Pet Shop Pussy

Pamela Harper lay alone in her bed with the awareness, the
growing concern and concomitant anxiety, that her life was
basically empty. No matter how hard she tried to structure it, to
give it a unifying sense of order or purpose, she sensed that
without someone next to her to share her dreams, her goals and
aspirations, life wasn't really worth a dime.
How many mornings have I awakened like this ... with nothing,
just a career, but no one alongside of me? This question and
others passed across her mind. She looked up and stared at the
ceiling as if she was searching for an answer, a solution to the
emptiness in her heart.
Love was the problem, and at twenty-eight it seemed to be her
biggest concern. The daily hassles of making a living, of running
a business and making ends meet, were not nearly as disconcerting
as the fact that she was not in love. Indeed, she was acutely
aware of the last time she had felt anything akin to romantic
involvement, and that had been more than five years before, right
after she had graduated from college.
But the past five years she referred to as a desert, a
wasteland.
Men had come and gone, in and out of her life. Had she been
a woman who was basically unappealing, physically as well as
mentally, she would have been able to give herself a much needed
rationalization for her overwhelming sense of loneliness. But
there was no way for her to convince herself that men didn't turn
somersaults over her.
And that too was a problem, keeping them off of her, getting
them out the door before things really took on a leering shade of
carnal red. Like what had happened last night, for example. She
thought of that now, glad too that it was Sunday morning and she
didn't have to get out of bed and get the shop open and ready for
customers.
On Sundays she had a neighborhood boy clean out the pens and
feed the animals, so she didn't have to worry about getting up and
rushing out of her apartment. That was what Dick Truman had told
her, too. "You don't have to get up early tomorrow, Pam, so
what's the big hassle, anyway?"
It had been less of a question than a statement. No, time
hadn't been the hassle. Only Dick Truman, anxious to have her on
a silver platter like a roast suckling pig. He's the pig, she
said to herself, shuddering at the thought and then wondering too
if she just might be frigid ... or maybe even just a little bit
frigid.
After all, Dick was certainly an attractive guy. But he was
too pushy for her, too much of a hard-drinking bruiser. He didn't
have a gentle touch and that had turned her off from him, from the
very first.
I just won't accept any more dates from him, that's all, she
decided, right then and there. Pam wondered if it had been her
fault, if she had led the man on, agreeing to go out with him for
what had been four dates over as many weeks. And last night had
been the clincher, that's for sure.
"What are you, some cockteasing ball-buster!" he had shouted
when they were alone in her apartment, when she had once again
rebuffed his sexual advances, feigning first a headache and then a
lack of interest in making love with him.
"Just get out of here and leave me alone," she had snapped
back, sorry she had ever been conned--for that was the way Pam saw
it--into letting him come into the apartment for a nightcap. "A
nightcap isn't a euphemism for let's fuck, Mr. Truman!"
"I don't think you'd know how, anyway, kiddo," the man had
replied, as cocky and sure of himself as she had always felt him
to be. "Have a good life, baby, a good long horny life." And with
that he had let himself out, slamming the door behind him.
She hated herself for breaking down after he had stormed out,
for collapsing on the couch, her body racked with sobs. Because
what Pamela Harper couldn't deal with was the fact that whatever
Dick had said somehow rang true. She hadn't enjoyed sex with a
man in ages, more than just weeks or even a month or two.
And she knew it was abnormal to stifle her desires, to
squelch her sexual appetites, all in the name of love. It wasn't
as if she was a virgin, or even an old maid. At the ripe young
age of twenty-eight she was more of a woman than ever before.
Full-hipped, narrow-waisted, blessed with a plentiful and upthrust
bustline and features which seemed to remind men of the heads
adorning cameo pins, she was a woman who was very much aware of
her own allure, her sexual magnetism, in particular.
Hadn't she caught the boy who helped her out during the week
and on Sundays, giving her the eye? She knew she had, knew that
half of the sales she made at her shop were partly due to the fact
that not only was she a natural born saleswoman, but the fact that
she was too lush and seductive to say no to.
Truman had felt that, she decided. But she had been the one
who had said no to him, the one who had denied him not only his
pleasure, but also hers in addition. Not for one minute did she
doubt that he would be good in bed. But she wasn't in love with
him and knew that there was no chance in the world she would ever
be.
"But you don't have to be in love to get fucked," he had told
her that night, rephrasing a line he had used on each of their
four dates. "It's just nice to sleep with someone, to give
someone pleasure and get pleasure as a result ... of giving, of
giving to someone else, Pam."
He had been earnest, she knew, but it still hadn't changed
the situation nor changed her mind one iota. "They don't
understand me, Bix. That's the problem," she said aloud. "They
just don't know what kind of person I am. I give, I have feelings
... don't I?"
In response, Bix crawled up from where he had been sleeping
at the foot of Pam's bed. He sat up and cocked his head to the
side; his dark liquid brown-black eyes seemingly reflecting her
every questioning thought and turn of mood.
"You're a good boy, Bixie. You understand me ... not like
anyone else," she went on. She reached out and ran her fingers
over the top of the Scottish terrier's head. He yapped happily
and scooted up over the covers to sit on top of her chest.
Despite his thirty pounds of hard bone and muscle, his weight
was not in the least bit uncomfortable. Her hands snaked down
along the Scottie's flanks and she ran her fingers through the
thicker fur along his sides, then down over his back where the
hair had just been stripped.
It was tough as nails, wiry and jet-black.
"You're a champ, ya know that, Bixie. You're Champion Sir
Bix Reliant. That's what it says on your papers. But you're just
good old Bixie to me, feller."
In response, the dog lay down on top of her blanketed body,
arched his short muscular neck and proceeded to lavish her face
with kisses. His spoon-shaped tongue slapped raspily over her
cheeks and lips and she smiled contentedly to herself.
At least animals understand me, she thought, knowing she had
chosen a perfect profession. She ran a pet shop--Pam's Pet Palace
said the brightly lettered sign over her front windows. All day
she was surrounded by the chattering and chirping, the barking and
meowing of monkeys and parrots, puppies and kittens.
But when she came home at night, all she had was Bix,
faithful and there for her. But still a dog, not a man. Now, the
Scottie continued to lick her face with his rough raspy-edged
tongue. Pam hugged him close against her, wanting to cry but
unable to produce tears to sluice down her cheeks.
The anguish was there, but trapped, locked inside of her.
She didn't even feel sorry for herself, either, despite what she
saw as an accumulation of thwarted passions, or perhaps just a
lack of emotion, her feelings stifled inside of her.
Whether or not it was a defense mechanism, a subconscious
barrier she put up around herself to ward off men, was something
that only a psychiatrist could tell her. And since she was not in
analysis, she had to rely on her own sense of self. She'd
introspected on matters such as these for years, never coming up
with an answer that would somehow save the day and save her life
from the drudgery of being alone.
Now, Bix was there for her and she knew it was better than
nothing. The dog was obviously quite content to lie on top of
her. He was slightly oversized for the breed, though judges
hadn't ever held it against him. But now that he had earned his
points and his title of "Champion," she had decided to forego the
showing for awhile, realizing that involving herself with the dog
had just been another way of whiling away the hours, passing the
time between working and sleeping. Or maybe, she told herself
then, just living and dying.
Self-defeat, self-pity, were the two emotions she feared most
of all, even more than opening up to others, laying herself
vulnerable and bare, naked inside and out. She gave her
affections to her animals, to Bix in particular. And when his
tongue slid down from her lips to move back and forth along her
chin and the edge of her neck, the pleasure it afforded her could
not be easily dismissed.
She let go of him then and raised her hands above her head,
yawning, tossing her bouncy honey-blonde tresses this way and
that. The mirror right across from her reflected her every move
and she could see her face coming back at her, a face that was
still not alive to the start of another day.
The covers slid down around her waist as she propped the
pillows up behind her back and reached over to the night table to
get a cigarette. Pam never wore pajamas or a nightgown to bed,
preferring to sleep in the nude, just the sheets and bedding
touching her naked flesh.
And today was no exception. The covers were crumpled up
around her waist and just as she struck a match for her cigarette,
she gave a start and looked down, amazed by what Bix had taken
upon himself to perform.
He was still lying down on top of the blankets. But now, he
had turned his attentions away from her face, his tongue sliding
hotly right between her naked and rounded breasts. She lit the
cigarette then, inhaled deeply and pressed her head back against
the foam rubber pillows.
She could see what was happening reflected in the mirror and
the sight was oddly intriguing as much as it was just plain
amusing. Bix seemed determined to lick every inch of her body, as
if he was grooming her for the show ring the way she had so
diligently groomed him.
And Pam had no desire in the world to put a stop to the dog's
oral attentions. The slurp of his tongue could be heard and she
trembled as he slid his cold wet nose over until it rubbed against
one of her sleeping nipples.
Idly, she reached down with one hand and ran the tips of her
fingers over one nipple and then the other. "See the little nose,
Bixie," she giggled, amusing herself as she caught one flaccid
nipple between her thumb and forefinger, shoving it forward right
in the dog's face.
Bix lashed out with his tongue slurping over the nugget of
tit-flesh she pushed in his face. Pam sighed languidly and pushed
the covers back, letting the cool air which circulated through the
opened bedroom windows caress her tawny thighs, the smooth and
slightly rounded hillock of her belly.
She watched Bix as he continued to lick this way and that.
And when she finally let go of her nipple, she was not even
surprised to see how its previously flaccid state had undergone a
marked change. Now, both of her nipples seemed perky, taut,
standing up stiffly and capping her full rounded breasts.
And as the Scottie kept licking them, they seemed to grow
even more turgid, hard fleshy points like bright pink berries.
Another shiver coursed through her body and she gently eased the
dog down. She spread her thighs apart to make room for him
between her legs.
"You're a good boy, Bix, a real gentleman," she whispered
with a pleased and affectionate smile, never doubting the dog's
loyalty or devotion to her, a sense of always being where no man
in the last five years had ever convinced her of truly feeling.
But she missed men and even more with each passing day. She
was acutely aware of her lacks, her needs and it came as no
surprise to her when her hands seemed to move on their own accord.
Almost involuntarily, as if they had a mind of their own, they
slid down until her fingers were pressing against the top of Bix's
black-haired head.
"Come on, Bixie. You know how to do it," she said in a
whisper that was clearly authoritarian, the sound of her voice the
same tone as when she had first begun to train the Scottie.
Bixie didn't bark or attempt to pull away, despite the
uncomfortable and insistent pressure of Pam's two hands. Instead,
he crouched down and then buried his face forward, just as she
lifted her legs so that her knees were raised up and the soles of
her feet were flat against the top of the mattress.
When she let go of his head, she whimpered softly, savoring
the way Bix's tongue was now moving in almost concentric circles,
lashing around her tawny pubic mound. Her eyes were glued between
her legs and she stared at herself, knowing every detail of her
body, but still pleased with her appearance.
The narrow triangular crop of short wiry dark-blonde pubic
hair was being licked again and again. Bix was drooling over her
pussy and she knew from past experience that the very smell of her
cunt, even after she had just washed herself or taken a shower,
turned the dog on to a most remarkable degree.
There was no need to tempt him; to coat her pussy with
whipped cream or jam. All she had to do now was lean back against
the pillows and enjoy his oral caresses, the attentive and
diligent way his tongue was snaking her meaty pubic mound.
She kept staring even as the first telltale flickers of
delight began to grow more noticeable, welling up inside of her.
The walls of her cunt were soon fluttering spasmodically, gently
undulating and fibrillating against each other.
A thin oily trickle of vaginal sap rolled down the length of
her canal, oozing out like dripping syrup, right between the thin
narrow lips of her pussy. And when Bix tried to push his tongue
between them, she didn't hesitate to encourage him further.
"That's it, good boy, keep going; Bixie don't stop," she
urged, her fingers sliding hotly up and down her body, her palms
rotating over her stiff-standing and inflamed nipples. Finally,
she reached down between her legs and even as Bix's tongue
continued to probe the damp recesses of her vulva, her fingers
grabbed hold of the twin flaps of puffy and tingling meat that
bordered her gash.
She splayed them back with a single fluid motion of her
hands. She sucked in her breath as well as she exerted pressure,
peeling her cunt lips wide to expose the raw glistening meat of
her clitoris and vulva. The pulpy button of cunt-flesh was
already jutting out like the tip of a baby's little finger.
Her training now paid off, for the instant she peeled back
her vaginal lobes, the dog took a deep sniff and worked his tongue
right over the erect little nugget of meat that was her clitoris.
A spastic shiver of raw delight made her legs shudder and she
gasped loudly as she felt the flicker of delight growing in
strength, welling up inside of her pussy.
It was always like this, this slow and deliciously torturous
ascent to the point of climax, the pinnacle of raw erotic release.
"Come on, good boy, more," she whispered, demanding that the
Scottie service her.
She thrust her crotch forward and her hips began to undulate
with rhythmic insistence, her body writhing gently on the bed.
More and more cunt juice spilled down from the shuddering walls of
her pussy, only to be gobbled down, slurped and sucked up by the
dog's fast-moving tongue.
And the more Bix licked and tongued her pussy, his tongue
actually pistoning in and out from between the trembling puffy
lips of her vagina, the more aroused Pam Harper fast became. She
could feel her climax growing in strength and she began to buck
and heave, jerking her crotch back and forth against the terrier's
lowered face.
Her strenuous shivering motions seemed to spur the dog on and
Bix's hard raspy tongue almost nipped at her cunt as she felt the
way the animal was sucking down the thick rivulets of oily musky
sap which sluiced down along the walls of her pussy.
Her cunt was swampy and overheated now, but she didn't want
to come ... not right this instant, in any event. So rather than
shorten her pleasures, she sought to prolong them by lifting her
legs back until her knees were pressing down against her tits and
the smooth white cheeks of her boyish ass jutted out in the
Scottie's direction.
The gamy sour odor of her anus had, so she had discovered
when Bix was just a puppy, always aroused the dog's oral
attentions. This Sunday morning was certainly no exception, for
no sooner had she thrust her bottom out in his direction when Bix
dug deeper, shoving his snout and then his swift-moving little
tongue, right between the warm supple cheeks of her delectable
bottom.
A low-pitched sigh of ecstasy escaped Pam's lips the instant
she felt Bix's tongue licking and dabbing at the pink puckered
folds of her anus. The hairless rosy aperture began to clench and
unclench like a toothless mouth as she worked her sphincter
muscles as if to egg the dog on to greater and greater feats of
oral--and now, analingual--excess.
He never fails me, she thought to herself as the dog's tongue
palpitated the rim of her anus. She reached down then and pulled
her buns as far apart as she could, stretching the narrow slick
opening of her fundament.
Bix's tongue actually worked its way right inside to the
inner edge of her rectum. And as soon as this was accomplished,
Pam let go of her buttocks and rammed her stiffened index finger
right down between the twin puffy lips of her cooze.
"Shit, do it! More, eat me, lick me!" she cried out,
shuddering more violently as her passions began to erupt with
demonic force and intensity.
There was no stopping her, or Bix for that matter, after
that.
Her index finger surged in and out as she pistoned it down
into her pussy, farther than the length of the terrier's tongue
could allow. The wet slippery walls of her cunt surged together
to embrace her digit and a second finger soon followed the searing
path of the first, the two of them moving in unison, held stiffly
and tightly together.
She scissored them open and shut around the stalk of her
steamy cut and the friction thus produced made her body thrash
more vigorously on the bed. Any second and she knew it would
happen, her orgasm descending upon her like a bolt of lightning.
But she tried to hold it back for as long as possible, the
floodgates of ecstasy about to break down and the rush of pleasure
stream like boiling water through her excited body. And all this
time, Bix was still licking and reaming her asshole, rimming her
out and never growing tired of the task she had rather
effortlessly taught him when he was just a pup.
Her two fingers worked like a cock, plunging more
determinedly in and out of her pussy, scraping up against her clit
in their maddened rush down into her shuddering vagina. She
closed her eyes then and it was just the same as always, the
identical fantasy taking wing in her mind, filling her thoughts
with its pleasurable and highly arousing images.
Her fingers kept moving, swifter than ever as she consciously
dreamed the fantasy that always consumed her when she was moments
away from her climax. In it, she was right where she was now,
lying in bed, with or without Bix. Her blonde hair was spread out
over the white pillowslip like a golden halo and soft rays of
early morning light danced and glinted along the pale blue bedroom
walls.
But she was not asleep, for in her fantasy her eyes were
half-open, capable of seeing everything that was about to take
place. It started when a shadow moved behind the drawn lace
curtains, a silhouette she instinctively knew belonged to a man.
And then a leg, a leg with a scuffed cowboy boot and a covering of
skintight faded denim, slid over the window sill, followed by
another foot and then a body which pushed the window wider so that
the man could gain access into her bedroom.
And there she was, lying in bed, pretending to be asleep, but
seeing everything that was taking place. It was the man of her
dreams, literally as well as figuratively, who now eased himself
into her silent bedroom, invading her home and her privacy.
But in the fantasy, and now in real life, a smile could be
seen etched across her thin pursed lips as she caught sight of the
silent figure staring down at her while she lay in bed.
Languidly, she turned over onto her back, flicking the covers down
as if she was still asleep.
And the man's eyes opened even wider, dark brown eyes that
seemed capable of drilling into her flesh like laser beams. They
gazed in awe and delight at the bristly bush of fur which adorned
her tender virginal pubic mound, highlighting the narrow gash of
her cunt furrow, accenting the drooping lips of her twat now
curling in against each other, furry and warm and slightly damp
with the juices which had oozed down her trench during the night.
She could see his excitement branded like a tattoo across his
face, the way his nostrils dilated as he sucked in his breath, the
way his thickly sensual lips opened slightly as if they were
linked directly to his wide and staring eyes.
And then, she opened her eyes wider and gave a sudden start
of fear, fear that was dealt with in a flash as the stranger threw
himself down on top of the bed. The bedcovers were pulled back
like flimsy tissue paper and he took hold of her supple thighs and
then rammed his flushed and eager face right down between her
spread-eagled legs.
But in the dream she did not scream or fight back, except to
give a sudden shudder of defiance, defiance which vanished the
instant the stranger's lowered head nuzzled against her box and
his tongue lashed out across her warm and inviting pussy.
Yes, do it, lick me, love me, she thought to herself, her
fingers still moving in and out of her cunt as her passions got
ready to erupt like molten lava, her body a volcano about to
explode with fiery vengeance.
It was so clear, so lifelike that when she opened her eyes
she could still see the man lying down, stretched out on the bed,
his jean-clad legs hanging over the foot of the bed and his tongue
lapping frantically across her juicy pubic mound.
She closed her eyes tightly then, as if to reinforce the
potency of her erotic dream, her lusty fantasy. Yes, it was
better this way, Pam decided to herself, still moaning as she felt
her climax about to overwhelm her.
The man no longer frightened her, his startling entrance
through her bedroom window, the way his lips and tongue were
plundering and raping her cunt, all arousing her in a way no man
in her real life had ever succeeded in doing before.
The stranger's hard muscled body turned her on as well and
his thick curly brown hair was soft and baby-fine when she reached
down and ran her fingers through it, gently and lightly caressing
the top of his head.
She had seen too his lean and burly physique and the potent
rounded bulge tenting up the front of his skintight jeans. All
these visual stimuli served to inflame her passions and then, as
she imagined how his tongue would feel as it pistoned in and out
of her cunt, how the edges of his front teeth would nip and chew
up and down the length of her stubby hot clit, she suddenly threw
her legs down over Bix's head and screamed out, knowing that the
moment of pleasure was finally at hand.
She let her passions take control and as she maneuvered a
third finger into place, she was gasping and shaking on the bed,
her limbs shivering involuntarily and her orgasm erupting with all
the fire and delight no man had ever gotten her to feel.
"More, lick me, love me, love me!" she cried out as if the
burly young man in her dream was actually there, standing by the
foot of her bed with a lewd and lascivious grin etched across his
lips.
But when she stared wildly around, even as hot rivulets of
fresh cunt juice streamed down the burning walls of her stimulated
twat, she could see that she was alone with Bix, that no one else
had entered her room, either from the window which led out onto
the fire escape, or through the locked front door of her three-
room apartment.
And a look of anger mingled with the rage of her erotic
release as Pam kept writhing back and forth. Bix continued to
lash his tongue around her anus, licking and nipping at her
bottom-hole while her three fingers plunged and darted deeper and
deeper into her burning snatch.
She was milking herself of every last drop of cunt juice,
every last burning charge of sexual pleasure. Her orgasm was like
a spring suddenly uncoiling inside of her and by the time she had
drained herself dry and Bix had finally pulled his tongue back to
sit up and stare at her flushed and reddened face, Pam was too
exhausted to say or do another thing.
She just lay there on her bed, the rosy-red glow which had
suffused her skin now fading as the blush of fiery pleasure began
to expire like smoldering glowing coals in a dying fire. "Where
are you, you prick! Where the fuck are you hiding?" she screamed
out, her face contorted with anger that grew more intense and
vituperative as she stared wildly around the room.
Had her life been a fairy tale, she would have awakened from
her reveries to discover that they had come true. But today, as
in the past, fantasy had not been transformed into the stuff of
life. A cool breeze fanned the lace curtains and through the
opened window, which led out onto the fire escape, she could hear
the murmur of voices, of children playing out on the street, of a
neighbor arguing with her husband.
But no one, no burly blue-jeaned cowboy-booted young man, was
crouched down on the fire escape, about to lift the window wide
and slide one foot and then the other into her room, entering her
apartment and thus, entering her life.
No tears, not today, Pam said to herself. She patted Bix and
got up out of bed, knowing it was time to face the dull gray
languor of reality ... her reality, her boring and dispassionate
life.



Chapter 2

Living as she did in what had formerly been a rent-controlled
apartment, quite a plum as far as the vast majority of
Manhattanites were concerned, Pam had the added luxury of space,
space which included a kitchen that not only had a window, but
that was also big enough to easily hold a round oak dining table
and four cane-backed chairs.
Nearly all of her friends bemoaned their fate, the exorbitant
rentals they paid in modern luxury buildings. And almost every
one of them were forced to eat in dining alcoves and living rooms,
substituting ventilator grates for kitchen windows.
The late morning sun streamed brilliantly into the kitchen
and the hanging plants, which decorated the window, were lush and
full. There's absolutely no reason to be depressed, Pam told
herself as she sipped her third cup of coffee and idly flicked the
pages of the Sunday Times she had picked up at a newsstand the
night before.
Bix lay stretched out on the yellow tile floor, sunning
himself after having consumed his light morning snack. She looked
down at his furry black body and smiled to herself, pleased with
his loyalty and doubly pleased with the way he never failed to
excite her, knowing almost instinctively what to do to arouse her
passions.
It wasn't so much her training as it was the dog's
temperament and seemingly natural inclination to lick and tongue
her body, her cunt and her asshole in particular. But that, she
knew, was not all that she had taught him, nor was it the only
trick Bix knew how to perform for his mistress.
But this morning she didn't want to think of that, having
caught sight of the terrier's bony penis when Bix had sat up on
the bed, moments after she had felt the last searing convulsions
which marked her orgasm.
She wondered if he was capable of disappointment, then
dismissed the notion as anthropomorphic, not wanting to give a dog
human feelings, to endow an animal--even one as obviously bright
and clever as Bix--with emotions best left for people to
experience and deal with.
But in her eyes, at least, he hadn't looked all that happy,
sitting up on the bed so that she had been able to see the pencil-
thin and triangulated tip of his penis sticking out from its black
hairy sheath.
The glistening flesh of his dog-cock was wet with canine
genital secretions, a thin slippery fluid that she had tasted on
numerous occasions in the past, carnal episodes of bestiality, she
had told absolutely no one about.
Shame was one emotion she had learned to cope with quite
early on in her life, for before Bix there had been her first dog,
a honey colored cocker spaniel who made up for his unremarkable
behavior and intelligence in other and far more intriguing ways.
She remembered that first incident with the spaniel, when she
had just turned fifteen. It stood before her mind's eye as if it
was happening, right there in the kitchen. But then she blinked
and the image disappeared.
No, she decided, I've done enough fantasizing for one day.
It's time to get out and shake off my depression before I really
end up in the loony bin. She did not think she was headed for a
breakdown, but as she got up to wash the breakfast dishes she
sensed that unless things changed, the pattern of her life that
is, no good would come of her burgeoning anxieties and
dissatisfaction with the tenor of her existence.
"Want to romp in the park today, Bixie?" she asked her dog
when the last of the breakfast dishes had been washed and set in
the drainer to dry.
Bix yawned and stretched his legs, his carrot-shaped black
tail rising up jauntily, wagging this way and that as he trotted
obediently behind her, back into the bedroom where she picked out
the clothes she would wear that afternoon.
Less than an hour later found her standing at the top of what
New Yorkers had dubbed "Dog Hill," a denuded though still fairly
grassy rounded hill which overlooked Fifth Avenue and the 79th
Street entrance to Central Park.
Sunday, she knew, was the worst day of all, when the park was
crowded with families and Dog Hill was a sea of barking running
canine bodies. The good weather, the first taste of summer in
what had been an unusually rainy spring, had brought the people
out in droves and as she stood and looked around her, surveying
the view while she kept a diligent eye on Bix, she suddenly
stiffened and refused to believe her eyes.
I'm dreaming, she thought to herself, ignoring Bix so that
she was able to train both eyes on the tall athletically built
figure who stood some distance away from her, halfway down the
rise of the gently sloping hill.
She could see his profile, the straight aquiline line of his
nose, the thick and in her eyes sensual lips, now set in a slight
and almost dazed bemused little grin. Dark piercing eyes stared
out, open and devoid of deceit, from under a pair of thick bushy
eyebrows.
Even the same hair, Pam thought to herself, for the young man
who now was causing her to stare almost blatantly and rudely, had
a thick mop of shaggy and curly dark-brown hair, hair which almost
seemed to be the identical shade of brown as his eyes.
She shook her head and held herself more stiffly, aware of
the way she had been trembling. Her fingers clutched Bix's leash
and the yapping and scurrying all around her did not serve to
break her mood of silent and watchful amazement.
It's him, the same guy, the one who comes in the window, she
thought, still not sure if she was somehow hallucinating, seeing a
mirage, imagining the young man as he stood below her on the hill,
his own eyes trained on a powerfully built liver-colored Doberman
pinscher.
As in the dream, the stranger wore faded and skintight blue
jeans, even scuffed square-toed cowboy boots as well. A work
shirt as equally faded and bleached as his dungarees covered his
muscular torso and Pamela smiled nervously, wondering if she was
finally going off the deep end.
But when she blinked rapidly, the image before her didn't
waver or fade away in the least. If anything, she could see the
young man even more clearly. All the details of his face and
body, details she had memorized as if the dream had come to her
full-blown, not a product of her own subconscious yearnings,
matched one against the other.
She shivered again, spooked out by the apparition that had
magically come to life. She had waited so long to meet a man like
the one who raped her, alone in her bedroom, that now she didn't
know if she should just turn around and run off in the opposite
direction.
But before she could even recover from her surprise, or
regain her self-composure, their eyes met and for the life of her
she neither wanted to nor could she even pull away from the young
man's wide and unswerving stare.
He turned his head to the side and looked up at her and if
there was such a thing as love at first sight, Pam knew that she
was the victim of it, of Cupid's dart. Her knees felt weak and
bravely, feeling silly and as adolescent as a blushing schoolgirl,
she curled her lips up into a smile.
It was not ignored.
The fellow grinned broadly, just as she saw Bix race into
view, running circles around the liver colored Doberman. The
pinscher was a male, but surprisingly enough he and Bix seemed to
get along fine, enjoying each other's company, enjoying too the
canine games the Scottie so delighted in.
Bix yapped merrily and darted right underneath the Doberman's
body. The smooth-coated dog barked loudly and sprang off down the
hill, Bix's short stubby legs flying out behind him as he hurried
after in hot pursuit.
"Holmes!" the young man called out as the two dogs raced down
the hill, so involved in their own games and animal pleasures
that, at least for the time being, they were oblivious to their
masters.
"Bix, get over here!" Pam cried out, her feet moving in front
of her. Almost mechanically she strode down the hill, one foot
placed before the other as if she was just learning how to walk.
She was headed right towards the young man and a smile still
played across her lips.
"Holmes, get your ass over here ... now!" the guy yelled out.
The Doberman stopped short, lifted his fox-like snout and
then began to race back up the hill. Bix was right behind him, a
black streak against the pinscher's short liver-tinted body. By
the time the two dogs had arrived at the young man's feet, Pam was
standing right before him, still clutching Bix's leather lead.
"That's a good boy, Holmes. Now just quiet down and sit
still for a minute," the fellow said good-naturedly.
Pamela knew she was in love and the very notion made her
shudder once again. She wiped her forehead with the tips of her
fingers, able to feel how she had suddenly begun to sweat
profusely. "You too, Bix," she said, her voice cracking and her
throat gone dry and parched.
"Bix? Why Bix?" asked the young man, turning to stare at her
the way he had done earlier. And, for a second time, their eyes
met, the stare held rigid and unmoving.
"Why?" she heard herself replying to his question. "He's
just ... just a little Bix, that's all. Silly. I can't remember
why I decided to name him that. It just came to me when I saw
him, that's all."
"You're right," the young man agreed with another disarmingly
open and good-natured grin. "He does look like a Bix."
"And Holmes?" asked Pam. "Where's his double-brimmed cap and
his drooping pipe?"
"Oh," the young man laughed, "I only let him wear those
things in the privacy of my apartment. Wouldn't want anyone
getting the wrong idea. Actually, it was the look in his eyes
that made the decision for me. Seemed so piercing, so
inquisitive, even when he was just a pup."
Pam glanced over at the Doberman. He was sitting at his
master's feet, his great wet tongue hanging out of his mouth. Her
eyes slid down, caught sight of the long thinly furred sheath that
concealed the dog's cock and then jerked back to the young man's
smiling face.
"Want to go for a cup of coffee?" he suddenly blurted out,
almost as if he was now as nervous as she was.
"What?" she said, startled by the swiftness of the stranger's
invitation. "I ... I don't even know your name."
"And if you did ... would it make any difference?" he said.
"But to set your mind at ease, I'm listed in the Manhattan
directory, under W for Whitlock. Justin Whitlock."
"Pam Harper," she replied, finding herself extending her hand
as they grinned back at each other and shook hands like two
businessmen meeting each other for the first time before sitting
down to lunch.
"Good, then it's settled," he said, whereupon he attached the
chain leash he held to Holmes' collar.
Pam clicked Bix's lead into place and the two of them, led by
their two straining panting dogs, moved down the hill towards the
79th Street exit from the park. Pam felt at a complete loss for
words, nodding her head numbly as Justin spoke to her.
She was growing acutely aware of the way he kept glancing at
her from the corner of his eye. It was a look she had seen
before, as recently as the previous evening in fact, when Dick
Truman had taken her out for dinner.
But whereas Truman's leering wolfish grin had turned her off,
had frightened her in point of fact, she accepted Justin's obvious
interest in her with something that resembled downright pleasure
and considerable delight.
She had never met a man this way, a complete and total
stranger. For all she knew he could be a homicidal maniac, a
psychotic, sexually maladjusted. But even if all that was true,
nothing was going to stop her from finally taking a chance with
her life and doing the one thing which now came to her as
naturally and easily as the very act of breathing, of inhaling and
exhaling as she walked alongside of him.
When they reached Fifth Avenue they turned left, heading
uptown. They walked past the crowds surging in and out of the
Metropolitan Museum, past some of the embassy buildings that were
located along Fifth Avenue, in view of the park.
She didn't ask him where they were going, if he intended to
stop at a coffee shop or head straight back to his apartment.
Secretly, she hoped he would choose the latter and when he caught
hold of her elbow and guided her across Fifth Avenue and down
Eighty-eighth Street, she smiled to herself and didn't utter a
single word of protest.
"Five flight walkup," he announced when they reached the
unrenovated brownstone where he rented an apartment. "Sorry about
that, but I refuse to be subsidized by dear old dad."
"I don't care. I like to walk," she replied, shy again as
she followed him up the granite steps which led into the pocket-
sized vestibule and lobby of the building.
Justin dug into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a
ring of keys, selecting the correct one to unlock the front door.
Then, moving down the dimly illuminated and narrow hallway, he led
Pam upstairs to his apartment.
She followed right behind him; able to hear the way her heart
was beating like a steam-hammer in her breast, able to feel the
nervous pulsing throb of blood in her temples. But even more than
that, she was becoming acutely aware of another sensation, one
that she had experienced in the past, but rarely if ever as a
result of being in the company and presence of a man.
Between her legs she could feel how juice was seeping down,
trickling along the walls of her cunt and oozing over her hairy
pubic mound. She was wearing a skirt and she was almost startled
at the way her crotch had gotten suddenly wet and swampy, juice
threatening to actually drip down along the insides of her thighs.
The walls of her cunt could be felt fluttering again and
again and she could hardly believe her body was responding like
this, for she had not felt this kind of sexual reaction to anyone
in so long that she had almost forgotten what it could be like.
But now, she knew exactly what it was like, for she was
unable to stop shaking, unable to stop staring up at Justin's
muscular back, his tight boyish ass outlined beneath the skintight
covering of his jeans, or the long thickly muscles back of his
calves and thighs.
His body seemed to radiate the same kind of intense animalism
as Holmes' wiry and powerful build, dog and master appearing in
her eyes to be even more suited to each other than she had first
thought. This is insane, she told herself. What am I doing here,
following this guy upstairs to his apartment, when I don't even
know who he is, or anything about him?
Nevertheless, she made no move to turn, nor did she even
voice her doubts. Her disbelief, the fact that the longer she was
in his company the more he came to even more closely resemble the
man she had almost fantasized about, all got the best of her,
squelching any thoughts to the contrary.
She paused at the top of the fifth floor landing to catch her
breath. She had taken Bix off the leash and now he was wagging
his tail, delighted with his outing and his new friend. Holmes
stood attentively behind Justin as he unlocked the door to his
apartment, turning around to usher Pam inside.
One glance was all she needed to put her fears to rest. The
studio apartment was warm and inviting, with soft browns and tans
the predominant color scheme. "I'll fix a pot of coffee ... I
can't stand instant," he told her. "Just make yourself
comfortable, put some music you like on the stereo."
Dumbly, she nodded her head and moved into the large airy
room. She put her shoulder bag down and moved to the stereo,
flicking through the stack of record albums until she had found
something to her liking. It was Franck's "Symphony in d," one of
her favorites. She slid the record out of the album sleeve and
put it down on top of the turntable, doubly pleased that he had it
in his collection, that already their similar tastes were showing
through, joining them even more closely to each other.
Bix and Holmes seemed exhausted and they lay near the couch,
their tongues lolling out of their mouths and their eyes half-
closed, dreamy with the need for sleep. That too was fine with
her. She didn't want them to turn into a hassle, a nuisance.
The soft strains of the symphony came back to her as she sat
down on the couch, a straight-backed tweed-covered sofa whose down
pillows gave way under her weight. She sank down and sighed to
herself, still finding it all too difficult to deal with.
I should be lying in a bed, she thought. And Justin should
come in through the open window and take me ... just like that,
without a single word.
Pam closed her eyes, an unspoken sentence on her lips. One
part of her was more afraid than she had ever been before in her
life, afraid of caring too much, of giving everything she had and
getting nothing back in return, of laying her feelings before
Justin's feet, not knowing if he would kick them aside or bend
down to hold them lovingly and caringly in his cradling arms.
But the other side of her thoughts, the side which had first
compelled her to hold his stare, to move down the hill with the
full intention of meeting Justin, wanted her to cry out to him, to
tell him to take her, to rape her in any way he desired, right
then and there.
She could hear his booted feet moving back into the room.
But Pam kept her eyes closed, her breath coming in short shallow
gasps, her tits rising and falling like the lilting strains of
music Franck had written for moments just such as these.
Let him see me like this, she thought. Let him know how open
I am, how vulnerable, naked ...
She pictured how he was now standing at the threshold to the
room, for the sound of his heavy footfalls had stopped abruptly.
She imagined what he might be thinking and she smiled to herself
just as the footsteps resumed, coming right in her direction.
Still, she made no move to open her eyes or acknowledge the fact
that he was walking right towards her as she leaned back against
the down-filled sofa.
And then it happened, though not like in the dream.
She felt his legs pressing down against her knees and then
his lips moving back and forth against her mouth. She took a deep
breath then and opened her eyes. He was leaning forward, bracing
himself with his hands clutching at the back of the couch.
She looked into his eyes and then smiled as he grinned back
at her, lightly licking her lips with the tip of his outstretched
tongue. Her hands moved up as if invisible balloons were lifting
them. And then she clutched at his arms and responded with all
the pent-up passion and stifled desire she had lived with these
past five years.
Justin could not have been more pleased.
He rammed his tongue right between her parted lips, moaning
softly as her fingers slid up and down along his arms. Each
passing second made Pam more impatient. She no longer cared what
he might think of her behavior, of the way she was demanding him
to take her, to do whatever he desired.
Nothing mattered but how she felt and she rubbed her thighs
together, acutely and agonizingly aware of the way her cunt had
begun to burn and itch with feverish impatience and desire.
Justin's tongue slid in and out of her mouth, licking her lips and
palate, her gums and teeth.
Their lips were glued hotly against each other and her
fingers slid higher, up along his arms. His muscles bulged tautly
inside of his faded blue work shirt and the power and strength she
had imagined him to possess was now becoming more and more
obvious, exhibiting itself in the hard bulge of his steely
muscles.
Justin slid his tongue out of her mouth and then sucked on
her chin, gently sliding his tongue down along her neck, even as
he began to ease his body into a crouch. He crouched between her
legs, flicking his tongue against her smooth alabaster neck, his
knees digging into the carpeting and his hands now moving from the
back of the couch to rest along Pam's shoulders.
She felt dazed, dazzled by the swiftness of their meeting, by
the fact that she knew, long before it was going to take place,
that they were destined to go to bed together, destined to explore
every inch of each other's naked bodies.
And that pleased her to no end. She pushed her crotch
forward, whimpering more excitedly as he sucked and licked her
neck, gently unbuttoning the front of her thin linen blouse. Yes,
do it, anything, she kept telling herself as Justin grew more
animated, more impatient, finally ripping the tails of her blouse
out from around the waistband of her skirt.
She thrust her tits forward, glad that she hadn't bothered to
wear a bra for her afternoon jaunt to the park. Because now, an
instant later, she felt his lips sucking down over one of her
nipples, the edges of his front teeth nipping and grazing lightly
and delightfully along the entire length of her turgid and stiff-
standing berries.
"Yes, oh do that, yes, anything," she whispered, her body
twisting from side to side as he used his lips with expertise,
sucking on one taut nipple and then the other. He licked and
tongued them until they felt on fire and then he began to stuff
one of her tits right between his gaping lips.
Pam kept looking down, staring at his lowered head as his
hands pushed her jugs closer together and his lips and tongue
sucked and slurped with growing passion and maddened delight. He
was doing everything she had wanted him to do, and performing in a
manner which left absolutely nothing to be desired.
Glancing over his shoulder, she could see the two dogs, the
Scottie and the Doberman, watching what was taking place between
their owners. Their seeming look of interest amused her and Pam
giggled, even as the hot flickers of pleasure began to grow more
and more potent.
He wasn't saying a word, but his caresses spoke far louder
than anything she knew he might say. His fingers were kneading
and toying with her jugs and she had never felt her nipples so
inflamed before, so on fire, tingling as he flicked the tip of his
tongue back and forth against one and then the other, stimulating
her with each successive swipe of his raspy-edged prober.
She was all eyes, having gone without this kind of pleasure
for far too long. The backs of his hands were covered with short
black hair and she imagined that he was a bear, attacking her,
ravishing her body with bestial fervor and animalistic delight.
Like paws, she thought as she watched his fingers moving,
tweaking her love-buds and then trailing ticklishly down along the
gentle incline of her body. He reached for the zipper to her
skirt and still she made no move to stop him, nor would she ever.
"You know me, don't you?" he asked her then, even as he found
the side zipper to her skirt and yanked it down with a flick of
his wrist.
"I ... I've known you for ... for more than five years," she
whispered, her body shivering involuntarily, a nervous twitch
which made her voice tremble ever so slightly. "In ... from a
dream. You've been coming to me in a dream, the same dream, over
and over again, week after week."
"If I told you the same thing, I'd only be lying. But it
doesn't really matter or change anything, because I'm here now,
and that's all that counts," he replied, his voice soft and
soothing to her ears.
"You've been sleepwalking for five years, that's all," she
said with a grin. "You come to my window at dawn, pull it open
and slide first one leg and then the other inside. And then, then
you ...
"Then I what?"
"You ... you do it," she stammered. "You rape me, Justin.
You fuck me; you do everything to me, everything. And I love it,
I love it, all of it, everything."
He grinned almost devilishly at her emotional outburst and
without saying another word, pulled impatiently at the hem of her
skirt. Pam lifted her ass off of the sofa so that he would be
able to pull her skirt completely off. She was glad she had said
what she had, as if it had been a stone around her neck, weighing
her down. He hadn't laughed nor had he been anything but highly
pleased and flattered.
And now she was ready to make good her words, for even then
her skirt came down and she kicked it off of her ankles, pulling
her blouse off with the same kind of wild sexual impatience her
voice had reflected moments before.
Justin's dark brooding eyes opened to their farthest limits.
He sucked in his breath as she sat there before him, her naked
creamy-white jugs rising and falling; each rounded melon capped by
an exquisite little finger of taut and erect flesh.
She could see his excitement mirrored on his face, the way he
was literally devouring her with his eyes, gobbling her down like
a succulent sweetmeat, a choice morsel fit for an epicurean feast.
His eyes slid down over her upthrust and firm young breasts,
farther still to the soft rounded hill of her belly.
And then he did exactly what he did in her dream. He threw
himself forward with a loud bull-like roar, a bellow of wild
sexual impatience and maddened physical hunger. His tongue probed
the narrow recess of her navel and then licked down to the
waistband of her slim little bikini briefs.
Pam moaned wildly and thrust her crotch forward. Justin was
using his tongue with an instinctive skill that even Bix had never
demonstrated before. He slid its very tip right underneath the
ring of elastic and then moved it back and forth as if he were
loosening her panties, pulling them off of her merely by the use
of his lips and tongue.
He came quite close to that, actually, for a moment later, as
she kept pushing her hips up and down towards his flushed and
reddened face, he grabbed hold of the waistband of her briefs,
catching the elastic between the edges of his front teeth.
She cried out with excitement as he pulled down, using his
teeth rather than his fingers so that she could feel his wet
slippery lips grazing against her naked body. Once again she
raised herself up as he tugged her panties down, succeeding in
pulling them past her waist and lush rounded hips, farther still
until his eyes could see the first stray ringlets of mossy pubic
hair which grew thickly and luxuriously across her meaty box.
"Oh please, please, yes, do it, hurry," she begged, so
impatient that she couldn't stop herself from skinning her undies
down. She pushed them past her thighs with both hands and as they
fell to her ankles he was already moving forward, even before she
had managed to kick them off of her legs.
A scream of excitement flew out of her throat the instant he
plunged recklessly forward, his thick sensual lips glued hotly
against her pussy. His warm breath fanned her puffy cunt lips and
she was whimpering and straining, pushing her crotch up against
his mouth.
"More, yes, do it, anything," she blurted out once again, so
on fire that she couldn't pull her thoughts together. The room
reeled around her as if she was riding a horse on a carousel, a
merry-go-round of spinning whirling erotic intensity.
Never before, not even when she had known what it was to be
in love, five years earlier, had Pam Harper ever been so aroused,
so sexually stimulated, so maddened by the artful caresses and
erotic skills of a man.
It was all new to her and she spread her thighs demandingly
wide, watching the way his tongue slid around her hairy cunt,
licking every tendril of blonde pubic fur, sucking on the twin
slippery lobes of flesh whose inner secrets he now sought out.
Justin rammed his bristling invading tongue right down into her
crimson gash and the scarlet wet wound of her cunt furrow dilated
visibly, even before she grabbed hold of the top of his head and
pushed his mouth down even more firmly against her pussy.
"Please, yes, eat me, eat me," she whimpered, so out of
control by now that she couldn't believe this was all happening to
her, finally and at long last.
But it was no dream and she didn't have to pinch herself or
scream out to awaken from her reveries. She had gone home with a
young man whom she knew nothing about, a young man named Justin
Whitlock. But if she did not know who he really was, or what he
did with his life, or what his goals and aspirations might be, she
still knew him from all those fancied moments when he had snuck
into her bedroom to take her in the stillness of early morning.
And now, the last thing she wanted him to do was stop his
frenzied oral caresses to sit back and calmly recite the story of
his life. Needless to say, that was not what Justin intended to
do. Not now, in any event.



Chapter 3

This was no dream, no reverie, no imagined meeting.
It had happened and now Justin Whitlock was just as inflamed
as Pam Harper. He stroked the tops of her smooth white thighs,
glad that she hadn't been wearing stockings or panty hose, glad
that he could caress and massage her tender and supple flesh.
And even as he caressed her, his tongue was digging deeper
into her cunt, lapping up the hot spicy rivulets of sap, which
were streaming down the fluttering walls of her swampy twat. He
had seen the liquid stain of cunt juice that had covered the front
of her panties and he knew how aroused she had become.
The intensity of her response, the way she was holding his
head down and writhing back and forth so that his tongue hit
against one smooth slippery cunt wall and then the other, pleased
him to no end. He was determined to arouse her until she would be
insane, unable to control herself.
And so now he strummed her body as if he was a musician
getting harmonies and chords from an instrument. His fingers
tickled the insides of her thighs, finally sliding higher until he
was able to take hold of the edges of her thin girlish cunt lips.
These were no scarlet rooster combs of flabby drooping flesh,
but taut elastic lapels that he now eased back, stretching them
wide as butterfly wings. Pam thrust her crotch up again and again
and when she let go of his head, Justin eased his tongue back. He
lifted his face and stared down at her meaty box.
Between a narrow and gristly set of cunt lips he could see
the swollen meaty button of her clit and it was to this delectable
tidbit that he now centered his attentions. He rammed his face
down with rising impatience, nipping at her clit so that she could
not stop moaning and crying out with pleasure.
Her cunt gave off a strong heady odor, at once musky and
pungent. And her juices tasted salty and spicy against his lips
and tongue. Delighted with the way she was responding, he kept at
it, nipping and frictioning his teeth and tongue against the
tender shaft of her clitoris, then ramming his tongue as far
inside of her tight girlish split as he could.
Her vaginal muscles jerked against his invading tongue,
nipping at it with such conclusive force that he knew she was
going to prove to be even more wild and arousing when they were in
bed together. And that, needless to say, was something he didn't
doubt would happen whenever he was ready to make the move.
But what he knew she still didn't understand were the kind of
things he wanted done to her, the lurid sexual acts he had long
imagined, never having been able to see them brought to life,
consummated before his wide and staring eyes. Something told him
that Pam would do anything he wanted, that the heated excesses of
her sexual reaction were a product not only of his erotic skill,
but also because she had fallen for him, head over heels.
That she seemed to be in love, or at least infatuated,
certainly was no hindrance. And though he was yet to experience
the same kind of breathless emotional involvement, his physical
appetites were just as overheated and insatiable as hers.
Behind the front of his faded blue jeans he could feel how
his cock was jerking angrily. It thrust out like a bar of steel
against his fly, imprisoned, stifled inside of his dungarees. He
wore no underwear and, as a result, he was acutely aware of how
clammy and sweaty his groin had become, pre-come dribbling out of
the bulbous and blood-engorged head of his tool to seep over his
pubes and soak into the denim material of his jeans.
But Justin was a young man who knew how to exercise proper
control; at least when sex was involved. He wasn't worried about
coming in his pants, though not because he feared he wouldn't be
able to climax a second time, but simply because he had trained
himself to hold back until the last possible moment.
As a result, women had always found his sexual pyrotechnics
unbeatable. His ability to sustain an erection without any
artificial devices, his skill at holding his orgasm back until he
had milked a woman of several climaxes, one right after the other,
had all stood him in good stead with the women who had passed in
and out of his life.
And Pam, he knew was not going to be the exception to the
rule. He could feel how she was shuddering, how her vaginal
muscles had already gone out of control, signaling her imminent
release. But he did not want to milk her of an orgasm, not yet at
any rate.
No, there would be time enough for that, when the moment was
right. So he finally eased his probing licking tongue from out of
her cooze, tickling her clitoris and then lifting his sweaty face.
He let go of her cunt lips and they sprang elastically back, their
hairy outer edges all wet and glistening, slippery with a mixture
of saliva and cunt juice.
Pam slumped back against the couch, breathless and wild-eyed.
She had no idea why Justin had stopped, especially when she had
been riding a kind of stoned sexual rush, floating up towards the
very moment of release.
But that, needless to say, was all part of his technique.
He edged back to rock against his knees and the backs of his
legs, taking her in with a single wide and all-encompassing stare.
She was naked, her flesh glistening and white, dewdrops not only
beading the furry triangle that marked her tender mons veneris,
but also dotting the fine down along her upper lip and right below
her hairline.
Her breasts rose and fell and he saw her then as the very
personification of tenderness and vulnerability. "I ... I don't
know what to say," she whispered when she had recovered a modicum
of self-composure.
"Don't say anything ... just do," he replied in a whisper, as
if he didn't want to break the spell that had been cast between
them. He got abruptly to his feet to turn over the record, for
Franck's symphony had come to its side one halt just moments after
he had finally slid his tongue out of her juicy little muff.
And as he rose up before her, Pamela Harper's eyes opened
even wider than before. She was now able to see that which she
had tried to glimpse earlier. And what she saw, she liked, plain
and simple. Justin caught her staring, held himself steady,
facing her like that for a silent moment before turning around to
change the record.
But the few seconds he had stood there, frozen and unmoving
in space and time, had enabled Pam to see what she had lusted
after.
There could be no doubt in her mind that he was as well
equipped as she had always imagined ... no, felt ... her dream-
image to be. Behind the front of his provocative skintight jeans
she had seen the long swollen outline of his cock and she wanted
to throw herself at his feet the way he had done to her. Not
slavishly, but merely so that she would be able to lunge forward
and rip his jeans off, feasting upon the thick bloated length of
his manly cock.
Justin had exactly the same thought in mind.
He turned the disc over to side two. The second movement
Allegretto began, its moderately fast tempo setting the rhythm for
the delicious bout of fellatio he planned to enjoy. That she
would be ready and willing was something he didn't doubt for one
second and when he turned back to her, he thrust his crotch
forward as if to demand she gape and stare at the silhouette of
his rigid and throbbing hard-on.
His dick had slipped down along the inside of one dungaree
leg. The denim was tented out so distinctly that Pam had no
difficulty making out the exact dimensions of Justin's turgid
member, even down to the shape of his leaking glans and the slight
depression at the neck of his cock.
His rounded stones seemed full and loose, a swollen bag she
could see stuffed--no doubt uncomfortably, she supposed--inside
the crotch of his jeans. "Is it crazy that I'm staring?" she
asked.
"By whose standards? You dig looking at it--cool. You dig
playing with it, even better," Justin told her.
He sauntered forward, half play-acting, half-serious. But he
was totally earnest about having her rub her lips and tongu

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