Chapter 2
In the year nineteen twenty-nine, psychologists from the University of Michigan, querying hundreds of workers in the automotive industry, made the surprising discovery that being given credit for work done was more important to the human psyche than more money, shorter working hours, titles, or keys to the bosses' washrooms.
On this lovely, typical Southern California summer day, John Lamberson was bestowing this priceless--and costless--consideration on Pamela Marsh, secure in his scholarly belief that it would please her more than anything else he could offer. And, as scholars dealing with principles rather than personalities so often are, he was dead wrong.
What Pam would have appreciated more than anything else, not only at this moment but at any moment during their eight hours of steady traveling, was something to ease the divine itch in her cunt. A beautiful, hard, shiny, stiff prick, for instance. Failing that, a hot, sucking mouth, a tenderly probing tongue that would pull the juice out of her vagina and the nervous strain from her clitoris. Even a big finger, warmed by the summer sun and slicked from dabbling in the flowing lips of her pussy, plunging into the squirming tightness now covered by folded cuntlips while a gentle thumb knowledgeably and gently brought the joyous surge of released lust from her clit, would have been enough.
But all she was getting was words. Lovely words, true. Words of praise and recognition. But, while words of love and lust add to the intensity of fucking, they mean nothing except when they are backed up by something more solid.
"You know, of course, Pamela," the professor was saying, "that your part in this survey is just as important as mine." He was driving with unconscious skill, which Pam had mentally recorded as a plus in his favor--a truly masculine attribute, she considered it. But he was driving with both hands on the wheel. How much more masculine, she thought, if he could spare one hand to rest between her thighs, to open her zipper--no, she would gladly take care of that--to push and prod with friendly interest between the fat and hairy cuntlips, into the slick pinkness where her heartbeats seemed to meet as lip pressed against lip.
Her mind hazy with desire, she made the effort to come up with the trite response demanded by the trite statement.
"Oh, not really, John!" she protested. "I'm just along for the ride. You needed someone to be your wife--to pretend to be your wife," she revised, "just so your interviews will seem to spring naturally from the social context. And I was lucky enough to fill the bill."
She pulled her bare feet up on the front seat, locking her arms around her shins, pushing her ass further forward. Her lovely legs, bared up to the cuffs of her corduroy shorts, might as well have been encased in slacks, she mused rebelliously. She had chosen these abbreviated pants because they showed so much of her rounded ripeness, and left off her panties deliberately.
Peeping down to her crotch, she could even see a few blonde hairs straying out from what was now a mere strap of corduroy snugged tightly against her compressed outer lips. She thought bitterly of the Berkeleian theory--learned so long ago in Psych Two--that if no one sees a tangible phenomenon, it does not exist. My nonexistent pussy, she thought sadly. But her mind listened to John's rejoinder to her last remark.
"You have done so much more than just fill the bill, Pam," he was saying. "Without your courage, your knowledge, I might well have failed in this project of mine before it got off the ground. To think of myself, trying to gain the confidence of these people, using my own pedantic tools of communication!" He laughed at himself indulgently. Pam saw a ray of hope.
"You mean like saying vagina for cunt, penis for cock, and intercourse for fucking?" she smiled, noting that his hands clutched the wheel spasmodically as these lovely words came from her sweet mouth. "That's nice of you to give such importance to a contribution so small, John."
She resisted an impulse to move against him, since this overt act had been repelled emphatically earlier in the day.
"But you still haven't let me help you as much as I could," she said softly. "You still won't believe me when I say you can't possibly get at these people without getting, as you put it, personally involved."
She looked briefly at his profile, seeing actual distress in his set expression.
"You don't realize the power of the scholar's mind, Pam," he replied, ignoring the fact that his assistant was a scholar, too. "They will feel my sincerity, my zeal for the project," he insisted. His voice had the small-boy desperation of one who cannot yet admit he is defending a losing cause. "Don't you believe that?"
Pam laughed kindly. "If they so much as suspect they're fodder for a project, they'll put their clothes back on and run like jackrabbits," she said. "For God's sake, John, after you've given so much to this job, after you've contracted for an article with the Psycho Journal, you can't let a little thing like personal contact with a few strange women ruin it!"
"Please, Pam," John grasped at the proffered change of subject, "don't say the 'Psycho Journal.' Psycho means something entirely different from psychological. If I may say so," and John gave a prim little laugh, "your choice of words in my field is as far off the mark as my vocabulary in the swingers' field. My old vocabulary, that is," he corrected himself.
They rolled along in the later afternoon, nearing Sonar Beach and glad to have the long trip over. They had passed through Anaheim more than an hour ago, both mentioning that it was the home of one of the couples to be included in John's and Pam's field work. "The subjects," John had called them, and blushed as Pam had said, very forcefully, "The people, John, not the subjects!"
They had had some light conversation about the housekeeper selected for them by the real estate group which had arranged the lease of the home they would occupy.
"I'm sorry the budget wouldn't stand for a full-time housekeeper," John had apologized. "But there's a dishwasher, and I'll fix breakfast. You won't be a household drudge. The housekeeper will prepare lunch and clean house afterward. As I understand it, she'll do the shopping and make our dinner. All we do is clean up and put the dishes in the dishwasher."
The impulse to pat his hand was almost too much. Pam stifled it with an effort. "Don't worry, John," she smiled. "This isn't a for-real marriage, you know. You won't have to fix your own breakfast."
"Really, Pam," he said stiffly, "what makes you think--" and suddenly he laughed. "All right, Miss Smarty. So maybe I was henpecked. But actually, Helen did have those headaches."
They were looking now for the street sign which would be their turn-off for the real estate office, and Pam suddenly said: "Hey! That's Vickers Street--that's where the Malones live! They're close by. Right?"
Not only were the Malones close by the site of John Lamberson's proposed survey, they were close by each other.
Carol stretched her nude body warmly along her husband's massive frame, deeply appreciating the male fragrance of his sweat, and tenderly reached across his belly to finger his big cock, now slowly receding from its recent spectacular erection. Under its cloaking patch of fine red hair, her momentarily appeased pussy faintly echoed her orgasm of a few moments before.
Jim Malone, always happy after he had demonstrated his virility, laughed as he reached down to clasp his wife's hand tighter around his come-slick cock. He loved this intensely feminine woman whose thirty-eight years rested so lightly on her that he had often been accused of taking a child bride. , He loved her springy, athletic body, her bright face, by no means beautiful but so filled with the charm of her character that both men and women liked her on sight.
Best of all, he loved her warm, resilient cunt, so virginal in its dimensions that he often wondered how she could have borne a child, even eighteen years ago, and remained so incredibly tight, so youthfully muscular in that dark, delightfully fragrant place. And, being unquestionably a male chauvinist, he indulged himself with the belief that her femininity had a lot to do with the occasional binds into which her energies and ambitions got her.
Like right now.
"So, doesn't such a lovely fuck, even if it is with your same old husband, do something to solve your problem?" he asked teasingly. "Can't you pass up this chance to swing, and go ahead and be a housekeeper for ten weeks?"
Carol looked up from where she had been nuzzling his half-hard cock, her face beginning to find its usual smile. "You go to hell, Jim Malone!" she laughed. "Look at those pictures again! And don't you go using your reverse psychology on me. I know you're dying to get this--" and she gave a tender shake to his prick--"into that little blonde pussy!"
She picked up the Polaroid prints of Pam and John, the study of which, for perhaps the tenth time, had sent them into this matinee storm of heat, set them to stripping each other in laughing lechery, and plunged them headlong into a sensual feast of fucking.
She got up and moved to where the light was better, her eyes concentrated on the lean hardness of John Lamberson's body. Unconsciously, she wet her lips. Also unconsciously, her left hand moved down to press softly in the lush mat of pubic hair above her cleft, stroking the warm flesh.
"We don't really need the money, Jim," she said, as though convincing herself. "I said I'd take that damned housekeeping job just to do Ruth Gruner a favor. You know that!"
Jim laughed with friendly understanding. "Yeah, sure, baby," he responded. "And maybe to show off your gourmet cooking to a new audience. Right?"
She turned her naked body toward him, deliberately pushing her pubis out, the movement revealing the pink slit which still remained partly open from their lovely joining.
"How's this for a gourmet dish for the professor?" she asked, spreading the thick lips wider with her fingers. "With a side order of these?" She shook her long, full, deeply sculptured breasts at him. "Think he'll believe I'm only twenty-seven, like we said in the letters?"
Jim, his hands clasped behind his raised head, pretended to consider the question. "I think we should have said you were twenty-one," he replied. "That would be the average of your real age plus the mental age you showed when you said you'd take the job."
"Now you're being mean, Jim," she pouted. "Ruth Gruner just said they were summer people. She didn't even say where they were from. Asked me if I'd like to pick up seventy easy bucks a week for five half-days of cooking for some tourists. Ten weeks of it--that would be seven hundred bucks. And you know how I love to cook--it's the only creative thing I do."
"Oh, baby," Jim protested. "Cooking isn't even the best creative thing you do! There isn't a woman in America, hundred-dollar whores included, who can fuck like you! And like you say, how could you know that the people you were going to keep house for, and the people we were planning to swing with, would be the same?"
There was a sudden burst of automotive sound just outside their window, a squeal of brakes worn down to the rivets, the chatter of worn valves with a counterpoint of bad bearings, and a sudden sound of a car door slamming. The Malones looked at each other with understanding smiles.
Both said: "Melissa's home!" and Jim said: "Maybe I'd better help her bring in her stuff."
Carol kissed him. "No, you lie here and be comfortable. Let her bring in her own bags. She never brings much home from college. And you do so much for her--if she were your own daughter, you couldn't do more!"
Jim grinned. "Maybe if she were my own daughter, I wouldn't do as much," he observed. "So many narrow-minded bastards are prejudiced against incest."
Carol slapped at him, laughing. "If we hadn't had you, God knows how that girl would have turned out. All her girl friends were beginning to smoke pot, shacking up with surfers and hippies, getting knocked up, coming home with the clap." She knelt by him as he lay on the bed and picked up his limp cock, looked at it tenderly and gave its head a kiss. "Thank God there was enough of this for both of us! Oh, Jim, it was a lucky day for me and Melissa when you married me!" Her green eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
"Knock it off, old lady," Jim said with false gruffness. "It was just as lucky for me--I got two wonderful girls for the price of one marriage license, didn't I? And Melissa was always a good kid. Look, she had a maidenhead, and she was over fourteen when you suggested I have a sex talk with her."
There was the rush of footsteps in the hall, their door was flung open, and a hundred and twenty pounds of All-American girl, full of life and love and humor, burst into the room. Just short of her eighteenth birthday, fresh from her first year in UCLA, she had the red hair and green eyes of her mother, but nature had fashioned her body along more generous lines. But no baby fat! Her breasts, still jiggling from the force of her entry, thrust boldly out against the thin knit fabric of her blouse, unfettered by a bra, their big nipples leading the way. Her strong thighs and ample buttocks, compressed into stretch jeans, were all firmness and yielding warmth and welcoming grace.
Her mother, still kneeling at the bedside, still holding gently to the big prick, now beginning to show new life, turned a smile of welcome on her beloved daughter. The girl took in the scene at a glance, and dropped to her mother's side, hugging the older woman to her rapturously, reaching a hand to Jim's hairy belly.
"Oh, Mom!" she cried. "Oh, Jim! What a way to welcome me home!" She cupped her mother's firm buttocks in one hand and bent to suck the slowly hardening cock in her mouth. Her eyes were misty with happiness, but she let the prick slip out of her warm lips and eyed them both gaily.
"It wasn't just for me, you old swingers!" she said admiringly. "That's come juice, unless I've forgotten what it tastes like!" She rubbed her hand warmly in Jim's crotch, fingering his big balls, placing her thumb on the swelling tube on his cock's underside. "Mmmm!" she murmured. "It's so good to be back! Why the matinee?" she asked mischievously. "And what were you doing when I came in, Mom? Going back for seconds?"
Carol, sitting back on her heels, laughed happily. "We were talking about the time I asked Jim to have a sex talk with you," she admitted. "We were--oh, just talking about you and us--about how great it is to have a man like Jim around the house." Her voice was warm and soft; she leaned over and kissed her daughter lightly. The girl giggled.
"What a sex talk!" she said. "He came in my room when I was undressing, looked at my boobs like he couldn't believe 'em, and pulled this lovely thing out," and here the girl gave the now half-hard prick a stroke, "and asked me if I'd ever seen anything like it." She shivered in remembered delight.
Jim raised up, sitting on the edge of the bed between the two women. "I think I was as embarrassed as you were," he said, his voice husky.
"Oh, more so!" Melissa teased. "I wasn't embarrassed at all. The reason I was struck dumb, it just looked so beautiful and big and fierce!" She pulled Jim's hand down to feel her breasts, pressing his fingers deep into the soft firmness, closing her eyes as he squeezed hard. She looked at her mother, at Jim, her face eager.
"I'm so hot!" she whispered. "All that long drive home, wondering if this old thing was the same as ever."
Her mother smacked her hand. "Don't call it a thing," Carol said sharply. "And, if you want some of it, all you have to do is say so!" She got up in a lithe, simple movement, and reached for Melissa's hand, pulling her up. The girl giggled.
"I'll have my clothes off in a jiff, Jim," she said. "Mom, keep him interested for me, huh?"
She kicked her shoes off and stood first on one bare foot and then on the other, pulling the jeans down over her thighs and off, turning to hang them over a chair. The blouse came off over her head in one graceful movement, her big pink-tipped breasts jouncing as they were freed.
"Want to help with my panties, Jim?" she asked softly, moving close to him, pushing between his hard, hairy thighs.
Carol laughed and patted her daughters firm, plump ass. "You've been daydreaming, baby," she said. "There's a big wet spot on your seat." She touched a friendly hand to the darker patch on the white nylon briefs. "Is that all yours?" she asked, "or did you stop for a quickie?"
"Mom!" the girl protested. "I don't even want to hear the word 'quickie' around here! That's all you get from those dumb-assed college boys! When you get any," she added, and laughed. "No, that's all mine, and I'm all slicked up for Daddy Jim!" She moved her hips provocatively, and squealed as the big man leaned forward, taking a great mouthful of tender nipple into his warm mouth. His fierce suction bruising the tender flesh, his tongue strongly pushing at the nipple, gave her a sudden rise of warmth from navel to asshole. She hugged his head to her, mashing her big breast flat, enjoying the ecstatic pain of it.
She stepped away slightly, feeling a miniature orgasm rising in her guts, not wishing to spoil the big homecoming moment by anything premature. Jim's smile was lazy and loving, and she saw with pride that his big cock had come up hard and strong, the flaring head now shiny and red with engorgement.
She pointed to it, looking at her mother. "You don't think I can take that big monster into my poor little pussy, do you?" she asked in mock alarm.
Carol laughed. "That's just what I always think, baby doll, and I've been taking it for longer than you have," she said dryly. "It went into you all right in Easter vacation!" She ran her warm hand up from behind, between Melissa's smooth thighs, the skin at the back of her neck tightening as she touched the slick folds where her daughter's juices had soaked the red hairs and dribbled down an inch or two. "Do you want me to hold it open for him?" she whispered.
"Ooooh, Mom! Like you did that first time?" Melissa whispered. "Oh, would you? And kiss me when he starts it in?"
Her mother kissed her warmly.. "You big baby!" she said lovingly. "Of course I won't--you're a big girl now. Let me see you put it in, yourself!" She moved away toward the door.
"I'll unpack your bags and put your dirty clothes in the washer," she said. Jim, his eyes turned toward his wife, moved smilingly to the center of the bed, helping the hot-eyed girl to a position just even with his hips. His hands reached confidently toward her flame-haired crotch, spread wide for him.
There never could be a heaven any better than this, Melissa thought, her arms spread wide on the smooth sheet, her eyes on the ceiling. Jim's strong arms cradled her thighs, lifting her generously molded ass up, up, way up off the bed, her cunt pressed to his lips. She moved one hand languidly--the fire was smoldering deep inside her, now--and groped for his prick, pressing so hard against her back. The slick, living movements of his tongue and lips, sliding up and down in the weepingly sensitive convolutions of her labia, pressing into the hot hole below, slapping with painful pleasure around her throbbing clitoris, left her dazed but responsive. The flow of come juice from her vagina, which had been soaking into her panties and wetting her thighs, was being sucked up by her stepfather's mouth. She held the rigid bar of his cock in a firm grasp, feeling new slickness coming from the slit in the big red head, gently rolling the foreskin up and down, momentarily contented with Jim's expert licking and sucking, but eager for the splitting thrust of this long, hard prick.
The skin on her belly and under her arms felt unduly warm and tight; her breasts glowed with the heat that spread from her loins, and she used her other hand to squeeze them alternately, closing her eyes at the swooning heat which nearly blinded her. Raising her head, she stuffed the nipple into her mouth, biting down hard, much harder than any man would dare, the pain giving a sickening intensity to the hot spasms in her cunt.
In sudden alarm that she would whirl into orgasm before Jim got his fill of eating her pussy, pining for the throbbing feeling of the big tool slamming into her vagina, she released her hold on the big man's cock and spat the swollen pink nipple out of her mouth.
"Jim," she whispered. "Please! Fuck me, Jim! Put that big thing into me!" She thought of how it would look just now, if only she could see it--the head like a big plum, and just as slick and red--the moist, softly wrinkled foreskin pulled back, still showing the highlights of his and her mother's come fluids-the satin-soft skin loosely wrapping the big, ridged shaft, usually as white as milk, but now an angry, loving pink from his excitement.
"Oh, God, Jim!" she shrilled, as his tongue seemed to burrow into her clutched asshole. "Don't make me come this way! Fuck me, you big bastard! Let me have it! Fuck me!"
She rolled violently, as wild as an unbroken mustang, and he looked down at her, over her bush of bright pubic hair, his eyes warm with the fatherly love she had come to rely on.
Slowly, smiling at her lust-twisted face, he let her thighs slide down his strongly muscled arms, catching her knees in the crook of his elbows, holding her opened cunt just even with the jerking head of his cock.
Feeling the orgasm subside a bit, she smiled weakly.
"I didn't mean to yell so loud, Daddy Jim," she whispered, smiling and apologetic. "I love for you to eat me, honest, but I haven't climbed a cock like yours since last Easter! Put it in now, and fuck me real hard. I feel like I could come for fifteen minutes without stopping!"
He dropped her legs and fell on her, his wet mouth seeking hers, his tongue, carrying her own sex flavors, wrapping around hers. She felt even closer to coming as the sweet and musky scents from her own crotch came to her nostrils, and she opened her lips wider, sucking her own tantalizing slickness from his mouth.
His ass was raised high, keeping the head of his cock away from all contact with her or the sheets, since he would not risk losing any of this precious feeling anywhere except in the drooling young cunt under him.
"My baby!" he whispered against her smooth throat, remembering her delighted shock, her scream of pain and pleasure, as he had rammed this same thick cock into her virgin hole, binding him to her and her to him in a way which few stepfathers and stepdaughters could ever know.
He drew back now, smiling at her tenderly, and watched as she groped down blindly, finding the rigidity of his prick, rubbing the thick head up and down in her streaming lips, lubricating it for its stretching, thrusting entrance. She hung there, her lovely ass poised an inch or so above the mattress, feeling the quick rush of blood to her belly, the tensing, half fear, half wild delight, as the size of it, starting in, seemed to stretch her tiny opening far beyond its normal size.
He felt a welcoming flutter of strong young muscle as the first couple of inches pushed squeakingly into the warm tightness between her legs, a clip-clip of pre-come happiness, and he thrust with all the strength of his broad back, absorbing the tender shock as his prickhead hit her cervix.
Her eyes were closed, and he was close enough to see the minute throbbing of the tiny veins of her eyelids, imagining that he felt a corresponding throb of blood in the cunt which surrounded him so warmly, so wetly.
Careful to move his prick as little as possible, he bent his head to nuzzle at her breast, and was surprised as she sensed his movement and used her hand to bring the heavy tit to his mouth.
Sucking the nipple and the puffed aureola deep into the warmth of his cheeks, he prodded with his tongue at the tender surfaces, rewarded by her involuntary leap of pleasure. He kissed her again, as the breast rolled down against her ribcage, and her tongue was hard and muscular, eager, pushing.
Because she could no longer bear the hammering heat without answering, she rolled her hips from side to side, feeling the joy of his hard cock striking her inner walls, rolling against the softly padded rolls of sensitized tissue just inside her vaginal portal. The movement worked his cock against her cervix, and a sudden straining in her clitoris, as he ground against her, sent an uncontrollable wave of sensation rippling throughout her belly.
With a little scream of pleasure, she threw her arms up and around his neck, pulling his face close, and wrapped her strong young legs over his haunches, using all her strength to jam him into her, to push herself up to meet him.
In that indescribable moment of coming, she felt each hair of his chest and belly and thighs scrape her, underlining the increased life throughout her body as the wave of orgasm twisted in her cunt, tightening her buttock muscles into an agony of response, choking off her breath, expanding her mind into an insensate whirl of pink and misty dream, while each throb of her heart sent waves of almost fainting happiness shuddering through her crotch.
Coming fresh from a highly satisfactory fuck with his wife, Jim's surges of sperm lay a few heartbeats behind Melissa's enraptured coming, beginning only when her second wave of feeling twisted her cunt muscles around him like a tender fist. In a sense, it was better. Better for him, better for her. His pleasure in the wildness of her coming, his male pride at her response, helped trigger his own spurts, gave him a brief sense of spectatorship before his own orgasm shook him.
And for the girl, feeling her stepfather's dying gushes of semen in her relaxed cunt, there was a deeper kinship of feeling, a warm glow of contentment at his groaning pleasure.
They all helped with dinner, not bothering to dress.
"If there's a little come juice mixed into the omelet, it will just taste better to me," laughed Melissa. "I've lived with sterility at that Goddamned college for months."
Jim stroked a finger into each of the redheaded pussies, and sniffed at the shining slickness like a connoisseur. "Cheese omelet," he announced, to the dissenting squeals of laughter from mother and daughter. "You can give the professor a new treat, Carol!"
Melissa wanted to know what they were talking about, and, as they told her of the embarrassing bind, she held up a hand.
"Whoa, for just a minute," she demanded, as Carol was saying the hell with the money, she'd rather get a little strange cock. "Your daughter has an idea! Listen!"
She eyed them both. "You two would rather play house with some new swingers than make a million bucks, right?" she asked.
"The trouble is, I promised Ruth I'd do it," Carol said miserably. "And I'm supposed to start tomorrow. I can't let her down."
"Balls!" Melissa said. "I'll gamble they don't even know your name yet. I mean, they don't know the housekeeper's name. And I cook almost as well as you do, right, Mom? And if I'm not as good a housekeeper, I can try like hell. Am I getting through to you?"
Jim pounded the table in delight. "Hell, yes, baby!" he cried. "You go up there and announce yourself by your own name, say your mama's been run over by a truck, or captured by white slavers, and you're there to take her place! Great!" He looked at Carol, pleased to see her face clearing of worry.
"You won't mind, baby?" she inquired.
"Well, it's not altogether altruistic," Melissa admitted. "That old clunker of mine needs new valves and rings and God knows what else. I sure didn't want to hit you and Jim for it. But if I can pick up three hundred, maybe, being a housekeeper for a swinging professor and his wife--well--I can get the old heap practically rebuilt, down in Ensenada."
"Great," Jim responded. "I still think that, if they're the right sort, Carol could do both. But this way, it's sure."
"Maybe I could do it if I knew them better, or if I had more time to get used to the idea," Carol said. "But Jesus, honey, this is certainly big of you!" She patted Melissa on her bare and perfect ass. "You're a doll!"
"Nothing to it, Mom," Melissa answered airily. "Maybe I can get in on the swaperoo. I'm just kidding!" she said hastily as her mother turned a sort of family look on her. "But why not? I'm a big girl now!"
Carol laughed. "An extra man is generally more needed at a swap-fest than an extra girl," she observed. "But what's with you? Those college boys not exactly with it?"
"Shit!" Melissa said angrily. "I haven't had one good, long, solid fuck since I was here last Easter! Most of those kids live in dorms, so their idea of a big evening is a fast bang in the back seat of a car. And they act like they're doing a girl a big favor, at that!"
Jim shook his head in sympathy, and said to Carol: "She was really up for it when we did it just now." He turned to Melissa. "You like the old man better, eh?"
"You know it, Jim!" the girl cried. "You know Ben Reach?" she demanded. When they both nodded, she went on. "I thought that he might be better--being older, you know. And being from right here, and me knowing him since I was a little kid. But he's such a smart-ass!" Her angry look changed as she remembered something, and she began to laugh.
"You know what he did? He asked me for a date, and I said sure, of course, why not, and that bastard!" She stopped again, fighting her laughter. "He looked at me as calm as you please, and said: 'You fuck, of course,' not asking me, telling me."
This time she did laugh, loud and clear. "Well, I played it cool--or at least, I thought it was cool of me. I said maybe I did and maybe I didn't, acting very ladylike, just for a gag, but that my mother told me I should never fuck on a first date." She looked from her mother to Jim, enjoying the amusement in their faces.
"So he said--" and she had to laugh again. "He said, still in that superior way, 'I'm sure your mother didn't say that you shouldn't suck off on a first date, right?' And that came so close to breaking me up that I had to turn and walk away. I couldn't let him see me laughing, could I?"
Jim put his arm around her, pressing his hand up under one of her heavy breasts. "So he never asked you again?" he asked.
"No, but it was my fault," Melissa said forlornly. "Every time I saw him, I began to laugh--it was so funny, the serious way he said that ridiculous thing. Maybe I'll see him at the beach this summer, and we can get together."
Helen Ferguson, owner of the cliff side cottage now under lease to a couple she'd never seen, stopped in Ventura on her way to a summer in Oregon and called her real estate broker.
"Ruth Gruner," the pleasant voice said, and Helen said: "Oh, hi, Ruth--Helen Ferguson. Did my tenants pick up the key?"
"Why, yes, they did, Helen," Ruth answered. "They seemed like lovely people. The professor was shy and sweet. His wife stayed in the car. He handed me a check for a thousand dollars--plus another two hundred for a cleaning and damage deposit. Don't often get that kind. You know, don't you, that I could have gotten one-fifty a week for your house?"
"Yeah, sure, Ruth, I know," Helen sighed. "But I'd rather have quiet, reliable people there. You know that son of a bitch of a deputy sheriff--Sam Rovere? The one who makes all those so-called sex raids? Lives up above me, on the hill?"
"Why, yes, I know of him," Ruth said slowly. "What's he got to do with it?"
Helen laughed darkly. "That bastard watched me all one afternoon with a damned spyglass," she said. "I was innocently taking a sun bath on my patio--my own damned patio! He called me and threatened to arrest me for indecent exposure! And when I asked him who I'd exposed myself to, you know what he said?"
"Why, no, Helen, I don't," Ruth answered. "And this call is costing you money. Who was it that you exposed yourself to?"
"He said: 'Me, Mrs. Ferguson--you exposed yourself to me!' Can you tie that? The dirty-minded bastard!"
"With him for a neighbor, you're lucky to have any tenants at all!" Ruth laughed. "Have a nice vacation!"