Chapter 3
Sprawled asleep on the king-size bed in her darkened room, Georgie was a picture of innocence.
A trace of light came through the window over the bed, despite the drawn draperies. The bed was actually a huge mattress on the floor, covered with dozens of pillows and several brightly colored and wildly patterned spreads. Most of these were piled in a heap on one side of the bed.
One spread was wrapped around the figure sitting at the head of the bed. His eyes were open, yet seemed to see nothing. While not sleepy, he had a lost look to him, as though wanting to sleep but could not. He smoked a cigarette, taking long, careful drags; exhaling evenly. The ashtray on the floor was nearly overflowing. A few times he had missed the small container.
Incredibly still, as if used to sitting like this, his muscles did not seem to protest, though his only movement Was centered around the cigarette. Occasionally, he glanced at the sleeping form. Georgie was on her stomach, her rump high in the air, almost as a child would sleep. Her face was away from him, but he didn't need to look.
He knew every line of her face; every expression, each variation he had encountered in her was etched on his mind's eye. Her face used to come most vividly to him after he had first met herwhile he was with another girl.
In the middle of balling or just before the moment of climax as she sucked his dick, he would see Georgie's face, in a flash, before him. Because of her he had stopped eating girls at all. None of them tasted like her, or appreciated it as much. And it was the only way she could come. For him it was more an act of love. He still balled chicks, every now and then. The feel of them coming beneath him was a good one.
He still fucked her, too, though he knew she got little satisfaction from the process. She was always glad to spread her legs for him but could not fake any pleasure. Though she said how she enjoyed him, because he got pleasure from it.
He cursed her husband. She was a good woman, he thought, but that big prick had used her to be merely a receptacle: a hole in which to shoot his come. One thing about her husband, though, he still supported her. Paul sent her money, whenever she asked for it, and her checking account always had a balance of a thousand dollars in it, no matter how many checks she wrote, or how often. He must have a deal with the bank, to call him when she wrote so many checks and he would send them more money.
At least Paul was supporting her, which he-Harry Evans-could not do. No, lord no. Not at 16. There weren't too many ways to make money at that age. His schooling had given him worthless knowledge as far as earning money went.
Society would keep him handicapped a few more years. Society-and his parents. They somehow seemed to like his dependence on them. They told all their friends, see! Look, how well he's dressed. He goes to one of the best schools, you know. And he does quite well.
Sure he did well. If he got good marks and didn't seem to be a discipline problem they showered more gifts and money and approval on him. But most of all, they left him alone. And they never asked him where he went on his motorcycle. Or what he did while he was gone. They never bothered him, so long as his grades were good and his teachers never had to call home because he was a problem.
To them he was a status symbol; an example not only of their ability to produce a good-looking, intelligent offspring (see how good our genes are!) but also of their talent for producing money and their so-called taste in spending it.
Probably it would not even bother them if he were arrested, so long as it were for some socially acceptable offense. But how would they take his relationship with Georgie? Harry wondered about that fairly often. It had become a standard fleeting thought. Maybe he thought that so often because he wondered what he thought of Georgie.
For months now he had been coming up here at least once a week, many times more often, and at least once a month he came up out of absolute terror or some kind of empty desperation. He would call, it seemed always, in the small hours of the morning, a little drunk or a little high and scared.
Perhaps his fear was that one time she would say no. He would call more often, but he was horribly afraid that she would have someone else there, or she would so calmly, so irritably say, "Please, will you stop bothering me!"
His parents were very careful never to say that explicitly, but he knew they felt that way. Maybe that was Georgie's particular appeal for him. She was 38-he knew. He had checked her driver's license one night as she slept, not believing that she had told him the truth.
That made Georgie a year older than his mother. She looked five times better than his mother, but she was older, somehow more stable than all of the girls his age he knew. If she said he was good in bed, it seemed more true. If she told him that she liked having him around, it seemed very-likely.
His telling Georgie he loved her was serious. It was a hard thing to say to her, but he had. He figured it out in his head and it was true. Somehow it was something that he had to tell her. Because, maybe, she didn't betray his trust. She didn't laugh, or tell her girl friends who spread the story all over school.
Georgie liked him, a bit more, because he loved her. She seemed awfully unsure of herself, for all her poise and her sure movements. He had watched her asleep, more times than he could remember; something about her sleeping pose told him of her inner uncertainties better than :my number of words.
Sometimes her needs in bed told him, the funny way she would move under him, the driven way she fucked. She wanted to come, probably too hard. If she'd quit worrying about it, she might. But she worried and tried and looked for every possible release-hopelessly.
The little game she played had fooled him at first. "I don't care if I come fucking-give me head, I like that better. You give nice head, but girls give it better. I like girls, too." After a while it didn't work. She tried too harri. He wanted to tell her to relax, but he was less confident than he appeared; how could he say a thing like that?
He always ended up sessions like these telling himself not to worry. If Georgie didn't want him around, she'd tell him. But maybe she pitied him, he thought. Maybe she knew about his parents and just plain pitied him.
Stop it! he told himself. Just stop it. He stubbed out the cigarette with one vicious movement and watched Georgie for a minute. She had turned, and was curled on her side. She looked so lost.
When he first met her, in a poster shop on Hollywood Boulevard, she had looked completely the opposite: standing, hands on hips, in front of a huge poster of a couple fucking. It was a black and white poster done in sort of misty tones, as if the photographer were trying to shade over their genitals enough to have the picture accepted on the common market, not be risqu‚ enough to have kids buy it or horny old men want it for their walls.
Harry had decided he didn't like the poster. It was too commercial-looking. He preferred the hard-core stuff-or so it was called-even though that sometimes made him blush.
But she was standing in front of the poster, looking at it carefully, with her head thrown back and her ass tilted in a funny way. All this incredible red hair was thrown back over her shoulders, and two round, full tits were pointed right at the poster. She was wearing a sort of T-shirt in a sweatery material covering otherwise naked boobs.
As he walked between her and the poster, Harry noticed all this. Pretending to stare at some vague greenish ecology poster that he never really got a look at, he studied her obliquely.
Right then he was stunned. Too stunned to even feel any reaction to her at all except wonder and a vague fear at the strong sexual attraction he felt for her. His cock was so hard he had to work at thinking about something else to be able to move.
She had noticed him ... somehow, because she was talking to him, and somehow they were walking down the street, making light banter. God, what a phrase. He was walking down the street reacting mindlessly to what she said, and she was saying it all.
Without realizing quite what was happening he had gotten into her car with her, and drove up to the small house on the side of a hill. The friends he had been with were forgotten. She had asked about his parents, but accepted his shrug as an easy dismissal of the problem.
She had kept on talking, and he had kept on answering and somehow suddenly his cock was deep in her hole and he was working furiously. Her legs were on his shoulders; her hands were traveling the knotted, working lumps of his ass and she must have been rubbing him with one of her oils. He smelled something sweet and heavy that had stayed with him for days, despite showers.
Harry had worked at her, pounding, pounding her cunt, floating in the sea of his passion, until the passion let go and he came into her. He had fallen asleep almost immediately; when he woke he turned her over and began fucking again.
Funny, that she was now the one who dropped off to sleep and he would roam or waken halfway through the night, smoking endless numbers of cigarettes until, if lucky, falling into a fitful sleep at dawn.
He unwrapped himself from the bedcover suddenly, and went to the door. Maybe if there was something in the kitchen, he thought; turning back, he looked at Georgie again. That was what he really wanted-not food.
In the dimmed light of the room she was pale, shadowed heaps of flesh, with her red hair, dark in this light, spread across her. It didn't disguise anything, or hide an inch of her. Knowing how creamy, how soft her skin was, he wanted to caress the soft flesh he saw. He wanted to stroke all of the skin not covered by her hair; then move aside the hair and stroke all of her body.
When he moved her hair across her body she would shiver with the feel of it. In her sleep she would stir, moving under his hands and responding before she was awake. Maybe she would stretch, or she would move, and the weight of her lovely, heavy tits would change. He would take them, then, and play with them, moving the nipples with his thumbs, massaging the weight of her and testing it in his hands.
He wan doing it. Harry had walked over and knelt by her. His legs were spread a bit, and he was back on his haunches at the moment, moving her fine big tits with his hands. The light changed on them, shifting as he moved them.
Her hair had fallen back, but still curled in the mounds of her flesh. The tendrils made dark slashes against her flesh. His prick rose as he watched her. It got to be hard and hot, ready to fuck.
But he would take his time. It was still early morning and they had all day. After he had come in last night she had moved the phone into the hallway and shut it off. It gave him a strange feeling to think that she had left it on, but shut it off when he came. But maybe she did the same thing every time someone came over.
She had never failed to answer the phone when he called; and she always came to the phone if Carol answered. He didn't understand it. Shaking his head, he tried to focus his attention on the situation at hand.
His body had gone on, stroking her breasts, moving down from their roundness to the softer, smaller roundness of her waist and her belly. His prick was hard, and stood like a flagpole in his lap. While it throbbed to remind him of its state, he kept his mind on the girl before him.
But to his constant amazement she was a woman; a full-grown woman, older than the mother who had borne him. All right, only by a year, but still, she physically existed before his mother, and that was years before he had come into being.
He had seen many kinds, many shapes of females in the time he had been balling but this was one of the few real women he had encountered. He had fucked Carol, once, maybe twice, one night when four of them got loaded and ended up fucking and eating each other; making merry until the sun rose. More than anything, that night, they had laughed.
Moving his hands down her body he explored her thighs again, marveling at their roundness and their fullness. These were not the skinny, or the flabby thighs of his Saturday night girls. They were strong yet soft beyond belief.
More and more his cock itched to be near her cunt, to push aside the lips which guarded the vast, mysterious hole beyond, and rush on into it.
A finger slipped between her legs and touched her small clit. As lightly as he could he stroked the tiny bud. It hardened instantly, a miniature, yet quick imitator of his prick; the action brought syrup oozing from her cunt. Suspicion, or maybe desire sent another finger to see if she had creamed.
Finding the thick fluid sent another tremor of lust through him. Damn! He stretched out with his lips moving closer to those strange counterparts between her legs. His hips were near her face, with the hope that she would tongue him as she woke, and ease the huge staff a little.
Her mouth might at least cool him a little. The thought made him smile. Her mouth would do nothing of the sort!