Message-ID: <26995asstr$972285006@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
X-Original-Message-ID: <Pine.LNX.4.21.0010222052150.15196-100000@shell.dhp.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII
Subject: {ASSM} Poor Little Rich Girl (MFM oral anal) {Kellis}
Date: Mon, 23 Oct 2000 03:10:06 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/26995>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: apuleius, gill-bates
Poor Little Rich Girl
a Short Story by Kellis
Copyright (C) October, 2000, Kellis
"Freeze, damn you, or I'll shoot!"
But then his voice lost its harshness. "Hell, you're Prissy
Perrin!"
At the instant he flicked on the light, she had been standing
across the room, body extended over the couch, one hand holding
the picture aside, the other inside the safe, clutching a stack
of money. She snatched her hand back, scattering a few loose
bills on couch and floor, and released the picture, which swung
down upon the open safe door with a clunk. Langley almost
smiled; he had broken the glass that originally covered that
print the same way years ago. She sagged with one knee on the
couch, both hands on the couch back, body twisted uncomfortably,
and stared at him from a pale, anguished face.
He advanced into the room, closing the door to the dark hall
behind him, letting his pistol point slightly away from her.
"Tell me, my dear: what is my neighbor's daughter doing dressed
in black like a cat burglar with her hand in my ready cash?"
Her eyes darted right and left, then back to his pistol. She
swallowed and answered weakly, "T-trying to be one, I guess."
"A cat burglar? Well, I agree that you've almost dressed the
part, even to black sneakers. But what is that on your head,
your father's golfing beret? It covers up your hair but is
probably easier to see even than your blonde curls. And don't
you know you should blacken your face?"
Her mouth twisted. "I was afraid I couldn't get it off."
"Is this some college prank?"
She hesitated. Her chin trembled. "Would you believe me if I
said it was?"
"No. Turn around and sit down, Prissy, before you hurt your back
in that contortion."
She obeyed with a sigh, hands falling on her black bejeaned
knees. She was wearing a black sable short coat, also not the
recommended texture for nighttime invisibility, though he forbore
mentioning it. She stared up at him anxiously, licking dry lips,
as he stood in front of her, the pistol still only slightly
averted.
"The last I heard, you were a sophomore at Fieldsmith. This is
February, Prissy. What are you doing home?"
"They threw me out."
"Did they indeed! Grades too low?"
"No."
"Then why did they throw you out, Prissy?"
"Will you quit calling me that? My name is Melissa."
"Well, I can't see much change since you swam with my daughters.
I think you're still Miss Prissy. Why did they throw you out of
school?"
"Your daughters -- especially Edna -- are the prissy ones!"
He nodded slightly. "I might agree with you about Edna. Why did
Fieldsmith ask you to leave, Prissy?"
She sighed. "They said I'm a delinquent."
"A delinquent! I thought delinquency was Fieldsmith's main
prerequisite for admission."
She smiled tightly. "It may be."
"Did they catch you cheating, Prissy?"
Her shoulders slumped and her face dropped. "My history prof's
wife caught _him_ cheating."
"How did that involve -- Oh, I see. Were you trying to improve
your grade, Prissy?"
"No. Well, that too."
"I know a professor of history at Fieldsmith. It wasn't
Carstairs, was it?"
She sighed, nodding.
"What happened?"
"She walked in on us in his office."
"What were you doing?"
"He was ... He was eating me."
Langley chuckled. "And a gourmet feast I'm sure it was, too!
That sounds like Carstairs. He always wanted to taste. I take
it that wasn't your first time."
"Oh, no. I went to his office every Tuesday and Thursday
afternoon all winter."
He nodded. "Always at the same time of day, I'm sure."
"Three o'clock, when neither of us had a class."
"Of course. And Madam Carstairs grew suspicious, did she?"
"I guess. God, she's a big woman! She had a key, walked right
in, grabbed my arm and threw me out in the hall. She threw my
clothes after me." The girl rubbed her upper arm. "Still got
the bruises." Her chin rose and red spots appeared on her
cheeks. "That's what caused all the trouble, I think. I had to
dress in the hall. The dean heard the commotion and came to
investigate."
"Commotion?"
"Catcalls and whistles." Her expression changed. "His wife said
something to him I didn't understand. 'You're certainly no Marc
Antony.'"
He chuckled slightly. "Permit me to enlighten you. Carstairs
once wrote a paper claiming to deduce that Cleopatra demanded
cunnilinctus from all her lovers."
"Oh... Oh!"
"What then befell my good friend, Professor Carstairs?"
"I don't know. They put me on the plane before dark."
"This happened recently, I take it?"
"Monday."
"I'll have to give him a call." Langley grinned maliciously.
"I'm sure he'll enjoy discussing it with me... Well, Prissy,
you've accounted for your presence in Newport, but you have a bit
more ground to cover before we get to your hand in my ready
cash."
He pulled up a straight chair before her and sat in it. She eyed
the pistol still pointing near her, then his lounging robe, the
almost hairless bare legs and the slippers on his feet. "Were
you in bed? It's not even eight o'clock."
"I was on my way. I noticed the light indicating my safe door
ajar. I had heard a noise earlier but passed it off." He looked
toward the French doors and smiled. "Did you stumble over that
smoking stand?"
She nodded with an expression of chagrin.
"I put the two together and fetched this new Beretta with me when
I came to investigate. Isn't it a lovely piece?"
"Ah, ah -"
He chuckled. "Perhaps not from your end of it, eh? Now tell me,
Prissy, why didn't you just ask your father for the money you
need?"
She looked away. He saw a tinge of red on her cheeks.
"Don't tell me he took your delinquency hard!"
"Huh!" she grunted and shook her head.
"He's upset over a little fucking, Prissy? Oh, excuse me, of
course you don't use that word. Believe me, he's done more than
a little improper fucking himself! If he's gone all hypocritical
in his old age, I may be able to furnish you some ammunition.
What did he do, reduce your allowance?"
She watched him for a moment. At last she heaved a very deep
sigh and said in a low voice, looking down, "He threw me out,
too." Her head came up to gauge his reaction.
"For _fucking_?" he demanded incredulously.
"For fucking _him_," she answered in the same low voice.
He thought a moment, staring into her almost defiant eyes. "What
do you mean, Prissy?"
"He ... You know I'm not his blood daughter, don't you?"
"Yes, I knew. Your mother married him when you were two or
three, then she died a while back in that plane crash. I see.
You meant it literally, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"When did that start?"
"Start? Huh! It started and ended yesterday. He was ... very
sympathetic. He comforted me. I sat in his lap. I felt his
thing get hard. When I went to lie down he came to my room."
"And did what?"
"You know."
"Tell me, Prissy."
She looked away. "He ate me. I sucked him. Then we fucked."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"Oh, yes. And I thought he did, too!"
"I think I see. This morning he was different, was he?"
"Oh, god, yes! He said that I was 19 and that he wouldn't owe me
anything even if I was his blood daughter. He said I couldn't
live there anymore. He --" She choked but continued gamely.
"He made me leave with just what I was wearing.
"I hid in the bushes and waited until his car left. Then I went
back in through the kitchen. Martha said he left orders to call
the police and charge me with trespassing if I came back. She
let me cry on her, gave me a coke and watched out while I ran
upstairs for a few clothes."
"Including the ones you have on?"
"Yes. I found his beret in the back of the suitcase."
"So what did you do all day?"
"I had about 40 dollars. I hung around at Sloppy Joe's." She
smiled. "Mr. Kilmer offered me a job. All I had to do was dance
with the guys that come in there and let them buy me fake
drinks."
"Did you take it?"
She sniffed. "I may be a blonde but I'm not that dumb!"
"Then what happened?"
"I remembered Edna showing me your safe that you never lock. I
thought I'd get enough money to go back to Fieldsmith, to the
town. Jeffrey -- Professor Carstairs once offered to rent me an
apartment."
"And if his wife has changed his mind?"
Slowly she shook her head. "I thought about that. I don't know
if my idea would work, but it might. I would just offer myself
to the first man who looked prosperous, then the next, until I
found one that would feed me."
"A well thought-out plan! You like fucking that much, do you,
Prissy?"
"I wouldn't have much choice, would I? But I do like ...
fucking."
He chuckled. "Oh, you _do_ know the word!" He took a cell phone
out of a pocket of his robe. She eyed it, her face again turning
white. "If I call 911, you think it'll just be my word against
yours, do you, Prissy?"
"Please don't call 911, Mr. Langley."
"Why not? Don't you think our community needs protection from a
desperate thief?"
Her face tightened. "I'm not a thief!"
He nodded. "True, only because I caught you before you could get
away."
She shivered. "Mr. Langley, isn't there some way ..." Her eyes
narrowed as her voice trailed off.
Suddenly she dived forward off the couch to his feet. Ignoring
the pistol, whose barrel now almost touched her temple, her hands
parted his robe. "I thought I saw it," she cried. "It's already
a boner!"
"What are you going to do about it?" he asked, staring down.
"I'm going to do what you want," she answered submissively, first
looking up into his eyes, then suddenly leaning forward.
He gasped slightly, admitting after a moment, "Yes, Prissy, your
assumption is quite correct." He slipped more forward in his
chair, hips moving slightly in counterpoint to her head. "This
is a convincing argument, my dear. If you continue as well as
you've begun, you could win this first debate."
She backed away slightly. "Do you _have_ to point that gun at
me?"
He chuckled. "Would you believe the last woman who fellated me
at gunpoint was my nanny?"
Her face showed horror. "You threatened to kill her if she
didn't?"
"Not at all. She insisted on it, said it made her feel better
about doing it. But you don't need it, do you, Prissy?"
She shook her head. "Jeffrey was right. Rich old men are
weird!"
"Undoubtedly, only they prefer 'eccentric.' Take off your
clothes, my dear. Let's see just how un-prissy you've grown."
She shrugged, threw her fur coat to the floor, pulled her
sneakers off, got to her feet and pushed her jeans down. "How
would you know the difference?"
He watched her while he let the pistol dangle negligently from a
finger in the trigger guard. "I remember studying you and the
other girls in my pool a few years ago. You say you're 19, which
would make you about 17 then. Hooray for the bikini! I recall
thinking that your tits were well begun with a lot of room to
expand. What I admired most was your perky ass and a most
seductive little belly swell. Edna's tits were better, but
nobody could touch your pudendal pad."
"I always thought I had nice legs."
"It's hard for a teenage girl not to have nice legs."
"You enjoyed comparing us, did you?" she asked, her voice muffled
by a velour blouse as it passed over her head. "Even your
daughters?"
"A man fucks every nubile female he encounters, at least in the
privacy of his own mind." He chuckled. "Some men end up paying
psychiatrists because of that."
"But not you, right?" She was straining to unsnap her brassiere.
He watched closely without offering to help.
"No. The idea that a man should feel guilty for his thoughts is
a religious invention designed to profit the priests."
"How about when you do it instead of thinking it?"
"That's different." He smiled whimsically. "Then it depends on
the girl."
She stepped out of her panties and stood naked before him.
"Well?"
He nodded critically. "Impressive! Lovely, full tits, and the
pudendal swell is a bit more pronounced, if anything. I'm forced
to agree: you are Melissa, not Prissy." He got to his feet, put
the cell phone back in his pocket and drew her against him with
his free arm.
She resisted slightly. "Mr. Langley, I can't run away naked, and
you know you're stronger than I. Would you please put that gun
down? It makes me nervous."
"Then you hold it," he said unconcernedly, putting it into her
hand. "And call me 'Dickie-Pie,' if you please."
Her eyes widened in astonishment. She hefted the weapon, then
examined it closely. "But this is a fake!"
"Please, dear. It's a _replica_: correct weight, color,
everything but function."
"God!" she declared in disgust, letting the thing fall onto the
carpeted floor with a thud.
He grasped her breast with the freed hand. "This feels so much
better anyway."
"God!" she said again, watching as his hand kneaded the soft
flesh, rolling the puckered nipple between forefinger and thumb.
Slowly she smiled. "What did you say to call you?"
"Dickie-Pie."
"Like your nanny?"
"Like a sweet little cocksucker."
Her hand grasped the organ that prodded her belly. "Do you want
me to suck, or do you want to find out what Jeffrey loved?"
"I know what Jeffrey loved. Why not both together?"
"Let me on top."
His eyebrows rose admiringly. "That sounds like the voice of
experience."
"It is! With my head on the couch you could jam it down my
throat. Lay down, Dickie-Pie."
* * * *
After various permutations his torso ended atop hers on the couch
with her legs wrapped around his hips. He raised up, panting
heavier than she, as her legs reluctantly released him. "You do
like to fuck," he gasped, "don't you ... Sweetie-Puss?"
She grinned lazily. "Told you so, Dickie-Pie."
He shook his head, backed away and slipped off the couch to his
feet, where he stood leaning forward, helping to support his
torso by hands extended to his knees. She frowned. "You're all
right, aren't you, sir?"
"Soon as I get my breath! ... You're a marvel, Melissa. Do you
have any idea how many times you came?"
"Who counts?"
He shook his head, straightening up. "I don't believe I ever
knew a girl who could enjoy it so much with a stranger."
"You're no stranger!"
"Perhaps I should have said, 'With a mere acquaintance.'"
She chuckled, deep in her throat, as she sat up on the couch.
"You're a lot more than that, Dickie-Pie."
"Oh?" He grinned in puzzlement. "How's that?"
"You fucked me once before, you know." Her eyebrows rose. "Huh!
Then you truly didn't recognize me?"
He stared at her, several expressions chasing each other across
his face. "Last Halloween?"
She nodded with a giggle.
"That was you? My god, I thought it was Eileen Cam- That is ...
But, dammit, I gave her that Vesuvius mask myself!"
"She had to powder her nose. I borrowed it."
He shook his head. "I can't believe this. I tell you, I
recognized her perfume."
"We can both afford that scent. Well, I could until this
morning."
"Why didn't you stop me, Melissa? When I pulled off your
pom-pom, as I recall, you grabbed the dick of my costume."
"I wanted to see if your real one was in it."
"Of course not!"
"So I found out. But you make a good looking devil, Dickie-Pie."
"You recognized me, then?"
"No, but when I told Eileen that I had fucked the devil standing
up on the dance floor, she had to look. I thought she would
laugh her head off. She knew you, of course. I'm surprised she
didn't tell you about it."
"Huh! She let me believe it was _she_ I was fucking!"
"Now I understand," the girl observed sourly. "She must be
nearly 30 years old. Is my body really so much like hers?"
"In a chorus-girl body suit, yes."
"But you got past the suit."
"Oh, yes. I believe it was Benjamin Franklin himself who first
noted that age matters little in those female parts."
"And I kissed your devil's dick while the real one was in my
cunny. Did you hear the woman beside us in the blue wig? She
said, 'Too bad yours isn't that long, Bugsy.'"
She laughed a silvery peal, but her expression grew solemnly
reflective. "That was a different life."
"Carefree and gay, eh?"
She sighed. "Gone forever, I guess. Will you send me to jail,
Mr. Langley?"
"I might as Mr. Langley, but never as Dickie-Pie."
She rolled forward to the edge of the couch, hand extended to
grasp his shrunken organ. "Then how do I keep Dickie-Pie?"
"That's the way, of course. You can stay here awhile, Melissa,
especially if you ... Hmm. Yes, exactly, but if you suck it up
now, it will only be sore. I was about to say that both girls
are away at school and Eleanor is in Acapulco on one of her
sulks. She won't be back for a month or two, not till she runs
out of beach boys and the weather improves."
"Eleanor? Oh. _Mrs._ Langley! What about the servants?"
"Old Granville died, you know. Heart-attack while bringing
Eleanor her morning coffee. Made a mess on the stairs. And
Abigail left with an attack of terminal pregnancy. Just now
dinner is catered and a crew comes in once a week. Nobody you
know."
"Then I _could_ stay here!" She looked up hopefully. "Would you
let me call Jeffrey?"
"Did you have some particular feeling for him, Sweetie-Puss? I
hate to tell you this, but you're about the fifth coed his wife
has caught him with. I think it's a put-on to terminate the
affair. Especially in your case, if you'd been fucking him all
winter."
"We started after a conference in October. He said such nice
things to me!"
"Of course he did! Sweetie-Puss, to a man our age you are all
the milkshakes, banana-splits, deep-dish cobblers and crusted
bombas rolled into one package, the personification of sweet
love."
"Stop it! You're making me hungry." She sighed. "You're
probably right about Jeffrey. Even I noticed how much he had
cooled down." Slowly her concern faded. "Where would I sleep?"
"Do you have to ask?"
"No, I guess not." She regarded him quizzically. "I've never
actually slept with a ... a grown man. I hope you don't snore."
He chuckled. "I'm told that when I do, my tongue comes out and
wiggles up and down."
"It _doesn't_!"
"Where's your suitcase, Sweetie-Puss?"
"Just outside those French doors. By the way, Dickie-Pie, why
did you put your _safe_ in a room with French doors, anyway?"
"When the safe was put here, that wall was solid. Eleanor cut
the doors and built the balcony. Did Edna also tell you about
the key under the flower pot?"
"Yes, she did."
"That girl! I wonder who else she's told! Slip your shoes on
long enough to bring in your suitcase, and lets go to the
kitchen. Even I can do wonders with a microwave!"
* * * *
"Why do you want to fuck in the servants' foyer, Dickie-Pie?"
He pointed up to the mirrored ceiling. "Because of that."
"Oh." She grinned in anticipation, straining her head back.
"And this." He pressed a button under an arm of the heavily
overstuffed couch. The back obligingly swung down, forming a
wide, soft bed.
"And one other reason. That _is_ an outside door, but no one is
out there this morning, and you'll notice there's not a single
window in this room. Now trot over to that closet like a sweet
puss and fetch back a blanket to cover this couch. We don't want
to stain it, do we?"
Throwing off her borrowed peignoir, she scampered nakedly away
and returned with a blanket, smiling up at her reflection. "That
mirror is the main reason, isn't it?"
He grinned. "Don't worry, I won't make you do _all_ the
pushing!"
"Why all this in the servants' entrance?"
"Well, actually, that's an old name for the place when my mother
lived here. The back drive is right out there. When I was a
young blade, that mirror often got sweated up at night. The
ceiling in this room is lower than most others, you'll notice."
"I'll bet you fucked every girl for miles around."
"No, dear. It wasn't like today. The pill was new and a lot of
girls were slow to use it. But I got my share and then some."
He grinned. "Still do."
"Yet you were home alone last night."
"Well, I can't keep up the pace I managed 25 years ago, can I?"
He chuckled. "One way around that is to use _this_ instrument
more." He waggled his tongue at her. "Lie down on the bed and
pull your knees up. By the way, can you make a Viennese Oyster?"
She grinned. "Jeffrey told me about that."
"_He_ would! Can you?"
In a jiffy she was bouncing on her arched back, heels behind her
head, buttocks and pudendum raised, shoulders and arms resting on
the bottoms of her thighs. She laughed at his popping eyes.
"This is what you meant, right?"
"Oh, yes!" he breathed. He knelt on the bed and caressed the
upturned cheeks. "How remarkable, no acne! Everyone who sits
much has acne around the bottom of the butt." He leered at her
smug expression. "May I gather you spent more time on your back
or knees than sitting?"
"Jeffrey gets the credit. He gave me a cream to use and
inspected me every time."
"I can just imagine his inspection: rather like the one I'm
about to perform, wasn't it!"
He spread her labia and bent to the aromatic fissure. After the
briefest licks, he raised up slightly to look at her. "Thank
you, my dear. You applied the bourbon douche, I see."
"I wondered if you'd notice. How about using your fingers, too,
Dickie-Pie?"
He chuckled and bent to her again. She sighed, hips quivering,
staring into the mirror. "Oh, Dickie-Pie! I love this view."
But her eyes soon drifted shut. Nostrils flaring, she moaned in
time with the strokes of his fingers. The moans soon became a
scream when his tongue lashed her mercilessly. She forced his
head away roughly.
"You did that better last night!" she complained from a red face.
"I want you at maximum sensitivity this morning. Now raise your
heels and take some of my weight on your calves and thighs."
He slipped into her as her legs rose. Her heels hooked over his
shoulders. "Ah, yes," he breathed with a smug grin. "That deep
enough for you, Sweetie-Puss?"
"Oh, god!" she said distinctly. "I'm coming again!"
Her body convulsed under him. He maintained steady, deep
thrusts. She began an orgasmic cycle of short screams, temporary
rigidity, then gradually increasing hip motion and sphincter
closure leading again to short screams. "Magnificent!" he
murmured, studying her flushed countenance with admiration and no
little envy.
After several cycles the main door behind them swung open with a
sudden crack of the latch, admitting a blast of cold air. The
girl stiffened. Langley reached past her to the edge of the
blanket and folded it back over her face before swiveling his
torso to identify the intruder.
It was a man in casual clothing too light for travel in the snow.
Langley recognized him immediately when he turned back from
closing the door. "God damn it, Gil, have you forgot how to
knock?"
"Sorry, Bob. Guess I have. I didn't know you were _fucking_ in
here, for Christ's sake! Though I should've guessed. Your phone
is turned off again, isn't it?"
The girl tried to lower her legs, but Langley caught them in his
hands while his hips resumed a slow thrusting. Her hands were
poised on the couch to twist away, but she held still.
"Have you heard something or were you just feeling sociable."
The newcomer sniffed. "That girl! Where is she, upstairs
asleep?"
Langley grunted. "Do you think I stay in touch with her every
minute?"
"Are you sure she didn't run out again last night?"
"No, I checked on her before we talked. As a matter a fact, I
had breakfast with her about nine. Now that you mention it, I
think she _is_ lying down again. She needs it, Gil. She's had
it hard."
"Yeah. She _makes_ it hard! But I think we're getting to the
bottom of it. Bellingham's operator uncovered a key fact last
night, a contradiction in the bartender's recollection."
"Hmm."
"Dammit, will you stop fucking and talk to me?"
"I _am_ talking to you, Gil."
"Say, that's a nice cunt you've got turned up there!"
"Thank you, on the cunt's behalf. With a dick in them they don't
often have much to say. What was the contradiction?"
"Who is she?" the newcomer asked, hand reaching for the blanket
edge.
"Unh-uh! Hold on, Gil. You might know her."
"I might, huh? Madison's maid that he had to fire last week?"
Langley laughed. "Madison's maid indeed!"
"Good god, not his wife!" But Gil immediately shook his head.
"No, no, this cunt's too young. What a smooth ass on her! Bob,
are you treating her right? Why don't you let her put her legs
down before your weight gives her a backache?"
"Look here, Gil, I thought you were concerned about your
stepdaughter."
"I am, Bob. I wish I'd been a bit more sympathetic -- Say, that
cunt looks familiar!"
"Oh?"
"Bob, I'll bet you a couple of Gs I've been in that one, too!"
Langley nodded sagely. "It's possible, I guess. But I have to
protect her identity. After all, you burst in here on us. Do
you know, I could charge you with trespass?"
"Trespass?" Gil laughed a little. "As many times as we've
walked in on each other before? Remember the time you caught me
with Melissa's schoolteacher? Trespass! Don't be silly."
"Of course, I only mention it because you seem intent on exposing
my partner, here. If you raise that blanket, Gil, our friendship
is at an end."
"Good god! She means that much to you?" The man drew back, hand
to chin, considering the gently moving couple with calculating
eyes. "Where are your girls, Bob?"
"You leave my girls out of this!"
"That's one of your daughters, isn't it?"
"No, you fool! I wouldn't screw my own daughter."
"Prove it."
"What?"
"Let me raise the blanket."
"Absolutely not!"
But Gil chuckled slightly. "That's Edna's car under your south
portico, isn't it?"
"No, damn it! That's one I had for the maid's use before she
left. Somehow it just never got put in its stall."
"Yeah. _Somehow_! Which one is she, Bob? Edna or Ruthie?"
"God damn it, Gil, you're becoming insulting."
"Am I? If she's not your daughter, then let _me_ screw her."
"Do what? Don't be ridiculous! What would it prove if I _did_
let you?"
"I bet I could identify her, if she isn't your daughter. Ha!
Dammit, one way or the other I'll get to the bottom of this." He
began to remove his clothing.
"Gil, what the hell are you doing? Don't you know you can't just
waltz into a man's house and fuck his woman?"
"Can't I?" The man stepped out of his britches. "I can if it's
not really _his_ woman! Now move over and let her put her legs
down."
Langley drew a deep breath, hips stilled at last. "You won't
bother that blanket?"
"I won't touch it."
"Then see that you don't."
Langley lowered the girl's legs. He could feel her tremble. Gil
waddled onto the couch to take his place, hand working himself
under his shirt tails. He caught her under the buttocks and
lifted them up onto his thighs. He explained, "I have to sit up,
sweetie, so as not to touch Bob's precious blanket." He leaned
slightly forward. "But I think we can still get the job done.
Hey, a juicy one! I swear to you, Bob, I've been in this cunt
before."
"You've been in a lot of them, Gil. But I'll tell you: that's a
funny way to look for your missing girl."
"Yeah, it is, isn't it." The man grinned, thrusting vigorously.
But shortly he desisted and pulled the girl's hips higher in his
lap. "That's not _your_ juice in her!"
Langley agreed dryly, "It seems I was interrupted."
"Look at that big rose. Not much doubt about this one, is
there?"
"What do you mean? What are you doing, Gil?"
The girl's body stiffened and her fists clenched but she made no
objection to his slowly sliding penetration. "Ah, good!" the man
declared. "When they're that juicy above, Bob, they're ready
below." He looked up appraisingly at his friend. "Did you ever
do a Boston Treadle?"
"One or twice, when I was in school. Takes a limber girl."
"This one is limber, or I miss my guess. Come on, help me raise
her bottom."
Stepping carefully, Langley crouched over the girl's torso facing
his friend while the latter rose to a similar crouch. One hand
each on her opposite hips, they raised her genital area to an
appropriate height, dragging her face from beneath the blanket,
still concealed from Gil by the intervening bodies. She looked
up with horror into Langley's buttocks.
Gil used his free hand to present himself again to her anus,
while Langley depressed himself between her labia. Now
supporting her hips aloft firmly, each with both hands, the men
began an alternate thrusting.
"The only trouble with this," Gil groused, "is that I have to
smell your cognac breath."
Langley sniffed. "I was just thinking how much more agreeable
this was in the frat house. If it goes on much longer _I'll_
have back trouble!"
"Hey!" called a soprano voice beneath them. "Don't stop now!"
"The hell with this," Langley declared. "Gil, pull out and turn
around."
"What you got in mind?"
"A regular old Greek sandwich. Soon as she's on top of me, you
put in from behind. You're the one that speaks back-street,
after all."
Gil turned around. Langley stretched out beside the girl,
helping her reverse and crawl atop him. She sighed with an
introspective expression as he slipped into her. If recent
developments worried her, they were not apparent.
"Okay, Gil, we're ready."
The younger man knelt behind her between the spread pairs of
legs. In a moment they had established a synchronous rhythm.
"I feel you," Gil announced, licking his lips.
"This compression pattern is unique," Langley agreed.
"You can say that again!" declared the girl. She began to moan.
Langley said reminiscently, "Remember that bar girl in
Providence?"
"Like it was yesterday. She loved this, too."
"And wasn't it you with me on the lake at Buffalo? That was a
bunch who loved it."
Gil nodded. "I think all women love this, if they can find
trustworthy men to do it. Listen to her!"
Melissa had begun to utter soprano gasps that were small screams.
Her hips were rolling vigorously upon the vaginal penetration.
Suddenly she shuddered while otherwise rigid, though the men
continued relentlessly. Soon she relaxed and restarted her hip
rolls. The moans were not far behind.
"How long can she keep this up?" Gil asked in wonder.
"I think you probably know better than I," Langley replied,
moving easily, leaving most of the work to the tireless girl.
Gil smiled. "I knew who she was as soon as she spoke. How long
have you been fucking her, Bob?"
"Apparently once last Halloween, then last night. Didn't you
tell me your _wife_ put her into your bed when she was 13?
That's kinkier even than usual for Newport."
"Mabel thought my enthusiasm was flagging. She sure stirred it
up, I'll admit!"
Langley chuckled. "Last night Melissa let me believe you only
fucked her the once in sympathy for her problem with that
asshole, Carstairs."
"Huh! The _only_ truth in all that bull she shot you was the bit
about Carstairs. But I think I understand the whole thing now,
and we've got a problem. Can I count on your help with Judge
Powell?"
The girl screamed out another orgasm. When she relaxed into a
quieter part of her cycle, Langley responded, "You mean the lad
they thought was driving?"
"Yeah. It doesn't sit right, letting him take the rap."
"Don't jump the gun, Gil. I want to hear what Melissa has to say
about it first."
Gil grunted. "She's in no condition to talk coherently."
"Oh, I don't know. Hold still."
"What? Are you kidding?"
"Not a bit. At present you and I are in excellent positions to
judge her veracity."
"'To judge -' All right. How will you proceed?"
With both men holding themselves rigid, very shortly the girl
raised her mouth off Langley's shoulder. "Why did you stop?" she
asked aggrievedly.
Langley said quietly, "We want to hear you say who was really
driving night before last."
"Can't we talk about that latter?"
"We will! But that's the crucial question, and Melissa, you
_know_ that neither of us will ever turn you in! Hell, if we did
you could probably charge us with worse."
She sighed. "I was driving." She craned her neck to look back
at her stepfather. "You're in this together, aren't you?"
He leered. "And a wonderful _this_ it is, too!" He resumed his
thrusts.
She turned wild-eyed back at Langley. He smiled gently, pulled
her face down and kissed her. "Just enjoy it, Melissa. We'll
talk later." He, too, resumed the slow rotation of his hips.
* * * *
"Now maybe you'll tell me. What was the bartender's
contradiction?"
The girl lay naked on the opened couch, legs drawn up with a hand
between them, thumb of the other hand in her mouth. She had
collapsed so when the men left her. Now her eyes were closed and
her breathing was regular. Langley had resumed his robe and sat
in a nearby chair watching Gil desultorily recover his own
clothing.
Gil paused to pull the blanket over the girl's torso, then
resumed buttoning his shirt as he answered. "Bellingham's man
noted it last night before we understood the significance. A bar
fly who was there Wednesday night, too, heard the bartender -
name of Kilmer - say then that Melissa was driving when they
left, but last night Kilmer told Bellingham's detectives that the
kid, Pershing, was the driver. Thinking it over this morning
after I talked to you, and noting Sloppy Joe's number on my
Caller ID record, I realized what it all meant, that we didn't
have to interrogate Melissa." He grinned. "Though it's nice to
have her admission. And one other thing, if she'll tell the
truth. How much was Kilmer shaking her down for?"
"$10,000," the girl announced sleepily, not looking up.
"Have you already paid him anything?" asked Langley.
"The $5,000 I got for my car."
"When were you supposed to pay the rest?"
"Tonight. He said if he didn't hear before supper he'd call the
cops and tell them he made a mistake."
"Who actually saw you in the driver's seat when you left Sloppy
Joe's?"
"I don't see how anyone could. It was snowing awfully hard."
"Did you tell anyone in the bar you would drive?"
"I let David lean on me to get out the door. I guess anyone who
noticed could see he was wall-stoned."
"'Wall-stoned,'" Langley repeated, chuckling a little. "That
says it, doesn't it? So you poured him in his car and set out to
drive him home, did you? What's he to you?"
"A good friend."
Gil, buckling his belt, snorted. "For the past several years! I
caught them humping on a pool table when she was 14."
She retorted defensively, "He and I could always tell each other
anything. But now he's at odds with his mother. He drinks too
much."
Langley continued, "The accident happened two blocks away. You
were still driving when you hit the city bus. How did you manage
to smack a lamp pole half a block further on?"
"I'd been drinking, too. I already have two DWIs. They'd take
my license."
"So you moved David into the driver's seat, eh? After all, it
was his car. Where was your car?"
"In the Sloppy Joe parking lot. It stayed there until I met
Harry from the used car lot to sign his papers. At least he was
willing."
"Yeah," Gil agreed dryly, "I guess he was: a 40 grand Corvette
for five."
"So you immediately turned the money over to Kilmer, did you, and
set about locating the next five?"
"I'm sorry, Daddy," she said in a small voice.
"I am, too," Gil agreed, "but mainly that you didn't understand
you could have come to me -- that you _should_ have come to me
right away!"
She sighed. "Have you forgot what you told me at the last one?"
"That was just in hopes of slowing you down. Don't you know I
could never really throw you out?"
"You said I was 18 then and even if you were my real daddy you
wouldn't owe me anything."
Gil looked away shamefaced.
"What about David Pershing?" asked Langley. "They've charged him
with DWI and hit-and-run, plus a few other things like reckless
driving. Where's his father? Why is he still in jail?"
"His father's dead," the girl explained, eyes lowered. "He's
afraid to tell his mother."
"I see. Gil, will you take care of the expenses, the repair
bills, all that?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Have Bellingham look into Kilmer's past. He's bound to
find _something_! I'll get David out of jail and speak to the
judge. He owes me one or two. Melissa, look at me. You've got
to have confidence in your men."
"My men?"
"I count myself in that august assemblage. Let me say, have
confidence in your _old_ men. Remember what I told you last
night about sweet food?"
"Yes. Now you're making me thirsty! Do my old men include
Jeffrey?"
"Definitely!" declared Gil.
Langley regarded him curiously, then smiled. "Ah, yes. Now I
remember how thick you and he used to be. Did that have a
bearing on your confidence in the Boston Treadle?"
Gil chuckled slightly. "As a matter of fact, Jeffrey and I
introduced her to it. She's right. Aren't we all thirsty? I
know you've got lots to drink in this place."
Langley gestured to the inside door. "The refrigerator next door
is supposed to be stocked. You two go ahead. I need to make a
few phone calls."
END
kellis@dhp.com
Stories Gratis at http://www.dhp.com/files/Authors/kellis/www
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+