wider for the rutting, slogging, hard-fucking youth behind her. Between the very tips of those sturdy thighs, breast-loving mouth and cunt-loving dick had kindled a fast-burning fire that would develop on and on into a raging inferno that was already practically shrieking to be sprayed with thick male liquid.
His tongue swirled over her nipples. His hands squeezed, trying to feed more lithely muscular breast-flesh into his eager face. Her entire fired, bowed body was aquiver as if a high wind was blowing through the Wizard Chef become sexator-ium. Grunts and moans emerged from her open mouth, and they were almost sobs, and she couldn't get her mouth closed.
Cesar hunched and humped while the other man licked and sucked. The object of their doubled attentions moaned, grunted, bobbed and back-hunched.
Cesar could no longer keep his mind off squirming cunt, off bare jiggling woman-butt, off the wet seething clutch all around his cock.
He did very well, considering. The hot heaving Hispanic youth fucked her through two cunt-spurting orgasms and into a third before he went stiff as if he'd been jabbed in the ass with a poker. He cried out, clutching her, shaking, while he sped his load into her clasping, greedy vagina.
She sprawled face-forward onto the table, upsetting salt and Foster.
When the six men left the restaurant, the sweating waitress was holding the phone in one hand and diddling herself with the other, four fingers at a time. She was calling her boyfriend, whom she'd been refusing for months. When Deb came in later, the two were balling away on the table back in the kitchen.
Deb never knew what the shit had come over her co-worker.
Blond Carol the waitress was only the first to experience Doc Driessen's miraculous formula for sex.