Chapter 1
Dr. John Lamberson, professor of psychology at Brandon University, had a hard-on. Up to a few weeks ago, he would have called it an erection, but that was before he met Pamela Marsh, his new assistant, and began to discuss his project.
The hard-on was an annoyance. It was undeniable evidence that his scholarly mind might be diverted, and that simply would not do. The idea of his project had germinated in his mind two years ago. It had been nurtured and cultivated during months of discussion with his colleagues at Brandon, by correspondence with a dozen highly qualified scholars, and now it was a reality. But, this erection--hard-on, he quickly corrected himself--gave him his first twinge of doubt.
If a simple briefing on his project--and with the assistant who would be with him throughout its all-important field work--could cause an erection, how could he retain his objectivity throughout the demanding period when every word might be pivotal, when every action, every nuance of behavior would be relevant to the success of his lifework?
He went back over his most recent meeting with Pamela, for in that meeting, he believed, he might find the key.
She had brought him the color shots of herself, as he had ordered. They were not particularly extreme, as such intimate photos went. Indeed, the comparable shots mailed to him by the other three couples he had selected for his basic survey were much more detailed, much more explicit.
The Malones, Carol and Jim, who lived right in Sonar Beach, had sent pictures of themselves--well--fucking. He had called it copulating, and Pamela had courageously set him right on such usage. Directly, forcefully.
"For Christ's sake, Professor," she had said after a smothered laugh, "these people aren't scholars--they're swingers. Not only would they laugh at you, they'd call the whole deal off. The motivation behind sexual freedom is to get away from anti-sexual bondage--and euphemisms are the perfect symbol of the bullshit world they're fighting. Say balling, screwing, fucking--even laying would pass, although it's sort of old-fashioned. So come on--what are the Malones doing?"
Calmly, since a scholar's mind is free from embarrassment, he had said: "Fucking, of course, and thank you, Pamela. And let me say once more, I'm fortunate to have you as my assistant."
It had been the same with the photos sent by Del Fredericks and his small, generously built wife, Marina. They, too, were fucking, with complete unselfconsciousness, although some nude figures dimly seen in the background indicated that there were witnesses present--witnesses other than the photographer. And with considerable verve and imagination, he had noted.
In one superb shot, the small but curvaceous brunette was on her hands and knees, with Del standing at the edge of the bed, actually penetrating her, uh, cunt. So Pamela had called it. And she had been the very essence of tact, kindliness, and professional courtesy in setting him right.
"Really, John," she had said--by this time, they were on a first-name basis--"we're simply going to have to have a session on nomenclature. That is not a vagina, those are not labia minora and labia majora, and he is not 'inserting his penis' into the lady. That's a cunt, those are cuntlips, and he's shoving his cock into her! I don't give a damn what sort of descriptives you use in your learned paper--but when we're out there in the field, researching, you'd better watch it! I know how much this project means to you--don't blow it!"
Therefore, on the next series of pictures, the ones sent by Mr. and Mrs. Duke--Harley and Christine--he had "cooled it," to use Pamela's crisp colloquialism, blushingly glad that he had refrained from such terms as "fellatio", "cunnilingus", and "oral sex."
"Wow, get a load of this," Pamela had exclaimed. "She is really going down on the guy! Check that tension in her throat muscles, the cheeks all sunken in! What a blow job! He must not have much of a cock, though--none of it shows."
But Pamela had immediately corrected herself when she saw the next picture, in which Harley, a genial and chubby little man, had posed alone.
"Brother, was I wrong!" Pamela had declared admiringly. "What a roll of meat! Seven inches, maybe eight. And that fat blonde swallowed it all!" She turned back to the previous picture, shaking her head in open admiration. "It must be halfway down to her lungs," Pamela had said. "That woman really can suck a cock!"
Thus, by keeping his mouth shut and letting Pamela carry the ball, so to speak, he had gathered knowledge by osmosis, storing her earthy, pungent, extremely pictorial language away as a squirrel hoards nuts. But how had she, an earnest, hard-working graduate student, not far from her own Ph.D. in sociology, been able to learn these things? He wished he dared ask. It might hold the key to his own failure at marriage. There seemed so much gusto in sex as these people practiced it, and it seemed plausible that, as Pamela had said: "Fucking is a drag when you call it intercourse. To enjoy a good fuck, you need a strong desire, a strong back, a strong stomach, and a strong mind. I can't imagine a guy who called it intercourse really Harley?--or eating pussy with such evident relish!"
Of course he had balked, absolutely balked, when Pamela had demanded that he and she be photographed in similar poses.
"No, dear," he had said obstinately, "I'm explaining that we're new to this, uh, scene, and I'm sure they'll accept single photos. I'll just say that we ran out of film and that I wanted to get the pictures off at once." And nothing she could say had shaken him.
His own photos were, he thought, quite attractive. There was no way of taking comparative data, at least not in the definitive sense, but his penis--his cock, that is--seemed to be as long and as thick as any of the other fellows. Jim Malone, a big, hulking fellow who looked like a defensive tackle for a pro football team, had evoked some admiring comments from Pam, but then, after all, so had Harley Duke and that slim, intense-looking gentleman from Anaheim, Del Fredericks, He smiled fondly. To a sheltered, protected, scholarly girl like Pam, any man's cock would appear big and deliriously menacing.
The professor hadn't shown Pamela his own photos, so carefully taken by himself, with a remote control device on his Polaroid. If he did say so himself, his cock compared favorably with any of them. And his lean, hard, hairy body, a tribute to his good habits and regular exercise, would be a bait for the women. And they were the ones who counted, as far as his project was concerned.
He recalled with a slightly guilty grin, how he had prepared for his own photos. Ordinarily, he only masturbated when it was absolutely necessary--when his sexual cravings got beyond the limits of his endurance, and began to interfere with his work. Teaching in a coeducational university, with all that hot, tender, jiggling young flesh all about him, he reached these limits more often than he would have liked. But, after all, Dr. Reuben's masterful book had dispelled all those old wives' tales of damage by masturbation.
And it so happened that at least three young ladies in his classes had not worn panties on this particular day. So, having focused the camera, he had simply disrobed, thought of one of the girls--the blonde one who had deliberately, it seemed to him, sat with her thighs wide apart to show a shaded patch of blonde pubic hair--and begun to jerk his cock slowly and gently, rolling the pink and wrinkled foreskin back off the reddening knob.
He had even used some K.Y. jelly, left over from his marriage. It was slicker than spit, less messy than cold cream or Vaseline, and gave a wonderfully slick and shiny gleam to the purple-red head.
It had really been a most pleasurable session.
Between pulling out the exposed film, resetting the shutter, and getting back into place, he had kept it hard by a few strokes. He had several poses. The best, naturally, were profile views, showing his cock, so hard that it bent like a scimitar, jutting up at a forty-five-degree angle.
There was one, unfortunately, that he couldn't show to anyone. It was the last one he took, and he had stopped thinking of the blonde girl's pussy. Instead, for no reason that he could put his finger on, his thoughts had swerved back through the past three years. To Helen, the woman he had loved and married. And lost.
Helen, with her long, dark-brown hair, her lovely body, her tight and willing vagina, her full, gently rounded breasts. Damn it! Suppose he had known then what he was beginning only now to learn--that even gently bred women, college women like Pamela, loved the strong, earthy, free-wheeling words like cunt and cock and fuck. What had Pam said? "A guy who calls it intercourse can't enjoy it too much!" Maybe Helen couldn't enjoy it much, either--doing it with a man who, from old habit, called it intercourse.
In any case, feeling the pressing heat of semen too long contained, caught up in the primal pleasure of sex, enjoying the long, slow strokes of his warm hand along the full length of his prick, he had faltered as his toe reached for the carefully placed cable-release. And he had thought of the shell-pink inner lips, framed in crisp and curly hair, the warm and flowing lips of Helen's cunt.
And he had begun to come. The camera had caught it all--his face contorted with lust, his hand, slick with the K.Y. jelly, the long string of semen shooting out in a white arc almost directly at the camera. It was a damned shame that he couldn't show that picture. His cock was, naturally, larger, even if only a millimeter or so. And its colors were so brilliant, so lifelike. But it just wouldn't do. Not even to show the women, whose interest was, after all, a major factor in the premise of his study. A woman, especially a hot woman, wouldn't be interested in a man who beat his meat.
It had been a thrilling moment, however, to him. The loss of objectivity, even though it showed a weakness, a flaw in his devotion, had given him a new, richer feeling all through his reproductive system. He even felt real pride in the mass of gism--where in the world had Pamela picked up that word?--and the distance to which it had shot.
With his orderly mind brought back from this digression, Lamberson returned to the puzzle of his hard-on. It wasn't the pictures of herself which Pamela had brought him, although they were delightful. It had been difficult not to show some emotion as he viewed them for the first time. And even more difficult not to show surprise.
On campus, and in their previous meetings, Pamela's costume had seldom varied. Oversize sweat shirts of various colors and with numerous rather odd mottoes on their backs, and jeans. So, until his amazed eyes took in the Polaroid perfection of his assistant in all her naked richness, he had assumed that her body would have the same scholarly mediocrity of her general appearance--no make-up, straight blonde hair pulled back into an uncompromising bun, expressionless face made more so by heavy, horn-rimmed glasses.
But alone in her room--and she must have been alone, he believed--some new spirit had come to her along with nudity. With her hair flowing over her shoulders, with the heavy glasses gone and a pixieish smile replacing them, she expressed a personality that went with her body. Her surprising body.
Such fantastic lushness to keep concealed under sweat shirts and jeans! Not that her breasts were so large. They were just right for her slender body--pear-shaped, with large, pink nipples, and with enough weight and fullness to turn the nipples out at right angles to each other. Her belly was perfect. Smoothly and sweetly rounded, and decorated at its triangular base by a soft puff of blonde hair. The camera had been perfectly focused--every hair seemed to be visible, and parted so that a pink gleam showed where the cuntlips opened. Or perhaps that was just his imagination, the professor thought.
Her hips were small but beautifully molded; her thighs were larger than he would have expected, strong and richly curved. If he had had to describe her legs in one word, the word would have been "perfect".
And even so, the pictures had not given him a hard-on.
No, it was something unsubstantial, something he couldn't put his finger on. Was it the difference in dress? It didn't seem likely. She had worn a dress, rather than her usual garb. It was hardly more than a long crocheted shirt, as a matter of fact, but he was accustomed to seeing girls in micro-minis. He suspected that she had not had a stitch on under the dress, but that was such a common practice at Brandon that one assumed it, unconsciously.
If it had happened to him because of a meeting with another woman, he might have asked Pam about it--she was amazingly aware of what went on in people's minds.
John Lamberson sighed, stood up, and began to undress. The hard-on was still there, waiting, warm, throbbing. He would have to jerk off if he expected to get to sleep. But this time, he knew, it wouldn't be Helen he thought of in the last few exciting moments before he stroked the sperm out of his balls. Even if Helen's vagina--cunt, he reminded himself--was the only one with which he had had much experience. Not tonight.
Tonight he would think of that barely visible pinkness between the parted blonde cunt hairs in Pamela's pictures. The guessed-at tightness, the wishfully imagined flutter of lubricated cuntlips, the expectable surge of response as her girlishly rounded ass came spiraling up to meet his manly thrusts.
He thought of Pam, probably disrobed and ready for bed, and reached for the K.Y. jelly. She would be thinking of their project, the trip to Sonar Beach, the excitement of the survey.
The professor was right. Pamela was disrobed and ready for bed. Not quite ready, actually. She and the other three girls who shared the apartment were crowded together on one of the double beds in the big room, and Pam, sitting cross-legged with her sensitive twat picking up tiny messages of pleasure from its contact with the sheet, had not yet put on her nightie. Her arms were folded to support her breasts, which peeped out like pink-nosed pets. The tall brunette, Meg Gordon, had just leaned over and kissed one of them, so that the nipple was rising to hardness.
"What a crime that all this lovely stuff will be shacked up with a dull bastard like the prof," she giggled. "But of course, in this swap-scene survey, you'll be getting plenty, anyhow. Won't you, doll?"
Pam flushed slightly. "Don't sell Dr. Lamberson short," she replied. "I know he's never made a pass at anything female on this campus--at least, that's the story. But I swear on a Bible that he had a hard-on tonight!"
"You're kidding," said Nora Gregg, the redhead with the big tits. "I took his Goddamned classes for three years, and I did everything but rape him on his podium. No shit, Pam, I actually pretended to stumble, once, and fell right between his legs. I gave him a feel--two or three of them--and I might as well have been playing with a rag doll. A very small rag doll," she laughed. "And that's not all--for the whole three years, I leaned across his desk without a bra to hide my goodies--I rubbed against him at the door, and in the hall--I sat in that drafty room with no panties on and my legs spread open until I almost got pneumonia. And I'm not the only one. I'll bet there are fifty women here at Brandon, right now, who'd bet two to one that he can't even get a hard-on!"
Pam shook her blonde head, looking pleased and superior.
"Nevertheless, Nora, he had one tonight," she insisted.
Nancy Wheaton, a bleached blonde with a thick bush of dark hair in her crotch, rubbed a warm hand across Pam's firm belly, extending her fingers down to stroke the blonde patch at its bottom. "What'd you do--show him this cute little hot-spot?" she teased.
"No, I didn't, Nancy," Pam answered. "I did something simple and crude and old-fashioned, and I don't really know why I did." She looked around her at all the girls, her face serious.
"Ever since I knew for sure we were going--when good old John showed me the four-thousand-dollar check from the regents, and gave me a firm commitment on the job--I've asked myself if I really cared whether he and I got on a personal basis together. And I wasn't certain that I cared."
She thought for a minute and went on. "But the more we worked out the details, and I saw what a sweet, naive, generous person he was, the more I wanted to see him get more out of this project than just some dry-balled data."
"Making an in-depth study of a bunch of wife-swappers isn't exactly dry-balled action," Meg suggested seriously. "You know we've all wondered how he was going to get along in a free-wheeling scene like that." She laughed. "For a scholar, he's an attractive man. You know that those hot chicks are going to go after him. If he doesn't fuck them, how's he going to get any information out of them?" Her voice had become thicker with excitement, and she leaned closer to rub against Pam. Her face went down to the blonde's lap. "Oh, baby!" she groaned. "What's that fucky smell?"
Nancy leaned closer. "Did you say funky?" she asked.
"No, I said fucky," Meg replied firmly. "It smells good enough to eat!"
Pam pushed the big girl's head away, laughing. "That's what I did to the professor," she said.
"You know, I said it was something simple and old-fashioned? And you know that one hell of a lot of women have done everything except grab John's dong right out of his pants? Well, I made a wild guess."
She paused, and the other girls waited impatiently. "Go on, damn it," Nora said. "What did you do?"
"Well," said Pam, "I figured that, besides being a very complex man, who hadn't responded to any of the sophisticated approaches that have been tried on him, he was pretty much the same as any other man in one area of his personality. One place where he was the way nature made him. Like every other human, male or female, John Lamberson is an animal. Even with all the years of education, even with his years of non-experience, even with his years of failure and disappointment as a man--and believe me, that's what's wrong with him--he's still an animal. With an animal's instincts!"
There were quick looks of astonishment from all three of the girls, and a smothered laugh from Nora. "A very tame animal," the redhead observed.
"He hasn't been tamed--he's been ground down," Pam said with firm loyalty. "He never had a chance to learn what to do with a woman. Or what the right woman could do for him. I don't know in detail what loused up his marriage, and he's not the kind to talk--except that he has told me a lot by what he doesn't do and doesn't say. You know what I mean?"
Meg nodded, but Nora was determined. "What did you do to him?" she persisted.
"Did you ever wonder why boy dogs appear out of nowhere when a bitch comes in heat?" Pam asked. "And why they chase a hot bitch for hours on end, until they're lathered with sweat, panting, and weak-kneed? It's the female odor that gets them!" She nodded emphatically. "So that's what I did."
Her three listeners looked puzzled and waited.
"For the last three days, when I showered, I took special care not to wash my pussy," she declared. "And this afternoon, when I tested it with my finger and my nose, it was really ripe!" She hugged her breasts, rocking with silent laughter. "And I went to the dime-store and asked Lydia, you know, the real dark kid at the perfume counter, for some honest-to-God whorehouse perfume."
"You sure got it," observed Meg. "I've never been in a whorehouse, but that's the fuckiest smell I ever smelled. So you doused little pussy with it?"
"Oh, no!" Pam said firmly. "I did what those stupid woman-type magazines recommend. I dabbed a little bit in each armpit, a little behind each ear, another dab on each nipple. I even put a drop or two in my navel. But I figured my little snatch would do its own thing."
Nancy laughed. "And you mean to say that Square John, the original ironman of Brandon U., got his animal instincts aroused by that?" she demanded.
Meg looked up from Pamela's lap. "I believe it," she declared. "It's the wildest scent I ever sniffed. Come on, baby, let's go to bed. I want some of this myself!"
"No, by God!" Nora cried. "Not yet! What did you do?" She shook Pamela determinedly, the motion setting the slim blonde's breasts to quivering.
"I didn't really do anything," Pam laughed. "I sat as close to him as I could get--we had to look at pictures of the ones he'd set up for--I guess you'd call them swap dates. I leaned in close, so he couldn't miss the perfume. And I kept my legs open as wide as I could, so he couldn't miss this perfume." She gestured to her crotch. "You know how warm it's been all day. Even I could smell my pussy."
"Nasty old thing!" Meg murmured, forcing her hand between Pam's cuntlips. "And he really began to get it up?"
"Gradually," Pam said. "The sweet thing! He tried to move, tried to hide it. But I kept my place. You know his desk is placed against the wall."
"All this happened in his office?" Nora inquired.
"Sure, where else?" Pam answered. "He never, never has opened the door to where he sleeps. And it kept creeping along his thigh, getting bigger and harder. And when he started looking at my pictures, he started to stand up, and I guess it was just too hard. He just said something banal, like 'It's time you went home, Pamela,' and I figured there was no use pressing my luck. So I left."
The three girls looked at each other, their eyes full of interest, and Nora ran her pink tongue around her lips. "Jesus, I'm hot," she breathed. "How big was it, Pam?"
"Plenty big," Pam answered. "We just had the desk light on, and his crotch was in the shadows. It looked like it was bigger than average. Seven inches, at least. Maybe bigger."
"I never saw an eight-inch cock," Nancy said reverently. "Not that I remember, anyhow. And I'd remember!" She had her arm around Nora, her hand cupping one of the redhead's tits, pulling at the hardening nipple. She reached under Meg's nightgown with her other hand, enjoying the warm, smooth firmness of the tall girl's ass. Her fingers reached into the cleft between Meg's buttocks, and she drew in her breath sharply. "Meggie-baby," she whispered. "Your cunt's leaking!"
Meg, her head still buried in Pam's fragrant lap, hunched back at the seeking fingers. "What did you expect?" she asked. "My hard-on's not as big as the professor's, but I've got my own teeny-weeny version of it." She sat up, her short nightie pulled up around her hips so they all could see the dark sprouting of hair between her thighs. She put her arms around Pam, her forearm pressing against the blonde girl's breasts. "I've got an idea," she whispered.
"I've got several ideas," Nora said. "What's yours?"
"Well," Meg laughed, "since my bed partner, here, is going to be leaving us soon, and since she's got all this cheese-and-cream that she built up for the professor, let's all of us lick her--and then let's have a little daisy chain!"
They spread Pamela open at the edge of the bed, her feet braced against the carpet, the blonde girl pretending to resist, and Meg, claiming first rights by virtue of spawning the idea, knelt between Pam's widespread thighs.
"Hey, I'm not the only one who's hot!" she said. "Look, little Pammie's wide open!"
The other girls bent for a closer look. The thick outer lips actually were turning out by themselves, exposing the satin pinkness of the wet inner labia. A trickle of moisture was coming from the shadowed little hole where the girl's vagina began. The scent rolled up at all of them, a sweetly choking, gut-tingling aroma.
With the utmost care, Meg dipped her mouth down, sucking up a clutch of lips, her nose a fraction of an inch from Pam's clitoris. They all saw the little bud, showing pearly-white where its hardness had forced the blood away from its sheath of membrane. Deliberately, Meg went down to the hole, so that the tip of her nose ground against the excited clit.
Her taste buds, her sense of smell, reveling in this wealth of flavor, shot a sheet of warmth down to her belly. She sucked harder, getting a mouthful of the creamy essence that flowed so readily from Pam's cunt.
Pam moaned. "Somebody get up here and sit on my face," she begged. "Shove a pussy at me. I want some, too!"
Meg arose, her face shiny with the love juice so generously smeared on Pam's open twat. "Take a turn here, one of you," she said, her voice thick and husky. "It's so great!" She stood on the bed, her legs spread above Pam's head, so that the recumbent girl could see the dark-red slash between the fat, hairy cuntlips, and shucked off her gown.
As she went to her knees, opening her gash to Pam's seeking tongue, her hands ground and dug into the blonde's breasts, closing her eyes in ecstasy as Pam's tongue moved into her slit, lips locked against lips, the blonde girl's sucking mouth starting a wave of feeling deep inside her.
She was dimly aware that Nancy was now licking at Pam's squirming cleft, and suddenly felt the warmth of another body against hers. She turned her face to Nora's, their lips and tongues joining, the smooth heat of big tits against her arm and side. She felt Pam's tongue moving furiously, and a stab of pleasure-pain struck through her belly as the wet warmth of the blonde's mouth enveloped her bursting clitoris.
From the moans that vibrated against her cunt, from the wild heavings beneath her, she knew that Pam was coming. Her own orgasm, beginning deep in the dark heat of her cunt, swept her into a shaking, shuddering intensity of feeling, and she would have fallen on Pam's belly except for the support from Nora.
Much later, after a wild, sprawling orgy that saw every cunt licked to raw, red exhaustion, so tender that the mere rub of cuntlips brought a new trembling of lust, Meg and Pam lay together in the dark, holding each other gently, whispering and laughing softly.
"Will you miss these little girl-parties?" Meg asked softly. "Or do swappers ever wind up with girl-to-girl stuff?"
Pam giggled. "I'll let you know when we complete the survey," she said. "We'll have it all on tape by then."
"Is it the professor's idea to put women down?" Meg questioned. "To prove that we're the aggressors in sex?"
"Not really to put us down," Pam whispered. "He has this obsession, I guess you'd call it, about the changes in sexual motivation of men and women. He's read everything he could get his hands on about swapping. Everything from the wildest paperbacks to the soberest studies of other scholars. His working title is 'The de-emphasis of the male's sexual role in America.' How about that?"
"I'd like to aggress on that good-looking bastard," Meg groaned. "Do you think you can get him straightened out, Pam? What did you mean when you mentioned his failures as a man? Did he tell you that much about his marriage?"
Pam lay silent for a minute, and Meg, thinking her bed mate was drifting off to sleep, pinched one of her breasts.
"Stop that!" Pam whispered. "I'm thinking. My guess is that he got a bad start from his mother. She gave him the Sir Galahad bullshit, the chivalry, the woman-on-a-pedestal crap. So he always thought a woman was doing a man a big favor if she lay on her back for him, and that a man was a brutal, lustful, ravening wolf, cruelly sticking that dirty thing into some shrinking girl's twat. Can you imagine?"
"His mother ought to be chained in hell, fed on Spanish Fly, and kept just out of reach of thirty stiff pricks. It would serve her right," Meg said fiercely. "So he never could ball his wife without mother-guilt spoiling it. Right?"
"Yes," Pam replied. "And guessing some more, I think he only pushed for some pussy when his balls were about to burst. You know what would happen then--instead of a good, long, satisfying fuck, he no more than got it in before he began to come. Slam-bam, thank you, ma'am. You know."
Meg shivered at the thought of such torture. For both the man and his wife. "I don't blame her for pulling out," she murmured. "But why didn't the silly bitch tell him what to do?"
"I'm still guessing," Pam replied, "but I think she was as ignorant as he was. Anyhow, he's apparently been fucked up ever since. Or rather, unfucked up." She laughed, but without mirth.
"And you think you can change him?" Meg asked.
"I don't know," Pam answered honestly. "He really thinks, poor baby, that he can get close to those swingers he's picked out--close enough to milk them for information--and not 'get involved,' meaning, without actually fucking."
Meg whistled softly. "He's out of his gourd," she said. "His whole project will fall on its face!"
"I know," Pam answered. "I'm counting on that to shake him out of it. The project, right now, is his life. Maybe, if he sees it going out the window, he'll suddenly be glad to fuck in order to save it. You know, a real motivation for him."
Meg laughed softly and kissed Pam, pressing her warm belly and her soft breasts against the other girl's. Her hand went down to cup the fat, hairy mound between Pam's legs. "If this isn't enough motivation for him, baby," she whispered, "he really does need help."
She eased herself up and over, mounting Pam, whose legs spread wide to receive her. With the ease of long practice, each girl reached down, opening closed cuntlips, gently seeing to it that the opened lips joined wetly, that clitoris was pressed against clitoris. Pam's tongue, firm with new lust, went into Meg's mouth, and they began to rub together, softly and slowly, the joined pussies making tiny smacking sounds as the soft lips generated heat, and cunt juice began to flow.
Pam remembered the hard-on, strongly shaped under Professor Lamberson's slacks. At least it was a start. When a man could get a hard-on, just from a whiff of craving cunt, anything could happen.
The thought brought a tender surge of heat to where her pussy was blindly kissing Meg's pussy, and Meg, sensing the response, began to rotate her ass, giving a deeper rub to her own and Pam's slavering cunt. They heaved softly and fiercely, joined by love, and the small and tender noises of their coming did not awaken the other two girls.