Chapter 8

Cynthia came back to the office, pale and weary from a session with Bud in which he had been bitter, hostile and quarrelsome.

More to divert him from his bitterness at being locked up, away from his beloved Swamp and Gladdie-May and the baby, than with any hope that he might be able to tell her anything she didn't already know, she had asked, as she was leaving, "Bud, do you know anything about an illicit still Mose was supposed to have hidden somewhere in the Swamp?"

Bud's young, thin-lipped mouth twisted.

"The still wasn't in the Swamp," he answered. "I dunno where he made the stuff or even if he made it. Way I always had it figgered was that he was just selling it for some of the fellows up in the mountains that hauled it down for him."

Cynthia asked quickly, "Do you know where he hid it?"

"Well, sure, Miss Cynthia-it's my swamp. I know it like I know every inch of this blasted cage!"

"Then, why, Bud, didn't you tell the officers when they were searching for a still?"

"Why should I? They was tearing the place apart, chasing all the game away, making so much trouble, only thing I wanted was for them to get out and leave things settle down way they always was."

"But, Bud, if they'd found Mose's hidden liquor, then they would have arrested him and sent him to jail."

Bud lifted broad shoulders in a gesture of dismissal.

"I figgered it was their job to catch him, not mine to tell on him," he pointed out grimly. "I never did hold much with the law, anyway; I had too many of 'em on my tail tryin' to tell me I didn't have no right to hunt and fish and trap in the Swamp. I took care of my job of feeding my wife and young'un; I figgered it was up to them to do the same."

"Do you suppose that perhaps one of those men who used to bring the stuff down to him from the mountains may have killed him, Bud?"

"I dunno, Miss Cynthia. Only thing I know is-it wasn't me. And I want out of here!" His voice rose to a note of fury that brought the attendant running.

"Better come outta there, Miss Cynthia.

Sounds like one o' them vi'lent fits is comin' on him," the jailer urged her. "Way I look at it, if he keeps carryin' on like this, he'll be lucky if he don't wind up down to the State Hospital. Nuts, he's goin' to be."

As Cynthia slipped through the door and it clanged locked behind her, Bud caught the bars and shook them savagely.

Cynthia tried to soothe him, but the jailer hurried her out, a hand under her elbow.

"Best jest leave him be, Miss Cynthia," he murmured. "I'm right sorry for the feller. Sure must be tough, shut up in there after being free in his swamp all these years. Still and all, murder's agin' the law!"

"I refuse to believe Bud killed Mose!" Cynthia insisted wearily.

The jailer grinned at her. "Look, Miss Cynthia, you don't remember me, but I've known you a long time. I'm Joe Henslee, Mose's cousin. And a lower-down skunk never breathed the breath of life than Mose. I had my way, I'd pin a medal on Bud and shake his hand and tell him he done a good deed. But murder's murder, and folks say it's agin' the law."

Cynthia turned to him swiftly as they reached the elevator.

"You are Mose's cousin?" she asked eagerly.

"Well, about thirty-second cousin, twice removed, like folks say, and if I'd had my way I'd been born in another family in another state, Mose was that much of a stinker."

"Did you know about Mose's still out in the Swamp?" Cynthia cut in.

Joe stiffened slightly as he slid open the elevator door for her to step out into the courthouse lobby, and his eyes were wary.

"Why, no, Miss Cynthia. Where'd you ever get that idea? Mose never had no still. Mose was too lazy and too dumb to know how to make even bad likker."

"Maybe it was made somewhere else and Mose just sold it?" Cynthia asked.

Joe shook his head, and his smile revealed two broken teeth.

"Somebody's been feedin' you a lot of malarkey, Miss Cynthia. Take it from me, if Mose had been up to anything like that, he couldn't a kep' it from me, and I'd sure as blazes have hauled him in. Been glad to!" he assured Cynthia firmly, slid the elevator door shut and gave her a slight gesture of goodbye as the elevator rose slowly and ponderously out of sight.

Cynthia had returned slowly to the office, so deep in thought that several people spoke to her twice before she was aware of them. As she entered the office, she looked swiftly at Maggie.

"Any calls?" she asked.

Maggie said flalty, "None from Hank Dowler."

Color poured into Cynthia's tired face. "Hank Dowler-who's he?" she asked curtly.

Maggie flung her a glance midway between pity and exasperation.

"Oh, just a client, and we have so many of them you can't be expected to remember all their names," she drawled, and followed Cynthia to the other office, where Cynthia dropped wearily into a chair.

Maggie stood looking at her from the doorway, watching as Cynthia rested her elbows on the old desk and put her face in her hands.

"Oh, come now," said Maggie, rallying after a moment. "There's nothing to get so worked up about. Hank had to go out of town."

Cynthia looked up at her with a glint in her eyes that made Maggie hastily dissemble.

"I can't wait to find out what bit of business Clint Kirby's tossing our way! Can't be anything important or straightforward, I'm afraid-probably a charity case from the welfare-"

"He wanted to ask me to marry him," said Cynthia, and met Maggie's eyes.

Maggie caught her breath, and her eyes widened. "You said yes, of course," she managed after a moment. "I hope you remembered to be very polite and said humbly, 'Thank you very much, kind sir.' "

Cynthia stared at her.

"You really don't like him, do you?" she asked.

"I loathe and abominate him beyond all the men I've ever known and I'd like to see him lying dead in a ditch somewhere," said Maggie.

"But why, Maggie? What a horrible thing to say!" Cynthia gasped after a moment.

Maggie nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "It wasn't very pretty, was it? But then, the way I feel about Kirby isn't very pretty, either, now I come to think of it." Cynthia looked up at her, deeply troubled. "Why, Maggie?" she asked huskily. "Why do you dislike Clint so much?" Maggie was thoughtful. "That's a good question," she answered at last. "I wish I could think of a good answer. It's just that for some reason I've never quite been able to understand, I've never been able to endure him. But then, that's not important. What is important is how you feel about him. Are you in love with him?"

Cynthia shook her head and rubbed her fingers across her forehead as though trying to get rid of some of the cobwebs that seemed to fog her brain. "Maggie, I just don't know," she said. "Then you aren't," said Maggie firmly. "How do you feel about Hank?"

Color poured into Cynthia's face and she would not meet Maggie's searching eyes. "I like him a lot," she said huskily. "I'm not sure that I don't love him. Only how could he and I possibly have a good marriage, Maggie? Our worlds are so far apart. He's dedicated to his work; I couldn't drag around with him the way the other wives in the troupe do! Oh, Maggie, what am I going to do?"

It was a small frightened wail, and her eyes pleaded with Maggie for understanding and help.

"Your father used to say, 'When in doubt about what to do-do nothing,'" Maggie said quietly at last. "It's still pretty good advice. Just wait for time to adjust itself!"

Cynthia grimaced wryly.

"You're a big help!"

"Maybe more than you realize at the moment," Maggie said quietly. "Just let things ride for the time being. You're not in any mad rush about marrying Clint, are you?"

"He wanted to announce our engagement in the weekly paper Thursday and in the Atlanta and state papers Sunday." Maggie's brows went up slightly. "What's he in such a rush about, after all these years?" she wondered, and added swiftly, "Pay no attention to me, honey. Do whatever your hearts tells you. Only be sure it is your heart, not your head, that's guiding you."

Cynthia gave a small, mirthless laugh. "What kind of advice is that, Maggie? Aren't we always supposed to follow the dictates of our hearts instead of our heads at times like these?"

"Might be a lot fewer divorces if we didn't," Maggie answered, and turned back to her desk.

Thursday night when Maggie and Cynthia entered the lobby of the hotel was the first time Cynthia had seen Hank since that night a week before when he had held her close and told her of his love. He had not called her; there had been no word from him beyond a telegram from Miami, very business-like, reminding her that she and Maggie were expected to the dinner party that night.

He was watching for them, and as they came into the lobby, smart and cool-looking in their light summer dresses, he came swiftly toward them, his eyes seeming to reach out to Cynthia with a hungry yearning that made her heart leap in her breast. But she stilled it angrily, and greeted Hank with a tilted chin and cool brown eyes that did not give away her secret.

"I was afraid you wouldn't be here," he began, greeting them both but with his attention centered on Cynthia.

"You pointed out that as your legal representative this would be a good opportunity for me to meet the rest of your troupe," Cynthia reminded him. "Did you have a nice time in Miami?"

"I booked some business, which is what I went for," he told her. "And I did a lot of thinking."

"That's nice," she told him sweetly. "So did I. Clint Kirby and I are announcing our engagement next week."

For a moment he stopped dead-still, and she caught the stunned look on his face, as though he had received a savage blow. And then as Maggie glanced curiously at them, his jaw set hard, and he went on guiding them to the dining room.

"That's nice." His tone was mocking. "Congratulations. Only I think I'm supposed to congratulate the lucky guy and offer you best wishes. Which, believe it or not, I do."

"Oh, I believe it," Cynthia told him softly. "It relieves the pressure on you somewhat, doesn't it? Now you don't have to run away anymore."

"What the devil are you talking about?" Hank's tone was louder than he intended, and Maggie looked at him, startled and uneasy. But Cynthia merely smiled and walked on ahead of him to where a long table had been set for the members of the troupe."

Four men and four women sat at the table, and watched curiously as Maggie, Cynthia and Hank approached. The men stood up, the women eyed Cynthia with a swift scrutiny that took her in from head to foot, and then they glanced at each other and smiled wryly.

"'How have the mighty fallen,' " a blonde in her mid-thirties murmured to the small brunette beside her.

"The bigger they are, the harder they fall," the brunette murmured back. "But Hank, of all people-for a small-town gal in a hick dump like this-" And then Hank and Maggie and Cynthia had reached the table.

"Cynthia, meet the gang," said Hank, very genial and bluff and gay. "Gang, meet Cynthia Reid, our legal representative. We won't bother about trying to get all the names straight just now. We're going to spend the winter here, so we'll all have time to get acquainted. And this is Miss Mitchel."

"The other half of my firm." Cynthia smiled a pleasant, friendly smile that took them all in as Hank seated her on one side of him, Maggie on the other.

The blonde leaned toward Cynthia and said eagerly, "I like your town, Miss Reid."

"Cynthia, please!"

The blonde shrugged. "OK, so it's Cynthia, and I'm Louise. What I was going to say, is there any chance of finding small housekeeping apartments here? Gordy and I are so sick of hotels and boardinghouses-I'd like to find out if I've forgotten how to boil water without scorching it, and if I can find my way around a supermarket again."

"Maggie and I will inquire around and see what we can find out for you," Cynthia offered.

"Thanks, you are a pal," said Louise, and turned to the brunette. "You and Fred would like an apartment, wouldn't you?"

The small brunette shook her head, smiling.

"Thanks, no, we were off all summer and kept house," she answered lightly. "I'm looking forward to having someone else plan meals, wash dishes and do the chores."

So softly that Cynthia barely heard the words, Louise asked, "How is Fred-now?"

The small brunette's face tightened.

"He's fine-until next time," she said through her teeth and blinked as though against the threat of tears.

"You can't persuade him to quit while he's ahead?" murmured the blonde.

The brunette's smile was taut and her face set.

"Quit? Fred? Are you out of your mind? He's got the fever, in a very advanced stage-all the same like your Gordy, pal! So let's face it!"

They seemed to realize that Cynthia had heard. They exchanged swift, guilty glances, and Louise launched into some amusing story.

Cynthia looked curiously around the group. Anne, the small brunette, was a woman whose prematurely graying hair gave her youthful face an added charm; a rather plump dark-haired woman about Cynthia's own age had eyes deep with trouble and a mouth twisted with bitterness as she watched the best-looking man in the group, who was busily outlining to Hank some new stunt he had just worked out.

When he had finished Hank said enthusiastically, "Great, Cal-just great! Think you can get away with it?"

"Why not?" asked Cal, grinning. "I've worked it out to the last detail and I've tested it over and over again-and it's a real spectacular. It'll have the yokels hanging onto the edge of their seats! You wait and see!"

"Swell! We'll try it out tomorrow night here, and if it works, we'll put in the act for the season," said Hank.

"And if it doesn't work," said the dark-haired, plump woman, her tone rasping, "we'll ship the body back home for burial."

"Florence!" the good-looking man snapped at her savagely.

For a moment their eyes locked, and Cynthia saw the woman begin to wilt, until at last she made a resigned gesture with a hand that was shaking and reached for a cigarette.

"Sorry," she said huskily. "I keep forgetting we're the Lucky Devils-and oh, how lucky we are! We have to keep on proving it-don't we, boys and girls?"

Cal stood up, his face set as though carved in granite.

"She's a bit tired, so if you'll excuse us, it's been quite a day." He held out his hand to Florence, and for a moment Cynthia thought she was going to defy him. And then, her shoulders drooping, her head bowed, she walked ahead of him out of the room without a word to those left behind.

Hank was scowling, and the other men looked uneasy, and the wives were very carefully not looking at each other. And then someone began recounting another amusing incident, and though on the surface the scene was once more pleasantly diverting, it was a relief to all of them when the dining room began to close and they all moved out into the lobby.

The wives clustered about Maggie and Cynthia, making small talk, and then Louise said brightly, "Well, we'll see you in the wives' box tomorrow night, Cynthia. You'll sit with us, of course, to watch the performance?"

"Well, thanks, but I'm not sure I can be there," Cynthia began.

"Oh, but you must, Cynthia. Who knows? We may need our legal representative before the performance is over," said Louise.

"Stop it, Lou," ordered the brunette in a savage whisper as Hank came over to them.

"I'll drive you home, Cynthia," he began.

"Thanks, that won't be necessary," Cynthia assured him crisply. "I have my car. Good-night, everybody, it's been a very interesting evening."

"We'll see you at the track, Cynthia," Louise said, and added quickly, "Oh, before I forget, wear any color you like-so long as it isn't green."

Cynthia looked bewildered. "What's wrong with green?" she asked.

"Bad luck!" Louise smiled, but her eyes did not reflect the smile as she turned and walked away with the other wives.

Cynthia looked up at Hank, frowning.

"What did she mean by that? Green is one of my favorite colors," she protested.

"It's an old superstition that ranks with a lot of other superstitions in other professions," Hank assured her, smiling.

"It sounds pretty silly to me," Cynthia protested.

"I suppose it does," Hank agreed thoughtfully, and added with a slight trace of anxiety, "You weren't planning to wear green tomorrow night?"

"I wouldn't want to upset any of your troupe, so of course I won't," Cynthia told him crossly. "But I still think it's silly."

"Do you deliberately walk under ladders?"

"Of course not, but that's because something might fall."

"Or cross the street when you see a black cat?"

"I like black cats!"

"Or start some important task on Friday the 13th?"

"Oh, for pity's sake, this gets sillier and sillier. Maggie, let's go home," said Cynthia," and walked away from him and across the lobby, Maggie trailing her.

Cynthia said nothing as she and Maggie settled themselves in her car, and they drove home without anything more than a tentative remark from Maggie that the troupe seemed made up of some nice, pleasant people.

When they reached the house, Cynthia stopped on the verandah.

"I think I'll sit out here awhile, Maggie," she said coolly. "I'm not sleepy yet."

"It's cooler here than inside," Maggie agreed. "But me, I'm tired. See you in the morning, honey."

The screen door closed gently behind her, and Cynthia dropped into the old swing and sat for a while, one white-shod toe edging the swing gently back and forth, her brows furrowed in worried thought.

She tried to tell herself that she was surprised when Hank drove up, but she knew she lied. Secretly, in the depths of her subconscious mind, she had been expecting him.

He came up on the verandah and hesitated, glancing toward the swing where she sat.

"May I come in?" he asked, and his tone was quite, formal, almost without expression.

"Why not?" Cynthia waved a hand toward a chair, and Hank dropped into it.

"Well?" Hank broke a silence that was threatening to become tense.

"Very well, thanks. I liked them. They seem a very nice group."

"I didn't mean that, and you know it." His tone held a ragged edge. "I meant-well, you know what I meant. About my leaving town-"

"You really needn't have, Hank," she told him coolly. "The trap hadn't been baited and wasn't about to be srpung. You were perfectly safe from me, Hank."

"There was business," he began, but her laugh silenced him. He glanced toward her in the swing and then looked out over the moon-drenched lawn. "All right, I'm lying. I did run out."

"But you needn't, Hank! Don't you suppose I recognize moon madness, or whatever you want to call it, as well as you do? Why else do you suppose I got myself engaged to a man I've known all my life the very next day?"

"That's what's worrying me now," Hank admitted grimly. "I think you were running out, too! You knew as well as I did that it wasn't moon madness. Was there a moon? I didn't notice."

"There was, one big enough and bright enough to create a lot of crazy illusions! I realized that the moment daylight came. So you see, you didn't have to run."

"And did you? To Kirby, I mean."

Cynthia tensed slightly and her chin went up.

"I've expected to marry Clint ever since I was a child, and it was understood by his family and mine. We just hadn't gotten round to it yet!"

"If you weren't running away from me, why did you get around to it the very next day?"

"Because," said Cynthia very carefully, paying him the tribute of honesty in her own desire to understand as well as to make him understand, "for the first time in my life I was frightened."

"Of me?" asked Hank curiously, as though he found that very hard to understand or to accept.

"Of myself," Cynthia went on. "I had a terror of being overcome by the moon madness, of doing something rash that we both might regret. You are enormously attractive, Hank."

Hank was silent for a moment, and then he came and sat in the swing beside her. Cynthia drew away from him with a small, startled gasp, but he made no effort to touch her. It was as though he bridged the space between them so that he could speak more softly, without danger of being heard by others.

"I know, darling," he said, and his voice was husky. "I felt the same way. I had to get away where I could decide whether it was real, or just because you are completely different from anyone I've ever known before; a girl, as you said yourself, who lives in another world as far away from mine as if it were a distant star. I had to get away to do a lot of thinking. And I did."

"And what did you decide?" she asked huskily, a note of sexual intensity in her voice.

"I've decided this," she said, grabbing at his hard pecker and giving it a pull. "I love you, even if it means working to bridge the gaps between us. But right now I want to bridge that gap with this big log," she said, shaking it through his clothes.

Hank felt himself grow hard. His tool filled to meet her grip, and then some.

He leaned over and started kissing her, taking Cynthia into his hugging grip.

She dropped her hand from his now almost rock-hard bulge. "Please...." she whispered. "We can't."

Cynthia loved the feel of Hank's strong arms around her and the warmth of his lips pressed against hers. She struggled for a moment but Hank wasn't having any of it, and for that she was glad.

"Hank-we mustn't! Someone might see!"

"Nonsense-it's night, and after all, there aren't that many people walking around!"

"But Maggie-"

"Maggie's asleep-or she's pretending to be, which is just as good," Hank said. His hands were roaming all over her body, and wherever he touched her, she felt good.

He cupped her breasts and squeezed them gently. She sighed with pleasure.

Then she sat back and he slid his hand onto her thigh and massaged her sofly, and then his hand traveled north and she felt the warmth of his palm pressed against her center.

She tried to close her legs but his hand was in the way and, oh, what the hell. She relaxed, loving the feel of his gentle lovemaking.

She reached down and pressed her hand against the hard bulge in his trousers. He smiled and she smiled back. "Pretty big," she said. "I hope it won't hurt."

"It won't," Hank said. "I promise you." And then his lips covered hers once again and she didn't give a damn who saw them now. She unzipped his trousers and hauled out his cock-it was already hard and thick and she loved the feel of it. She jerked it a few times, loving the wanton feeling she was getting into. She felt like a girl should, she thought, her mind free of the legalisms and the logic that marked so much of her life.

She was having her pleasure and that was all there was to it. Hank sat back on the swing and let her play with him and when she dropped to her knees in front of the swing he held her head gently between his hands.

She didn't know what had come over her. A few minutes ago the thought of making love to Hank, there on the veranda, in full view of anyone who happened to pass by-the thought would have left her cold.

But here she was, Cynthia thought, not giving a damn who saw what. She bobbed her head forward and captured the head of his shaft between her wet lips. Then she sucked, drawing at least half of his length into her warm mouth.

He chuckled softly and said, "I never thought I'd get along so well with a woman in my life!"

She lifted her humid face off his pole for a second and looked up at him. "I never thought that sucking a big fat cock on my veranda could ever be so much fun!!!"

Then she took him back into her moist and slurping mouth and chewed down his length until she had him nearly all the way in. Then she began her swooping draws and jabs, which made his cock start to boil at the base.

She swung upward with feverish motion, tugging with her lungs hard at the skin, making it ripple upwards and get tiny goose-pimples.

Downwards her whole face was pressed together to form a soft and mushy sort of casing for his fat sausage. It tickled his flesh and made it cringe.

"Oooooohhh yeah, Cynthia," he urged her. "Just keep sucking me like that and you'll get a big reward!"

She started turning her head fast from side to side as she bobbed on his pecker. It made her feel as if her face was being twisted onto his steely rod.

Those were the kinds of feelings that Hank enjoyed in his groin. He was fond of good head, performed with wet, slathering, sucking abandon.

So many women seemed to suck at it halfheartedly, with loose lips and distant minds. It usually made his pud flag and grow soft.

But not Cynthia. She rolled her face on and off him with the fondest of squeezes and contractions. Her lips formed a wet and pliable gate to a tube made of her cheeks and tongue. It was there she caressed him.

Hank grabbed her skull and started to guide her. First he just controlled the ups and downs, trying as best he could to get her to follow the most sensuous line of sucking.

But soon he was just holding her in place, fogging his hips upward and jamming his fat throbbing meat in and out of her now-soaking and dripping mouth. She had her eyes closed and was gobbling up his prick without a second thought. Her mouth clung tightly-nursed him and nuzzled him tightly.

He felt himself growing hotter in the groin, and started moving his hips circularly and rubbing his cockhead into every corner of her mouth. Cynthia just accepted him and sucked him tightly until he sprayed into her throat.

Even after the heated semen was gurgling down her throat, she sucked at him.

But he stopped her a few moments later, pulled her to the swing and flipped her skirt up over her hips. Then he rolled down her panties and slid them off. He knelt in front of her, his mouth pressed to her hot, wet cunt, and she got so carried away that she draped her legs over his broad shoulders.

As she spurred him in the back he stuck his projectile deep in her sweet hair-pie, licking her insides outward and opening up her hot center. He plied and ploughed at her, wrenching her tissues here and there until she cried out in hunger.

"OOOOOOO HANK!!!!" she yelped, trying to keep quiet for fear of waking Maggie. "Lick me right there!!" she passionately whispered.

As she instructed, he found the especially hot spot-the break in her wall-and ran his thing up and down the fleshy insides, pushing at the mush and massaging it until the surrounding area seemed to quiver.

She would then shift her cunt to the other side, making him nudge some strange upper corner that itched and begged. She rocked and kicked at him as he ate in sheer joy, Her cunny burned, growing ever more bubbling at the attentions his adept chewing gave to her sensitized sheath. Each slap left a scar of pleasure. She was writhing in heavenly bliss, soon to erupt with orgasm.

It took but a snap from his tongue at her clit to do it.

Hank lapped and licked until Cynthia thought she was going to scream from the pleasure of it-and then he stopped suddenly, sat next to her on the swing, and tugged her atop him.

She straddled him, facing him, and guided his thick cock into her warm nest. As soon as she felt his thickness penetrate her slick flesh she leaned forward and kissed him hard on the mouth, her arms linked around his neck.

She was moving like an animal, humping hard, swinging her hips, eager to get as much as he could give her. Hank was smiling at her, pleased that she was a woman of spirit, a woman of deep sensual promise.

She didn't know how long he could hang on, but it didn't matter-she was already climaxing, pouring her pleasure out, loving the feel of his throbbing rod deep within her. She worked it hard, running her cunt up and down over his stiff pole, giving him the best ride he'd ever had.

She wondered for a moment if anyone was watching and then she laughed out loud. Let them watch, she thought, as she bucked furiously atop him. She didn't care who knew what was going on, not now, not this instant.

And then she felt the warm jets of his pleasure filling her, and she sighed and leaned forward and kissed him once again. It might not ever be like this again for them, Cynthia thought, but there was no taking back the first time.

She let him take her inside by her hand. He led her to her room. She didn't give a damn if Maggie heard, or the whole neighborhood.

They took the remaining hanging clothes from each other's body with careful loving hands, smoothing the skin below and rippling each other's fancy. They stroked long and lovingly, kissing and holding their bodies firmly.

She could feel the warm patch of hair on his chest tickling her tits. She wanted him to do something special to her chest.

She grabbed his cattle-prod and led him to the bed. Lying there, she shut her legs tightly.

"I wanna be fucked, baby," she told him with a growl. "Not in the cunt, not in the face, not in the ass ... at least not yet."

Hank stood over her with his pecker bulging. Her manner of speech and constricted breath were making him horny.

"What I want," she told him, bringing her hands around to clasp her tits at either side and press them together, "is for you to fuck my titties! Now do it!!"

Hank straddled her and laid his big tool on top of the bunched slit that was her cleavage.

"You have to make it easier," he said, "and get my prick wet."

She was glad to oblige. She grasped the tool and swallowed it almost all the way, coming back off with such a moist combo from tongue and lips, he felt like he was shooting in her already.

Bobbing like a babe, she nursed at his cock for a minute or so until she'd slobbered it wet and soaking with her sweaty mouth.

"Okay," she told him, pulling the pulpy head out from her lips, "now fuck my tits and leave a load on my chest." He moved down and she cupped the golden goblets together once more. He aimed and started pushing up at the slit, his balls dragging across her flat and smooth stomach.

Cynthia pressed her milk muscles around his shaft for all she was worth, craving more of the feelings that came as he shoved across her tingling sternum.

He jabbed and pushed apart the tunnel she'd formed, pushing his sausage in to be encased and warmed by the big boobs. They wrapped him with firm delight.

He humped her chest while she moved her body in unison, holding the globes fast to the strides of his rounded and bulging prick.

Bucking her breasts like a cowboy, Hank came on an upward stroke that was accompanied by a loud grunt.

"Uuuuuugggggghhhhhhhhhh baby!!!" he cried. "I'm going to spill my load!!!"

She cocked her head down and opened her mouth. He was amazed at the way his pearls shot so hard from his gun and landed in her mouth and about her lips. She smacked at the warm stuff happily.

The next gobs came spitting and slurping out over her breasts and chest. As the warmth oozed over her body, Cynthia soaked up the good feelings.

"MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!" she moaned. "Your come is burning up my breasts!!! I can't believe how it feels!!!"

She grabbed his pecker and swished it through the muck as her tits fell aside. She ran the sticky pecker across her nipples, rubbing it at the edge of the nubs to nudge them to extra hardness. She cried and cooed at the wonderful way it made her feel.

"OOOOOOOO HANK!!! YOUR COCK IS SOOOO NICE!!!"

That made him feel like pulsing up harder, and giving her one last go-around.

Of course Cynthia was one step ahead of him. Holding his wet and sticky tool, she urged him downward.

As her hips reared up and opened up around his, he could feel her wet and folded center pass by his dick. She pulled her hips up further and stuck him hard into the gate of her butt.

"Now fuck me there and fuck me hard!!!" she told him. "Violate my ass with that prick of yours and make me scream!!"

He pushed in against the tightness and she brought her hands around to spread her cheeks. She grunted and twisted and contorted her posterior, trying to open it for him.

Hank meanwhile jabbed and shoved, trying to make his own way into her twisted bottom.

To his surprise her muscles were quite relaxed, and in only a minute or two he had his pole buried deep in her shit chute.

Then he banged her like that for ten, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes as far as she could tell. All she knew was this continually engulfing wave that overtook her and made her scream out for more. She didn't care if she woke the whole house, the whole city. She was going to enjoy the ass-fucking his huge rod was giving her....

And enjoy it she did, until he flew out with his juices and made her come, herself, one big last time. Then they fell asleep.