Chapter 3
Pam, undressing, thought the professor, partly undressed himself in the room they had decided was for him. Pam, possibly nude this very moment, soft and smooth and warm. And her door wide open--at least, he had not heard it close. He looked in his attache case, finding one of her Polaroid shots which he had kept for himself. The one in which she knelt on the floor, facing the camera, knees wide apart. It was his favorite.
Not that it actually showed as much of the slick and inside pinkness as some of the others--the lights, flash or fixed, were at waist level, John judged. Therefore, at this level and in this position, her widely divided fleece was in shadow. But the fat lips were popped open, that was obvious, and his mind could supply the gooshy details, the wealth of hoarded juice now freed by the broken seal of moist lip against moist lip. For reasons unknown to him, he licked his lips.
Alone in his room, John Lamberson's mind raced, out of gear and almost out of his control. This simply would not do, he told himself sternly, burying the picture.
The entire day had been something of an ordeal, and he was bone-weary. Not from the long ride--that was simply a continued play of learned reflex--coordination of eye and hand and foot and small knowledge piled on small knowledge, all of which make up the skill of driving a car.
No, the strain came from ignoring the presence of Pam. Not ignoring her, or her conversation--response to them had also been reflexive, the ordinary social reflex which men call courtesy. But her presence, the insistent emanations which he had often felt as he tried to sleep next to Helen, his back turned, but knowing full well that she was on her back, her thighs apart--that was what he had wasted himself with, drained his energy, trying to ignore it.
His peripheral vision was too good. When, burdened by headaches, he had gone to be fitted for glasses, the doctor had told him so.
"Hell, you don't need glasses, Dr. Lamberson," the kind old gentleman had told him. "See your own family doctor. Your headaches don't originate with eyestrain." But he had already seen his family doctor. It was he who suggested having his eyes checked. Neither of them sent him to a psychiatrist. And a psychiatrist would not necessarily have asked him how often he fucked.
But it was about that time that John began to masturbate when he felt too tightly wound up. Because, every night before bedtime, often even before dinner, Helen would say: "Damn it, I've got one of those headaches of mine coming on again!"
And John, bringing home the lurching thought of Helen spread open on the bed, breasts luminous in the light from the opened window, crotch fragrance rising from the dark nest of hair triangled at the base of her smooth belly, would feel the nascent hard-on die unborn. And then, unless he masturbated, hands warm and slick and soapy and alert to his exact needs as Helen never seemed to be, her perfumes and known body scents around him in the locked bathroom, he could not sleep. And he would have a headache.
Strangely, his mind, logical as an adding machine in his own pursuits, knowing or sensing the basis of his headaches, had never suspected the basis of Helen's.
Well, if his hard-on persisted, he knew how to get to sleep.
His damned peripheral vision! And that presence of Pam, quite aside from the simple corporeal fact of being there.
He was conscious of her softly contoured legs, the curves which glided from her knees on a convex arc to the tightly drawn crotch of her damned shorts! When she had drawn her heels up on the seat, against the spreading firmness of her tanned thighs--good God! He knew that taste depends on the olfactory nerve for half, no, much more than half of its delights. He was aware of the woman fragrance that came from her body. He wondered what it would taste like.
Once, on a sweeping curve that took them, briefly, full against the sun in their jagged southbound journey, the dusty windshield became a mirror for her spread and sun-lighted thighs, their smoothness made more than humanly warm by the golden light. Did he see a patch of blonde hair?
Now that the long day was over, and John was removed by the width of a couple of walls, a bathroom, and a short hall, Pam felt that, by rights, the warmth she felt so itchingly, damply around her crotch would subside.
They had engaged in routine pursuits--picked up the key and a hand-sketched map so they might locate and enter their headquarters for their survey. They had dined well in a roadside restaurant just above Sonar Beach, and picked up some simple necessities for breakfast.
John had decided, over Pam's protests, that she should receive five hundred dollars for her ten weeks of assistance.
"There's plenty in the budget," he had said. "And you've already been worth that much." Very nice. But he had not looked straight at her, perhaps because her blouse, now unbuttoned almost to the waist, showed much too much of her soft tits.
Those tits, uncovered now, meant nothing if no man looked or felt or kissed or sucked them.
She heard John's door open, heard nothing from the bath between their rooms, and judged that he had gone into the living room or the den. She remembered, then, that she had not left a forwarding address with the university, and that she had not checked to see if the telephone had been left connected. It would be necessary to telephone the school--she had some books coming. She headed for the living room.
Since her door was open, there was no warning for John, now in his blue pajamas, now with his unruly cock protruding into the cool, blossom-scented California night--no click of door latch to stay his hand, which grasped the warm fullness of his hard shaft.
Lights on in the living room, so that he could see both the enchanting details of Pam's picture and the well known and well loved details of his prick, his eyes goggled as Pam, nude except for bikini panties so thin that he could see--or so he believed--every bright blonde hair on her snatch, came in to stand before him in all her warm, throbbing perfection.
His gasp of shock too plain to ignore, Pam acted from love and concern, ignoring his open and speechless mouth, his tense and cock-filled hand, his look of pain and fear. The swollen prick fell dead and slipped from his hand, and its place was filled by Pam's warm little paw.
"John, dear," she breathed, "don't worry so! And don't be afraid to be human! I won't hurt you. Not ever. But you must look at me while I talk to you! Really! Look at me!"
He was forced to look her in the eye, unless he chose to look above her head. Even so, his peripheral vision, which worked vertically as well as laterally, saw the splendid rise of her boobs, pink nipples hard and pointed, the partly shaded, gently creased roundness of her belly, with the blonde patch between her legs. But his voice returned.
"Pam, you mustn't show yourself like this," he grated. "The neighbors! Remember my project!"
"Oh, bosh, John," Pam answered. She waved at the clerestory windows high against the beamed ceiling. "Who is ten feet tall, to peep at us? There," and she pointed at the sliding glass door and the broad windows to the west, "is a steep hill, a patio wall, thick shrubs. No one can see. Except you."
They had traveled through some very warm weather, the folded and pressed lips of Pam's pussy acting as a hermetically sealed guard to her moisture-making interior, and now, with the thick lips opened and the result of the day's heat swirling toward John's nose in an invisible cloud of scent, he suddenly knew the source of his hard-on when Pam had brought her pictures.
With no dime-store perfume to confuse his alerted nose, with Pam's body a large, living vial of fragrance, he knew that a bait as old as time had snared the willing nerves in his reproductive system. In your cock, jerk, his mind snarled at him, and he jumped for fear that Pam would hear it, his mind seemed to speak so loud.
But she had been speaking. Saying what? Oh, yes--that only he could see her. He fought for coolness. And then he remembered that this sweet girl, ten years younger than himself, was in his care.
"Of course, my dear, I see you. I can't say I think it's a good thing. You should know better." He smiled primly. And she smiled back at him, leaning closer.
"You said I should think of your project, John. I do! Believe me, I do! I don't think you're thinking of it."
"I don't understand," he said helplessly, and Pam put one hand on the blonde pussy so clearly defined by the horribly thin panties, and one under "John," she whispered, her eyes searching his, "what will the subjects of your survey think if your wife is a prude? Don't you see--this is training! Be a scholar, John! The scholar's mind is objective. You must get used to me!"
The bath between their bedrooms had only a shower. The larger bath, tentatively referred to as "Pam's bath," had a tub. And John wanted a tub. Hot water just deep enough to make a thin film of water across his belly when he lay soaking. A bar of soap on his chest. His hard cock fully exposed, standing stiffly at an angle to his hairy belly.
He couldn't believe that such a few strokes had brought him no near the point of ejaculation. His hands were so well slicked by soap that they were as soft as--as soft and warm as--as smooth as--well, what? Helen's cunt? The space between Helen's soft breasts, where he had yearned to fuck and never had the nerve to ask? Or as slick and warm as the oozing pink slit at the base of Pam's belly?
He closed his eyes and groaned. He concentrated on holding back the threatened orgasm. The longer it lasted, he believed, the more complete it was, the more its hot gushes, its jerkingly glorious burst of sensation, relieved tension.
So fierce was his concentration, so loud was the pounding of blood in his head, that he did not hear the bathroom door open softly.
But as he lay there in the tub, striving to steer his thoughts to the multiplication tables, to the discovery of the Rosetta Stone, to anything far removed from his primal need to spout his seed through a swollen and anxious penis, something totally incredible happened.
Something unbelievably warm and slick and tender and alive closed on his throbbing cock. In its warmth and its softly muscled embrace, his startled cock leaped to a higher degree of hard sensitivity, and there was a quick downward movement so that the fabulous clutch seemed to take in most of the eight inches.
With his throat aching from a held back scream of protest, John opened frantic eyes to see Pam's blonde head just at his belly button, took in her rosy-nippled boob, swinging white and free between his hip and the tub's side, while her creamy-white ass, divided into its two luscious mounds of smooth flesh, topped the picture.
And he was getting--she was giving him--what he had read of, dreamed of, and never had--a blow job! In a sick-sweet burst of rejection and acceptance, unable to lift a hand to stop her, he simply became a vessel spouted at the center, through which his seed, pumped by needs greater than he ever knew, swirled up his beating, joyful cock, and into the warm and tender throat of this girl.
When his last reflex jerk, devoid of semen long since siphoned out, left his prick half-limp along her sucking tongue, Pam stood up in one lovely, flowing movement, standing tall above him, her face grave but her eyes merry, one bubbly track of lost come juice glistening down her chin.
And her aplomb shook John even more than this shockingly unexpected invading of his privacy, this uninvited gulping of a prick gone too far in lust for him to defend himself.
As best he could, considering his position and hers, he strove to chill her with the most stinging of rebukes. "You've gone too far!" he croaked, ashamed that it did not come out as he intended--as a roar of accusation. It was more like a small boy, tearfully threatening someone stronger.
"Get out!" he shouted--or croaked. "Get out of here! You've gone mad, mad!" He would have risen, but the soapy water now more or less covered his limbering dick--at least a bare semblance of modesty.
But Pam sat coolly on the bath stool, and smiled as though nothing had happened. And here he was, her boss, far outranking her scholastically, a full professor, a Ph.D. in psychology, unable to focus the simple word patterns that would activate her, move her, get her out of his outraged sight.
He gathered the strongest forces he could bring to bear. He lowered his voice to a scholarly level, a sadly muted timbre.
"Oh, Pam," he mourned, "can't you see what you've done?"
She laughed, not unkindly. "John, you silly," she said, as though he were the culprit, "you're the one who can't see what I've done."
At his surprised look, she said simply: "I can't be a human and not be aware of your need--your immediate need, this very instant. Why am I here? To look out for your welfare, to see that nothing comes between you and the successful completion of your project. I pledged myself to that, John. Isn't that true?"
Baffled, finding no words to answer, he nodded.
"So, then, John, if I could see--and I certainly did see it--that you were in a frame of mind far away from your proper vector of reasoning--no, let me put it in the kind of plain language to which we both must cleave all through the project. If I could see that a hard-on, a most insistent hard-on, was about to cheat you of a night's rest, leaving you unfit for the demands of tomorrow, what else was fitting for me to do? What more important area of my service than to relieve your obvious tensions?"
"I'm sorry I spoke so harshly, Pamela," he said slowly. "I only feared that our working relationship--scholar to scholar-might be impaired by overpersonalization of our roles. And you must remember--I am your employer. Further, I stand, in a sense, in loco parentis--I hold myself responsible for your well being."
"Oh, bosh, John," Pam said, shifting her haunches nervously on the padded bath stool as quivers of lust released a new stream of juices from her spasming cunt. "You're only ten years older than I--I've heard of ten-year-old girls getting pregnant, but not of ten-year-old boys getting them that way!"
Her humor was so free and human that John began to laugh.
"All the same," he said, "there's a very serious matter of protocol here, and I must comment on it. You must not, and I repeat, must not, place your superior in the negative position of being under obligation. That, my dear, I insist on!"
She helped him out of the tub, a man strangely unselfconscious, now that the act was over, and his position was clear. She had said: "Here, let me do this," and, to his surprise, toweled his privates with skill and care as great as his own.
And at last, on the broad couch in the living room, she had haltingly said--could Pam, the sure-minded, speak haltingly?--"John, about that matter of obligation."
In the incredible and mind-swirling events just passed, and with his heat abated, John had not noticed that Pam, as well as himself, was now stark naked. Until now. And she was showing signs of reason, for her left hand modestly covered as much as possible of her breasts, pressing their full softness against her ribs, while her other hand not only covered her pubis, it seemed to be partly out of sight in the tangle of blondeness.
His kind heart moved him, and he said softly: "Yes, Pam--what about obligation?"
She leaned against him, hiding her head on his shoulder, whispering softly.
"I know how important it is to our relationship that you maintain your position. I must never, never try to be more than a helper. Right?" He could barely hear her.
"My equal, Pam, believe me, my equal in all things," he said. "In case of a tie, naturally, I outrank you."
"So as matters stand, I must do something to equalize our positions. Isn't that true, John?" She felt his nod of assent and pulled away to look straight at him.
"Oh, John, it's so simple! You just go down on me--and then we'll be exactly equal!"
Under other circumstances, he reminded himself later on, just before he dropped off into a dreamless sleep, he would have rejected the idea, sure that he could find another, less personal way to erase the obligation. It was a giant step, and one he would never have taken without a great deal of thought. And, he had to admit to himself, a lot of persuasion.
He knew what it was called. Cunnilingus. Only Pam had called it "eating pussy," and tonight she had said. "You just go down on me."
He had thought about it often, wondering if he could ever bring himself to kiss, to lick, to eat that part of a woman's body. Somehow, it seemed indecent. But thrilling.
Once, in a moment of unruly passion, he had kissed Helen quite near that spot--low on her belly, with his nose buried in the crinkly bush of aromatic hair. Her thighs had snapped together and she had said: "John!" in a voice so frozen with disapproval that he had never tried it again.
Now, with his eyes, his nose, and his lips involved, and with his sense of taste overwhelmed with something new, something completely indescribable, he saw how easily a man could became addicted to such an act. Even the position was as natural as hugging, as though women and men had been constructed with such an oddity in mind.
He was between Pamela's knees, kneeling on the floor, and her strong, smooth thighs seemed to fit naturally over his shoulders, held there by her heels locked behind him.
The position opened her cuntlips wide, and the pearly-pink folds inside the puffed and hairy outer lips, made a broad target for his lips and tongue. He licked smoothly up and down, as though he had been doing this for years, and suddenly felt his head pushed down.
At the lower end of this pulsing clutch of soft lips, there it was--the dark little tunnel into which a man thrusts his erect penis--his hard cock, that is. He obeyed the thrust of Pamela's hand, and forced his tongue as deeply into the tightness as he could manage. To his surprise, there was an impulsive nip at his tongue. She had snapped her cunt on him, or tried to! Perhaps it was reflex. He thrust with his tongue again, leaving it deep in the hole, and felt the contraction of muscle, as though her pink cunt was actually trying to draw him inside!
Her thighs, so smooth and warm, now held his cheeks tightly, and without being told, he stretched his arms around them to feel for her breasts, leaping in pleasure at their soft resilience. His fingers found the nipples, hard as marbles, and it gave his tongue new stimulus to squeeze her springy globes into a sort of inverted cone, and press the tips of them, the nipples, down into the soft flesh with a fingertip. The quick jerk of her lower body indicated a definite nerve tie-up between breasts and pussy.
His chin was pressed into the firm cleft of her ass, just as his cheeks were engaged with her thighs, and his nose with the tangled blonde hair so thickly fleeced on her pubic mound. He moved his hands into her armpits, finding them amazingly warm and slightly damp--it had been a hot day--and down again to the swept-in concavity of her waist, and the swift outward curve of her hips. This was studying anatomy as it should be studied.
His mouth was full of her juices, and he realized that he had been busily sucking on that small, tender hole, tasting the delicately salty, indescribably rousing flavor from deep in her vagina. And there was an acrid bite, something he knew but could not place. Ammonia? He shuddered from an old taboo--it had to be urine--but his overly civilized mind could not compete with the primitive lust, and he sucked and lapped and probed with a new intensity.
In the dazing harmony of taste and texture and aroma, his face* slicked with the clear, heady juices which he found so deliriously exciting, he sensed a tautness, an expectancy, in the clenched asscheeks, the gripping thighs. And he remembered how woman was structured from some long-forgotten marriage manual--the authoritative knowledge that woman's sexual center of feeling was in a little dab of erectile tissue just at the apex of her cunt, partly hidden under the cape of springy flesh where the slit begins.
In a warm and human flow of compassion, to give this loving girl the same release that her lips and tongue had given him, he licked straight up, using his nose to root into the haired division, and found the hard little bud. He could feel its frenzy with lips and tongue, and instinct told him to suck it, to rasp it with his tongue, to nibble at it with careful pressures of his teeth. The effect was astounding.
Her thighs gripped his head convulsively, her entire bottom heaved and plunged, her hands locked in his hair so painfully that he cried out in anguish, but the sound was lost as his mouth was buried in the spasming softness of her cunt. Neither could he hear the moaning cry which burst from Pam's straining throat, but he was proudly aware that he had made her come. He, John Lamberson, so unskilled in the arts of love, had brought this bucking, leaping body to complete orgasm.
It was rather a shock to him that Pam, once she had gotten her muscles under control, kissed him so furiously, her lips closing over his while her tongue raced around his gums and teeth and lips. But it was wildly relevant that this scholarly woman should have such a deep desire to taste her own juices, so recently and warmly gushing from her pussy.
And a new dilemma faced him as he saw that his cock, appeased and softened only a few moments before by Pam's ready lips and kind mouth, was once more hard and rearing, demanding that it have its share of fun.
There had simply been no way to communicate during the wild frenzy of sucking--his tongue had had better things to do. And now, Pam was alternately burrowing her head on his shoulder and raising it to kiss him, but after this flurry, she pulled back and looked at him with shining eyes.
"John, dear!" she cried. "You were wonderful! Oh, you sucked me like an expert!"
Sweet praise, indeed, but there was his mutinous prick, thrusting up from between his thighs. To jerk off now, after experiencing that fantastically beautiful experience in Pam's mouth, would be a sort of desecration. But of course, he thought, he could not expect such grace again. This lovely and considerate assistant, thinking only to relieve his tensions and thus free his mind for clarity of thought, could hardly be expected to debase herself again, just for his selfish needs.
He forced a smile. "It was an unusual experience for me, Pamela," he said, grateful that his voice did not break. "And truly, I found it stimulating. It was thoughtful of you to contrive a way to, er, equalize our situation."
She leaned close to him, laughing and tender, and he felt this was a deeper form of relating than he had ever known. But she rolled him on his back, grasping his erect tool, and he knew a moment of fear as the pleasure rolled through his loins again. This was madness. It seemed to him that Dr. Reuben had written that man's reproductive organs went through a cycle of recession and resurrection that lasted thirty minutes in the average man. But Pam seemed to know more than Dr. Reuben.
"Oh, John, you superman!" she whispered, bending low to kiss him wetly and deeply. "Look at you--look at this wonderful monster!"
He smiled at her. "It just came up unexpectedly," he said sheepishly, "while I was, er, what you said--'going down on you'--is that what you call it?" He raised a hand to touch one of her breasts, and found himself clutching it fiercely, pulling it toward his mouth. He had craved this sweet fullness in his lips while he was eating her pussy, wishing he had two heads so that he could feast on both at once. He dropped it to moan: "Ohhh, Pam, that's not helping me here!" and placed his hand over hers where it gripped his cock.
"Silly man," Pam whispered, "don't worry. Your little assistant is right here to take care of it again!"
"But the obligation," he protested. "I can't let you--" and his voice funneled into a groan of delight as her slick mouth again took him warmly in again, deeply, sweetly in.
"You mustn't worry, professor, dear," she smiled up at him. "The solution is simple!"
The very mutuality of it was amazing to John. Pam's knees straddling his face, a small pillow under his head to give him sweet contact with her flowing lips, while she, now in a better arrangement to move her head--better than the awkward slant of her entire body across the unyielding chill of the bathtub's rim--bobbed joyfully up and down, swallowing his great roll of hard meat, the cushioned head under delightful pressures as it was forced into her throat.
Now, in this measured second act, not in craven bondage to an old idea of woman-debasing but knowing she, too, shared his squirming pleasures, he felt the grip and slide and caress of her tongue, the controlled and gentle scrape of her teeth.
The hairy slit above him, pinkly spread to give his tongue full play, seemed warmer, slicker, more savory than before. Gravity added a bonus--the clear, sweet juice flowed from the hole without his vacuuming sucks, its warmth gathering in his mouth until he had a full swallow to reward him.
In this position, he could see everything much better than before, when his face was buried deep in the draining slash, the softly crisp muff of hair. He saw her rosebud asshole, seeming to expand and contract as he licked, and on impulse, he locked his hands to spread her buttocks, seeing the little ring of puckered muscle open. Without hesitation, he raised his head and probed his tongue into the steaming crevice, the unexpected action bringing a muffled shout from his partner.
He relaxed and raised up again, this time to grasp a big mouthful of hairy lips, sucking as much of her into him as he could, and she responded by a wild wagging of her head, so that his cock felt the corduroyed surfaces of her teeth.
His storm of orgasm began to knot in his balls, and in a desire to encompass all the joys he could master, he gripped one of her breasts, which brushed softly against his belly, dabbed a finger of the other hand into her flowing slit for lubrication, and jammed it, without warning, clear to the last knuckle into Pam's sensitive asshole. At the same time, he fastened on her straining clitoris like a leech, letting the flow from her wildly spasming hole drip onto his face, closing his eyes against the syrupy baptism.
As his semen shot up his cock in tearing throbs, all feeling seeming to concentrate in his glans, he felt the girl's frenzied tongue and lips milking him, felt her belly gather in a rolling wave, and felt her anal sphincter contract almost painfully on his finger.
He would have moments of doubt about all of this, later on. Now, he felt a warming elation, a deep pride that he had been able to repeat in so short a time. Now also, he had the boldness to pull Pamela around, to look her directly in the face to see if, as she had promised, the obligation was evened up.
"My mind is cleared," he smiled at her, and was pleased at her laugh, for he had meant it as a joke.
She ran her pink, tongue around her lips and swallowed, but he pulled her head down for his kiss. If she enjoyed the savor of her cunt in his mouth, perhaps a vestige of his seed might do something for him. There was a new slickness in her mouth, a stronger salinity than he had drawn from her vagina. It was rich and warm, and he felt something new in his heart and mind--a vision of manliness such as he had never even considered and he owed it to Pam.
"Without the force of your reason, this could never have happened, Pamela," he whispered. And he believed it was so. Knowing the locks on his spirit, his fears of contact, of involvement. But she shook her head, smiling.
"The force of this lovely stuff in your balls, professor baby," she said, her voice low and tender. "That's what it took. And you almost blew my head off with that second wad! Wow! I begin to see success ahead for the project!"
Just a wee bit north and west, and higher, due to the hillside, a man stood rigid in the dark, his eyes glued to a mounted telescope. A woman, waiting impatiently, tugged at his arm.
"Give me a chance, damn you, Sam!" she whispered fiercely, although there was no need to whisper. "You've been on that thing for ten minutes! What are they doing?"
"They've done it," the man answered, his voice tense. "They were sixty-nineing, the dirty degenerates!" He moved aside, letting his wife have the final view through the clerestory windows--the sight of the naked, hairy professor lying on his back with cock beginning to fall, his face shining with cunt fluids, not more than a few inches away from the opened slit.
Sam's hands jerked angrily at his belt, and he pushed his slacks and shorts down in one motion, kicking off the slippers on his feet. He heard his wife gasp, and grinned in the dark. It took something like this to get them both really hot--hot beyond the demands of propriety and conscience, hot to the point of the sheer animalism he owned and feared.
The telescope brought every detail to the woman's greedy eye--even the big blue vein extending along the man's cock, the sticky and convoluted pinkness of the open twat. She whimpered as her husband's hands squeezed her breasts in a brutal grip, and felt come juice cooling on her inner thighs as it trickled down from her uncovered cunt.
In one great swirl of movement, he wrenched her around, down on the indoor-outdoor carpeting, and they both moaned a song of release as his enormous cock sank into her wet depths.