"First Time For Sister" - читать интересную книгу автора (Collins Kent)

Chapter 2

Hanson Allen cupped his brown hands into the water and raised them high, letting the cool droplets trickle onto his head and shoulders.

Much as he was trying not to, he had started to think of a certain Miss Pamela Whittier back in Boston. And thinking of Pamela always gave him a huge hard-on.

"Dumb white cunt!" he said under his breath. But Pamela's ivory legs and graceful hips came filtering into his mind as if he were witched or maybe something worse. It had been two years since the party in the village, where a white buddy had wanted to lay a chick on him. A girl who wigged over black men, his friend had said.

Hanson looked down at the mud he was stirring up with his feet and noticed that his cock wasn't drooping any more, but starting to swing upward a little, thickening near the head. The foreskin had slipped back over his glans, too, as the heated blood surged with every beat of his heart.

Hanson flexed his arms and yawned, trying to fool his body into relaxing. But even though he wasn't going back to the city… wasn't going to involve himself with Pamela Whittier any more, he couldn't forget her that easily. With a curse he let his breath out and let Pamela in. He could never forget the very first time. Her tawny, shoulder-length hair and large, high breasts. There had always been a kind of sexy invitation in the way she walked… either coming at you or going away. Pamela was an exotic hybrid of a woman.

The party where they met had been going strong, but Pamela insisted on a change of scene. It was winter in New York and the night had been cold and damp. By the time they'd gotten a cab and made it to Pamela's apartment, the tall girl was shivering against him. Hanson could remember every detail and he was too far into the reverie now to stop.

He took himself back, back four years, the smells, the tastes… all the way back.

"Aren't you going to warm me up?" Pamela cooed. Hanson took off his coat and came across the room. The rug was thick, the tables low and expensively stylish. Pamela had already kicked off her shoes and when he reached out for her fur wrap, she giggled teasingly and let it fall behind on the floor. Then, keeping her green eyes on his face, she pushed the thin straps of her white satin dress down off her shoulders.

Hanson watched her body undulate gracefully, and the silky material fell lower, catching for a tantalizing instant on the erect nipples of her breasts and then puddling at her feet in one swishing rush. He stared amazed at the dark curls of her pubic hair… just over the place where her slit began, a bright red ribbon was tied.

"I never wear panties," she simpered; "they bind me." Pamela made the word sound obscene. "Do you like me?"

Hanson nodded in a daze. "Yeah, I like you."

"Would you mind, please, kissing my breasts? I'm simply crazy about the way it feels!"

Obediently he cupped one of the firm orbs in his palm and raised it to meet his descending mouth. At first Pamela stood, hands on hips, but as he tongued the nipple stiff, she touched the side of his face, then let her fingers mingle in the short, tight curls at the nape of his neck.

"That's heavenly," she breathed; "bite me a little." Hanson bit her and suddenly the thin fingers of her hand were digging at his fly, unleashing his bound cock and stretching it out sensuously. He felt his belt loosen and his pants fall and he stepped out of them. Pamela's succulent white breast with its dark nipple quivered between his teeth.

"Touch my cunt," she moaned, voice deeper than before, "put your fingers up in me!"

Again Hanson did what she wanted, hooking one arm around the small of Pamela's back, sliding his mouth up her neck. The girl trembled in his arms, then pushed back from his embrace, leaning precariously over the back of the couch they were standing by. He watched in heated fascination as she arched even further away from him, pressing her loins out teasingly. Pamela's hair splashed over the white cushions, and her full breasts flattened some and shifted higher on her chest as she bobbed crazily upside down. When he put his hands on her wide, curving hips, she opened her thighs in final invitation. Burning with wild lust, Hanson guided the head of his cock between the girl's silken, slick pubes and drove forward. Pamela's hands flopped loosely to the floor and she bucked viciously against the back of the couch, making her navel stretch into a tight oval. Then she hooked her legs around Hanson's to keep from falling to the floor. Loins aching with pleasure, he moved forward again, feeling the slippery membranes of her tube caress and heat his cock skin.

"That's simply… deviiiine!" Pamela gasped, starting to move her pelvis in quick, sharp circles as Hanson went into her full length. The long muscles of her belly strained and jerked as she flopped like a fish backward against the sofa cushions. "Ohhh… like that!"

Unbelievably, she was about to come. Hanson was always right about those things and he was certain that Pamela's throes were rushing upon her. Their organs made wet, slick, sucking sounds and the tall girl's movements became more savage and convulsive. Her rippling, squirming body was beginning to milk the come from his own balls. Pamela's heels dug into the crack of his ass and made an excruciating pressure on his prostate. He humped violently, giving her the full benefit of his length until suddenly she straightened… came up from her upside-down flop on the divan cushions and wrapped her arms around his neck. The momentum sent them both stumbling back. Pamela's legs squeezed his waist while her twisting, plunging ass sucked huge glops of jizzum from his cock and she sank white teeth into his arm.

The rustle of leaves at the pond's edge brought Hanson plummeting back to the present. He turned quickly toward the sound, and his erection slapped heavily against his hipbone. "Goddamn it to hell," he cursed, angry with himself for letting the dream of Pamela enrapture him, angry with whoever had been peeking… if in reality it was somebody. Hanson squinted and searched the weedy banks of the pool. He listened. The sound of footsteps thumped in the stillness of the woods… running footsteps disappearing into the thickets and trees.

Forcing himself up out of the muddy bottom, Hanson lurched toward the trees, where he'd draped his clothes, swearing silently. "You is a jive-ass peeping fuckah!" he hollered into the silent woods, then threw back his head and laughed. It made him feel right and good to talk the way he'd talked all his life, even though he could conjure up perfect East Coast English whenever he wished… English as good as Pamela Whittier's any day. Fuck Pamela Whittier and her high-tone friends and her fucking high-class apartment and the way she giggled when she called him the "noble savage." That's what had finally gotten to him.

Pamela had started asking his closest friends over when he was there and then suggesting games in the bedroom… introducing every rich young jet-setter she knew to the wonders of being fucked by a… nigger. Hanson gritted his teeth and spat into the water as he pulled his shirt on. No, she'd never said the word, but that's the way it was.

Whenever he had wanted to discuss a book with her or go to a play, Pamela had thought it quaint. She preferred her own kind of evening's entertainment. Hanson picked his jeans off the tree where he'd hung them and struggled his wet legs in. Somehow rehashing the whole thing had made him feel a little better. At least he'd had strength enough not to let Pamela's image suck him into jacking his meat. The idea of spraying the pond with his hot, stringy seed for some reason caused him to laugh again; then he started up the path toward his parents' house.

"I ain't ever gonna think of Pamela Whittier again," he swore to the trees around him. "Ever."

Lucas Allen was sitting on the front porch of his house when he caught sight of his son coming out of the woods. Hanson crossed the stone walk he'd help lay himself ten years before and smiled up at his old man.

"Where's you been, Hanson?" Lucas asked. "It's almost eleven o'clock."

"I been in the woods screwing a pretty white girl." Hanson sat down in a chair and put his feet on the porch rail. "But I decided I didn't want to mess with her no more."

The old man's eyes widened at this; then he narrowed them at his son.

"Will you just listen to that big-city talk!" He pulled a crooked cigar from his shirt pocket and slapped his thigh. "My-oh-my!"

Hanson grinned back. "It might be big-city talk, but I swear to God them white girls like it back there." He leaned toward his father and whispered the next words wickedly. "They just love that black cock."

Lucas Allen had his cigar going now and snapped the top of his lighter shut. "Way to stay out of trouble is to stay away from white girls.

They's trouble from the tip of their pink little tits to the ends of their soft little toes."

Hanson smiled mightily at his father. "Sound like you's talking from experience, old man."

Lucas blew gray smoke across the still air of the porch. "Maybe. Maybe not. What I know, I know."

Hanson shook his head and sucked a tooth. "Man, you is about as bad as some of them college professors. Cain't get the motherfuckers to say nothin' for sure." He chuckled and spat. "They just tell ya that this depends on that and this over here might account for that thing over there, but only if it all works together under certain circumstances …" Hanson was off and laughing again.

"Well, boy, that's what you went to school for. To learn to talk people around until they's crooked from listening." Lucas Allen smiled and nodded, happy with the point he'd gotten across. "I figure that's the only way you can make a living nowadays less'n you farm." Lucas looked sideways at his son. "But you never took kindly to farming, Hanson, no need to tell you that."

For a while Hanson sat back and let the quiet settle between them. It was nice jawing with his old man again. During the time he'd been East it had been one of the things he'd missed. Finally Lucas leaned forward and winked at his son.

"Tell me the truth now, Hanson. You wasn't really fucking a little white girl down in them woods, was ya?"

Hanson fell back on the porch laughing till the tears came to his eyes.

Finally he was able to look at his father with a straight face. "How 'bout lettin' me take the truck into town? I ain't even had time to see how it's changed since I been back."

"Sure, son, sure," Lucas said, handing the keys across. "Jest don't forget this ain't New Yawk."

Hanson started out to where the shiny old pickup was parked. "That's one thing you don't have to remind me of," he said. "But I'll sure keep it in mind."

The truck started immediately and Hanson headed it out of the drive and down the road. He marveled at how his father had time to keep something so old in such good shape. The old Ford hardly even rattled and the engine was smooth and quick to respond. But it was his father's nature … everything orderly and productive and quietly efficient. Hanson knew that that was the only reason he'd been able to go back East to school.

A roadside weed slapped at the side mirror and Hanson edged the truck back into the middle of the road. He didn't want to stay around Dooberville, but he didn't want to go back East, either. He'd applied for a teaching job in Colorado, but even if it came through, he wasn't sure he wanted that.

"Don't want to do nothin' but mess around," he said aloud, "and maybe see the country."

When he got to the fork, Hanson had to pull around another pickup, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed that a small white girl was just getting in the passenger side. But he was too caught up in his own thoughts to take much notice. He got onto the road to town and let the old Ford out a little, trying not to let Pamela Whittier's face slip into his daydreams.