upskirt

Note: The central point of this story is the fact that my daughter chose to change her name. When referring to events in the past, I will generally use her original name, Joan. Talking to her or about her this summer, I will use Beth. Both names refer to the same individual, but will alter how I see or feel about her.





(Ch.4) Jackie





My daughter had always disliked her name, Joan, considering it boring. She was named for Cathy’s favorite Aunt (Cathy and I divorced when our son was 20 and our daughter was 14). We had joint custody with Joan staying with me from Thursday evening to Monday morning. When Joan finished high school, she decided to start going by her middle name, Beth (for Elizabeth). When she changed her name, it changed her, and the nature of our relationship. Joan was my daughter. Beth became my lover last week. On Friday night, she plied me with beer then seduced me.



We spent the weekend fucking like rabbits, and on Sunday we visited an adult boutique to get her something to replace “Richard” her pet name for my cock.



I had hoped I could make it through the week without doing myself, but only made it to Tuesday evening. I didn’t visit a porn site though; thoughts of Beth were more than sufficient to get me off.



As I drove home from work Thursday evening, knowing that I would see her this evening was enough to get me hard.



She got home from work shortly after I did. I had started dinner, and she volunteered to fix a salad. She seemed eager to share something, and as soon as we sat at the table she broke into a big grin. “I think I’ve told you that Jackie came out as bi a couple years ago. She said that her passes to us would be limited to the soccer field, but she may accept a pass from us. We were talking with each other after practice on Tuesday. I had to tell someone that I was no longer a virgin, and it ended up being her. I admitted that she knew my lover, but didn’t tell her it was you. I told her that I wasn’t willing to share your identity and she didn’t ask again. After breaking the news, we continued talking about sex, and she convinced me to call Mom to tell her I was spending the night with a friend. We spent the night eating each other out. Remember how I mentioned that a few girls on the team shaved their pussies? Jackie’s one of them. She also has a ton of sex toys. It wasn’t as hot as the sex I had with you, but it was better than my sessions with David. She also stated that she was into threesomes if I was willing to share my new boyfriend.”



Jackie was one of her teammates who was joining her at the U of P that fall. The others were Karen and Shannon. All four had accepted scholarships, and were planning on sharing a suite in the dorms. I remembered Joan telling me about Jackie coming out to the team, but she hadn’t mentioned the “passing” comment – that’s something that Beth would tell me, but not Joan. From her expression, it was clear Beth wanted to take up Jackie’s offer if I was OK with it. Every man dreams of having sex with two women, so I was naturally interested. In this case, however, I was also concerned. “Are you willing to admit to Jackie that you’re having an incestuous affair with your father? And if she knows, can you trust her to be discrete about it? If you’re positive that the answer to both questions is yes, I’m willing to share you with your teammate. I don’t want this to be a regular thing, but once or twice over the summer would be OK.”



“As to your first concern – when we weren’t having wild sex with each other, she showed me some of her favorite stores on a smut site. A couple involved incest between a girl and her brother. Several involved a father/daughter couple. She’ll be surprised, but she’ll probably be more turned on at the idea. As for discretion, at one point I asked her if she had had sex with anybody else on the team. Her smile indicated that she had, but she wouldn’t even tell me how many let alone name names.”



She clearly had the bases covered. “OK, see if you can set something up for Friday or Saturday night, and you can play it any way you want, as long as it ends up happening here. I want to have some control over the environment, and this is the best place for that. She pulled out her cell phone and walked into the living room.



When I arrived, she was slipping her phone into a pocket and said that she had arranged to pick Jackie up after work tomorrow. She didn’t tell Jackie if it would be a threesome or just the two of them, but had made it clear that it wouldn’t be a childhood sleep-over.



We had turned on the TV, but we weren’t paying any attention to it. I suggested that we adjourn to the bedroom and Beth’s eyes lit up. We both undressed on the way. We proceeded directly to the bathroom to watch each other pee. Beth even leaned back a bit and parted her lips saying “I thought you’d want the best possible view.” She was right.



When we got to the bed, I suggested we try something different tonight. Beth’s response caught me off guard. “We’ve done something different every night we’ve spent together. Friday we started with oral sex and then you took my virginity – sideways. Saturday morning you fucked me in the shower then ordered me to let you take me doggy style that night. We spent Sunday playing watersports, and that night we finally had sex ‘like normal people’ using the missionary position. Then you fucked me in the ass – sideways. What could be more different?” This was delivered with mock anger. I don’t know how she managed to sound like she was upset while smiling.



I had to admit that she had a point. “The difference is that tonight we won’t touch each other – at all. It occurred to me that we’d both been satisfying ourselves for a while up until last weekend. Tonight, we’ll satisfy ourselves, but we’ll be watching each other rather than some random website. I can watch you gush as you cum, and you can watch me shoot me seedless load.” I couldn’t justifiably say I was shooting my ‘seed’ having had a vasectomy shortly after she was born.



“OK, you win. That IS different. I’ll admit that I’ve wondered how guys could simulate a pussy. Fingers aren’t exactly a cock, but they can apply pressure in similar places. Of course, I’m now using three fingers in my pussy when I was using just one a week ago. I didn’t realize how much of a bother my hymen was until it was no longer there. Thank you for taking care of it so effectively. That John Cougar song Hurts so Good comes to mind. “



“It was, literally, my pleasure. Back to the present – I normally use a piece of cloth to catch my semen, but I suspect you’ll want to watch it spurt. Do you want me to spray you or myself?”



“Is it against the rules for you to cum in my mouth?” She was clearly hoping that she could swallow my cum.



“I’ll give you a facial, and try to get most of it into your mouth. Will that work?” It really didn’t matter where I shot my load. With company coming, the sheets would be in the washer tomorrow anyhow.



“So you’re serious about not touching each other?” Beth’s disappointment was apparent.



“Yes.” I replied. “Consider it a lesson in restraint, but I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Besides, after we both get ourselves off, we can go back to fucking like rabbits.”



Having set the rules, we climbed into bed. Beth sat leaning against the headboard with her legs spread. I leaned against the wall with one of my legs resting on hers. Yes, we were touching each other, but only incidentally. She reached for her pussy with one hand, and grabbed a breast with the other. She ran a single finger from the top of her partially open slit to the bottom then drove three fingers into herself. Her eyes were glued to my cock as I wrapped my hand around it and started pumping. Watching Beth fingering herself was hotter than any porn site, and a glance at her face indicated that watching me had a similar effect on her. Her hand alternated between her hole and her clit while I just kept beating my meat. She finally quit pinching her nipples so she could stimulate both ends of her slit at the same time. Soon after that, she closed her eyes, tensed and then let out a moan. I let go of my shaft just long enough to shift to my knees. Beth opened her eyes to find my cock inches from her face. She immediately opened her mouth. As she started to lean forward, I told her to stop. I could tell that it was a bit of a struggle to comply, but she leaned back against the headboard. I aimed my cock at her open mouth as I let out stream after stream of cum. She couldn’t hold all of it, but swallowed what she had caught while the rest dripped down from her face onto her breasts.



“Well done” I said. “You did good. How did it feel?”



“A lot better than I expected, but I still prefer touching each other. Can I suck the rest of the cum off you now?”



“Go for it. In fact, I believe you could use a good licking yourself, so why don’t we take care of each other?” As I said this, I licked some of my semen from her breasts. As she straddled me, it occurred to me that this was far and away the most common position for us. In just a few days, the two of us were accustomed to tasting our mixed cum. The fact that we both enjoyed both giving and receiving oral sex was the best thing about our relationship. No, I corrected myself, it was the second best. Our love for each other was first.



Friday morning we established what had become our week-day routine. I fix coffee, and we both pee on each other in the shower before washing each other. I stripped the bed as we were getting dressed and asked Beth if she could make it. She said she’d take care of it between soccer practice and work. I drove to work with a smile on my face. I had a bigger smile driving home thinking about what was planned for that evening.



Beth must have changed after work – sun dresses weren’t appropriate at the nursery, and bras were required. She greeted me at the door with the usual hug and kiss (but not French, this time). Jackie watched from her seat on the couch. Her first expression was shock; it shifted to puzzlement before settling on a shit-eating grin. “Beth, I’ve been wondering all week about who took your virginity. You admitted that I knew him but your refusal to tell me now makes sense. You’ve actually been fucking your father?”



Beth smiled at me then answered over her shoulder “If you hadn’t shown me that you like the stories about it, I wouldn’t have taken you up on your offer.” She had turned as she said this and was now facing Jackie. She pointed at me with a thumb over her shoulder. “This guy agreed to your suggestion only after I assured him that you wouldn’t be freaked out by the situation. That, and the fact that you don’t tell anybody who you’ve been with. For obvious reasons, this isn’t something that my dad or I want others to know about. The weird thing is that ‘Joan’ never saw him as anything but her father. It wasn’t until I became Beth that I realized you and the other girls were right about him being hot.”



The three of us made our way to the kitchen, where dinner was waiting. I opened a bottle of Merlot that perfectly complimented their creation. During dinner, Beth and Jackie talked about soccer and their plans for the fall. I explained the arrangement Beth and I had for our relationship. It would only be a summer affair – with Beth living in the dorms when school started. Jackie was initially puzzled, but was fully on board when I explained my reasoning. As her lover, I would happily share my bed with her for the rest of my life. As her father, I knew that she had to establish a relationship with someone else. We had finished eating by now, and the three of us had the kitchen clean in minutes.



“As soccer stars, just about everybody on the team has at least a handful of guys salivating over us.” Jackie stated. “A lot of guys are intimidated by girls who are smarter than they are, and I take advantage of that. I did OK in algebra, but started to get lost in Geometry. Beth tried to explain Relativity to me, and it made my head spin. When she started talking about uncertainty, I had to beg her to stop. If I find a guy who is interested in talking about that shit, I’ll send them to Beth. There are science geeks who would go apeshit about having a girlfriend who understood that stuff. With your combination of body and brains, you could trip one of them in a heartbeat.” Beth all but licked her lips at this. Jackie was right about Beth’s interest in science and math. She and I would occasionally have conversations about number theory or the latest findings in cosmology. Like me, she had an almost instinctive understanding of calculus (or at least derivatives). She hadn’t decided on a major yet, wavering between Physics, Mathematics or Computer Science.



Although it had already been agreed that they would be sharing a suite with Karen and Shannon, the four of them still hadn’t worked out who the roommates would be. Beth suggested that maybe she and Jackie could share a room. Jackie looked at me, clearly asking for my input.



“Actually Beth, I think it would be better if Jackie bunked with one of the other girls. You two would still have plenty of opportunities to have fun together, but part of the plan is for you to find a boyfriend. If Jackie is too readily available, you might not be as motivated.”



Jackie’s nod made it clear that I had given the answer she was expecting. She was one of the team’s goalies. When she wasn’t playing keeper, she was a forward. She was about 5’10″ and, like Beth appeared to be at least 20 pound lighter than she actually was. She wore her blond hair in a page-boy cut (just long enough to tie back for soccer). She too was in a sun dress (sans bra). Her breasts were slightly larger than Beth’s b-cups, but her chest was larger as well. Her face was more angular than Beth’s but still quite attractive. Her eyes shifted between green and blue. “So how long ago did you trip him?”



Beth gave her a puzzled look, and then giggled. “I haven’t heard that expression before, but if it’s what I think it is” Jackie nodded in response to the implied question “it was a week ago tonight. I felt like I had to tell somebody soon, or I’d explode. When we started talking after practice, I decided to confide in you. I didn’t expect what followed, but I’m glad that it did.”



“I am too.” Jackie then shifted to a tone that was all business. “Now that I know the score, I have some rules. I’m not too picky about what goes in my mouth, but nothing larger than a tongue goes into either opening below without protection.” She glanced at Beth “you all but stated that something would be happening tonight, so I have condoms and all that. Aside from basic STD protection and birth control, it’s all good.” At this point she looked directly at me “I trust you understand the meaning of the word ‘no’.”



“Definitely, and I’ll make sure you have the opportunity to say it whenever it may be required.” I’ve never been with a prostitute, but I doubt they dealt with the messy issues with more finesse. “My only request is that when the condoms come out, I want Beth to apply it. I’ve done it, and it seems clear that you have as well. She could use the practice.”



Beth was surprised, but Jackie just nodded. “That makes sense. Do you want to show her, or should I?”



“I’ll let you show her, if you don’t mind me offering a guy’s perspective.”



This time Jackie was surprised. “If I do anything wrong, I’d love to know about it. You’re the first man that’s offered to critique me.”



The housekeeping discussion was necessary, but it did kind of kill the mood. I gave Beth the remote “Do your thing TV goddess.”



Beth took it and giggled to Jackie “I chose the show last Friday that helped me trip him.” She took a quick look at the options, and found a romantic comedy on one of the “adults only” channels. The show she mentioned to Jackie was Real Sex, an R rated documentary on HBO. In this case, the comedy seemed more appropriate. The girls sat on the love seat, while I took my usual seat in the recliner. As the show progressed we all loosened up. Last Friday, Beth and I both tried to hide our arousal. Tonight, we all knew what would follow, so we were free to react openly. First the girls draped their arms over each other. Jackie then slipped her hand into Beth’s top. I relieved the pressure on my bulge by opening the top of my jeans. It wasn’t long before the girls had their hands up each other’s skirts revealing that both were wearing thongs. Beth’s bush was only partially covered – Jackie clearly had no hair to be hidden. The show had had the desired effect and all three of us were now more interested in the live action. Both girls’ dresses were essentially wrapped around their waists, so I took the remote from Beth and turned off the TV. As I walked into the bedroom, I removed my clothes. The girls followed me as I went straight to the bathroom. Both dresses landed just inside the bedroom door. Jackie first averted her eyes then noticed that Beth was walking in for a closer look. She soon followed. As I finished and lowered the seat, Beth sat and spread her legs. Jackie was surprised, but watched with the same rapt attention as me. She then followed suit.



As we approached the bed, I explained to Jackie the variations that Beth and I had explored. “Beth and I both love giving and receiving oral, we’ve tried several different positions, and we’re both into ass-play. At some point, I want to show you a position I’ve never seen on a porn site.”



Beth interjected “Dad’s stamina is amazing. David always collapsed after a blow-job. Last Friday, he gave me 4 or 5 orgasms and came three times himself. ” She gestured at my penis saying “Richard here is a real trooper.”



Jackie raised her eyebrows and grabbed my dick “Pleased to meet you Richard. We’ll get to you soon enough, but I can think of a couple pussies that need a good licking. Beth how about you sitting on my face while your Dad has a taste of me.”



With that, she fell back onto the bed. Beth climbed on top of her and I knelt between her legs. Beth’s pussy is like a rosebud, her inner lips completely hidden when her legs are together. Jackie’s was a rose in full bloom with the inner lips spilling out of her slit. She had either shaved sometime in the afternoon or had a more effective method of removing her hair – there wasn’t a hint of stubble. I spread her legs so I could lick along her outer lips, avoiding the inner folds. I then plunged my tongue as deeply into her as I could. She had a muskier flavor than Beth but it was equally erotic. I peeked over her mound to see Beth, facing away from me. Jackie was sucking on her clit, so I mimicked her, adding just a hint of teeth. I quickly discovered that she was a squirter. My chin was flooded with her juice as she came, but I was able to move my mouth down to catch most of it. As I was licking up the last of Jackie’s cum, I heard a loud slap. I again looked up and saw a clear hand-print across Beth’s ass. Her “Ouch” was cut short by the now familiar whimpering moan as she came.



With a grin, Jackie said “I could tell you were teetering on the edge, and decided to give you a push. I hope you don’t mind.”



Beth wore a distant expression on her flushed face. “I certainly didn’t expect it, but it seems to have worked.” The statement was followed by a repeated, complete, “Ouch. That John Cougar song apparently has more than one meaning.”



Jackie looked down at me for an explanation. “Hurts so Good” I said as I stood up. Her eyes stayed on mine until I was almost upright, then shot back down.



“Hellooo Richard” she said with a grin. She immediately sat up. “Beth, do you mind if I have a taste of your father’s cock?”



“As long as you don’t wear him out, I’ll want a taste or two myself. As much as I liked your licking, my pussy misses Richard too.” Beth had turned around and I now had two horny 18-year-olds looking at my cock.

We were talking about ships’ bottoms, as you do, or at least when your business is re-painting them. Big ships, mostly, oil tankers and bulk carriers.



Big ships use a lot of paint and selling that paint is a highly competitive business. Mostly, it’s an all-male business, probably because it often involves crawling around in the darkest, filthiest recesses of giant ships, not something that most women really get excited about.



Except Angela Duncan. “Do you remember Angela Duncan,” I asked my Technical Manager, as we looked at the drawings of our latest project, a 325,000 ton double-hulled tanker, barely three years old. but already needing corrosion treatment in many sections of the vast void spaces which separate the crude oil cargoes from the ocean. New oil tankers are like big vacuum flasks to prevent oil spills if there is external damage such as a collision with another vessel.



“Yeah, what happened to her, the sexy bitch? he asked.



“I was just thinking the same thing myself,” I said, “I haven’t seen her since we worked at the Capitol Chemicals terminal, and that must be about four years ago. She moved to Scotland with her husband, the ex-Navy guy. I think she’s settled down.”



Angela Duncan certainly hadn’t settled down when I knew her and my mind pleasurably recalled some of our encounters. She was a rare breed, a paint specialist with a degree in corrosion engineering, and undoubtedly the best-looking corrosion engineer I ever knew.



Angela, who I think was 28 when I last met her, was blonde, blue-eyed, and propelled by the proverbial “all-the-way-up-to-her-arse” legs. But the pièce de résistance were the silicone spectaculars which Angela ultimately treated herself to following a particularly good year’s bonuses.



When I first met her, I thought she was rather tasty even with the modest boobies that nature had provided. Angela, it emerged, had never been happy about these although she regularly wore white silk shirts that were carelessly unbuttoned whenever, as an area sales rep. for a large paint manufacturer, she had a sales meeting with a client. Because we bid for work on many of the projects which used Angela’s paint I attended many of these meetings. Angela would stay over in our area for a day or two and would regularly entertain me to dinner on her company’s expense account.



I think she almost saw me as some sort of father figure. I was 54 then, carrying too much weight and with not a lot of hair left. We hit it off from the start, however; I helped her with a lot of practical advice, and we soon got to the stage where, rather than a handshake when she entered my office in a cloud of Lancôme Poême I got a hug and a quite steamy kiss. I confess I was under her spell.



Whilst the unbuttoned shirts undoubtedly made their impact it was, ironically, usually myself who got more benefit from it than the customer. I would usually sit beside her and was therefore often treated to the sight of a pert, rubbery nipple as she leaned down to remove another file or brochure from her briefcase.



It was quickly clear to me that Angela was a natural exhibitionist because her strong suit in all these sales meetings was an erotic display of her legs the blatancy of which sometimes alarmed me. I was convinced we might get thrown out by some customers because of Angela going over the top but it never happened and she certainly sold a lot of paint. She always wore dark suits; a plain silk shirt, open jacket, tight, short skirts and heels. From having her as a passenger in my car, I also knew that she wore stockings and suspenders but only from the odd occasion when she had reached for papers or brochures in the back seat of the car and the short skirt had risen up briefly to reveal the start of the dark band of a stocking top.



After about the third or fourth time we visited a client together, I commented, back in the car, that I didn’t think her customer had been paying much attention to her presentation, not that it had mattered.



“Oh, do you think he was just enjoying the leg show, then?” Angela responded. At least I had established that she knew the effect she had been having on the wretched maintenance manager of a chemical plant who needed paint for a big storage silo. He signed a purchase order for a lot more than he needed; Angela sat beside him and helped him fill it in.



“Well, I’m sure I would have been if I had been sitting where he was. But I wasn’t, sadly,” I grinned.



Angela looked at me quizzically.



“Was I overdoing it a bit?” she asked me. “Is this skirt too short?” She wriggled in the car seat attempting to pull the skirt down. Again the dark bands of her stocking tops were visible. She had removed her jacket because it was a hot day — sitting in the car park outside the chemical plant it was sweltering — and she had not re-buttoned the white silk shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra and I could see her delicious half-inch left nipple, erect and red, chafing against the material of the shirt. There was a trickle of sweat running down between her breasts. My throat was dry and there was an embarrassing bulge growing in my trousers. It was hot.



“It would be too short for me but I might try it if it sells as well as it does for you,” I said.



“Mum always said to me that, if you’ve got it, flaunt it,” said Angela, “I just wish I had the tits to go with the legs.”



“From where I’m sitting, I wouldn’t worry too much about them,” I observed.



Angela look down at her chest disapprovingly and said they looked like a couple of fried eggs.



“You can’t do anything with these,” she said, and, to my amazement, unbuttoned a further three buttons, cupped her firm, if modest, breasts together, looked up at me and said, “Look, no cleavage worth a shit. And my husband is really a tit man. I’m going to get a boob job and do it right. I’ve been saving.”



I wanted so much to lean forward and kiss those delectable nipples but he who hesitates is lost, as they say, and I watched disappointedly as Angela’s “worthless” breasts disappeared back inside the shirt.



“Don’t waste any money on your legs, then,” I said.



She leaned back in the seat lasciviously and stretched out those fabulous limbs. She had only done up two buttons on her shirt and her half-pint breasts were almost totally exposed and glistened with sweat. She looked thoroughly obscene. She was wonderful.



“Yeah, they’re alright, aren’t they. A quick flash always makes that first purchase order a bit easier, I’ve found,” she grinned at me. “I never know just exactly how much to show. I’ll have to practice in front of you in your office until I get it just right.” With both hands she smoothed each nylon-clad leg provocatively from ankle to mid-thigh.



I didn’t know if I was still just being used to gratify her exhibitionistic tendencies or if there was more to this than I thought. Happily married I was, and am, with a 50 year old very fit wife still sporting a body almost to rival Angela’s — but I could feel my heart pumping and I clenched and re-clenched my buttocks, flexing an erection fit to burst as I fantasised what might happen between me and the sexy, sexy lady sitting next to me.



“Jesus, Angela, that could take hours,” I said hoarsely.



This crazy, wanton woman giggled like a schoolgirl and shook out her long, blonde hair. Her perfume suffused the car and the blood pounded in my head.



“Anyway, I’m not wearing stockings on a day like this all the way back to your office. They’re just for business,” she said. With that, she slid the little black skirt up her gorgeous legs and brought black suspenders, stark against her white thighs, into mouth-watering view. She raised one leg, bent it at the knee, started to unsnap one nylon then looked at me coyly and said, “Disappointed? I knew you would be a stockings and suspender man.”



“At least let me take them off for you,” I pleaded.



“Hey, easy boy,” she scolded.



“I would consider it a rare honour,” I bullshitted.



She paused.



“Well, go on then,” she said. My heartrate soared.



I looked around the car park considering the consequences if one of our customers had parked next to me and would any second, according to the inviolable principles of Murphy’s Law, come out to go for lunch.



What a man of the world I was turning out to be. I had pillaged nightspots over the years from Manila to Mexico City yet here I was in a car park in Essex, my hands shaking so badly I was almost scared to touch her in case one of my stupid, bloody customers appeared or, worse, I couldn’t undo the damned suspender.



Almost too scared. I clasped her by the knees and swivelled her bum round on the leather seat to face me.



“That’s better. I can work easier from this angle.” Angela had clasped her hands behind her head and stared at me with a half smile on her face. Her shirt had ballooned open and her fantastic bared nipples and aerolae were stiffly extruding towards me.



The skirt was again covering part of her stocking tops so I raised her knees and pushed it down towards her waist out of the way rather more than I needed to.



I was looking straight down between her legs and I then realised what she had meant when she mentioned “a quick flash”. She was not wearing any panties. My cock jumped in my pants and I licked my lips involuntarily.



She had the most beautiful bush although she wasn’t a natural blonde. I could just see the shape of her pussy lips as she casually opened and closed her legs ever so slightly and I made a mental note that, if nothing else happened ever, I would cut out the seat leather and preserve it forever.



I unsnapped the top suspender on her right leg and slid my hand round the inside of her thigh to reach the back one. I rolled the stocking down and carefully removed it. Angela continued to stare at me intently; a pristine moment of high sexual tension and voyeuristic ecstasy.



I just had to slide my hands all the way up her left leg and reached the top suspender without having a heart attack. My left hand drifted round her inner thigh vaguely in the direction of the bottom button and I allowed my fingers to brush against her pussy hair. It was damp.



“Uh,uh, just the stockings,” she grinned at me, gripping my wrist. My fingers still wiggled gamely but superficially in her wet pussy hair. My dick was throbbing.



“Angela, I’m dying here. I want to lick you.”



“This is getting out of hand, you randy bastard. Come on, time we were off.” said Angela breathlessly..



And that was the sudden and deflating end of my second-last encounter with Angela. She bailed out. I drove her later to the railway station; she kissed me with ruby red glossed lips, squeezed my cock through my trousers for a second, and said, “I’m a married woman and you’re a married man. It would only end in trouble.”



An erect penis has no conscience. A truer word was never spoken. But back in that car park on that beautiful day in May, I knew I would have fucked Angela’s brains out in my car if she had even touched my zipper. My cock had never been so hard in years and I masturbated explosively for days afterwards, the silky feel and smell of Angela’s nyloned thighs and her hairy little love-nest swimming in my mind.



Part II



About four months later Angela called me to ask if I would come in as contractor on a project in Suffolk at a power station where she hoped to sell a large quantity of paint. She had set up a meeting the following week and asked if I would attend and could I pick her up at the station as usual. I didn’t need any second bidding.



“But if you’re wearing stockings and suspenders and no knickers again I don’t know if I could stand it, Angela,” I complained.



“No, I’ve changed my image completely,” she replied, “I’m a good girl now, you’ll see.”



That was a dumb thing for me to say, I thought. I didn’t really want to discourage her, did I, as my old one-eyed friend stirred at the sound of her voice on the phone. Ah, once an exhibitionist, always an exhibitionist, I convinced myself.



Her train was on time. The weather had been outstanding for an English summer and, although it was only ten in the morning, it was already hot.



I didn’t recognise her at first. I was looking at this stunning creature strutting down the platform swinging a bag, her short, yellow, flared summer dress swirling round mid-thigh in the warm breeze. Wow, I thought, look at the tits on that and, just then, the creature waved at me. Holy shit, it was Angela, and, oh God, when she said she had wanted new tits, she had really meant it.



“Hiya, you old bastard, what d’ya reckon” said Angela and she twirled and struck a busty pose that would have made Marilyn Monroe jealous. She looked sensational.



“Well, you wanted cleavage, girl, and you got it. I’m, I’m speechless. You are the most beautiful, sexy animal I have ever set eyes on.”



“36D, and not an inch less,” she said. “Shit, I feel like a million dollars.”



I felt like a million dollars, too. She took my arm and we walked through the station. Every male head in the place turned and followed us and probably a lot of female ones as well. Angela looked like a film star.



On the short drive to the power station, I got the whole story of Angela’s visit to a private clinic and she delighted in regaling me with all the details of cosmetic surgery and silicone implant techniques.



Before we went into the meeting, Angela placed a hand on my knee and said, “Look, I’ve something to tell you. This might be the last time we meet for a while. I’ve handed in my resignation. My husband has been offered a very good job in Aberdeen in the oil industry and we’re moving north in about a month. Don’t tell our client, though, will you?”



Tell the client? Screw the client. There go all my voyeuristic opportunities, I thought. Selling paint will never be the same again.



I tried to make a joke.



“You might need an export licence to get those boobs into Scotland, you know.”



“No,” she said, “I think they were made in Scotland. Like bagpipes. Here, give them a squeeze.” And she took both my clammy hands and placed one on each sumptuous breast. I squeezed; they were firm, so firm.



“Well, let’s get this meeting over with,” said Angela and I said, “Oh, yes, sorry, em, I suppose I better let go now.”



I don’t remember the meeting. I remember at one point we all trooped off to a conference room upstairs and the three men who joined us all stepped aside at the bottom of the stairs to let Angela go up first. Oh, what gentlemen.



Her legs went on for ever under the thin, flared dress. Near the top of the stairs, she appeared to slip out of one of the wooden mules she was wearing. She bent down from the waist to put it back on and looked back to the four of us following from below. “Sorry,” she called out brightly.



No-one said a word. I think the throats of the other guys were parched. Angela was wearing a white thong and her pubes positively bulged through it. It was earth-shattering. They wanted to buy paint from her. We got back in the car and I asked her to lunch.



“Better still,” I said, “We’re finished for today and it’s a great day. Let’s buy ourselves a picnic and go and get some sun at the beach. What do you think?”



Angela was a little reticent. She explained that she didn’t have a swimsuit with her.



“At least you’re wearing knickers this time,” I said.



“And a bra,” she replied, “These fellas need some proper support now. Oh, I suppose I can sit in my sundress. I haven’t been to the beach in ages.”



My mind was whirling. Just how much trouble could I get into here. Some white wine should do the trick. Wicked Willie was up and about and was already struggling to come out for air and see the sundress sat next to me steadily riding up Angela’s milky thighs. The dress was cut low and the cleavage of Angela’s new 36D monsters seemed to be a bottomless pit.



We stopped at a mini-market and loaded up with paté, cheese, french sticks, some cold chicken drumsticks and a big bag of seedless grapes. Angela picked up two bottles of sparkling white wine and a box of those vodka mixers saying it was her treat and we set off for the seaside. I knew a lovely spot in the dunes on the Suffolk coast and I had a big towel and bottle of sunscreen from my golf gear in the boot and an old travel rug. There were gulls wheeling overhead and larks singing high in the sky.



By the time we found ourselves a perfectly sheltered bowl between two dunes and laid out the rug, Angela had already polished off one of the vodka cocktails. I poured her a large bubbly in a polystyrene cup and she fell on her back on the rug sneezing and laughing when the bubbles went up her nose. For the second time that day I saw that mind-blowing white thong pulled tight at the top of those wonderful legs. This time she was facing me, giggling because of the bubbles up her nose, with her legs apart, apparently oblivious to what I could see. The thong was almost transparent with perspiration and I could clearly see her bulging lips and the tiny curls of hair matted behind the thin nylon fabric. Maybe if I had died there and then and gone to heaven I would have considered it a fair deal.



“No stockings today, then,” I ventured lamely.



“Oops,” giggled Angela, who sat up smoothing down her dress and took a bigger, but more careful, mouthful from the plastic cup.



“I have to be good, now, and not tease you,” she said, “Don’t get me drunk and incapable. Isn’t it time you got those lily white legs of yours out for a sunning.”



I pulled off my trousers and shirt and rolled on to my stomach on the towel primarily because I was only wearing a pair of white boxers with a single button and my dick was doing its damndest to burst though them. I slithered over on my belly beside Angela and offered her some chicken and pate. We ate and drank steadily for about twenty minutes.



I said to Angela that she needed some sun as well and that I promised to be good if she wanted to take her dress off. I couldn’t have controlled my heart rate if I tried. I even offered gallantly to apply some sunscreen to her back.



She only hesitated a moment, then got to her feet, a little unsteadily I observed, and started to slowly unzip the dress miming to the tune of “The Stripper”. Oh, thank you God, I thought, she’s drunk.



“Christ, it’s hot,” said Angela, as she discarded the thin dress in an untidy heap on the sand. Statuesque didn’t describe her; she was positively Amazonian. Her spectacular melons strained to escape from a white lace bra which did not quite cover the tops of her nipples and the white thong was buried in her bum. She strutted around in the sand and demanded more bubbly.



I held up the bottle and she dropped to her knees so I could refill her cup. The voluptuous breasts heaved and jiggled and the left nipple, still as big as a snooker cue tip and just as hard, slipped out and quivered in the sunlight. The cleft between her legs was strikingly visible. I was in paradise. It was like being drugged. It certainly beat working.



“You’re going to burn,” she said, swallowing another slug of wine and leaning salaciously over me, “Let me get some protection on you.”



She squirted far too much of the white lotion on my back and, kneeling beside me, started to spread it out across my shoulders. The touch of her fingers made me wriggle and I manipulated my distended cock on the towel until a depression in the soft sand accommodated it.



“Oh, God, this stuff’s going everywhere. There’s enough here to do your legs but it’s going to make a right mess of your boxers. Best if they came off, I think,” said a giggly Angela. I turned my head to look at her as she drank again from her cup of wine. This time she spilled most of it and it cascaded down into her bra and onwards through the cleft in her wondrous breasts to her miniscule panties. I swallowed hard as the thong, inches in front of my face, became completely transparent, her labia now swollen and pink with the arousing effect of the wine and the hot sun.

Her hair was back to the ginger color that I think is her natural shade. Hell, I don’t know. I’ve seen her as a redhead, a blonde and something closer to a brown/ginger. It was Lindsay Lohan and she looked as stunning as ever. After bumping into her on the same elevator ride once a week for the last six weeks, you’d think she might offer me a smile, a nod or some acknowledgement that she had seen me before. Whatever. I didn’t bother her. I never did. She deserved her space. I did, however, smile as we rose silently inside the plush elevator. I thought about the reasons for our once a week meetings. She was heading upstairs as part of her court ordered counseling. I was heading two stories higher to make my weekly donation to for science.



I was being paid good money to abstain from sex six out of seven days. On the seventh day, I visited the researchers two floors above Lindsay’s court ordered therapist to rub out a location. Tuesdays became my favorite day of the week. Once I handed over my “specimen,” I was allowed to have as many additional orgasms as I pleased. The contract stipulated that I would abstain from purposely ejaculating from 11 p.m. on Tuesday until after I produced my next specimen at 11 a.m. Those twelve hours were mine to enjoy however I saw fit.



The private cubicle I used for producing my specimen was equipped with a wide variety of adult magazines. The material ranged from barely legal teens with perfectly airbrushed bodies to older MILFs shown in all their well-earned glory. There was explicit material, too, along with a couple muscle magazines, a few gay centric magazines, and even a Playboy magazine for those who like their nudity a bit calmer. The first week I visited, I landed a double jackpot. After sharing the elevator ride with Miss Lohan for twenty-three floors, the Playboy edition in the cubicle featured her homage to Marilyn Monroe. I didn’t spend much time inside the cubicle that day. Hell, the true is, I seldom do. Aside from carrying a week’s backlog of need with me, the elevator ride with Lindsay was enough to put me on edge. I did my business, answered their questionnaire, picked up my check and was on my way.



After the third week, I wondered how Lindsay would feel if she knew why I was there. While she was pouring her heart out to her shrink, I was jerking off to my mental comparison of Lindsay in real life versus Lindsay in the pages of Playboy or in the tabloids or the upskirt paparazzi shots of her bald pussy as she got out of a car. Yeah, that was good, very good!



I think it’s a stretch to call me a fan of hers. The only movie of hers I had watched from beginning to end was “Machete,” where she appears topless. A buddy of mine tried to tell me those were stunt titties, but I don’t believe him. Where’s the fun in knowing that? It didn’t matter. It was all her in Playboy. Well, her and an airbrush, I’m sure.



No, I’m not star struck. In fact, her unwillingness to recognize me as a familiar face after six weeks of elevator rides was getting on my nerves. Would it hurt her to offer me a smile? And what was up with the big sunglasses she wore? Did she think that would hide her identity to anyone? No, in my book, Lindsay Lohan was a spoiled, rich bitch whose biggest problem was thinking she should get her way in every situation. That was my conclusion after being snubbed by her for the sixth week in a row.



I guess everyone knows Los Angelos is prone to earthquakes. The skyscrapers we have are built to handle them. I don’t think much about it. None of us do. Sometimes, the earth shakes for a bit and that’s that. I’ve slept through earthquakes. I think most of us have. But it’s different when you’re inside an elevator and you feel that rolling shudder. You recognize it immediately. The building swayed. The elevator ground to a halt. The building shuddered again.



“Oh fuck!” Lindsay cried out. Her first words. She looked at me. I don’t know if she was giving me a wide eyed look because her sunglasses hid her eyes. The shudder last longer than usual. “Oh fuck,” she said again.



“Yeah,” I agreed and I wondered what the protocol was for being inside an elevator. If we had been anywhere else, I’m sure we both knew what to do. If you can get to a doorway, you do it. If not, you get beneath a desk or a table or outside. But inside an elevator car? We were stuck on stupid. It got scarier when we heard an alarm sounding, too.



“What should we do?” she asked.



“Fuck if I know.”



“Damn it, I don’t want to die like this. This was my last appointment!”



“We should be safe in here.”



“How do you know?” she asked.



“We haven’t died yet.”



“What’s that alarm?”



“Beats me,” I said. All of this was as new to me as it was for her. We pulled out our cell phones, but stuck inside the metal coffin, getting a signal was impossible. “4G my ass,” I muttered as I waved my phone over my head. Lindsay couldn’t find a signal either. We were stuck. “At least the lights are still on,” I offered. I pressed the button for the intercom. “Hey, anyone there?” There wasn’t an answer.



The alarm sounded for fifteen minutes. I was surprised. Miss Lohan seemed to accept her fate. Maybe her court ordered therapy sessions were paying off. Five minutes later, the intercom came to life. “Occupants of elevator number three, are you okay?”



“Yes,” I responded since I was standing closest to the control panel.



“Good. Do not panic,” the man’s voice said. I gave Lindsay a “good grief” look. She smirked. “There has been an earthquake.”



“Ya think?” Lindsay said.



“You are in no immediate danger. I repeat: you are NOT in danger. Do you understand?”



“Gotcha,” I replied.



“Rescue teams are on their way. Your estimated time of rescue is under four hours.”



“Oh hell it isn’t,” Lindsay said. She stepped in front of the control panel, pressed the button and played the celebrity card. The man on the other end didn’t sound impressed.



“We’re sorry, Miss Lohan. We’re doing the best we can. Please be patient.”



I sank to the floor on my side of the elevator. Why not? There wasn’t nothing else to do. The floor was carpeted and sitting beats standing. I glanced at the clock on my phone. It was just after 11 a.m. Standing across from me was the personification of the images I had used to pleasure myself for science. She adjusted her hair in the mirror that filled the back wall of the elevator. It didn’t help my need. While she was distracted, I adjusted my man parts. “Might as well make yourself comfortable,” I suggested.



“I guess,” she sighed, leaning against the wall on her side of the elevator and sliding down until she sat. Her short skirt rode up as she slid down. She wasn’t wearing panties. I was glad I had adjusted myself while she was distracted as my prick began filling its extra room. Lindsey crossed her ankles in front of her and hugged her knees. Not seeing anything didn’t change the knowledge of knowing. She smiled at me. It was a pretty smile. “So what brings you here every Tuesday?”



“Ah, so you do remember me.”



She shrugged and gave another little smile. “Yeah, I noticed. You work for the court?”



“Not even close,” I promised. I was out of work and had been for the last year and half. This research project helped pay my bills. “What makes you say that?”



“I don’t know. You never hassled me, figured you had to be here.” She shrugged again. “Guess you’re not a fan?”



“I liked Machete.”



Lindsay rolled her eyes. “You know that wasn’t me in the pool. I mean, I was really in the pool, but that wasn’t me they showed.”



“Doesn’t change anything.”



“What does that mean?”



“What do you think?” I asked and smirked as it dawned on her. “Here’s what I don’t get. Why use stunt titties for Machete and then pose nude in Playboy?” The “stunt titties” line fell of my tongue before I could clean it up. Screw it, I said it and that was that.



“Body double,” she corrected.



“Same thing.”



“Yeah, I guess so,” she said. She smiled. “It was my manager’s idea. Both were.”



I nodded. What else did I have to say? What did I know about her, aside from her legal troubles and her crappy acting career? I felt on edge. Six weeks of holding off for Tuesday had programmed me more than I realized. I didn’t need to be a fan to use her as a fantasy. Knowing she wasn’t wearing panties didn’t help. I looked around the elevator car. There wasn’t anything to see.



“You never said what brings you here,” she said.



“You don’t want to know,” I laughed.



“Please,” she said with a sarcastic frown. “Try having your every mistake plastered in every tabloid.”



“I’m part of a study,” I hedged. “Research project. Nothing special.”



“What kind of project?”



“That’s just it, I don’t know. I show up every Tuesday, give them a sample and they pay me.”



“Like a blood sample?”



“Something like that.”



“But not blood,” she said. She smirked again. “I know a little something about those kinds of samples.”



It took me a moment to realize what she meant. She was guessing a urine sample. I laughed. “Close, but not quite.” She looked confused and that struck me as funny, too.



“Not blood and no peeing in a cup…” she said as she tried to reason it out. “What’s left?”



“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” I reminded her. She insisted and I tried saying it as gently as I could, “It’s the sort of sample only a man can give.” She shook her head. She still wasn’t getting it. “It involves a cup, but it’s not pee?” I offered. Still a blank look. I rolled my eyes. “A semen sample, okay?” She blinked twice as if she needed the time to decipher the words. Her eyes went wide as it dawned on her.



“You mean cum?”



“Yeah,” I said and watched her blush before she started laughing.



“I’m sorry,” she said, hiding her smile behind her hand. “It’s not funny, but it is, you know?” I nodded. It was funny. “So how do they do it? Do they use a needle or something?”



“Really?”



“Well, I don’t know. Maybe they use a needle in your balls or something?”



“Have you even been with a man?” I asked. She gave me a pissed off look.



“Yes,” she said as her word added a layer of frost between us.



“Sorry. I just do it. In a cup.”



“Do they have to watch you do it?”



She was thinking about urine samples. My last employer required drug testing. I knew the routine. You had to pee in a cup in front of someone so they knew it was your urine. “No, I go into a little room. They have a few magazines lying around and I do it.” Talking about what I did every Tuesday for science wasn’t helping my condition.



Lindsay stared at me for a long moment before she blinked hard as if she was trying to process what I had said. “You’re kidding me, right?”



“Does that sound like something someone would make up?” I asked. She smiled.



“I guess not. They pay you for it?” she asked. I nodded. After thinking about it for a while longer, she asked, “What kind of magazines do they give you?”



“Porn. There’s a Playboy, too. The one with you in it,” I said before I realized how creepy that sounded. “Sorry,” I quickly mumbled. I wasn’t trying to make her feel uncomfortable. Before the words left my mouth, I thought it might be a nice thing to say, a way of confirming her fame or something.



“It’s okay. I have friends, you know. They tease me about doing that. That guys would, you know…”



I nodded, feeling in over my head.



“Did you look at it?” she asked.



“Yes. You looked pretty. It was a rip-off of Marilyn, but a nice homage.”



“Were you…” she started, stopped, giggled and shook her head. “Never mind.”



“You know guys do, right? I’m not saying I did, but come on.”



“I know.”



“It’s to be expected, isn’t it?”



“That’s not why I did it.”



“I know. Your career, manager and all that. You posed nude and I jerk off in a cup for money.”



“I thought you said it was for science.”



I laughed. “If science didn’t pay, I don’t think I would do it.”



“You’ve done it to me, haven’t you?”



I tried to ignore the question, which isn’t easy when you’re stuck in an elevator with someone. It’s not as if I didn’t hear her. Why would she ask that? Was she that vain? Did it matter to her? Did she really want to know? What if I told her the truth? Would that creep her out or would she be flattered? What if I lied and said I didn’t? Would she feel slighted? It was a no-win question. I decided to deflect. “Why not show it all when you did your Playboy shoot?”



“Why? Is that what you wanted to see while you were jerking off to me?”



Oops, that backfired. “Sure, why not?” I shot back. “It’s not as if we haven’t seen it.”



“Trust me, I’ve heard. Can I help it if I hate panty lines?” Her voice softened and she smiled. “I hardly ever wear them. But what right does that give the paparazzi to take pictures of it?”



“Because you’re famous, pretty and it’s scandalous. Good girls don’t forget their panties. Look what happened to Kate Middleton.” My prick strained inside my pants. I needed to adjust again but there wasn’t a way for me to do it, not with her sitting directly across from me. How the hell did we get on this topic?



“Do you think I’m as pretty as her?”



I rolled my eyes. Could this get more awkward? “Truth? I think you’re prettier. I’m not into flat chested brunettes.”



Lindsay beamed at the compliment. “You did it, didn’t you?”



“Did what?” I asked, afraid I already knew.



“To me. Well, to my pictures.”



“In my mind it was to you,” I said. Why should I let things be awkward for just me? “To you and with you.”



Lindsay giggled. “Was I any good?”



“I got off”



“What did we do?”



“Really?” I asked, staring at her. “You know I was jerking off, right? You don’t really want the details.”



“Come on, I’m curious. What do guys think about when they jerk off to me? It’s not as if we’re going anywhere.”



“Do you ever do it?” I deflected. When she gave me a blank look, I clarified it for her. “Play with yourself.”



“I have people who do that for me,” she said, waited a moment and then laughed. Her comedic timing was perfect. “What do you think? Do I?”



“In my fantasizes, you do,” I admitted.



“Not just in your fantasies,” she offered. “I’m human and it’s natural, right?” I nodded and a quiet moment passed between us, I guess we were both pondering how strange the conversation had become. “I can’t believe I just admitted that.”



“Tell me about it,” I said and I squirmed. I had to do something to ease the kink inside my pants.



“Problem?” she asked with half a smile on her full lips. Damn, she was cute. Her heavy eyebrows, high cheekbones, pert nose and full lips were killing me.



“We should talk about something else.”



“I’ve always wondered what it’s like to use a vibrator.”



“Seriously, we need to talk about something else,” I repeated. She shrugged and fell silent as she looked around the elevator car. I sighed. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why don’t you just buy one?”



“Please,” she said with an eye roll. “How? Imagine the field day the press would have with someone finding my vibrator.”



“You could have one of your assistants buy it for you.”



“Uh-huh, that works. ‘Hey Gavin, can you pick me up a vibrator on your way into work today?’” Lindsay laughed hard. “Besides, she’s more a handler than an assistant. They all are. I don’t hire any of them. My manager does, to keep me out of trouble.” I ignored the easy joke about how well that had worked out for her. Besides, I had bigger problems. I was in need and it wasn’t getting any softer. I wondered if the office would be open when they got the elevator working. Did they expect me to hold off until tomorrow or the next day? I didn’t want to violate the rules of the project. I needed the money. But my body had been programmed. I wouldn’t be able to wait an extra day or two. What if they wanted me to wait until next Tuesday? No way. “What are you thinking about?” Lindsay asked.



“It’s hard,” I said before I noticed the pun. She didn’t miss it. She laughed. “I mean, it’s this study. I’m supposed to abstain for a week at time, so Tuesdays are sort of my days to shake hands with Mr. Happy.”



“God, I LOVE Robin Williams!” she said, catching the reference. I was impressed. Leveling her gaze at me again she smiled. “So is it really?”



“Is what?”



“Is it really hard?”



“Why? You want to see?” I shot back; annoyed that she was having fun at my expense.



“You could sit differently,” she suggested.



“Uncross your heels and I will,” I said. Two could play at this game.



“What if I did? It wouldn’t be anything you haven’t seen before.”



“Then do it,” I insisted without realizing I had just told Lindsay Lohan, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”



“You mean like this?” she asked. She uncrossed her heels and planted her heels in front of her thighs. Her tight, short skirt couldn’t cover her private parts, but her skirt did add enough shadow that it wasn’t a clear view. She squeezed her knees together, but kept her heels apart. I could still see. She stared at me, watching me look and grinning. “Well?”



“You mean like this?” I asked. I parted my legs and glanced down to see what she could see. My hard on was a long, tube-like shape running down my pant leg. The change in positions gave my hard on more room. It crept up my thigh until it pressed against the inside of my pant leg. I wanted to reach inside my pants and pull it upwards to a more comfortable position. Instead, I allowed Lindsay to see it as it was.



She smiled and didn’t stop staring between my legs. Instead, she relaxed her knees and my view improved. “It’s not really fair. You get to see more than me.”



“How much more do you want to see?”



“Good question,” she asked. She closed her legs a bit. “What about you?”



“You’re teasing me.”



“So?”



“So maybe I’ll do it.”



“Do what?” she asked with false innocence.



“Show it to you. That’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”



“Is that what you want to do?”



“Look at me,” I snapped. I grabbed my prick, pulling it upwards and giving it the extra room it so desperately wanted. “What do you think?”



“Then do it,” she said, her eyes flickering up to mine. She held my gaze. “Show it to me. Let me see.”



“And then what?”



“I don’t know. I just want to see it.”



“If I pull it out, maybe I’ll want to do something with it.”



“As long as you stay on your side of the elevator, okay.”



I stared her down. “I’ll really do it,” I warned. She kept staring. “I mean it.” Her eyes moved back to my hard on. “I’m not kidding.” She smirked. I stood up and her eyes followed me crotch. Screw it. What the fuck, you know? I needed this and she wasn’t trying to stop me, so I guess she wanted it, right? I kicked off my shoes and worked my belt. She didn’t object. I undid the front of my pants. She didn’t stop staring. I hooked my thumbs inside the sides of my shorts and my pants. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it all at once. “Last chance,” I said. She glanced at my face and when her eyes returned to my waist, I pushed down my pants and underwear in a single push.



I know I’m well-hung. I didn’t always know that, but it’s something I’ve come to learn through the years. My prick is fat, smooth and longer than most. When I get hard, I get really hard. My cock stands up straight and nearly reaches my navel. It can create problems for me. Not every woman can take call of it. A few women I’ve been with have tried to deep throat me and it seldom works. When I’m hard, it sticks up too straight and won’t bend down most women’s throats. Maybe it’s them. Maybe they don’t know how to get at the right angle, I don’t know. All I know is that I gag girls who try.



“Nice,” she said and she licked her lips. “Take off your pants and stay like that for a bit, okay?”



“I think I’m showing more than you now,” I pointed out.



“Maybe,” she said. She sat cross-legged in a way we used to call “criss-cross-applesauce” and her skirt rode farther up her hips. I could see it all. Her pussy lips were bare. I’m guessing she was waxed instead of shaved. Her pussy looked puffy. “Better?” My cock throbbed. She giggled. “I guess so.” She stared at me as I paced the elevator car on my side and wondered what I should do. “You’re bigger than Matt Dillon,” she said. “Mark Harmon is a bit bigger, but not much.”

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