her little girl's chest. Long before she had even dreamed of the joys of sex she had learned something of the mysterious tingle that could come from these tiny twin tips of her yet-to-sprout tits. In the dear, dead, pre-brassiere days of her childhood Paula's mother had, in winter months, clad her baby in wool underwear whose warmth, Paula was firmly convinced, came mainly from the increased circulation developed by constant scratching.
Even then she had marveled at the way a little rubbing could coax these twin contact points of sensation from a quiescent flaccidity up to full firm erection visible even through woolen undervests.
Now Mr. Costello's busy, white-mustached mouth was doing something countlessly more interesting than any scratching she had ever experienced from wool. She struggled not to move, to control herself and not surrender to an impulse to giggle and squeal and wrap her arms around that leonine white head and pull him deeper into her pectoral Cordillera.
Just as she knew she just couldn't stand it another second her senescent seducer switched from the titillating tip of one full firm tit to the other. Impartially, he licked and kissed until this nipple was just as hard, just as insistent on further gratification as her first one had been. Then when she was ready to pound her fists over his ears if he didn't do something else to quiet the pink-frothed wave of passion that surged through her inexperienced body, Mr. Costello abandoned both of her flaming-nippled tits.
She had supposed he would scoot around to kiss her on the mouth but her employer's interests lay elsewhere. Paula lay rigid while he kissed lazy figure eights down the full-fashioned undersides of her lushly proportioned tits, kissed his way past her midriff and past her tiny waist, past her deep, well-formed navel, past the gentle swell of her teen-age belly, past growing disbelief and right into the upper edge of her just-hairing pubic patch.
It wasn't that sixteen-year-old Paula had lived in some kind of a moral vacuum. For as long as she could remember girls had, whenever they were totally out of earshot of boys and or adults, girls had always been as eager to exchange scraps of newly acquired knowledge as any other group of students. She had heard of cocksuckers. She had heard of muff divers. She had blushed from belly to ears at the secret thrill that had coursed through her the first time a girl had explained to her exactly what and how a sixty-nine play was played.
Yet, despite all this knowledge acquired in bits and snippets during her sixteen years, Paula was still waiting to put some tiny bit of theory into practice. She was ready to believe people fucked. After all, dogs did; cats did; rabbits did. Once she had even seen snakes doing something very peculiar. But those other words… surely they were merely the outpourings of some fertile imagination's outrage at being trapped in a pimply-faced and eternally tumescent body. People didn't really do things like that-did they?
For the first time in her life, savoring the sweet sensation of Mr. Costello kissing his gentle way from tits to tush, she began to wonder, to suspect that she had been too cautious in estimating human behavior. Maybe people really did do those things. Mr. Costello was breathing hard into the sparse blond ringlets of her pubic patch. Surely he was getting ready to do something.
Suddenly she was faced with a problem which had never come up in all these social science classes inflicted on her in her school years. She had been taught how to greet people, how to take leave of them, how to host a dinner or a soiree. Nothing and nobody had told her what was proper conduct for a lady about to be the recipient of the highest tribute to youth and beauty any man can bestow upon her. What was she supposed to do when nice old Mr. Costello did her the honor of kissing her in a place she had never been kissed before-had never even imagined that people kissed one another before?
She knew it was going to happen. There had been just enough acceleration in the burning intensity of his bussing to give her clear indication of what all that slow gentle build-up around her firm young tits, and down midriff and belly, had been leading up to. She knew damned well Mr. Costello was not planning on kissing her toes.
She could feel that part of her destined for the piece de resistance in his production number getting all tingly and even just a tiny bit damp as love's elixir trickled. She ought to fight and at least go through the motions of protesting but she was so filled with curiosity, with desire, that she knew it was too late. To Mr. Costello's piece de resistance she could offer no resistance.
He oozed up a little farther onto the bed and she suspected that if she just had the strength to move, to turn her head, she would be treated with a full frontal view of that organ which separates the men from the girls. But it felt so good just to lie here and wait to see what was going to happen next that she couldn't even muster the energy to look at Mr. Costello's cock. She felt his hands grasping her knees, slowly pushing them apart.
CHAPTER 15
With her mind still bridging present and past, Paula felt herself being pushed and prodded until she was no longer on her back. Still unsure whether she was being moved by Mr. Costello or by the nameless red-headed felon who had entered her house, entered her body at Harry Riggs's invitation, she found herself lying on her side.
A red-haired head was still burrowing in her tits, snuffling and kissing every square inch of seductive skin not covered by that extra pair of hands that had to be Harry's. The nameless redhead's bald-headed cock still coursed slowly and steadily in and out of her seething cunt, managing with a supernal skill to keep her teetering constantly over the precipice, looking ever with a combination of desire and horror into the depths of a chasm of orgasm.
On her side Paula had greater freedom of action. A lot of good it was doing her. The redhead still had his hands locked round her ass, was pushing and pulling, moving her off and onto his hot raging cock like some fleshy glove. So much for her college education.
She ought to be struggling-at least protesting. Or should she? She reminded herself that either of these men was capable of killing her. If she couldn't make them believe she was enjoying this, was eager for it to happen again and again…
Her belly surrendered to this constant internal massage and gave another happy little flip flop. She felt the spurt of love's elixir and knew Redhair had felt it too. It was going to require no great histrionic effort, she knew, to pretend she was enjoying this. Oooooooohhhhh wow!
It was nothing very surprising or unusual but at just that moment Harry Riggs's hands twiddling her nipples while he nibbled on the nape of her neck was sufficient to transform what had started out to be a happy little flurry of come into a gut-busting, soul-wrenching, kicking, squealing, and moaning cataclysm of colossal come.
She was still writhing, gibbering with ecstatic joy when she realized that it was not just Harry's hands touching her throbbing tits. He was pressing his bare body against her from behind-as if she weren't already smothering in erotic sensation from the feel of Redhead pressing between her legs, pressing against her body, face buried in her tits in an effort to gain some symmetry with the bald-headed cock he held deep in her twat.
So what was Harry up to? He was feeling and fondling her full firm jugs from behind, rubbing his whole naked length against her back while Redhead monopolized her front and cunt. She could feel Harry's eight inches prodding hopefully at her from behind but that aperture was already occupied. Sooner or later Harry Biggs was going to grow impatient and then there would be some rearranging while he twisted and prodded her around into some pretzel formation that would keep a bald-headed cock coursing steadily up and down the slick smoothness of her vagina while Harry once more raped her esophagus. She hoped they wouldn't bend her too far or too painfully. And then Paula's eyes flew open as she suddenly understood what Harry was really up to.
Oh Jesus! As if she didn't have enough to do now!
But, ready or not, here came Harry. He had no intention of stuffing his eight enormous inches in her mouth and down her throat again. Now she knew why he had been so busy with the lovely twin handles on her chest; he had been positioning himself.
Now his hands slipped momentarily away from her tits and she felt him spreading the cheeks of her already straining ass. She felt the tip of his tool pressing against the suddenly twittery rosette of her anus. My god, was he going to try to put it in there?
For her to take those eight tremendous inches of insistent masculinity in the wrong hole would have been difficult enough under any circumstances. But now, with a bald-headed cock already ravishing her vagina, stuffing her so full of meat she felt positively pregnant every time that bludgeon bottomed out… it was impossible. There was no possible way he could do it. And yet Harry was trying.
She shuddered at the memory of his eight inches of rampant masculinity. It had been bad enough to take that tremendous round-headed bludgeon of a tool where nature had intended it. Down her throat had been an
