Chapter 2
Birds, or bats, swooping and fluttering among the sagging roof timbers, startled Rita. Snowflakes clung icily in the roots of her hair, and she shook her head to brush the powdery flakes from her shoulders. Across the littered space a large rat scampered between mounds of ash and debris. Rita shivered. She remembered the time a rat had bitten Mike's ankle as he heaved and thrashed about with several inches of hard cock into her.
Rita smiled. It was all crowding back, the good and the bad. From the moment when Mike first taught her real appreciation of a fat penis she had been his absolute sexual slave. He dominated her existence, and she had been content to bask in the forcefulness of his personality, delighting in his strength.
Lurid scenes passed before Rita's brooding eyes, all so vividly real, like the occasion when she had gone to meet Mike and found their favorite retreat had been invaded by a couple of arse-bandits, a fair haired youth and a middle-aged man. The kid was naked, the man's trousers gaping wide open, his shirt flap pulled up away from his protruding genitals. He had a big prick, but it was flabby, only partly stiffened. The boy's virile cock jutted aggressively. The man, seated on the guard rail enclosing silent machinery, had both hands on the youth's bare white arse and was avidly kneading the softly rounded cheeks, working his fingers deep into the dark cleft. As Rita watched, unseen, the man took the boy's erect cock into his loose mouth and sucked it noisily, taking the whole rigid length into his mouth each time his graying head thrust forward. Presently he instructed the youth to turn round. The kid did so, smirking, his eyelids drooping, proud cock powerfully erect. His full, dark red lips trembled when the man began licking the dusky furrow of his pale bottom, repeatedly probing his broad nose into the moist fissure and screwing his tongue into the boy's arsehole. A large, sinewy hand moved round and captured the youth's rampant prick.
The man stood up. His penis was less flaccid now. He held it with his other hand and rubbed the fat knob in the crease of the boy's prominent buttocks. From her hiding place Rita saw the fat prick thicken and swell, and some of the man's agitation and excitement infected her. He stopped frigging the boy's cock and concentrated on buggering his bloated prick into the incredibly resilient pit of the youthful fag's puckered anus, using both thumbs to gouge the flesh apart, sinking his inflated knob by fractional degrees in a series of furious, impatient lunges, then grasping the boy's hips and fucking frenziedly until a large part of his now cruelly distended cock disappeared into the yielding rectum.
The youth's expression indicated no discomfort. He jerked off slowly while the man fucked and surged, gasping and grunting, his face beet-red. Hairy balls slapping against the boy's smooth flesh, the man abruptly pushed the youth away and pulled his prick out until the throbbing knob rested in the crack of the young fag's arse. Rita saw the thick gush of sperm squirt against the swollen rim of the boy's anus, saw it puddle in the trembling crease and slide down the dark fissure to collect round his wrinkled balls. The older queer began masturbating, grimacing lecherously and mouthing lewd approval when the youth commenced to jerk off also. Eventually the man came a second time, less copiously but spewing a surprisingly amount. In the same instant he squatted down and again took the boy's reddened cock into his mouth, capturing it brief moments prior to furious orgasm and literally wallowing in the pungent flow, smearing sperm all over his face and voraciously licking away every last sticky trace from the oozing knob.
Later, after they got dressed, Rita saw the man give several small denomination bills to the flushed youth. They left without discovering her. When she told Mike about the incident, he laughed. Even before he touched her, Rita was in a state of intense sexual excitement. Everything she saw and heard was impressed on her young mind. There were other incidents, a continual sequence of events all involving sex. Rita associated her intimate parts with an infinite variety of sensations that became more demoralizing acute each time she opened her legs to Mike. But because what she did with Mike gave her pleasure, she assumed that anything connected with sex, however strange, was permissible, and she derived extreme satisfaction and a kind of gloating, guilty stimulation from exhibitionism, impudently exposing her ripe young body at the slightest provocation, not only to Mike but to anybody who encouraged her. She knew, even then, the power she had over men, the compulsion for cunt in a masculine world.
One evening while she was waiting for Mike in the draughty storage building, Rita was startled by the furtive approach of crippled Rory McShane, the watchman. Rory, middle-aged and unshaven, with a face all ridged and scarred from a shotgun blast, looked repulsive and evil; but he was popular with the kids who knew him for the randy old bastard he was. He gave them candy and money to jerk him off in his squalid hut back of the warehouse. Rita had often seen him with one or another of her friends, and had listened intently to their lurid descriptions of what happened in the gloomy shed. Sometimes he showed them pornographic books and pictures.
For the past two years Rory had attempted to coax Rita into his hut. He followed her about, spying on her and Mike, sometimes exposing the great circumcised root of his prick. Rita taunted him, flipping her frock up and displaying her plump arse, but never yielding to his plausible, persuasive manner because of some vague fear she couldn't quite define and was unable to shake.
But on that occasion, when he sneaked up behind her, she felt secure in the knowledge that Mike was due to arrive any time, and her fear of Rory evaporated. It was replaced by a flutter of excitement and curiosity when he sat beside her on the crate and immediately began talking suggestively, handling his genitals through his pants, and chuckling obscenely when he saw her staring. He showed her a handful of coins, pressed them into her grubby palm, and Rita, knowing what he was after, allowed him to touch her breasts and thighs and finally to work his hand up her clothing and clasp her hot quim. She didn't panic. At first she felt mildly amused, then emotionally disturbed. After a while she was co-operating, opening her legs wide when Rory asked her, and giggling when he felt her moist cunt and squashed the cheeks of her arse. He pulled her panties down, took them off, lifted her frock and buried his whiskery face in her downy gulf, munched her tremulous twat, sucking the soft folds into his slobbering mouth and laving his rough tongue round her tender clitoris. Rita writhed, but she was enjoying every moment and anticipating the moment when he tried to fuck her. He poked a thick finger into her sensitive vagina, grinned up at her as he worked it about, then roughly twisted her round and worked the same finger up her arsehole, muttering and sucking in his breath sharply.
Finally he released her, and she turned round to face him. Rory had his fly undone and his thick cudgel of a penis hung out, jerking and flopping. Rita seized it without being instructed, knowing what was expected of her, and Rory leaned back against the wall and watched her frig his prick, voicing crude encouragement as his organ reared and swelled. When his hard-on was so gross that her fingers would not meet round the fat roll, he grabbed Rita and hauled her backward with her bottom thrust out, told her to lift her frock and, when she uncovered her arse, promptly separated the lips of her exposed cunt and pushed his pulsing knob at the warm slit, obviously expecting considerable resistance. He was agreeably surprised when his cock entered without difficulty. Rita's girlish quim closed clammily round it, and he fucked the whole tumid length into her in a rapid sequence of violent upward lunges while Rita helped the fierce drive of his great shaft by squatting heavily on it, bearing down until her glorious buttocks were splayed against Rory's hairy, wrinkled belly. With her frock held high up she squirmed and wriggled, squashing her arse furiously into his groin, responding avidly to the chafing friction of his hot cock and reveling in the savage spasms of exquisite raging fury seething in her churning quim.
She felt him come, the violent tension of his body, the shuddering of his widely separated thighs—felt the hot, spurting wetness in her swollen parts, and moaned in the frenzy of approaching orgasm.
Suddenly Rory was gone, alarmed by a clattering of tin cans near the entry. Rita crouched on the floor where he had callously dumped her, one hand pressed against her weeping cunt, the other reaching desperately for her panties. Her eyes were hot and misty, and she trembled with mingled frustration and sexual pangs, wanting cock, only half satisfied, still knotted up inside.
She squirmed into her panties, fearing Mike's anger if he discovered she'd been having it off with old Rory. When Mike finally showed himself in the moonrays shafting through the cracked panes she rushed into his arms and took his prick out almost before he voiced a greeting.
After that, Rory McShane had her on numerous occasions, usually from behind, dog fashion. He liked to see his cock gliding in and out and the bubbles forming round her clinging, pliable quim, to watch the rolling play of her arse cheeks as Rita pushed back against each robust thrust. Sometimes he had been drinking and couldn't get a hard-on, and then Rita sucked him off or whanked his flabby tool. She came to feel quite affectionate toward him, for he was good to her in his own way—crude, but harmless.
Shamus, Rita's younger brother, was preoccupied with his restricted juvenile environment. He had close associations, and seldom came home until long after midnight, when Rita was usually asleep. But Sean, the elder brother, was a strange, brooding individual subject to violent moods and seething passions for which he continually sought an outlet among the whores and scrubbers frequenting the dockside cafes and dancehalls. Sometimes he brought girls home, and usually he bribed Rita to discreetly vanish for a few hours, but on occasions when he had been too drunk to care whether she was present or not, Rita had lain in bed, pretending to be asleep, and watched him screwing. There were times when Sean behaved so grossly and uncouthly that Rita expected him to go further; she contemplated the possibility of being fucked by her own brother with an apprehension tempered with insatiable curiosity, wondering what it would be like if he ever dared, if the bottom slappings and the tit grabbing and the pussy snatching ever developed into a serious attempt to screw her.
Then, one night, she found out. Sean came in late, and he was drunk. Shamus was at his usual haunts, and their parents were visiting a sick relative. Rita was in bed, almost asleep, when her brother lurched into the room and switched the lights on. She was wearing a soiled white nightdress wrinkled up round her waist, and was too sleepy to think of covering herself or even to consider it necessary. She just lay there, blinking, squinting. Sean, perched on the edge of his bed across the room, never took his eyes off her. The sight of her pouting cunt and the partial exposure of her bottom obviously had a powerfully exciting effect on him. He swore, heaved to his feet and began to remove his clothing, repeatedly glancing at Rita, apparently fascinated by her semi-nudity. She sighed, stirred sleepily, voiced a timid complaint about the light hurting her eyes. Sean, in the act of removing his trousers, hurled the garment across the room and stumbled toward Rita's bed. He flopped down on the edge and sat staring fixedly at her for a while.
"You're a sweet fuck, little sister," he said thickly. "All grown up and lyin' there slit-eyed and innocent. But I know what you get up to with that Howard kid."
He pushed the nightdress higher, abruptly thrust his hand between Rita's thighs and enclosed the pouting warmth of her vagina. Rita did not object. Sean's thick fingers ruffled the soft, curling down tufted darkly about the tremulous slit, explored the fleshy folds, questing, probing deep inside. Abruptly he withdrew his hand, heaved Rita to a sitting position, and jerked her nightdress over her head. Naked, Rita lay back, insolently derisive despite her lingering fear of her older brother who closely resembled their father.
Her hands moved instinctively to the proudly jutting hillocks of her pale tits and cupped them, accentuating the protrusion of her elongated nipples. Sean knelt astride her, and she surrendered her breasts to his rough grasp, gasping when he crushed the flawless ovals and plucked at her nipples, pinching them, stretching the dark buds painfully. Leaning forward, he attempted to kiss her breasts, overbalanced, and sprawled beside her. His right arm encircled her shoulders, pinning her right arm and trapping the left against his chest.
For a while he remained passive, content to maul her tits, but she could feel the tension mounting in his large frame, and she sensed something of the conflict seething inside him, the tumult of lust battling against conscience. Conflicting expressions clouded his bloodshot eyes and convulsed his whiskey mottled features. He kissed her quivering breasts repeatedly, sucking the hardening nipples with such fierce suction that his teeth indented the flesh above the aureoles. Thrilled by the torrid ripples of acute sensation inflaming her bunched orbs, Rita reached out impulsively, grasped her brother's left hand, and conveyed it resolutely to her vagina, parting her taut thighs. The moment he clutched her cunt she closed her legs firmly and trapped his hand, smiling seductively.
"Fuck me if you want," she told him huskily. "I don't mind, Sean. I won't tell."
Sean swore. The last shreds of his control snapped. He rolled over, got off the bed, grabbed Rita's ankles and dragged her round until the edge of the bed was gouging into her bottom and her legs hung down, wide apart, the black down glistening wetly round the pouting rim of her cunt. Sean sank to his knees on the dirty sheepskin rug. His fingers dug into the yielding flesh of her inner thighs, prying her limbs still wider.
"Holy Mother!" he exclaimed. "You're gorgeous! All tit and arse and sugar-sweet cunt-You little cow! You really want it, don't you? All right, by Jesus! I'll give you cock, little sister—"
He thrust his head forward toward her gaping fissure, plunged his face into the dark recess and gathered in a great mouthful of resilient cunt; he sucked and licked and slobbered in wild frenzy, gripping her inner thighs, grunting and exclaiming, panting, dragging his tongue in long, trailing sweeps from the crack of her quivering arse up over the succulent maw of her vagina almost to her navel. When he raised his head, Rita saw his jutting penis, hugely erect, a massive, straining root throbbing and jerking.
In that moment he flopped forward and his suffocating bulk crushed her into the flock mattress. His knees strained against hers, forcing her legs grossly apart. When she felt the boring thrust of that great branch Rita cried out sharply—but her outcry was prompted more by pleasure than dismay or apprehension. She felt no pain, only a rapturous tightness and increasingly exquisite friction, and clung to her brother desperately, co-operating with wild abandon. Her wanton response encouraged Sean to even greater ferocity, and he rammed in resolutely, screwed right to the back of her hot vent in a series of short, rapid strokes, then settled to a powerful but ponderous rhythm.
The hard expansion of his swollen knob created a tugging core of searing fury that dragged at Rita's yielding fissure and flayed the shuddering responsive flesh, whipping the torrid stump of her rigid clitoris to throbbing ecstasy. Her clutching quim followed every solid, pistoning stroke of that ravishing tool, stretching and squashing, puckering, elongating, sucking, sighing like a tiny drooling mouth. Her voluptuous body was battered, pounded and crushed, lifted up, slammed back, heaved this way then that. The violence of her brother's savage assault drove the breath from Rita's lungs. Mike never fucked her with quite such uncouth barbarism. But she loved every shattering moment, every arsehole tightening thrust. The seething vortex of tempestuous emotions jangling her insides built up rapidly, producing waves of exhilaratingly delightful torment, great sweeping surges of stark passion that prompted sharp screams, moaning appeals, vigorous lashing motions of her head from side to side, and shivering convulsions of her knotted belly muscles.
The sheer fury of her sexual response frightened Rita while provoking a thrashing delirium of frantic urgency. She could not get enough of that churning prick. Her whole body flopped and heaved. Her vagina was a ball of fire, squelching, dragging, clutching, her arse cheeks so tightly compressed she could have gripped a coin in the sweaty crack. She clung more desperately to Sean with his every straining stroke, sobbing in wild ecstasy, completely demoralized and confused.
Then some moments of extreme tension when the forces gathering in loins and vulva converged to form a spasmodic flood of moistness and fulfillment that brought temporary relief and a torrent of sighs and moans and frantic clutching. And in that delicious moment, almost simultaneously, the seething load spurting from her brother's penis filled her impaled maw, leaked past his stroking tool into the crease of her bottom and the taut pucker of her anus.
Sean's violent movements ceased. Rita felt the tension drain from his limbs. He was sweating profusely, his heart thumping. The whiskey reeking odor of his labored breathing was strong in the girl's nostrils. She felt stifled but invigorated, not the least exhausted. For a long time Sean remained silent while the hot sap of lust drained from him and his penis finally escaped Rita's clammy sheath. Slowly then he eased his weight from her, stood up, sliding off the bed. He gazed at his sister, scratched among his coarse black hair. She lay watching him, expecting him to speak, her hands pressing gently on the insides of her thighs, slightly widening the spread of her thickened vagina. Her brother shook his deflating prick, frowned, turned away and abruptly left the room. In the doorway he paused, hesitated, turned his head to stare at Rita.
"You've got all the makings of a successful whore, our Rita," he said humorlessly. "Just remember-keep your fuckin' mouth shut about this, or I'll belt the hell out of you."
Twice during the next week Sean screwed his sister. On the Friday he went to Dublin for a few days, and she was left in peace. The monotonous pattern of her existence continued unchanged. Mike provided the only bright spots. Rita saw him most evenings. Sometimes they saw a movie, but mostly they frequented Haggarty's Discoteque, stopping afterwards at the abandoned warehouse. Apart from a few compulsory household chores, Rita's time after school was largely her own.
Her figure filled out rapidly after her fifteenth birthday. Her breasts were full and firm without excess, the nipples dark red and unusually elongated. Her skin had a smooth, creamy texture, and was flawless. Her brothers often said she had the sexiest arse of any girl in Belfast. The cheeks had developed lusciously round and prominent without being fat, fascinating ovals that quivered when she walked and seemed to excite men even more than her high-rising tits. Rita began wearing tight sweaters that accentuated the jutting boobs, and pre-shrunk jeans that stressed the supple, joggling play of her bottom. Being the center of male attention and the continual target for pawing hands and snide remarks neither embarrassed nor offended her; she could be either coldly disdainful and arrogant or lewdly suggestive and wantonly defiant, sometimes a curious mixture of many different facets.
And with the maturing of her body her sexual desires and natural instincts demanded ever increasing expression. Each time Mike fucked her seemed better than the last, her orgasm more complete and violently copious. But there was a more profound basis to their relationship, or so Rita imagined, a warmth and sincerity and tenderness usually alien to Mike's temperament. Rita loved him to distraction. She was savagely jealous, and made life hell for any girl who dared to show interest in him.
When Mike left Belfast suddenly, without a word of explanation, on the morning after another bloody clash between Catholics and Protestants involving British troops, Rita was shattered. A rumour spread that Mike had caused the death of a young soldier. Somebody had seen him throw a gasoline bomb, then there had been shooting. The days passed with no word from Mike. Rita's world crumbled. She could neither eat nor sleep, and had no interest in anything. But she had the resilience of the very young. Gradually anger and resentment replaced self-pity, and she became morose and bitter, then defiant, feigning indifference. To hell with Mike, she told herself. She didn't need him. Yet the tears still came, and the longing. Her misery was as acute.
Rita's problems were intensified by indecision regarding her future. She had finished school, and had a strong inclination for a career in show business, particularly the bizarre world of pop music; she had won distinction for drama acting at school, and had a good natural singing voice. But eventually she got a job in a clothing factory on the outskirts of Belfast, because she was still hoping Mike would come back or that she would hear from him. After a month she became resigned to the obvious fact that he wasn't coming back.
Rita brooded for a while. Her job was dull and she resented the petty restraints, longing for the time when she had enough money saved to leave Belfast. She thought Dublin might offer more scope, or perhaps Liverpool, in England. Then something happened that drove all thoughts of Mike Howard from her mind and, for the time being, all notions of a career. She met the new general manager.
John O'Toole was a tall, lean, ruggedly attractive young man, surprisingly young for the job he occupied. His manner was pleasant and mildly deceptive, but he was sharp as a razor's edge. From the first moment when she sat on the front row and listened to O'Toole deliver an introductory talk to the entire staff, Rita was captivated by his charm and impressed by his individuality. By the end of the talk she was in love with "Big John."
From then on it was as if no other male existed for Rita. She sat with her legs apart, wanting to be noticed. The pale blue sweater she wore emphasized the thrusting maturity of her breasts. She wore no bra and the long nipples poked impudently at the soft wool. Her hair hung in sweeping, glossy waves past her shoulders. She was gorgeous, and she knew it. So did O'Toole. His intent stare seldom left her, and he smiled often. Rita deliberately flaunted herself, and during the next few days went out of her way to attract attention.
But the young executive's impersonal manner fooled Rita into thinking he wasn't interested in her. His polite professionalism irritated her. One morning she was alone in the stockroom when O'Toole entered. He seemed surprised to see Rita, but promptly closed the door and stood with his back against it. Rita heard the key turn in the lock. She realized he must have followed her.
"I've been wanting to get you alone," he said. "You're a hot little number, aren't you?"
Rita stood hip-shot, smirking insolently. "I didn't think you'd noticed," she retaliated. "I hoped you had, but I wasn't sure. I'm Rita McLeary and—"
"I know who you are. Come here. I've been watching you, Rita. I thought you were just a kid, but— My God! You're gorgeous!"
Rita laughed. Deliberately provocative, she bunched her breasts together and watched O'Toole's handsome face assume the lecherous expression of a grotesque mask of lust. Rita pivoted slowly, dropped her pencil, stooped with her back toward the manager—accentuating the broad display of tightly rounded buttocks—and heard the swift inrush of breath as O'Toole inhaled. She prolonged her recovery of the pencil, enjoying his delicious anguish, knowing how much he wanted her, how much she wanted him . . . She tantalized him, longing to please him and surrender even while she taunted the man and flaunted her dynamic sexual power, longing to have him touch her and hold her, anticipating the violent explosion of his desire.
She felt his hesitant touch on her hips, then the brief contact of his mouth through the thin covering as he traced his lips almost reverently over the sweet curves of her bottom, sniffing the pronounced cleft, then straightening when Rita pushed back, squirming. He put his arms round her waist and forced his loins against her succulent arse, quickly moved his hands to her breasts and massaged them firmly.
"You little devil!" he said hoarsely. "You're magnificent! All sweet arse and tit. God, if you only knew how I've wanted you, the things I've longed to do to you."
Rita laughed. She twisted partly round and gazed into his flushed face.
"I do know," she told him. "I want the same things. I've wanted sex with you ever since you came here, John. I think you're just wonderful."
"And you're incredible," O'Toole said. "Like a bloody drug in my veins. I've dreamed of possessing you, of having your gorgeous body writhing and squirming under me. I want to kiss these luscious tits and wallow in your adorable arse. I want to kiss you all over. God! I could eat your shit, Rita. And you've made it worse, showing off, tormenting me, deliberately teasing. I've tried to fight it. I've got a responsible position here and I know I'm playing with fire, but I can't help it. I think if-"
"Stop talking, and fuck me, damn you!" Rita exploded. "I'm starved for cock. Quit yapping and get stuck in, any way you want it, man."
O'Toole kissed the back of her neck, her throat, squashed her ripe breasts together. Rita turned her head fully, trapped his hot mouth and thrust h« tongue hungrily against his in rapid darting movements, driving her tongue repeatedly to the back of his throat. O'Toole reciprocated, and as their tongues probed and coiled against one another the wet contact produced stabbing thrills like minute power shocks discharging through their mouths into their straining bodies.
O'Toole pulled Rita's sweater clear of her breasts. His clammy fingers enclosed her bare palpitating tits and crushed them painfully. Rita felt the hard ridge of his rearing penis throb and surge against the soft split of her bottom, and molten flame licked through her insides, putting a glow in the pit of her stomach and inflaming the swollen core of her excited vagina. Her hardening nipples protruded enormously, extending beyond O'Toole's teasing forefingers and thumbs. Gasping, squirming with impatience, Rita reached back and down to grasp the bulging protrusion of his cock, squeezed the fat roll, estimating length and circumference. She moaned ecstatically, suddenly twisted free, eluded his clutching hands and ran to the door to make sure it was locked. Her pale tits shuddered, their, coral centers shivering. The undulation of her sumptuous bottom brought fresh beads of sweat to O'Toole's forehead.
Satisfied with their privacy, Rita turned. She dragged the sweater over her head and threw it on the floor, fumbled to release the fastening of her short skirt. O'Toole, clutching the pulsing outline of his prick, voiced hoarse encouragement, writhing in a turmoil of agonized suspense as she tugged at her stubborn zipper. She freed it, dropped the skirt and simultaneously shoved her black panties right down past her hips, then pivoted, unable to control the strong exhibitionistic urge, displaying her provocative arse and stooping so that a hint of cunt and pubic hair was revealed.
The urgency of her vital need and the throbbing ache between her thighs put an end to her derisive teasing, and she pushed the panties down to her ankles, kicked them off, then her shoes, and stood naked except for flimsy girdle and rumpled stockings. As she straightened, O'Toole grabbed her, and she yielded eagerly to his rough embrace, sighing with pleasure when he held her close and impulsively clasped her warm, tremulous buttocks, forcing the cheeks wide apart and digging his fingers deep into the dusky vale as he jerked her body against his. His mouth crushed hers, tongue hotly exploring, mingling saliva. He captured her darting tongue between his lips, sucked it, gently bit the curling extremity.
The nucleus of lust in her yearning cunt spread, became a raging fury sweeping through her entire convulsed body. When O'Toole's hand groped between her thighs she uttered a low moan of desire and opened her legs wide, pushed her pouting vagina against his delving hand. His feverish face rested clammily in the valley dividing her flushed tits.
He took his prick out—she felt it rear and whack against her bare belly—and she seized it with both hands, impatiently clutching its impressive length. O'Toole had a beautiful cock, long and fat and iron-hard. It throbbed powerfully against Rita's smooth skin, the pointed glans searching, stabbing frantically prodding her flesh and creating shallow furrows, puckering the hairy folds of her moist quim and beating in the lubricated entry, ramming the darker flesh round her anus, gouging close to the arsehole itself, and finally finding the crevice of her quivering cunt.
O'Toole tried to fuck her from the standing position but was too tall even with his knees bent. Several times he succeeded in inserting his bulging knob but was unable to achieve penetration. Finally, almost demented with frustration and longing, Rita twisted round and bent over, presenting her arse to O'Toole. She separated the cheeks and wantonly exposed the glistening maw of her vagina, held it open while O'Toole thrust his swollen knob at the fissure. His rampant organ burst resolutely in. She moaned, writhing in sweet frenzy as he overcame the slight resistance and battered deeper, jerking and thrusting, viciously distending the cruelly stretched passage. Muscles swelled across his back and bunched on his long legs. His arse cheeks came firmly together. His punishing grip on Rita's hips bruised her flesh.
And she lapped it up, squirming back until his hairy crotch was tight up against her splayed bottom. O'Toole fucked furiously, but his clothing impeded his movements, and presently he withdrew, ignoring Rita's frantic protests, quickly removed his trousers, and with hardly a break in the furious rhythm found her gaping cunt again and sank hugely into her, so deep his dangling balls slapped the shaggy folds below her twitching vagina. He kept ramming solidly, grunting with exertion, screwing so energetically the force of each fleshy impact shifted Rita bodily across the floor and at times lifted her completely so that her feet left the creaking boards. Each Herculean thrust embedded his cock to the straining roots, flogging the extreme limits of her clutching, cavernous vent. The pliant lips, stretching then recovering, writhed back and forth with the dragging momentum, rolling back from the hard knob, then closing fiercely round the gliding shaft and gradually sheathing the whole.
O'Toole was rapidly approaching his climax, almost sobbing in his desperate anguish. The solid root screwing into Rita's hot cunt bloated still more, increased the urgency of its ponderous strokes. Rita sensed the gathering storm, the savage bunching of muscles and sweating flesh, the rippling convulsions, and closed her eyes in the sheer bliss of prolonged orgasm moments before O'Toole spunked into her tingling slit.
The spasms dwindled, then came again as potent as before. O'Toole kept shagging into the wet pit even after the spurting fury of his ejaculation was spent. There was no appreciable lessening in the dimensions of his penis. Eventually he allowed Rita to pull away, but grabbed her as she straightened and spun her round to face him. His reddened, slippery prick reared as monstrously erect as before, its virility undiminished.
"By God, you're a sweet fuck!" he blurted. "But I'm not done yet. Suck me off, kid. Suck me dry."
Rita obeyed without hesitation, sinking to her knees and taking his jerking cock in both hands. Her one thought was to pleasure him, to give until she had nothing left. She pressed her soft lips to the jutting prick, moved them passionately over its bloated mass, and finally took several pulsing inches into her mouth and sucked avidly. Tremendously excited by the strong odor of clinging semen and the throbbing beat of O'Toole's insatiable penis within the distended cavern of her mouth, she moved her head rapidly up and down the fat prick while the cunt juices trickling down the insides of her thighs and clinging to the tufted lips of her gash glistened wetly and, already drying, puckered the unblemished skin.
Her whole pelvic mound was a flaming cauldron of incomparable sensation, the gnawing anguish gone and only the glowing saturation of acute pleasure lingering, recurring, clawing at her vitals, already building up toward yet another tempestuous orgasm. Involuntarily she clutched her vagina, and in the moment when she relinquished O'Toole's churning prick he came, gripping her head tightly and uttering resonant groans. He rammed his cock belligerently to the back of her throat and tightened his grasp while delivering his sperm load, slowly fucking his pumping prick into her receptive mouth.
He withdrew, reluctantly, his cock still largely erect but less swollen. Rita spat out the glutinous fluid and wiped her mouth. She smiled and stood. O'Toole picked up his pants, took a handkerchief from the hip pocket and wiped his dribbling knob. He pulled the trousers on, saying nothing until he fastened the last fly button.
"We'd better get out of here," he said then. "It would look bad if somebody found us here, like this. You're all right, Rita. A lovely fuck, kid. We'll do it again, real soon. But right now you'd best put some clothes on."
Rita laughed. She shook her head, defiantly provocative. Her large breasts shook, and she cupped them, hefting the proud ovals.
"You're not so bad yourself," she told him. "Now I know why the girls call you 'Big John.' Don't worry, I won't tell anybody, so long as you continue to be nice to me."
O'Toole glanced nervously toward the door. He indicated her scattered clothing.
"Get dressed, you bitch," he told her irritably. "And for God's sake don't breathe a word of this. I'd be in real trouble. You're under age. A bloody little teenage whore with a woman's body. Play it cool, baby, and there'll always be a little something extra in your wage packet. Okay? Right now we've got to go."
Rita collected her clothing, put her dress on, then the sweater, and sat on a bale of material while she slipped her shoes on. She put her feet through the legholes of her panties, pulled them up, smiling mockingly at O'Toole. Now that she was covered he was less agitated. He unlocked the door, opened it, and looked out. Rita grasped his arm and reached up on tip-toe to kiss him when he turned his head. O'Toole returned her kiss briefly, slyly felt her bottom, and chuckled.
"Next time we'll go to my apartment," he said. "Make a night of it. And remember, during working hours I'm Mister O'Toole, the general manager. I can do a lot for you, kid. If you're real good maybe I'll take you to my place in the country. You'd like Whitehaven."
He left her, and for the rest of the day Rita trailed around like a zombie, lost in a romantic world of her own creation in which there was no room for Mike Howard or anybody but John O'Toole.