George was gone, off in another woman’s arms. And while he licked that woman’s breasts, I was taken to a bedroom and screwed again, this man’s dick as full and steady as the one that took me earlier that night. And all I could think was, how many more?
Diana might have said that I was ripe. I contend it was justice. George just thought of it as what I was destined to be. Regardless of the opinion however, there was just one result - I worked the night on my back like a pro, serving up my female wares like any respectable whore off the street.
When George dropped me off outside my apartment, it was nearly five a.m. Was Michael worried. Had he stayed up half the night wondering where I was, or would I find him sound asleep in bed, or better yet, bent over the keyboard, his head resting on his arms?
“You’ll be free Saturday?” George said as I got out of his car.
“Saturday?” I wondered aloud.
He had my hand in his, squeezing it so hard it hurt. “Yes, Saturday, Kristin. You’ll be ready for it again, don’t worry.”
“I thought Diana told you?” I said a little confused by the way he assumed so much.
“That you were going for a single trick? Yeah sure,” he chuckled. “And we’re both going to sprout wings and fly.”
“But …”
“But nothing, Kristin, you’re Tina now. And you’re my whore and I’m you’re pimp, and you’ll come when I call.” He saw my jaw drop to the ground, and he smiled.
“Surely you didn’t think Diana did it alone?” He looked so amused and I so stunned. “Don’t looked so shocked,” he jibed. “You got the looks, you got the moves, you got the cunt of whore. Just come when I call, and we’ll do just fine.”
“That’s what Diana does? You’re her pimp too?”
“Why of course,” he replied.
I was on the street by then, and seconds later George was speeding off.
Yes, I was in green taffeta, stocking, heels and lots of make-up the night I became George’s whore. He’s now my pimp, and I’m his girl. And when it’s George, I fuck because I owe him that much, I wear the green taffeta like I did that first night. Like paying homage, a respectful ritual to the man that’s made the happy slut of me.
I thank god for George, for Diana, the taffeta, and even Michael’s computer. If it weren’t for these strange pieces of my life, I might have never known myself.
And Michael? Well I’m not with Michael now. He never did get the message, never bothered to take a real look at me. What does he do now to get his jollies? I suppose what he did before. I can still see him there in front of the monitor looking at his moving pictures, his dick in hand about to shoot, his other hand grabbing for the Kleenx before he ruins the keyboard with his cum.
Funny, how I heard the other day, that pictures of me are being posted on the Internet. Can you imagine that: a film of my finest hour, in all my raunchy, naked, next to nothing glory going out worldwide to a web of horny men? It makes me wonder, if someday my ex will see my body swaying before his eyes. I wonder if he’ll recognize the face, the “D” cup breasts, the naked cunt and the lure of my eyes? Will he recognize me, or will I just float past his senses, just another woman in stilted moving pictures on the screen, one that makes his dick hard, and his cock shoot in a passionless sex with no names, no heart-beat and no warm wondrous mellow cunt to soothe the ache between his legs.
The Last Summer
It was the fall of 1941. At the Grand Hotel ladies in sundresses and broad brimmed hats gathered along the grassy lawns looking like tea-cakes in the morning sun. The autumn breeze swept through the grounds of the old place reminding everyone, for all the heat, that it was still September, the leaves were about to turn, and it was indeed approaching a new season. With arrival of fall they would be forced to return to a world more real than the one they reveled in for the three languorous months of summer. As they kissed goodbye beside their daddy’s roadsters, the ladies weeping softly for a time now lost, they were obliged to recall that something rare, something magical and perhaps portentous, something outside the boundaries of their conventional lives had happened while they vacationed in this world beyond the real one.
More than any other year—for reasons they wouldn’t understand until much later—it had been a season they’d never forget, a summer to remember above all others.
The season had been a lush erotic one. But then that was expected. Everything that usually happened at the Grand Hotel in summer, happened that year, but perhaps with a little more flair than even the last several years …
Jenny Holcomb lost her virginity after having held on to the myth of a real romantic entanglement for what seemed like centuries. Though it couldn’t have been that long since Jenny was only twenty-five. She lost her battle for “chastity till marriage” at crotch of Derrick St. James, a near-do-well charmer who was in his third year at Brown and still trying to pass his freshman classes. He was destined to make several woman that summer less than chaste, though Jenny was by far his greatest triumph. The prim princess had been turning down men who wanted inside her pants every summer with such regularity, it was a wonder that any man tried anymore. Her saving grace, of course, was her beauty: tiny classical features, the small mouth and dainty lips, the eyes that sparkled, looking as if she was about to wink at any second, and the delicately carved nose, that made her admirers think she was the model used by all the great artists of the last three centuries—even though that was impossible. Her flowing golden tresses insured her soft allure. And there was no man’s heart that this stunning ideal of the feminine grace did not send aflutter. However, it was more than just her overt beauty that made her desirable. There was how she walked, how she carried herself with such a sensuous, inviting posture that it drove men to pursue her. Her wordless communication always urged them on, while with her voice she denied any intentions of sharing her wealth of sexual heat with anyone.
But then that was until Derrick St. James. Derrick didn’t listen to her words, he simply did what her body was asking for - and he didn’t stop until the deed was done. It didn’t matter that she cried for him to stop when he raised her skirt and pushed her over the old hollow log by the pond. Despite the way she squirmed and protested he pressed on, knowing that behind her cries were her true intentions. Even as she wailed and moaned, her ripe body was teasing him with little restraint. He figured he’d given her enough preliminaries, enough tender kisses and caresses to her feather weight arms to which she daintily gasped like a lady might. No. No more kisses for Miss Holcomb. She wanted it right between her thighs, right in the wet spot he found when his rough hands probed her backside.
She cried even more when he thrust home, tearing away the barrier to his pleasure—and hers. She swore that she would “see him hanged” as he captured her flailing arms and held them against her back as he drove his pelvis hard against her naked ass. But just as he figured, her cries turned to sweet laments and then to delicious screams of delight when she got beyond her mortification and hit her own erotic peak.
When he was finished, he didn’t bother with sweet nothings whispered in her ear as if he really cared about her. In fact, he didn’t even help her off the old hollow log. Just restored himself to proper order, and sauntered away. The only sign that he’d been screwing a lady were the locks of white blonde hair that dangled over his tanned face. She gazed on him as she lay vanquished against the hollow log - too stunned to protest his hasty exit - and much too happy to bother.
Jenny Holcomb spent the rest of her summer nights getting her sweet cunny humped by other lucky chaps who appeared for weeks or weekends at the Grand Hotel. Had she known what she was missing, she might have lost her virtue years before. So much for one stubborn virgin.
Winning the challenge of the Jenny Holcomb’s defilement was quite a triumph for Derrick St. James. It might have been the event of the season except that his conquest was eclipsed by a much more auspicious event than even Jenny’s lost virginity. There must have been something
peculiar in the air that night just a few days after Jenny’s blood was spilled. Perhaps the young woman herself had loosened something in the celestial ethers when she gave up her chastity, or perhaps it was the full moon in the sky, then again. Perhaps it was just the stifling heat and the torrential rain that followed the thunder storm that made the whole Grand Hotel go wild.
The revelry had begun in the hours just before dark, when the wind whipped the lake shore driving boaters back to land. Jenny was among the party-goers, as was Derrick. In addition, there was May Sweet, Kathleen Cook, Elizabeth Aldridge, two other fair maids, and, of course, the boys from the old Harbor Club, led by Jennings Criss. They were a surly, irresponsible lot, those boys. Most had flunked out of the University and were living off the good graces of their rich parents, kissing up to daddy only when it was necessary to get their next allowance check. There were those in their parent’s social strata that thought a summer at the Grand Hotel would be a harmless diversion for such spirited young gents. Obviously the old Harbor Club scoundrels thought something quite different.
Derrick, fresh from Jenny Holcomb was in the Whistle Stop bar with the rest of his cohorts, telling his tales and getting plenty of notice, when Sage Parker suddenly hit upon a bold idea.
“It’s no good for sailing tonight, perhaps we’ll give the girls some trouble, what do you say?” the freckle-faced redhead suggested.
“Trouble? What do mean?” Ian Southworth wondered. He was the most cautious of the group. The lean young man was one of the few who actually took college seriously. He was studying to be a lawyer. He had that sharp, intent kind of look and darting eyes, something one would expect from a future barrister.
“He means, let’s see what panties will come down tonight,” Jennings Criss answered for his friend.
“You’re not going to get rough with them?” Ian asked.
“No rougher than they want us to be,” Jennings answered again. He was sold instantly, his crotch leading him into uncertain territory; but then Jennings didn’t think in uncertainties. He was a cocky youth with a smile that never failed to please young women and a body he honed daily at the Hotel gym.
A half hour later, the six boys from the Harbor Club were on the porch of the old hotel, politely courting the young ladies in question, even though there was nothing but suggestion in their casual talk.
“You know the fairer sex are so bloomin’ modest,” Jennings declared, as the gathering of young people sat on the porch watching the sky darken while they listened to the rumble of thunder in the distance.
“And why shouldn’t we be?” Kathleen replied, quite taken aback by Jennings forwardness. She loved the young man’s bold look, the dark locks of hair that were always perfectly combed and his face—aristocratic almost. Considering his heritage that was possible, but he was hardly a gentleman with a gentleman’s regard for decent ladies.
“I think it’s because you have no real sexual prowess,” Jennings replied to her.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Elizabeth Aldridge declared. “Men don’t own the rights to sexual satisfaction.” The fair-skinned brunette stood eye to eye with Jennings defying him to prove his point.
“And how would you know?” Sage egged her on.
Elizabeth was a bold charmer. There had always been the devil in her eyes, and a scheme in mind as nasty as her male counterparts. She had no desire to be undone by any man, let alone this worthless handful.
May Sweet, not much for talking, sauntered seductively up to Sage and draped her arms around his neck, her pelvis moving on his like ivy blowing in the breeze.
“Ooo, you want to start something?” he asked. He was surprised by the move, though he tried to hide his chagrin.
“Only if you’ll finish it?” May said. The willowy blonde pursed her lips at the haughty young man then backed away keeping the kiss to herself.
“What does that tell you?” Jennings chided. “Any one of us could have the whole lot of you in a night. But you, the sweet fair sex, would be far too exhausted or mortified, to last even a hour.”
“My, how you boast?” Elizabeth chortled. “You think you’re so manly, so full of sexual talent. I think you’d better back your words with actions.”
“And how would that possibly be?” he asked.
“A contest perhaps?” Elizabeth postulated.
“Contest?” Jennings repeated. “What did you have in mind?”
Elizabeth thought for just an instant before she made her daring proposal. “A sexual tournament,” she stated flatly.
“What!” Kathleen was squeamish from the outset. Her church-going morals were instantly offended.
“Good god, Kathleen,” Elizabeth shot back, “we all know you’re not a virgin. That farmboy in Canada did you a dozen times last summer and you’ve been a pent-up priss ever since.”
“Elizabeth!” Kathleen’s eyes shot fire, but that was only met by more from the inspired brunette. “But a sexual tournament?”
“And why not? This place is an exasperating bore unless we’re getting it in our behinds. And just look at the night.” She cast her eyes towards the heavens in awe. “Look at the moon. Can’t you feel the air? It’s telling us to let loose, go wild, let passion take us for a night!” Elizabeth’s dark eyes gleamed in the light of moon, that had just peeked out beyond the swarming clouds above.
May Sweet felt it. She leaned into a porch post, her body undulating against it as if it was a phallus that could enter her. Jenny Holcomb considered the wild notion as she looked towards the skybound orb with the same passion as Elizabeth. And even Kathleen could feel something in her loins howl like what she’d felt in the hay loft the summer before. The two silent maids at the end of the porch had stood arm in arm through the banter. At Elizabeth’s idea their bodies swayed in a carnal unison that caught the eye of everyone.
The young men were completely mesmerized as if the women in their world had actually gone mad. They were stuck dumb for an instant wondering if Elizabeth would suddenly burst out laughing at the wicked joke. But she did not.
“We’ll let the grounds of the hotel be our playground,” the brash young woman continued. “Not the interior. That would be unfair advantage for those of us staying here. Just the grounds …
“It might well be raining before long,” Kathleen reminded her.
“Then the boathouse and the old stone shed,” she countered back. “ They should provide enough shelter if we really need it. But it must be in the dark.” Her face lit up with another great inspiration. “And we’ll use the masks we used last year when we put on A Mid Summer Night’s Dream. They’re all stored in the hotel attic. We won’t recognize each other—like putting on a different persona?” Elizabeth’s dark eyes danced. When she swung around to deliver her plan to the crowd around her, her hair danced about her face as if she was a witch casting a spell. “And we’ll use the old robes from the play. That way we’re sure not to recognize each other.”
The others stood in wonder while their hearts beat fast, and their loins felt that sudden swell of sexual need ignited as Elizabeth spoke.
“But where’s the contest?” Jennings inquired, still not sure if he believed the sultry brunette.
Elizabeth stopped short for a second, her mind still working fervently.
“Exhaustion,” she finally said. “You say you can take us all, well then you have the chance. If you each do us all, then you win. If you don’t …”
“We’ll be shamed forever,” Jennings jibed lightly, as if the task was a mere one and rather silly.
“I think the idea’s grand,” Sage said. “But how to we know you ladies will tell the truth about who’s taken you?”
“Bring along a pen if you like. Make your initials on our bodies when you finish,” Elizabeth returned simply.
“And we’re all to succumb to this?” Kathleen wondered.
“Kathy darling, are you a lady of substance or a sniveling ninny?” Elizabeth droned at her friend. “You haven�
��t had a man in a year. I would think you’d be thrilled. No strings. Not even the recognition. Just your pleasure.” Elizabeth’s devious smile could turn an angel in to a femme fatale.
“But the marks?” Kathleen whispered.
“They’ll fade.”
“But if they can’t recognize us, how will they know they’ve had us all?”
“We’ll make the masks all different, silly. We’ll pick six male and six female,” Elizabeth continued. “But, of course, all this is a wasted effort if these men don’t want the challenge.” Her eyes danced again in the dying daylight, becoming more devilish with each piece of the plan falling into place.
“You think I’d back away from a good night of fucking?” Derrick asked.
“I think we’re all in,” Jennings agreed. He looked to the other five, to Sage, to Derrick, to Ian, as well as Bryan Forbes and Hanley Studevant who’d do most anything Jennings did. Then of course this was a fine plan considering that they’d had their eyes on the two sensuous maids who’d remained quite silent, but quite interested, through the whole discussion.
“Good, then the plan’s been set,” Elizabeth returned happily. “We’ll meet at the boathouse at ten. It will be dark then. May and I will get the costumes.”
Elizabeth refused to let the ladies carry lanterns. She said the light of the hour was all they’d need. The six boys from the Old Harbor Club carried their costumes to one end of the massive building, while the ladies doffed their dresses, slips and stockings, leaving them in a heap for later. As they were naked, for an instant the moon shone in around them through the high boathouse windows. Six naked ladies looked like fantasy visions: their skin translucent, their hair like clouds about their faces. When the thin robes dropped down over their naked femininity, they six looked like angels dancing in heaven. But then the masks over their faces transformed them completely. They would not be easy to maneuver with. And though they seemed important at the beginning, they would likely be discarded before the contest was over. For a time however, they did make these youthful visions look like devilish pagan sprites.
Extremes Page 9