Chapter 6
The tomorrow brought, however, an entirely different kind of problem with it. When Laura was awakened early that Sunday morning by the insistent ringing of her doorbell, she felt a greedy little surge of delight go through her.
Mike had doubtlessly returned to offer his apology for his outrageous behavior, she thought. It amused her to speculate that he had probably spent the long night thinking about her, about the availability of her cunt. It would be difficult for a boy of seventeen to throw away the more than rare opportunity to have sex anytime he snapped his fingers.
As she pulled on her gown and hurried groggily toward the front door, she fought back the twist of a smile that pulled at her mouth. She would not make it easy for him. She would, in fact, be as hard as nails. She'd make him beg for it. The happy thought occurred to her that she might even make him tickle her pussy that very afternoon. How much fun it would be to be feathered again into a clitoral orgasm!
But her quick fantasies were short-lived. It was not Mike at the door at all, but the Special Delivery postman.
He handed her another large, brown, manila envelope.
She signed for the second letter from her sister with a dull thumping in her breast. She had felt her triumph all too shortly: what she had done with Mike Barton had exceeded Bev's mundane and girlish experience with the preacher's son, of that much she was sure. But now, as if in jeering reply, was yet another attempt of her sister to shock and challenge her sensibilities.
She thought once of burning the envelope without even opening it. But the silly temptation passed in a second, and almost as if by hypnotic suggestion, Laura found herself pulling the paper apart and drawing out the thick, typed manuscript. In a moment she was again in her bedroom, the lamp turned on bright, her head bent over the letter to drink in every erotic word: Dearest Laura, I hope you haven't been too impatient to hear from me again, but the truth is that Claude and I have been deliciously busy for the past few days planning a party aboard his yacht. I've told you about the PEACOCK, I'm sure. It's a lovely, luxury thing with a main deck large enough for a garden party. Claude is such a dear to take me under his arm. He has all kinds of connections both in Hollywood and New York, so you may expect to see my face gracing the covers of movie magazines at your corner drug store almost any time now.
But that, of course, is not the subject of this letter-or these letters, I should say. My real intention in penning these little messages of inspiration is exactly as I explained before: to awaken you, dear-to stir you up. The seed of my concern was planted quite forcefully last summer when I visited you. You looked so tired and pinched and pale-so clearly unsatisfied. You looked as if the color in your cheeks had evaporated from sheer lack of passion. That will never do.
I'm sure that you noted the color in my cheeks that darling summer. And for good reason it was there, although now I am certainly ashamed that I kept you in the dark as to the reason for the heady spirits I echoed.
I was simply happy because I was being fucked as much and well as possible. Ask that cute little stud next door, if you don't believe me. What was his name-Mark or Mike or something? The afternoon we wedded cunt and prick was the very first afternoon I met him! I knew I had to have him, and I did. He fucked me like a Trojan with a large, thick solid prick the length of a table knife. I'd never seen a satyr with such energy, but I suppose that's what it means to be sixteen or so, and bursting with sexual desires.
It was certainly true in my case, and it is my own amorous history, Laura, which I wish to convey to you. As for a final word concerning that husky young ram next door to you, I wouldn‘t set my sights too high at first. He's arrogant and vain, and he said the most insulting things about you while he had his stiff dork throbbing to the roots in my pussy. He said that he would rather fuck a corpse than you, that you were skinny and ugly and dull-and all those heartless things which the very young can so effortlessly accuse their elders of.
So even if he makes some carnal overtures to you, ignore him. Don't begin your lessons in love with a beast who will be laughing at you even while he pumps, but rather begin with the mind I am about to tell you of.
Begin with someone like Willy.
Or do you even remember those long, languorous summers we used to spend on Uncle George's farm? I'm sure you must remember them: the romps in the apple orchard, the canned peaches in the dark cellar, the barns and corrals, the pond where we used to chunk the small stones at the turtles?
Yes, I'm sure those are the things your ten-year-old girl's mind would have remembered.
But I was sixteen that last summer we visited; and it is Willy who hangs on the rim of my memory like some lean and grinning ape of lewdness.
Willy belongs to a distinctive American class of males. To be unkind, one must classify him as the familiar Village Idiot, one of those tall, gangly, grinning boys with jug ears and sensuous, cornflower-blue eyes. Actually, Willy was far from being an idiot: he was as smart sexually as a fox, and more than clever when it came to getting what he wanted from me. But he hid blandly enough behind that yokel pose so that Uncle George never once suspected anything at all about him. All our precious uncle expected of Willy was that he slop the hogs and shuck the corn and hoe the taters. He certainly never suspected that he had employed a stud who would, the first day we arrived, farm himself out to my ambitious young pussy.
I do not use the word "ambitious" lightly, Laura. It is exactly the word a poet or philosopher might choose from a million words to describe what I had become in the two years since my deflowerment by Rodney Bradshaw. Rodney's bold and stiff young prick had made my cunt grow like a nourished, exotic plant. And although he fucked me regularly, twice or three times a week, I had found that even that was not enough to still the numbing, enormous itch between my legs.
I had done spectacular things even before Willy came into my life. Living somewhere between your daisy-like innocence and our mother's hawkish vigilance, I had succeeded in enriching my sex life with at least a dozen male cocks, including that darling, fourteen-year-old Billy Hanks who used to deliver groceries to us on Wednesday afternoons. Do you remember how often I used to be suddenly ill on Wednesdays, locked in my bedroom?
Then there were others, friends of Rodney's who were only too anxious to give my cunt what it needed.
But I had never had a real man at sixteen-and Willy was all of twenty-six.
Willy was milking the cows when I happened upon him. Perhaps it's too glib to say that I "happened" upon him. Actually, I had deliberately followed him to the barn . . . part instinct and part raw desire on my part. There is something about the funky smell of the dark, warm interior of a country barn which has excited me since I was a child. I had, oddly enough, never connected the odor with sex, but I know now that it was a purely sensual stimulation. The mixtures of animal sweat and animal shit combined with the festering tang of overripe corn and alfalfa was like an aphrodisiac.
I found him in one of the stalls. He was squatting on a short-legged stool, his Ichabod Crane legs straddled, his large and sunburned hands pulling at the thick, phallic tits of the cow with a steady rhythm. I could hear the splat of milk in the bottom of the tin bucket, and even that innocent sound stirred me to a boil! The buds of my youthful titties began to harden under my blouse, to stick out and up, raising a full half-inch from the rosettes. Added to this was a crazy, shaggy itch at the center of my cunt.
Willy neither saw nor heard me until I was right up on him, then he turned and gave me one of those long, crooked, corny grins of his that made my ovaries leap. It also pleased me to see that his big ears had turned a pinkish color, as if some little surge of lust had raced into his bloodstream at the mere sight of me.
Without a word, I squatted beside him and watched him languidly pull the fat teats of the cow. I imagined how those hands would feel pulling and stroking my own tits until they gave love's milk, and my nipples hardened more brazenly until they were pushing out like thumbs against my blouse.
I saw Willy glancing at me every few seconds out of the corner of his dumb, blue eyes. He still had the slack, uncertain grin on his face, and periodically he would lap his lower lip with the broad, wet end of his tongue.
He paused at last, glancing at me from under the falling mop of his yellowish hair.
"Yawl wanta milk a little?"he asked, huskily.
I smiled sweetly. "Will you teach me, Willy?"
"Shore. "
He guided my hands around the thick, hanging teats of the cow and moved them in a jacking motion. The feel of those thick, warm tubes of meat filled me with a choking lust! They felt exactly like boyish pricks to me, and the business of gently teasing and pulling on four of them was making the lips of my randy young cunt begin to thicken and part.
Willy knew exactly what he was doing. He was still squatting on the stool, and I was more-or-less squatting between his legs. He had both his arms around me to guide my hands with his own. But after a few jacking movements, he released my hands and brought his own back on either side of my waist. He was testing me, I knew-and I didn't want to fail the test!
I snuggled a bit further back against the insides of his legs, hoping to feel the tell-tale bulge of his hard-on.
That was Willy's cue, and he took it. He slipped both his huge-palmed hands up and cupped my jutting tits. He held them captive for a few seconds, then pressed in gently to feel how firm they were. They were not only firm, the cones were swollen and hot.
He began to play with my tits as I milked the cow, and very soon I could feel something stiff moving against the cheeks of my ass.
With a sultry little moan, I abandoned the artificial pricks under my fingers and reached behind me for the real thing. I found his big hard-on with both my hands, and rubbed it under the rough crotch of his overalls.
God, he was hung like a stallion!
Such prick-teasing had made Willy begin to breathe hoarsely, and his thick fingers stroked at my eager tits more ambitiously.
His mouth came down to my ear, and I could feel his hot breath blast against my cheek.
"Yawl wanta play good with my big peter?"he husked.
I twisted my mouth upwards in the lewdest of grins. "I want you to fuck me, Willy! We can crawl up in the loft and take off all our clothes-and you can put that big thing all the way up between my legs!"
Poor, dumb, lucky Willy! He had never dreamed of hearing such erotic words from a lovely sixteen-year-old girl. His horse-sized prick throbbed under my fingers like a slug of warm iron.
"You ain't gonna tell nobody?" he whispered, fingering the proud nipples of my tits.
I moved my own fingers inch-by-inch over his stiffened tool, measuring it for size and length. "I won't tell a soul, Willy, not if you make me come all I want. Do you think you can fuck me until I'm milked like this cow!"
His hot grin widened into an idiot's drool. "Ah bet I kin fuck you enough to make yore pussy run like a faucet! Ah got a big one. You ain't never had one half as big and long as mine is, ah reckon. "
He was right-and was I glad he was right!
Imagine, sweet Laura, holding with both hands a mature prick of some nine or ten fabulous inches. It was so big around that I couldn't make my fingertips meet, and there were veins as thick as pencils standing out on the sides of it. Like any country boy, Willy was uncircumcised, and the fist of his meatus was half-hooded with a snout of skin.
He had the kind of cock a mare in heat dreams about!
We tore out of our clothes like animals and fell naked into the matted straw. My cunt was already lubricated with a drool of juices generated by just imagining how his tool would feel. But when he came between my legs and drove the whole of his hard-on into place, it was as if my pussy were dry as a gulch. Never had I been stretched by such a ramrod!
There was no finesse in how Willy fucked me. He had no control, if one considers fucking to be the mutual mating of male and female, even give and even take. I might as well have been a side of beef to him. He fucked blindly and bluntly, driving all his inches into my frenzied cunt with every thrust. I could feel his large balls slapping obscenely against the lifted rims of my buttocks; the sound made me more libidinous than I had ever felt!
I don't know how long he screwed me. My memory only brings back ragged bits of ecstasy: the husking pant of his breath, the splay of my legs wrapped tightly around his lean and naked rump, the smell of his sweat and the sweet stink of his sperm being sucked in and out of my oiled hole.
It was that very day, dearest Laura, that I learned to suck a prick. I'm sure that your pristine little heart will turn to lead hearing me say that the taste of a man's balls and cock is a treat unequaled by any gourmet's imagination. But such is the truth of the born honey sucker.
When Willy had fucked me to his satisfaction, he squatted over my face so that his jumbo balls hung like fruits over my mouth.
'Lick them big nuts!" he muttered. "Heat me up again! "
I could smell his body-the musky slit of his buttocks, the earthy pungency of sperm and smegma around the bloated head of his cock. I lifted my tongue and lapped at his round, firm balls. I covered them with my saliva as he grinned and settled his buttocks even lower over my face. He squatted there, in a shitting position-while I licked and mouth-loved his nuts-balanced on the balls of his feet, swaying a bit to compliment the crude rhythms of my tongue.
Without my once touching it, his monstrous prick stiffened again until it was standing out horizontally between his legs. Then he stood up and leaned against one wall of the barn.
"Suck it!"he whispered.
There was no resisting the invitation. My mouth foamed to taste more than his balls!
I crawled between his legs and hung on to his loins as my ovaled lips found the bursting head of his prick. Imagine what a pornographic picture we must have made: I was a beautiful young thing of only sixteen, and there I was, crouched naked between his long, hairy legs, sucking my heart out to pleasure that oversized stiffness.
I ate him shamelessly, loving the way his still-growing dick throbbed against my throat, loving the salty, male taste of him on my tongue.
I pleasured him even more than myself-and when his erupting glut of sperm soaked my lungs, I sucked even more blindly.
Need I tell you that from that afternoon on, I was addicted to sucking Willy's big cock? For the remainder of our stay, I had my mouth moving up and down the column of his prick at every opportunity. Sometimes he wouldn't touch me, but merely lay back with his legs open, chewing a piece of straw around his swinish grin as I fed my lustful vice.
He rewarded me often enough by playing with my pussy before and after the fellatio. He could always get me raging hot with his finger or his tongue. He sucked my steaming cunt for an hour once while I did nothing at all but lick his stiffly erected prick. And another time, I recall, he insisted I sniff and lick his asshole while he was on his hands and knees like a dog. Then he did the same to me, spreading open the crack of my buttocks with his hands and putting his big tongue deep into my anus.
Someone has said that a step, once taken, can never be retrieved.
There is truth to that. Willy taught me the art of cocksucking, gave me a taste of real male meat, and I never drink down Claude's sperm without remembering that idyllic summer of my youth. Ah, what would females like me do without the Willys of the world who are all too willing to feed us the stiff pricks for which we hunger?
Love, Bev