Chapter 6
Maggie, slightly mollified, watched her go and sat in thoughtful silence for a moment after the sound of Cynthia's footsteps had died away on the stairs. And then she shrugged her ample shoulders, her mouth a taut line, as she turned to the work that waited for her.
She knew the moment Cynthia got home that her efforts had been fruitless, and she admired the girl's courage as she spun out her tale of the visits she had made to Mose's various haunts and saw Gladdie-May's trusting look. Poor little devil, Maggie told herself, and heaved a deep sigh.
As they finished supper, the small querulous wail of the awakening baby was heard, and Gladdie-May stood up.
"He wants his supper, too," she said proudly. "He's already had his bath, and he's near 'bout ready for bed. I'll go give him his bottle."
"Gladdie-May, let me give him his bottle," pleaded Cynthia so unexpectedly that both Gladdie-May and Maggie looked at her, startled, and Cynthia laughed and made a little gesture. "I'll be very careful not to drop him, and I'll be sure to burp him when he's finished."
Gladdie-May beamed like any proud parent whose offspring has won favor with an outsider.
"Well, now, Miss Cynthia, if you're right sure you want to, I'd be pleased if you would," she glowed.
"I want to, Gladdie-May, very much," Cynthia said eagerly.
"I'll go get him," Gladdie-May offered, and disappeared.
Maggie eyed Cynthia curiously.
"Now what's all this? Your sudden enthusiasm for babies, I mean."
"Don't be silly. It's not a sudden enthusiasm. I adore babies-and Buck's darling," Cynthia defended herself, without meeting Maggie's eyes.
Gladdie-May came back with the baby, his bottle held carefully in her free hand, and placed him gently in Cynthia's arms.
"It's awful hot in here, Miss Cynthia. Why'n't you take him out on the verandah where it's cooler?" Gladdie-May suggested.
"You don't think he might take cold?" Cynthia wondered.
"A night like this?" Maggie protested. "It must be ninety at least."
Gladdie-May laughed richly. "Oh, no'm, he won't take cold. He's been out on the verandah all day. It'll be good for him."
"I'll help with the dishes, Cynthia. Now be quiet, Gladdie-May! I'm going to dry, and you can wash, and that's final!" Maggie said sternly.
"Well, if you're sure you want to, Miss Maggie, I'd be right glad of your company," Gladdie-May said happily.
Cynthia sat in the big wicker swing, the baby held in one arm, the bottle poised at what seemed to be the angle he preferred. He made small, happy sounds as he drew the milk from the bottle, and his tiny starfish hands waved gently, as though to indicate his complete satisfaction with the state of the world as he found it at present.
She was so absorbed in her task that she was completely unaware of the car that stopped in the drive, or of the sound of steps crossing to the house. And so when after a moment she looked up to see Hank Dowler watching her, she gave a small, convulsive start that drew the bottle from the baby's mouth so that he emitted a tiny, angry wail.
"Oh, I didn't hear you, Mr. Dowler," she stammered, and soothed the baby gently, feeling warmth in her face and knowing that she was blushing. "Maggie told me that you drove her home. That was thoughtful."
Hank studied her as though he had not heard her speak.
"This is about the last role I ever expected to see you playing," he admitted with a frankness that was disarming.
"It's one I rarely play, only it isn't a role," she protested. "It's just that I have never been around babies much. This is Bud's and Glad-die-May's baby. Isn't he precious?"
Without waiting to be asked, Hank dropped into a wicker chair facing her and looked at the baby, who was happily finishing his bottle. Cynthia put the empty bottle down, lifted the baby very gently, put him against her shoulder and patted his small back until the desired result had been achieved.
"There, now. That's a good boy!" she told the baby.
"A few years from now, he'll be taught it's bad manners to burp after a meal." Hank chuckled, and Cynthia laughed with him.
"But now it's necessary," she told him, and cradled the drowsy baby in the curve of her arms, the tiny head against her breast as she bent to lay her cheek on it, her eyes absorbed and happy. "I didn't know babies could be so sweet. Oh, I've heard about them a lot, but-well-"
She broke off, steadied her voice, and her eyes were cool as she met his intent gaze.
"And what can I do for you, Mr. Dowler?" she asked crisply.
"For one thing, you can stop calling me Mr. Dowler as though we had just met, and go back to Hank, which is what all my friends call me," he stated flatly. "And for another, you might try to forgive me for blowing off steam in your office."
"There's nothing to forgive, Hank," Cynthia told him quietly. "You hated losing your driver. He was important to you. So it's only natural that you should feel pretty bitter."
"The words are all right," Hank said slowly, still watching her as she cradled the baby close. "It's the tone that says you haven't forgiven me. And that's pretty sad, isn't it?"
"Why should it be?" Cynthia asked.
"Well, I'll be around most of the winter, and I'd hoped we could be friends."
"You don't think that might be dangerous?"
He repeated the word as though puzzled, and Cynthia laughed.
"Oh, feeling as you do about love traps and things, I'd think you would be pretty cautious about being friends with any unmarried female."
"Oh, but you're different!" Hank insisted.
"I'm not a bit sure that's a compliment!"
"It was meant for one," Hank said quietly. "And that's pretty funny, too, because you happen to be the only woman I've ever wanted to get to know at all well."
Gladdie-May came out on the verandah and said shyly, "If Buck's asleep, Miss Cynthia, I'll put him in his crib."
Cynthia handed over the baby and when Gladdie-May had gone inside, Cynthia turned her face toward the twilit lawn and drew a deep breath.
Hank watched her and waited, knowing that for the moment she had forgotten him. And then, as though remembering, she turned her head and said quickly, "I'm sorry, Hank. You were saying?"
Hank grinned wryly.
"I was saying that the gang will be here a week from today, and I've arranged a dinner party for them at the hotel. I'd like it very much if you and Miss Maggie could be there," he said pleasantly. "I do hope you'll like them all; I know they will like you. They're going to be very happy to know we have such a fine legal representation. Miss Maggie told you, didn't she, that I hoped you would consent to represent us in any legal matters that might come up?"
"Well, no, she didn't," Cynthia answered. "I was out all afternoon and got home just in time for supper. What sort of legal matters, Hank?"
"At the moment, I'm thankful to say, there are none, now that Jenks is all straightened out," Hank replied. "But we're going to be here several months. There could be things like-oh, traffic tickets. And sometimes there are accidents at the track. It would be nice for us if we knew we could just call on you. All we have to do is arrange a retainer, or however you want to make it."
"I'll be glad to represent you and the Lucky Devils, Hank, but there will be no retainer, just whatever fee is called for by whatever emergency there may be," Cynthia told him briskly.
Hank nodded his satisfaction with that, but still he lingered, and Cynthia waited.
As though suddenly conscious of the silence that lay between them, he looked up at her suddenly in the dying light that showed her as a luminous white figure across from him.
"If you aren't busy, how about letting me buy you a drink someplace?" he suggested. "Something long and tall and very cold, perhaps in an air-conditioned place? I'm sure you know where to find one in Reidsville."
"It's a very tempting thought," Cynthia agreed. "It's been so hot all day, and there's not much breeze even now."
"Then let's go and stir one up."
"It's a deal." Cynthia smiled and rose. "I'll tell Maggie."
She went into the house, where Maggie was already absorbed in her favorite TV program, and announced her intention of going for a drive with Hank.
"Good idea," said Maggie, without taking her eyes from the screen. "Have fun, you two."
Cynthia laughed and went back to the verandah where Hank was waiting.
"Perhaps Miss Maggie would like to go with us?" said Hank politely, without a great deal of enthusiasm.
"Maggie at the moment is traveling the West with a wagon train, and I can't think of anything that would persuade her to leave until the man comes on and says, 'Now a word from our sponsor.' At that point, Maggie returns to the present, peels an apple, gets a handful of saltines and is back in her chair for the next scene."
Hank walked beside Cynthia down the drive to his car, put her into it and slid behind the wheel.
"Where to, ma'am?" he asked. Cynthia sighed and leaned back against the seat.
"Anywhere, as long as it stirs up a breeze," she answered.
"We'll stir up a breeze," he promised her as he started the car, "even if we hear a traffic cop screaming behind us. And even if we do, I'll have my attorney with me to plead extenuating circumstances. 'Officer, we were just trying to cool off, s'help me.' "
"That ought to do it," Cynthia agreed lightly.
It was very pleasant riding along away from town, out into the open country.
"How about this place for that cold drink I promised you?" he asked as the car slowed. Startled out of her thoughts, she roused to see a barn-like place set back from the highway, its parking space well-occupied, a huge neon sign concentrating on the words, "AIR-CONDITIONED."
"Oh, this is the Green Lantern," she identified it.
"Respectable?" asked Hank.
Cynthia laughed aloud. "Heavens, yes, it wouldn't be permitted inside the county limits if it was not," she assured him. "We're a dry county-or hadn't you heard?"
Driving the car neatly into a parking space between a truck and a middle-aged sedan, Hank answered frankly, "Well, I hadn't heard-but I'm as well pleased. In my profession, 'hard likker' is frowned on. If you are really crazy about your job, as I am about mine, you don't need extra stimulants."
They walked across the parking area and entered the building, and a blast of music from the jukebox seemed to reach out to them and enfold them.
"Music?" Hank asked Cynthia, elevating his brows even as he winced at the noise.
"So-called," Cynthia answered, and winced. "I'm not sure whether it's rock 'n' roll or scat-singing. It's whatever the youngsters are spending their money on, anyway. I feel very old when I listen to it and watch their faces and see how absorbed they are in it."
"You old?" Hank scoffed at the thought. "Why, you're younger than springtime; not much older than the infant you were cuddling just now."
Cynthia laughed up at him, her tone mocking. "Why, Mis-ter Dowler!"
They stood for a moment eyeing the well-filled room, until finally Hank saw a booth that was vacant and steered her toward it.
When they settled, a waitress came hurrying towards them, smiling a warm and friendly greeting at Cynthia, looking curiously at Hank.
"The usual, Miss Cynthia?" asked the waitress, and Cynthia nodded.
"The usual, Minnie, thank you."
The waitress looked at Hank, who also nodded.
"I'll have whatever Miss Reid has," he offered. Cynthia and the waitress exchanged swift, conspiratorial grins, and Cynthia said quickly, "Take my word for it, Hank-you wouldn't like it. You'd better bring him a very cold beer, Minnie."
"Sure, Miss Cynthia." Minnie grinned and hurried away.
Cynthia looked about her at the crowded room, the small dance floor where several couples in their teens were earnestly gyrating to the blare of the jukebox.
Hank watched her, and when she turned her eyes back to him, something in his eyes brightened her color.
"Well, if they aren't having fun," she answered the look in his eyes, defiance in her own, "why are they working so hard on such a hot night?"
Hank smiled and looked at the gyrating youngsters, then back at Cynthia, shrugging.
"The riddle of the ages: Why do young people do the things they do? It must be fun or they wouldn't be here, would they?"
"They wouldn't be, anyway. Why, some of them can't be more than fifteen or sixteen. What are their parents thinking of to allow them out in a place like this?" Cynthia worried.
"Probably their parents don't know where they are. And anyway, you said this was a respectable place."
"Oh, it's respectable, and the waitresses and the barmen know how old they are, and not one of them could buy anything more intoxicating than a Coke or a ginger ale," Cynthia answered. "The place does have a beer license, but it's against the law to serve it to anyone under age."
Minnie came hurrying with a tray on which was a tall, thin glass of some sparkling liquid that bubbled around a scoop of ice cream. She placed it before Cynthia and the glass of beer, its sides frosty, before Hank, and paused a moment.
"See, mister?" Minnie said cheerfully, "We warned you, you wouldn't like Miss Cynthia's 'usual.'"
Hank was staring at Cynthia's glass with something approaching horror.
"What in blazes is that-devil's brew?" he demanded.
"Ginger ale, with ice cream in it," Cynthia said. "Delicious."
Hank's lean, pleasantly rugged face twisted slightly.
"Ice cream I can take, under pressure. Ginger ale I accept without question. But the two combined?"
Cynthia merely laughed at him and looked up at Minnie.
"Did you know Mose Henslee, Minnie?" she asked quietly.
"Well, sure, didn't everybody?" Minnie answered her question with another.
"You didn't like him?" Cynthia pursued.
Minnie's sandy eyebrows went up. "Did anybody?"
"I suppose you know Bud Conyers is accused of killing him."
"And a mighty fine job, too. They should decorate him or something like they used to soldiers during the war." Minnie broke off and added awkwardly, "You're Bud's lawyer, aren't you, Miss Cynthia? So of course you don't believe he's guilty or you wouldn't have taken the case. You sure got a job cut out for yourself. I don't believe even you can save him-not with elections coming up in the spring and all the peanut politicians busy as blazes trying to scare up votes."
"You haven't heard anything that might help Bud?"
"Well, sakes alive, Miss Cynthia, how would I?"
"I just thought perhaps Mose might have been in here a lot."
"In here, Miss Cynthia?" It was almost a snort, and touched with honest indignation. "The boss wouldn't have let him set foot in the place-and he wouldn't have wanted to, anyway. He made his own rotgut in his own still and didn't waste his time or his money buying anything anybody else had to sell."
Cynthia said swiftly, "Mose was moonshining?"
Minnie looked puzzled. "Well, if you didn't know that, Miss Cynthia, then you must be just about the only person in the county that didn't. Sure, that was the reason Mose spent so much time in the Big Swamp. He had his still in there and just brought out enough pelts and hides to make folks think he was trapping. Only thing he was trapping was all the bucks he could get from folks in these parts that don't like living in a dry county. He made a lot of money at it, too. Makes you wonder what he did with it. He sure as blazes never spent any of it for clothes or good living-he dressed and lived like the worst hobo that ever came down the pike."
There was a stentorian yell from a rear booth, and Minnie said hurriedly, "I got to go now. You want another drink, you just yell, Miss Cynthia."
She nodded, smiled and hurried off.
Cynthia sat silent, her brows drawn together, ignoring the drink before her, and Hank watched her curiously for a long moment.
"Does that help?" he asked at last.
Cynthia looked up, startled, and he realized she had forgotten his presence.
"Oh," she said quickly, and smiled disarmingly, "I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm not very good company."
"Don't be silly," Hank cut in. "Does what the woman said help your client's case?"
Cynthia shook her head slowly, her eyes still thoughtful.
"I'm afraid not," she admitted. "Oh, I've heard rumors about Mose and his still in the Big Swamp; everybody has. But the Swamp has been searched from one end to the other, even from the air, and there's been no indication that a still is there."
"This Big Swamp," Hank said. "I've heard a lot about it, and of course I saw the Conyer's place on the edge of it. Looks like a place where you could hide Reidsville and not even know it was there."
"Oh, it's an enormous place, but most of it is water," Cynthia answered. "It's never been really explored, but from the air any illegal activity could be spotted. After all, you can't just tuck a still under a bush and know that it will never be found."
Above them a young, eager voice spoke, and they looked up to see a tall, thin youth looking down at Hank with worshipful eyes.
"You're Mr. Dowler of the Lucky Devils, aren't you?" the boy asked. "I saw you race at the Southeastern, and I told people they were crazy as blazes to think you'd come to a penny-ante affair like our county fair! Not the Lucky Devils! Man, you're the most!"
Hank stood up and shook hands with the boy, who beamed, his young, handsome face scarlet with pleasure.
"You see, Mr. Dowler, I'm crazy about racing, and I'd like to have your autograph," said the boy, and scowled. "But don't think I'm the kind of dope that breaks his neck collecting autographs of movie stars. It's just that I've always wanted to be a race driver! And I've always admired you because you do the darndest things. The way you can smash a car going one hundred miles plus an hour and just walk away from it-"
Hank laughed, offered the boy a chair and glanced at Cynthia, his eyebrows quirked a little as he scrawled his name on the piece of paper the boy offered.
"And here are a couple of tickets for opening night, son," he added casually.
"My name is Dock Blair, Mr. Dowler," said the boy eagerly. "And someday you're going to read that name in the papers, and it's going to say I won the Grand Prix at Sebring!"
Hank's eyebrows went up.
"Oh, is it now?" There was good-humored raillery in his voice. "That's been a hope of mine ever since the Sebring show began. What kind of car do you drive?"
Dock's young face fell a little.
"Oh, well, it's just something I put together myself," he admitted. "You know how it is-a piece here, a piece there. But, boy, does she ever run! I always place first in the drag races. The fair committee lets us use the speedway at the fairgrounds; they say it's safer than letting us clutter up the highways. I suppose maybe it is."
T imagine it's more fun, too," Hank said gravely. I'd like to see your car, Dock."
The boy's eyes shone with delight.
"Would you really, Mr. Dowler? Golly, I'd sure like to have you see it. Only-well, you mustn't make fun." The boy's voice broke awkwardly.
"Dock, don't be a fool! Make fun? I built the first two cars I had," Hank began.
Dock nodded. "And then you test-drove some experimental models, and the manufacturer was so pleased that he furnished you with others and you got the troupe together," he finished before Hank could and grinned as he saw the look of surprise in Hank's eyes. "Oh, sure, Mr. Dowler, like I said, I've always admired you and I've read up on you and-well, this is just about the biggest bang of my life, meeting you like this."
"Thanks, Dock. Coming from a fellow-racer, that's quite a complement," Hank told him, and his voice was quite sincere.
"Could I maybe come down to the fairgrounds and watch you tune up for the opening, Mr. Dowler? And maybe meet some of the others? That Jenks is a wonder. I'd sure like to meet him."
Hank's jaw set and his eyes cooled.
"Jenks won't be with us anymore, Dock. He got married, and his wife objects to his racing," he said quietly.
A look of blank horror touched Dock's face.
"Jenks-to go like that!" he breathed aloud, and Cynthia glanced at Hank and then at the boy and set her teeth. Dock spoke, as Hank had earlier in the day, as though this Jenks had died!
"I feel the same way about it, Dock," Hank admitted frankly. "But what can you do? She felt he was in constant danger, and she couldn't take it."
"Gosh!" Dock's eyes were blazing in his young, freckled face. "Women! How could Jenks ever get tangled up with anybody as chicken as that? Women sure are bad luck, aren't they, Mr. Dowler?"
Hank glanced at Cynthia, a twinkle in his eyes that died beneath the frost in her own.
"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Dock," he temporized.
"Well, I would!" snapped Dock, completely oblivious to Cynthia. "No dame's ever going to get me snaffled down like that! No, siree!"
A pretty girl, sixteen or less, her snug little waist tightly cinched by a wide leather belt above a voluminous black skirt that was patterned in gaily colored and quite improbable animals, came swaying up to the table, her black hair sleek about her shoulders.
"The crowd's leaving, Dock," she said icily. "Shall I let Pete take me home, or can you possibly tear yourself away?"
Dock straightened, looked up at her and rose so hastily that he almost stumbled.
"Oh, Julie," he said, "of course I'll take you home. Julie, this is Hank Dowler, head of the Lucky Devils troupe."
There was a tone of awe in his voice. Julie's dark, angry eyes flicked over Hank, dismissed him disdainfully and glanced at Cynthia.
"Oh, hello, Miss Reid," she said politely. "Come on, Dock."
She turned and, moving with the effortless grace of all young things, walked out of the place, while Dock hesitated to offer an apology to Hank for her rudeness and to be assured by Hank that he quite understood.
"I'll see you at the fairgrounds, Mr. Dowler," said Dock hurriedly, and held up the tickets. "Sure thank you a lot-and good-night, Miss Reid."
He hurried after Julie, and Hank and Cynthia watched them go, then glanced at each other and burst out laughing.
"He's not going to get snaffled by any dame," Cynthia mocked. "Oh, no, not him!"
"He may fool you at that," Hank objected, still grinning. "He's only a kid yet."
Cynthia said, shocked, "You're surely not going to encourage him? About being a racing driver!"
Hank said quietly, "You don't think much of the profession, do you?"
"A profession?" Her tone denied the implication.
"You don't think it is? I suppose you feel it's strictly a matter of-oh, well, of taking idiotic chances and not getting killed? How many racing drivers have you heard of being killed in races? Believe me, it is a profession, and it takes many years to train for it."
"I'm sure," said Cynthia curtly. "Shall we go?"
"No," said Hank, unexpectedly grim. "We'll have this out here and now. I'm tired of having you sneer at me and my job."
"I'm not sneering."
"You're giving a most excellent imitation of it, then!" Hank was genuinely angry now. "I've been working at this since I was younger than that boy. Not for the money, because after all, except for a few occasional large prizes, there isn't a heck of a lot of money in it. But there is a thrill that is found in no other sport in the world. You have to drive to realize that thrill. It's hard, grueling work, of course. The Grand Prix at Sebring, for istance, is a twelve-hour endurance run; twelve straight hours of driving a five-point-two-mile track. There are seven sharp corners and five curves, or bends. One of those bends you can take at a hundred and twenty miles an hour; and one of the corners slows you down to thirty-five. You have to constantly brake, shift, adjust the speed and balance of the car; and there's a straightaway where you can do one hundred and sixty miles an hour, if you and your car can take it. Only people who thoroughly understand the technique of racing can even begin to realize the skill of some of the top-ranking drivers. One of the greatest drivers that ever lived was an Italian."
"And you're planning to take over where he stopped?" Cynthia's tone was thin and cold.
For a moment he stared at her, his eyes wide and angry. And then his jaw set hard and he stood up. "I just might, at that," he said. "Shall we go?"
"By all means," Cynthia told him, and walked out ahead of him.
How could she be falling in love with a man like this? Cynthia didn't know how to figure it out. All of her life, she had been the most reasonable of women. Never making a move until she had reasoned out all of its ramifications.
And now she was falling in love with a racing driver!
She had to smile. This was, after all, exactly the way her father had told her life worked out. Full of surprises.
All of her adult life, Clinton Kirby had been the man she was supposed to marry.
Everyone knew it.
Cynthia had never doubted it. After all, Clint was a handsome young man-an attorney as well. She'd dated him for as long as she could remember.
And yet ... of course, there had been no rush to get married. They were both young and there was no pressure on them to tie the knot.
Cynthia was positive that if she really pushed, Clint would marry her in an instant. It was just that he hadn't gotten around to it yet.
As a companion, she found Clint to be stuffy and pompous. And she resented his small-town desire to be a big frog, what with his political ambition and all.
Still, he was a known quantity, while Hank, for all of his charm, remained very much a mystery to her.
She thought of the better times with Clint.
There had been the day he took her on a picnic. He never did things like that anymore. "Childish," he would have said if she asked to take her out to the lake.
But a few years ago, Clint had been different. That day was particularly beautiful, and when they arrived at the lakefront, Clint tossed down the blanket and then tugged her down atop him.
"Let's do it," he said.
He kissed her fat and full on the mouth. His tongue slipped into her cavern and slung around, hinting of sweet cunnilingus. She was shocked at his rare directness.
Then she felt his two hands come up and hold her tits through her sweater. There was a certain exciting anxiousness in his grip, the way he pressed her flesh together in his palm and studied its retreat. It made her chest quake with desire.
Then the hands came up underneath the sweater, atop the bra. Again he grabbed at her flesh and pumped it in his palms. His skin rubbed at the hardening nip, pressing against soft cotton cups that made her point up and out.
Then one hand came around and undid her bra. As the cups came loose they held around the opening and falling flesh. He drew them away and started pinching both nipples, folding the flesh in his hands and spinning the little tubs.
"Oh Clint!!!" she swooned. "Yes ... Yes!!! Let's do it now!!!"
He pulled his arms up and spread the sweater off her, freeing her boobs to sway and roll in the open air. Again he grabbed them, letting the puckered nubs peek out between his thumb and first finger. He put his face to the right tit and squeezed the darker round tub right into his waiting lips.
"Ooooo Clint!!" she moaned. "Suck at that tittie!!"
He let his lips chew away at the round areola that was the frame to her pudgy nip, which his tongue circled round in ever-faster wet slaps. The pert tip grew fatter and firmer as he went on.
He shifted to the other, this time holding and pressing the little pink bud in his teeth until it was rock-firm. Then he sucked it in gently and pulled at it with long tugs. She moaned with satisfaction.
"Ooooooooo the way you chew!!!! Keep going, baby!!!"
Then he started slobbering from tit to tit, fondly gumming both into his mouth and spitting his tongue across the flesh to excite her. Her skin felt warm and creamy to him-almost as if he could drink it.
He put his mouth close and sucked her in, hogging more and more tit inside.
She could feel her whole upper body begin to pulse with excitation, and she longed to have him chew at her even harder. She wanted her tits pinched and bitten, and when his teeth grazed her aching nip by accident, she told him.
"C'mon Clint," she urged. "Chew my titties right off my chest."
To encourage him she lifted the mounds up to his face and offered them with her outstretched palms. She held them there as they quivered with his fervent chewing, until the muscle and flesh inside seemed to be spinning underneath the skin.
Then she started to feed his sucking mouth gobs of her swinging glory, letting him slurp in more and more of the creamy flesh, until each tit felt like it had been totally encased and warmed in his biting and chewing mouth.
From there he started kissing downward, and when his face reached her belt he licked avidly at her belly-button. He ravaged the tiny hole until the skin around it was parting and rolling in waves.
Meanwhile Clint's hands were busy undoing the button and unzipping her front.. She wiggled her bottom and he had the pants off. Then with another wiggle he pulled off her panties.
Then she opened up her womb in glorious relief and let him dive in at her sweaty tissues. He chewed and gobbled at her slit as if it was his first bit of moisture after a week in the desert. With each inward breath he seemed to try to slurp all the juices he could into his mouth. Her lips quivered and her passage hummed. She was happy in his arms.
She felt free and alive, naked under the sun. Clint licked his lips, then stood up, and quickly undressed. He was well-built but with a tendency towards pudginess. She watched him as he stripped, loving the look of his body.
He was already hard when he skinned off his shorts and stood in front of her. She smiled, sat up on her knees and grasped his erect shaft.
Cynthia jerked it once or twice, loving the feel of it in her warm hand. Then she leaned forward and worked her lips around the swollen head of his cock.
He began groaning with pleasure-it was the one thing that Clint loved. Sometimes Cynthia thought he liked it more than what came later.
Cynthia liked it too. She took more and more of his hard shaft into her mouth, cupping his testicles in her hand. He was moving, pushing it in and out, loving the feel of the softness of her lips against him.
Then he pulled out-"I was ready to come," he said-and pushed her down on the blanket. Cynthia was on her back, her legs spread, and Clint knelt between her knees and began licking and biting her hot, moist cunt.
Then she humped forward, raising up on her ass. She pushed it into his eager face and Clint smiled in appreciation. If there was one thing he enjoyed more than being sucked, it was licking Cynthia's fragrant center.
Cynthia cupped her breasts in her hands, pinching the nipples into firm, jutting erections. She felt as if she'd been asleep for awhile, her consciousness clouded with pleasure.
Clint was probing her center with his tongue, digging and licking, his hands now on either side of his face, tugging Cynthia's center.
She was wide open and ready for it. Clint straightened up, grinned down at her, and then moved quickly between her legs.
He shoved it in abruptly-Clint usually took his time-and she gasped with pleasure when she felt herself widen to accept him.
Then he was moving quickly, jabbing her, and she yawned open her legs to more readily accept his hot bulky hardness. She felt him stretching her to the breaking point and then suddenly he was in all the way, rocking gently, filling her with the only real pleasure she'd ever known.
Then he began to speed it up, in and out, twisting his hips to stimulate her. All she wanted was a straight-ahead ramming, the feel of his hips and pelvis crushing her. But she liked this too, the way he tried to make it even better for her.
And then he was groaning and she felt his cock throbbing deep within her. His jets of warm wetness made her gasp with pleasure and she answered his come with an orgasm of her own.