Chapter 6
Beverly had just been butt-fucked, and she'd never felt so good in her life. She'd been butt-fucked by a man she didn't even like, and still she felt glorious, basking in the residual physical good feelings and still all aglow with the visions of her fantastic future. She knew it was all pure fantasy, but she also knew, from years in prison, how to keep such fantasies going in her mind. And here, outside prison, with a little help from the people and the things available to her, she knew how to exploit that continuing fantasy to the fullest. She looked forward to getting the most out of it as she shakily descended the stairs from her boss's office, clothing and hair mussed, sweat drying on her body, crotch all a tingle and tightly puckered asshole still oozing Rod's slippery cum.
Thanks to Rod's eagerness to get going on the developing of the pictures, young Bobby would still be waiting for her outside. Beverly ducked into the John for a quick brush of her hair and the fast application of a little lipstick. Then she proceeded outside to find the poor sap waiting there by his bicycle. She went to him with swinging hips, kissed his cheek and told him her address. "I'll take the bus and you take your bike, honey-boy. We'll get to know each other better while we have a little fun. You start now. Here comes my bus."
Boarding the bus, Beverly didn't even notice the arrival of Linda Patton at Hanratty Mills, for Beverly was deeply involved in her own little private dreamworld. Bobby was the perfect foil for keeping it going. Just the look in his limpid eyes as he'd kissed her cheek promised a most entertaining evening ahead for her. She closed her eyes fully as the bus bore her onward to the mean little upstairs apartment that would be the penthouse of a hugely successful and sexy film star that night.
Back at the Mill, Rod Hanratty was greeting Linda Patton in a warm but business-like fashion. If he hadn't just screwed his little blonde shop girl, he couldn't have brought off this business-like demeanor, for Linda was stunning that day.
Her raven dark hair was thick and glossy, falling down past her very straight shoulders in back, and sweeping down over her forehead in front in the shape of an ocean swell. She was wearing a plain blouse of pale blue, long sleeved and high-necked, and nicely thrust out with her perkily high young titties. Her sveltely sweeping hips and her cunningly contoured young bottom were covered with a straight skirt of darker blue, just short enough to show her dimpled knees, primly encased in panty-house, as she sat with her ankles and knees together on his couch while from behind his desk he gave her essentially the same spiel about modeling he'd just practiced with street-wise little Beverly. Linda wasn't as smart a Beverly, and though his delivery of the modeling proposition was more subdued with her, he could see her falling for it, hard.
As he spoke in the practiced tones of the businessman, he saw her wide blue eyes, set under long dark lashes and delicately arched brows, grow wider still and become kissed with a softly shining dew. And her lips, pink and sweet and without a trace of lipstick, but primly taut on her arrival, had slowly parted, softly trembling until she caught the plump one below between fantastically even, sparkling white teeth. Even her sweet little nose had almost twitched as he droned on about her possible future as a model, a film star, another Mary Tyler Moore. By the time he was done with that part of his pitch, pink roses showed through the soft tan on her cheeks and her titties, surely all aflutter, seemed to draw her up off the couch to meet him as he rose to show her exactly what he had in mind for the future of Hanratty Mills and of Linda Patton.
"Gloves," he said, taking a box from the cabinet, and opening it to show her the ones he'd bought on his shopping tour that day. "I have it on an inside source that gloves will be the fashion for the fall, and I know we can make the best. I've watched you work, watched you make change and dispense your wares every day and, frankly speaking, you've got the sexiest hands I've ever seen. Sex sells anything, your hands are the sexiest, and I can't think of a more exciting lady for modeling our future line of gloves."
"R-Really?" she said, examining her hands as if they'd just been given to her.
As before, Rod chose that time to take out his wife's expensive camera equipment. These things, and another blank model's release, he placed on his desk as he said, "Really. If you don't want to have a try at it, I'll get a professional model. I'll probably do that anyway, just for comparison, but offhand I've never seen one with hands as exciting as yours. Perhaps I've seen some with sexier hands," he said, stepping closer and taking one of her lily-whites in his paws, looking forward with hot excitement to the time when it would be wrapped around his stiffening cock, "but I've never seen one with hands like these and the arms and the body to go with them. If I can capture these hands and what go with them on film, the future of Hanratty Mills-and perhaps of Miss Linda Patton-is a very bright future indeed. Are you interested in modeling for me? If so, please sign this release."
"What does it say?" said she, signing her neat, sweet name, so starry-eyed now it might have been a murder confession for all she knew.
"The usual stuff," said Rod. "Now take off that blouse, if you please, and we'll begin."
"My b-blouse?" she said, her rosy color deepening, bringing forth another upward twinging of Rod's quickly renewing cock. "T-Take off my blouse?"
He smiled like a father and said, "We've got to get your arms in it, dear. You're not willing to bare your arms as other models do when they're making five dollars an hour, fifty dollars an hour, a hundred dollars an hour, a thousand dollars an hour . . . ? "
Rod discreetly went to his refrigerator to fill two glasses with chilled grapefruit juice while Linda, blushing deeply now, cringed and shivered her way out of her blouse. He knew very well if he stood there and watched while she did it it the lust in his eyes and the bulge in his pants would give him away and send her scooting off before this, the first of what he hoped would be many most interesting modeling sessions, got under way.
Beverly debarked from her bus in time to buy a jug of wine at the grocery store under her apartment, and in time to take a shower with fragrant soap before Bobby knocked at her door. She greeted him in an old green chenille robe, which she wore as if it were the sheerest, sexiest negligee ever imported from Paris. From the look on Bobby's face, it might have been.
"Come in, darling," she said, gesturing with the hand that held a jelly glass full of wine, and brushing a kiss on his very hot and pussy-smelling cheek as he stumbled inside. Just the smell of pussy was enough, as a rule, to get Beverly going. But she was going already with her fantasies, and this night she only wanted him, Bobby Stanton, for he was her only, her greatest fan. She wrinkled her nose as he tried, in his doltish way, to reach out for her thinly clad body, and she said, "You're all sweaty from work and your bide ride. Take a shower before we have our talk . . . and our fun."
He looked around through wide eyes at the old apartment with its sleazy furnishings and said, "Take a shower? Here?"
"No, downstairs in the fucking grocery store," she replied, and when he turned to look at her door, she propelled him toward her bathroom, saying, "In there!"
Bobby stumbled inside the small, cosmetic scented room with its cracked tile and fixtures, and its torn plastic shower curtain. If she wanted him to take a shower, he would, for he only wanted to please her, and at fifteen, he knew he knew very little about pleasing women, especially this one with whom he was so totally in love. He'd take a shower, he'd take a bath, he'd take a mud bath if she wanted that, but could he do it with her standing watching him?
There she was in the bathroom doorway, not four feet away, smiling at him crookedly, watching like a mother to see that he took his bath. She held an elbow in one hand and her drink in the other, and her ankles were crossed and one perfectly naked, perfectly dimpled knee was thrust coyly out through the folds of her elegant gown. Bobby tried not to look directly at her as he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, stalling as long as he could before taking it off, in hopes that she might leave.
He didn't have a hair on his chest, Beverly saw. He almost had muscles like man, but his chest was as free of hair as a woman's chest, and it had little pink nipples, like a girl's. A man's body in a girl's skin? She could afford to buy and sell that kind of person when she was rich and famous. "Go ahead," she said in her sultry TV voice, as he paused with his hands on his belt buckle, and she sipped her fine vintage wine and slipped the sash on her bathrobe.
Bobby couldn't help but gape at her as he opened his pants and pushed them down. How could anyone be so sexy and beautiful and still be interested in him? He tried to think about some college career so he could support her, but it was hard to think about things like that with more of the flat satiny flesh between her breasts showing, and now with her knee and her leg thrusting not so coyly out of her negligee. It was barely closed now, from a point just below her breasts that he'd dreamed of so often to a point just below her cunt that he'd actually kissed. If he was good, if he took his shower without doing something awful, she might let him kiss that wickedly wonderful, beautifully stinky part of herself once again. Bobby tore his gaze from his adored one to turn his back while he shucked down his old jockeys and slunk on into the bathtub with his raging hot pecker concealed as well as it could be by his crouch. He drew what was left of the shower curtain and turned on both the taps.
He had an adorable little ass, as smooth and free of hair as his chest had been, deeply cleft, nicely muscular, with a tiny pink pair of balls just peeping out from between his fuzzy, blonde-haired legs. An ass like that would have started a riot back in prison, and without a pair of balls and a prick connected in front to it. Beverly reached her hand inside her robe and squeezed and felt of her tits as she watched him enter her tub. They were nice, full tits, barely sagged out of upright shape at all by her thirty-two hard years. They were tits that, with a little help from a good bra or even a surgeon, could make a stunningly good impression when seen on a TV screen. And they were tits that felt good when she, or when anyone, felt of them. And their nipples, thanks in large part to her wonderful fantasies, were still up nice and hard. When Bobby shakily drew the torn curtain, Beverly knocked off her wine, set the glass on the back of the John, and went over to knock the kid out with her tits.
The shower curtain being whipped aside made Bobby whirl about to face his near nude lady love with very wide eyes and with hands that flew to his loins. He could see more than half of her breasts, and one of her nipples entirely, plus the soft round swell of her tummy and the triangular furry patch he had kissed with his heart in his mouth and his shorts filling with jism. He could see all of this, but he tried just to look at the loveliness of her grinning face as she stood there so close that his water was spattering on her. It didn't seem to bother her. She just stood there caressing her tummy, caressing the biggest, most beautiful breasts in the world, while Bobby gaped on and on and held the bar of soap against a cock that was trying to reach up and look at her too.
"Well, don't just stand there," said Beverly. "Wash, if you want to come out and play."
Bobby started to wash, almost frantically, at the same time trying quite unsuccessfully to conceal his prick and the state of it. It was a nice little prick, a sweet little prick, not mature by any means and not large, but just as stiff as it would ever be in the sixty or so years that were left to him. And the moment Beverly saw it, small and white and un-circumcised, not marked by any blue veins yet, she thought about its perfect antithesis, Rod Hanratty's big old cock, and a surge of electric feeling swelled outward from her asshole to her cunt and to all of her. And her cunt, so recently soaped, rinsed, dried, and powdered, as suddenly swollen and moist. Beverly took her quaking hand from her palpitating belly and reached out for the boy's stiff cock.
"Wait!! ! " he said, all in a panic, in total confusion from the sight of all her beauty and the touch of all her hand.
"I'm not a woman for waiting," she said, stroking his steely hard cock, pulling and pushing on it and feeling its flaming young heat through the warm water flowing over it.
Bobby fought against the shame of cumming, strove as hard as he could not to make a fool of himself, but her hand and her beauty and her closeness were just too much for him. With a shuddering, almost a painful wrench, his jism came spurting on out of him, while he arched and twisted against the slick tile wall, fantastically torn by hugest ecstasy, and seeing her beauty completely now. Her breasts could be seen in their entirety, swinging with the movement of her fantastic hand, all kissed and speckled with the diamonds that were his shower water. Her deep, horizontal navel winked at him as her tummy went in and out with her breathing, and there below this cunning orifice was her cunt, its hairs also jeweled with wet diamonds, and now badly flawed with the ropey white jism that spurted and might spurt forever from his aching, ecstatic bare cock.
It was still leaking jism when Beverly backed off, opened her robe to look down at herself, and said, "Just look what you've gone and done. Talk about a hair trigger. It's all over me! But I'll forgive you," she said, reaching in with him again, this time to turn off the faucets, "if you come out and clean me off."
Bobby almost fell getting out of the tub, weak and shaken as he was from the climax that still felt like it was going on, though no more of his shameful white jism was erupting from his tingling cock. He climbed out still gaping, for she was if anything more lovely than ever as she stood back with her robe swept back from her like the wings of an angel while she looked down at the offending gobbers of his jism that drooled down from her blonde cunt hair and from her closely shaven thighs.
"C-Clean you off?" said Bobby, shivering, almost jerking about in the aftermath of his ejaculation and in the vast and glorious sight of her.
"Yes, clean off your cum," she said, and sat down on the toilet seat, leaning back, robe fully open now, legs apart and fully exposing the lovely wild patch of blonde hair and the deep split of pink down through it. "Clean me off and we'll have some more fun. But first fill up my wineglass."