The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever

by Jennifer Tate

  Eventually, the pleasure waves subsided, leaving behind a pulsing that ebbed and flowed through her body before it merged with her heartbeat.

  A relaxed, thoroughly possessed, loving feeling overtook her, and she snuggled against her lover, hands leisurely touching and thanking. It was the giving that fulfilled her—it was the giving that made her whole.

  "You are one beguiling temptress," Brad said, "every man's fantasy of what afternoon delight should be. And we can use that fantasy to make us wealthy."

  "How?"

  "On Newfoundland's southern tip, at the head of Placentia Bay, there's a fishing town named Come By Chance. Problem is, the fish are gone."

  "Then we won't go there."

  "Indulge me for a moment, Temptress Cat. In the fifty's and sixty's, the Europeans over-fished the Grand Banks. They used huge ice-breaking draggers that dropped nets below the spawning cod. Everything alive was killed when the nets were hauled up."

  She was paying attention. "So we're going to start a fish farm?"

  He ignored her. "With no fish left, the Come By Chance fishermen now sit around with nothing to do. We'll set you up in business there. Your slogan will be 'Come by Chance at Come By Chance'. With your talent, a whole new tourist industry will spring up. You'll be the town's savior, beloved by all." Her mouth opened, but he put a finger to her lips. "Don't say a word," he continued. "I know what you want to know. We'll split the take fifty-fifty."

  -31-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN

  The Perfect Fit

  "You toilet-duck!" Betty-Jo struggled to get out from under him.

  "I'm not just any old toilet-duck. I'm your free-enterprising toilet-duck. So is it fair to assume you won't go for a fifty-fifty split?"

  "You're right about that! You want me to be your rent-a-ho!"

  "Please, Tawny. Ho has such negative connotations. Couldn't we refer to you as my working-girl?"

  The fool was grinning at her, and his voice was caressing her. "You know which buttons to push to get me going, don't you? I'm flattered that you think we could clean up with this little venture of yours, but your share would be twenty-five percent—tops, 'cause I'd be the working-girl doing all the work."

  "Now that you mention it, you should only get twenty-five percent, 'cause you'd be the working-girl having all the fun. And forget about quality. You'd go for quantity."

  "Like a telemarketer?"

  Brad smiled and kissed her. "More like an assembly-line worker. But if you don't want to be an assembly-line working-girl, all you have to do is say so. You can be a comfort-girl instead."

  "Working-girls and comfort-girls do the same thing."

  "True. But 'comfort-girl' makes it sound as if you're participating in a nurturing occupation, like a teacher or a nurse."

  "Do you really think we'd clean up if I were a nurturing comfort-girl?"

  "You'd be the most popular Park 'n Fly in the country. With your talent, we'd soon be stinking rich. Trust me. But you could sing instead—you have a voice that's throaty and seductive. We'd call you Chickadee Chance."

  "I wouldn't mind being a singer. Chickadee Chance—my name alone might make me famous."

  "Problem is, your share would have to be cut back to ten percent because singing doesn't pay as well as having fun, and in bed you're already a proven talent."

  "A proven talent. I like that." She got all kissy and cuddly with him.

  Later, she nuzzled him and whispered shameless notions in his ear, until he was eager once more. "I can't believe how much I love the look and feel of your joystick. Am I allowed to play with it," she asked?

  "Any time you want. I'm confident that it will be my pleasure."

  As Betty-Jo fooled around with Brad's joystick, she asked, "How long do these things get?" Then she studied him curiously.

  "Depends."

  "On what?"

  "An African-American shaft is a foot long, and, according to a U. Cal. study, the rest of us have one that's five and one-tenth inches long, when it's excited.

  She stopped fooling around with Brad's shaft and sat up. "You're kidding!"

  "Would I kid you about something as serious as dick size? Everyone knows that white men can't jump."

  "So you're telling me that black guys have the big ones?"

  "Everyone knows that."

  "But is it true?"

  "No idea. But tomorrow we'll find out. I'll send you on a fact finding mission to measure all the African-American guys you meet." He was laughing so hard he could barely defend himself when she pounced.

  "I love your joystick. It always makes me happy." She took it in her hand and stroked it, thrilled at how it sprang to life with her touch. "Is the average joystick really five and one-tenth inches long when it's excited? And who cares about the one-tenth anyway?"

  "Who cares? Are you crazy, woman? Men measure their things to the nearest hundredth. When the results of the U. Cal. study were released, men breathed a collective sigh of relief. Penis enlargement clinics saw their patient loads cut in half."

  "They can make them longer?"

  "Sure can."

  "How much?" She blew in his ear.

  "An inch is about the max. Problem is, there's no guarantee that the bigger fellow will work, or even that the operation won't kill you."

  She stopped annoying his ear. "You should go for it."

  "What did I do to deserve a loverosaurus?"

  That made her laugh. "So how do they make them longer?

  "I don't know for sure, but I've been told they take a two pound weight, tie it to the end of your dick, and stretch the hell out of it."

  "Doesn't that hurt?"

  "It must. But perhaps less than when the love of your life asks you if it's in yet, when you've already given her all you've got."

  She was fascinated. "If a guy has a small one, how does his woman have any fun?"

  "Lot's of people enjoy Trivial-Pursuit. But perhaps guys with small dicks only date small women, so everything works out. But in a pinch, or more accurately, in the lack of one, there's a solution."

  "And that would be?"

  "American men love baseball—they all own a bat."

  "You're hilarious." She knelt above him and pinned his arms to the bed—her breasts swayed temptingly just out of reach of his mouth. "So how long is yours?"

  "Why do I suspect you're going to harass me until you find out?" She moved down past his stomach, took him in her mouth, and bit. "Okay, carnivorous saber-toothed Tawny Cat. You'll find a tape measure in the weight room. Top drawer, left hand side, I think."

  When she returned, tape in hand, she sat on his legs with the object of her affection a couple of feet in front of her. Then she pulled the tape out about two feet. She looked at his joystick, then at the tape, and then, with a smile, at him.

  "You're pushing your luck, lady."

  She put her fingers to her mouth, and blew him a kiss. "Really, I'm concerned. If your thing was a hot dog you'd never be able to sell it as a foot-long." She had to stop measuring, until she could stop giggling.

  "Get your jollies while you can," said a sheepish looking Brad, "cause your turn will come."

  "Idle threats." She went back to measuring. "And the answer is—seven inches. You know, it really is a fearsome weapon to be pointing at a lady."

  "Run girl! Save yourself while you still can."

  She gave his thing a tug. "Too late, it knows where I live." Then she became pensive. "I wonder if the Fox's boyfriend's thing is as long as yours?"

  "Do you want to know how you can find out?"

  "Yes! How?"

  "What, my curious Cat, will you do for me if I tell you?"

  "Whatever you want. This is so exciting, I can hardly wait to tell the Fox."

  "Something bad happens when you and the Fox get together, and while I love naughty, certain types of bad scare me."

  "Don't be frightened. Bad will only happen to you if you don't tell me how to measure Frank's snake, or wo
rm, or whatever it is."

  "You have to know the expansion factor, so we have to make love."

  She lay on the bed and shifted her hips invitingly. "Go ahead, Bad Brad, have your Tawny Cat any way you want her."

  Later, when she finally gave him his joystick back, he looked at it with some concern. "I don't know what you do to this guy. When I give him to you, he's strong as an ox, but when you give him back, he's limp as my sox."

  She laughed and hugged him. "Poet of mine, with you the loving's so good you're lucky that I give him back to you at all."

  "Enough time spent contemplating the mystery of what you do to my shaft. Let's get him measured."

  She lay his shrunken joystick along the top of the tape. "Three and a half inches," she announced.

  "So now you have it."

  She frowned. "Have what?"

  "Your expansion factor."

  "Oh! I see!" She was thrilled. "That would be an expansion factor of two. But why do I need to know that?"

  "If I ever get another live-in, remind me to go for one with more intellect, even if I have to settle for one with less sex appeal."

  She swatted him playfully. "I still don't understand."

  "Not many men are going to let their girlfriends measure them—especially if they have a small one. The Fox can't just walk up to Frank with a tape measure and say, 'now be a good boy while I measure your toy'. The measurement has to be made while he's sleeping."

  "Yes! The Fox measures Frank when he's sleeping, then she multiplies his rod's length by the expansion factor of two and she knows how long he'll be when he's up and eager. This is so exciting!"

  Brad looked concerned. "I've created a monster."

  She kissed him. "Stifle yourself, Toilet-duck. This will be fun."

  "You're in competition with the Fox?"

  "No. I could never keep up with her. You've heard of women who run with the wolves? Well the Fox thinks the wolves are boring. She jogs with the wolverines. But it would be nice if you were longer than her current wolverine.

  "What if I'm shorter?"

  "Then I'll see if she'll swap. Eyes are important to her, and you have lovely eyes."

  "You're a fickle one, Chickadee Chance."

  She gave him a hug. "You don't have to worry. We know that your joystick is the magic variety. I'll bet most guy's joysticks aren't magic at all."

  Brad looked pleased. "That's a nice thing to say. And I'm sure you're right. Most guys' dicks are probably rude and inconsiderate."

  "I'm going to phone the Fox right now, and tell her how to measure Franks'."

  "Contemplating your little escapade has made your pussy wet again," Brad said. "So it pains me to tell you this. There's a problem."

  "Oh?"

  "The expansion factor thing doesn't work."

  "Why not?"

  "Come here so I can hold you."

  She crossed her arms. "Not till you tell me."

  "Then you'll never know." She relented, and snuggled up to him, but her body remained tense. "Take a deep breath and relax," he said. "I wish I didn't have to ruin this for you, but men's dip-sticks don't all work the same way. There isn't a constant expansion factor. Some guys have small ones that become King Kongs when they're excited. Others have monsters that don't get much bigger when they're primed for action. Sorry."

  "You led me on!"

  "True. But you were so excited about the prospect of the Fox sizing Wolverine Frank that I couldn't find it in my heart to deter you from your quest."

  "You think I'm perverted. Don't you?" She licked his ear and then bit his earlobe. "The correct answer is no." He hesitated a moment. He's probably wondering what he'd look like with only one ear, she thought.

  "Is it safe to say that you may be, but that a spoon-full of perversion is the spice of lovemaking. Of greater concern to me, are your ethics."

  "My ethics?" I'm very ethical.

  "You agreed, that if I told you how to measure Wolverine Frank, you'd do anything I wanted. Didn't you?"

  "...Yes."

  "And all I asked in return was that you spend some time at Come By Chance, picking up a few dollars while cheering up the fisher folk."

  "If you insist, I'll sleep with your fisher friends. For unfathomable reasons, 'a woman will be anything the man she loves her wants her to be.' But the only person I ever want to sleep with is you. Perhaps you could think of some other way for me to repay you."

  Brad grinned at her "It would kill me if you slept with anyone but me," he said. "I'd share my hockey stick before I'd share you. I'm not like the guy who told his friend to 'feel free to use anything of mine that you want—except my girlfriend, and my toothbrush—and I'm serious about my toothbrush!'" She laughed and jabbed him playfully. "And it just so happens that you can repay me with a measurement that interests me."

  "A measurement of what?"

  "Your cupcakes."

  "But you already know my bra size."

  "That's the problem. Bra size doesn't tell guys what they really want to know about their women's cupcakes. So a while ago a bunch of engineering students went to work on a more useful standard for sizing them, a standard that would tell them how many mouthfuls of cupcake they'd been dealt."

  She laughed. "You're insane."

  "Not me—the engineers. They started by defining a cubic mouthful of cupcake as a Herman."

  "Why a Herman?"

  "I don't know. Maybe the project leader's name was Herman. Anyway, they then devised a method for measuring the number of Hermans in a cupcake."

  "So you want to count the number of Hermans in my cupcakes. But why?"

  "So I can tell my friends. I'll be the envy of every guy on campus."

  "Now I'm sure you're insane. Next you'll be wanting to count the number of leprechauns that can polka on your Blarney stone."

  He laughed at her. "Dancing leprechauns aren't my thing—unless I can catch them, and steal their treasure."

  "Do all men size their girlfriend's breasts that way?"

  "They do, unless they subscribe to the minority position which holds that anything more than a mouthful, is a waste. Now hold still while I measure your circumference." He proceeded to bite around her breast. "Nine! Best yet for me."

  "I'd rather listen to styrofoam than you," she said, nevertheless gratified that he seemed pleased with a nine.

  "So far so fabulous. Now we'll get the length." He bit from the top of her breast to its jutting peak, then he paused to fill his mouth. "Of all the Hermans, this one's my favorite. Most Hermans are difficult to get at. Let's see now, nine bites around and four down. That's eighteen cubic mouthfuls."

  "How do you figure that?"

  "When Herman and his friends were refining their technique they ran into a problem. If they assumed that a cupcake was the shape of a half sphere, then all they needed to know was its circumference. But if they thought it more closely resembled a cone, then they also needed to know the length of the hypotenuse."

  "And that would be the second measurement you took."

  "Right. But whether half sphere or cone, their problem was the same. They had to get out their calculators and plug their findings into the appropriate formula."

  That made her laugh. "I'll bet that caused a few problems."

  "It infuriated their girlfriends. There wasn't a problem when the engineers started to chomp away. Sure, their women were surprised, but they weren't unduly alarmed."

  "They probably thought it was just another one of those fetishes that most men have."

  "Exactly. But when the engineers stopped foreplaying, and started to make calculations, their women knew they were up to no good."

  "No kidding?"

  "Their women began to exit stage-right at a hell of a rate."

  "Can't say I blame them. You're lucky I'm still here with you."

  "And there was another problem. Their archrivals, the arts-men, were incapable of making the calculations. So the engineers got smart, and sacrificed accuracy for sim
plicity."

  "Keep it simple stupid," she said.

  "They multiplied the circumference of the cupcake by its length and then divided by two—nothing to it. They could calculate the number of cubic mouthfuls of cupcake they'd been dealt in their heads."

  "And best of all, their girlfriends had no idea that they'd just been sized for bragging rights."

  Brad grinned. "Really quite clever of those engineers."

  She placed Brad's hand on her breast. "So tell me, will you get to brag about the eighteen Hermans your girlfriend has?"

  "Are you kidding me? Eighteen Hermans will even pull most men away from Monday night football."

  "Who'd have guessed?"

  He grinned again, and then snuggled with her while they talked the night away.

  * * *

  Two days later, in the late afternoon, Betty-Jo was practicing her shots against the backboard on the Coastal Carolina tennis courts. Somebody called her, and she looked back. Jim Bob O'Hara was walking onto the court, and he was between her and the only exit. A shudder ran through her. She was trapped.

  -32-

  BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN

  O'Hara's Revenge

  Jim Bob O'Hara could play football. He had quickly became the first string quarterback on the Coastal Carolina varsity team. Late one afternoon, after practice, he was delighted to find Betty-Jo alone, hitting balls against the practice board. He was more infatuated with her than ever, and still smarting from what she and her hockey-playing friend had done to him at the Park.

  This looks lak a good time t' have a chat with the gal, he reasoned as he parked his Jimmy beside the only gate in the ten-foot high chain-link fence that surrounded the courts. Then he hopped out, and strode through the gate toward Betty-Jo. This'll give her somethin' t' thank about. "Hey, B-J," he yelled, "can yu spare a moment fo an ol' friend?"

  * * *