Chapter 7
Lori Phillips looked forward to a summer in New York City, if only because she was certain there would be more sexual scenes to become involved with there than back in Altoona, Pennsylvania. And now that she had taken the plunge into the full sensitivity and sensuality of adulthood, of the liberated and unhung woman, she was determined to follow through its course, come what may-and she sincerely hoped that what may come would be her own, drippy little pussy!
She arrived at Grand Central Terminal promptly, and amazingly, at two o'clock as the schedule had suggested they might arrive, tipped a porter to carry her bags to a cab, gave her aunt and uncle's address and made it to the brownstone townhouse without any trouble, a feat almost impossible for a goodly number of reasonably intelligent men and women, let alone a thirteen-year-old girl. The cabbie carried her bags into the bell foyer and left her there after she paid and tipped him, tipping a little more than her parents had told her to. When he left, she rang the bell, waited, rang it again, and then turned as the door opened.
Her cousin, Lenny, stood there, and she was more than a little taken aback at the way he had changed. She had not seen him in four years, though she had seen her aunt and uncle several times in between. Then, four years ago, he had been an awkward, gawky, bumbling youth of fourteen, not very impressive. Now he was tall, muscular, with his chest bare and well developed, and he seemed so self-possessed that-had his facial features not been almost the same-she would not have believed it was he.
"Yes?" he asked, looking a little perplexed.
"I'm here," she said.
He grinned. "I see that, sweets, but just who am I confronting."
"Lori Phillips, you idiot!" she said, laughing.
He flushed. "Jesus! But what happened to you?" he asked, looking her over quite frankly.
"What happened to you?" she countered.
"Yeah, old lanky Lenny died somewhere along the way. But, girl, you're only what-fourteen?"
"Will be fourteen in a month," she said. Somehow, it tickled her to let him know how young she was, not to try to make herself a year older by lying about that month.
"But you're an awfully-well, big girl."
"And tired," she said. "Do I come in or stay here?"
He grabbed her bags, effortlessly, and carried them inside. She followed, shutting the door behind. She had a feeling, a certain piece of woman's intuition that said she was most certainly going to have one fucking wonderful time if Cousin Lenny didn't have any hang ups-and if they were ever left alone in the house together.
"Where are Aunt Lena and Uncle Martin?" she asked.
"You'll have to wait," he said. "They've gone to an art auction, one of those terribly aristocratic and boring damn things, and they don't plan to make it home until around six, whereupon they will shower and freshen and the four of us will go to dinner at some no-doubt swanky and very impressive sort of restaurant, down in the Village or maybe just off Fifth Avenue somewhere."
"Really? The Village?"
"Oh, a tourist?" he said, depositing her bags in the spare bedroom. "Well, maybe you'll even get to see the Statue of Liberty."
"Don't shit me, Lenny. I remember when you stumbled over chairs and picked your nose!"
He laughed as he turned back to her. "And I remember when you were flat-chested!" he said.
"Not anymore."
"Most definitely not anymore," he agreed.
"Well, then let's keep this all very straight and adult to adult."
"I've heard about your vaunted IQ," he said.
"And I've heard you've been accepted over at Princeton."
"Touché. Well, dear Lori, would you like a tour of the famous townhouse, with all its expensive artifacts from stores a few blocks away and other sundry exotic points?"
"Can I change out of my traveling clothes first?" she asked.
"By all means. And can I get you a Coke or something for the tour?"
"Don't you know how to mix drinks?"
"You're thirteen!"
"No shit slinging, Cousin Lenny," she said, shaking her finger at him.
He laughed. "What will it be?"
"Rum and Coke."
"Oh, a very sophisticated mixed drink," he said in mocking tones.
"I match my order to the talent of my host," she said, smiling sweetly.
"Damnit, I don't know if I like a girl who's sharper than I am," he said.
She closed the door between them, listened to him walk down the hallway, down the stairs toward the bottom floor and the kitchen. Then unpacked her suitcases, hung what needed to be hung, and tried to decide what she should wear. She had already determined that it had to be something that would make Cousin Lenny's pecker punch right out through his pants. She had noticed a stiffening in his crotch during their banter, and she aimed to increase his desire for her-tenfold in the Biblical fashion.
She stripped, naked, then pulled on a long, blue knit sweater that came to within three inches of her knees, showing a good bit of leg and the free-swinging outline of her lovely, up-tilted tits. She brushed her golden hair at the mirror, sucked in a deep breath, then went out and descended to the kitchen where she found him glancing through a newspaper with the drinks before him. He was having a Rum and Coke as well.
He looked up, involuntarily assumed a stunned expression at the arousing nature of her costume, then recovered his smile and his cool air. She liked the way he handled himself. Robbie Marshall would have been agape until she would have been forced to ask him to cease and desist staring. She was certain his prick was iron rigid in his pants, but he did not let on that his cock was hungry for the depths of her little-girl-womanish box.
"Little Cousin Lori is ready for the tour."
"Little Cousin Lori should not run around dressed like that, or she's going to find herself in the clutches of a man she can't handle."
She smiled at him, sipped her drink. "Like you?"
"Seriously, Lori you should-"
"Shut the fuck up, Lenny. I don't want your lectures, don't need your lectures, and absolutely refuse to listen to your lectures. I am a big girl, mentally and physically, despite the fact that I'm only about to turn fourteen. My IQ says I should go on to college. I hate school, and I want to go to college. High school bores me. Maybe college won't. I read most college level literature now, without any trouble, and I bought some texts that analyze some of those books to see if I understood them-and I sometimes think I understood them even better than the critics who explained them. But my damned parents are determined to make me suffer through adolescence, because they look back from that middle-age of theirs through rose-colored glasses, certain that adolescence is the happiest time of anyone's life, when any adolescent or thinking adult knows that's absolutely bullshit. Physically, they want me to hold hands and kiss on the cheek. But they don't understand me physically any better than they do intellectually. They don't realize I read books they find above them, because if I pointed it out, it would only cause friction-besides, I love them too much to make them feel inferior to their own little girl. But I'm not about to restrict my mind or body to fit their image of what I should be but am not. I've been fucked, more than once, and I've had it AC-DC. Personally, cunt-licking attracts me as much as screwing, though you couldn't exactly have the same outlook I do. The point is that I am thirteen only chronologically, and if you can't grasp that goddamned simple fact, then you can shove you’re damned superiority up your ass until it appears in your goddamned throat!"
Lenny looked at his drink, picked it up, drank half of it, set it down, shuddering, shook his head, said, "Hot damn, but you don't mince words, do you?"
"Not my style."
"Well, anyway, I get the picture. And I apologize. You obviously can handle yourself-better than most women twice your age. Are we friends again, Lori?"
He was obviously sincere about the apology, and the tone-to her-seemed to change, as if her cousin were now addressing her as a mature, intelligent equal.
"We're friends again," she said, sipping her drink, looking over the rim of the glass coquettishly. "We start the tour?"
They toured the truly marvelously appointed townhouse, all ten rooms of it, and three baths. They paused in the middle for Lenny to get each of them another drink, finished and returned to the plushly couched living room where they got a third drink. She sprawled on the couch, her sweater riding enticingly far up her thighs. She wondered if she dared let him catch a glimpse of her pantieless cunt, then decided against it. She had him going, as the bulge in his slacks attested, and there was no sense hurtling the thing on the poor boy too quickly. She merely sat close, her bare leg touching him, and talked quietly.
"Can I ask you a personal question?" he asked at last.
"I don't see why not?"
"I know your folks. How the hell do you get away going out and having sex? Seems they'd know where you were every minute."
"They think they do."
"Oh?"
"I lie."
"I've done a little of that," he said. He was feeling his drinks, even more than she was, and he tended to laugh too richly and too abruptly.
They exchanged stories of their lies, and the talk drifted from that into discussions on sex, which grew rather intimate, until it was discovered that she had never been fucked in the asshole.
"It would hurt, wouldn't it?" she asked.
"Depends on the girl. Some can't do it at all. It's the way they're built. Some can only do it with guys who don't have thick penises. All depends on who is involved."
"You like it that way?" she asked.
"It's nice."
"Is yours thin?"
"My what?"
"You're dick, silly."
He blushed. "Thin-but long."
"Do you think I'd be able to stand asshole fucking?"
"Maybe I should get us another drink," he said, starting to rise.
She grabbed him, pulled him down again. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Do you think I'd be able to stand it, like it?"
"It's hard to say."
"Try."
"Well," he said, "you're built for sex. You're one of the most sensuous girls I've ever seen. So I imagine you might make it."
"Want to try?"
He sat there, speechless.
"You've been wanting to, you know. Don't say you haven't."
"That's incest!" he gasped at last.
"Oh, shit, Lenny, let's not get melodramatic. Incest is only a sin because it's supposed to make deformed babies (and even that is unproven), and if you're fucking me in the asshole, you damn sure won't knock me up to make any deformed kids anyway."
"But-"
She grabbed the bottom of her sweater, stripped it over her head and sat naked before him. "Now you want to?"
"God, you're gorgeous!" he moaned.
She moved against him, fumbled in his slacks. She knew she was about to get what she so ardently wished when he made no effort to keep her from freeing his hardened prick from his slacks ...