"Wife on call" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Ron)

CHAPTER FOUR

She hoped everything turned out well for Kerry on the job. He'd been working for the Company since his discharge from the Army and, though he had a college degree in business administration, he was still in the blue-collar ranks. And he was good, and he was efficient, too. He'd shown the plant managers a couple of ways to cut costs on simple day-to-day operations, and the least he deserved was a promotion to higher office. Not just for the money – he drew eighteen thousand a year now – but because he deserved it. Of course, Pam Wilson was just a little bit prejudiced. Kerry was her husband and she loved him very much.

She looked at him now, lying in the bed next to her, his body warm against hers. Warm? Not very long ago he'd been hot! Really hot! His cock standing up like a fencepost, ramming its way up her pussy from behind as he humped atop her and she groveled beneath him on the mattress, moaning, wailing, tearing at the sheets. He'd taken her deeply, savagely, possessively, and she loved it when he fucked her that way. It presaged even better things for the weekend, when Pam and Kerry could be together continuously from Friday evening until Monday morning, and she had a damned good idea how they were going to spend most of that time.

Mmmmm, she thought, snuggling closer. One of her hands moved low, under the comforter, and she clasped his sleeping cock in her warm fist. Even now, soft and completely fucked out, he was a fine figure of a man, his dick long and thick, bulky even in its soft state. She squeezed her husband's dong and felt a little pulse of blood in him, and she smiled, knowing just how easily that little pulsation could become an angry throbbing, the soft warm shaft erected into a veritable cunt splitter of a tool.

Using his cum for salad dressing – that had been pure inspiration. She'd do it again, and soon, but not so often that the act would lose its novelty and delight for her husband. Pam closed her eyes and, still fondling Kerry's dick, began to relive her day.

Sometimes she liked to think of herself elegantly, as a "call girl"; at other times, only the "whore" would set up a delicious tingling between her legs. It all depended on how Pam – or rather, on how Patricia – felt, for wasn't it Patricia, after all, who went out to meet and screw strange men in exchange for money three afternoons a week? Of course.

Just think – and think she did, lying in bed alongside her sleeping husband. Right now, somewhere in the USA, a couple of men were sitting over late drinks in a bar and one was asking the other about the action potential in this very city. "I'll be there on business next week. Anything good floating around?"

"Action?" the other man would say. "You want action? Grab something to write with and take down this number. Ask for Patricia Wright, tell her I sent you. She only works afternoons, and it costs a hundred bucks. Christ knows what she's drawing after dark! Or what she does! Anyway, Patti is good and clean and she's worth every cent of the hundred bills. If you have to steal an afternoon, steal it. I promise you, you won't regret it." And the number would change hands, scribbled onto a bar napkin or a slip of paper from a notebook, and the next time that man visited town he'd dial the number and make an appointment to get his ashes hauled but good by the girl who'd been built up so promisingly. Nor would he be disappointed.

Well, she supposed that was how numbers got around. It had taken about a week after her first trick for another man to call the Logan Answering Service, and she'd wondered if she had the nerve to go through with it, even after making the appointment.

But she had gone, met him at his hotel at the appointed time, and allowed him to fuck her in exchange for a crisp, brand-new hundred dollar bill. If anything, it was more exciting than the first time, and she'd come like a geyser. He'd gotten more than his money's worth, that second man, for she had fucked him like a mistress or a lover, not like a whore, and his swollen cock bunt, finally, deep inside her pulsating cunt with an appreciative fury that made her scream, made her climb up and down his supine body, most unprofessionally purring and mewing for MORE! Which he'd given her, of course, for he was a gentleman.

"I've dialed some wrong numbers in my time," the man said finally, lying next to Pam on the sex-rumpled bed, "but if I ever dialed a right number, baby, you're it! Are you free tonight? I have to eat dinner with a client, but afterwards I have an open schedule, and I can't think of any better way."

"Sorry," she apologized sincerely, "but it's not possible." She looked at his watch. It was after three, and she had dinner to fix at home. Pam slipped off the bed and started to dress.

"Well," he said philosophically, "if you can't, you can't. Here." He picked his trousers off the floor, took out his wallet. "This is a bonus, for being such a right number. Go ahead. Take it. You deserve a treat. Christ knows you gave me one!"

It was a fifty. So she was worth overtime rates. Pam took the money with a smile, added it to the hundred he'd already given her. And as she put the money in her purse, she knew that as soon as she got home she'd check with her answering service again, see if anyone wanted to book her for tomorrow afternoon. God, she hoped there was a call waiting!

Two weeks after taking on her first paying customer, Pam had visited at least a dozen different men, some of them more than once. And each of those men had rhapsodized over the dynamite intensity of her fucking, had marveled at the responsiveness of the pussy that seemed to find a joy in erupting orgasmically around the dick of a paying customer. And each of those men would be passing her name and number around, trading it back and forth among the community of traveling men, men happy to pay a hundred dollars for a fifty-minute hour in the arms of a whore named Patricia Wright who only worked afternoons but made up for the inconvenience with her enthusiasm.

She took care of herself. Every other week she visited a gynecologist downtown for a V.D. checkup. All her clients were clean – she made sure of that and she didn't anticipate catching any social diseases from them, but it didn't hurt to make sure. Her tests had always been negative, and that was very nice, but just as nice was the gynecologist, a Dr. Steinman, who quickly caught on to her profession and insisted on taking out his medical fees in trade. Each negative V.D. test entitled him to a sweaty bout on the large, plush sofa in his private office. That, too, was adventurous and exciting. Pam had never balled a doctor before, and certainly not a doctor whose stock in trade was the pussy and its delightful workings. Sometimes she wondered if she shouldn't pay him a hundred dollars.

But it was only a passing fancy. He was good, of course. Why shouldn't he be? All his medical training was centered around snatches. He looked at them every day, fingered them, stared up them, diagnosed their ills and aches. Still, he didn't excite her the way Kerry did. Even after a sultry romp with Dr. Steinman, she was glad to get home to her husband and fuck him crazy, the way he liked to be fucked after a hard day on the job.

Just like today. She'd serviced three men this afternoon, and she'd enjoyed every minute she had spent with them, but it was still better – much, much better – to greet Kerry almost naked and let him ravish her on the rug before the fireplace. Anyway, Pam thought defensively, this little whoring gambit is just a passing fancy. I'll get tired of it one of these days and give it up completely. Right now it's just something that excites me and turns me on and helps me spend interesting afternoons that really get me hot for my husband. Who is it hurting? Certainly not me. What about all that money in the bank? The interest it's picking up, too? Over five thousand dollars, untaxed, untraceable, unreported – clear, extra income, just lying there, waiting for the day when Kerry and I might need it. If he wanted to know where the money came from, she'd made up a story about savings bonds her parents and grandparents had given her in childhood. No problem at all.

And certainly no adjustment problems. Patricia, after all, was the whore. Not Pamela. Pamela was merely a hot-blooded wife with a hot-blooded husband and a very full sex life.

Today, for example, she'd finished doing her face, fluffed her hair, and slipped a few extra items of clothing into a small bag and gone out to meet her clients. Each of them was a repeater, so she knew what to expect, and the prospect was one to look forward to.

Mr. Charles was first. She met him at his hotel, smiling as she recalled his request for an early lunch. Some people might think him slightly warped, but not Pam/Patti. As long as he wanted to pay her, she'd be delighted to help him live out his pet fantasies.

In Mr. Charles' case, those pet fantasies centered around pussy and the eating thereof. But not just eating – he had a whole production number he liked to go through. It began with Pam stripping sensuously, slowly, and for his benefit she'd gone the whole route with underwear and stockings and garter belt, just so he could get more glassy-eyed as she removed the plethora of clothing.

He was a smallish man, balding, skinny, and she'd never seen him naked. He refused to take off his undershirt and shorts, though he requested that she strip to the skin. If it was his scene.

Pam stretched out on the bed, finally nude. Her legs were open, her pussy on display. The front of his shorts thrust out, full of an erection, but he made no effort to haul out that erection and stab her with it. Instead, he sat on the foot of the bed, sighting up between her legs, small beady eyes glittering as he feasted on the sight of her pink gash.

"Oh, yes," he'd always tell her, "oh, yes, that's perfect, it's beautiful, so beautiful, I'd like to wrap it up and take it home with me…"

Then he'd begin. First by sucking and kissing her toes, his tongue sucking back and forth between them, around them. He'd suckle her ankles too, mouthing his way up each leg in turn, saving the pussy itself for last. He'd never touched any other part of her, not even the big breasts with their pink, ripe nipples. It was as if the only portion of woman that mattered to him was the region south of the navel. Well, if he was willing to pay for her pussy, Pam/Patti was more than willing to let him GET IT ON!

"I can't wait," he'd tell her, after kissing and licking and mouthing her thighs until every nerve in them twitched with anticipation and Pam's tits heaved with each gulping breath. "I can't hold back. Will you forgive me? Will you promise not to hate me afterwards?"

"I could never hate you, Charles," she'd told him the first time instinctively and, ever afterwards, by rote. "No matter what you did. No matter what." And she'd touch him gently, her fingers trailing lazily across his face as he blushed sweetly. He would smile then, and for the first time his ringers would dare to stroke the hair-fluffed mound of her twat itself. She suspected that he had some kind of pussy hang up. Maybe his wife reacted harshly when he tried to love her with his mouth. Maybe it was a holdover from childhood. Odds on, he was sublimating that hang up with Patti Wright and with whores in a dozen other cities. She didn't know and she didn't particularly care. Right now she was more interested in getting his mouth and her cunt into connection.

For his pleasure, she'd douched and touched up her cunt with a few drops of Jean Nate. Only, at the moment, the aroma of pussy dew was much stronger than the perfume she'd taken from the bottle, and she realized how, much she'd been anticipating her visit with Mr. Charles.

He had long fingers, slender for a man, and they moved across her pubic mound with precision and tenderness. Smoothing down the hairs, tracing the outline of her well-formed gash. She could feel her clitty throbbing inside long before he parted the lips and began to pet her volatile vulva.

"I know it's wicked," he would sigh then, "so wicked, so awfully wicked… But it looks so pretty, too, pretty enough to eat. May I? May I, darling? Eat it, I mean?" And to emphasize the request he would lick gently at the outer edges of her puffy pouting slash, the tip of his tongue scraping with a precision she found both irresistible and erotic.

"Yes," Pam would husk, coughing out the words. Her hands would come up and fit around her large breasts, cupping, squeezing until the nipples stood up like a pink barber poles. "I want you to do it. And don't feel ashamed, darling. I certainly don't."

"Thank you," he would reply, "thank you, my darling, you don't know how much this means to me."

And with that, he'd begin eating her. God, how he could eat!! His tongue stabbing into her hole, scooping out honey by the spoonful. His tongue gone mad, licking circles around and around her nubby clit, making the sweet love button hammer and pulsate. His fingers keeping the rest of her adjacent erogenous zones in heated, flurrying stimulation. He was good. Really good.

As he sucked and licked her pussy, he slipped his cock out of his shorts, fitted a fist around it, and began to masturbate. Pam watched, half conscious of what he was doing. The first time she'd tried to pull him closer, so she could do it for him – it seemed the least she could contribute – but he'd gotten all tense and nervous, and she'd stifled the urge quickly. He didn't want her to jerk him off, or suck him off, or fuck him off either, for that matter. Anyway – it didn't matter. As his tonguing grew more intense she closed her eyes and forgot all about his cock, losing herself in her own pleasure. It was a nice way to make a hundred dollars.

"I have to go now," he'd always tell her when she'd spurted girl-goo all over his hungry mouth. "I have to meet somebody." She understood. He'd exorcised some inner demon once again, and he didn't want her around, reminding him of that struggle.

The first time she hadn't understood. She'd gone to him, embraced him, kissed him. Her swollen tits rubbed on his chest, her hands slid up and down his back, and she'd offered him more – all the enjoyment of her body. "Don't you want to fuck me, too?" she had whispered into his ear, sliding a stray tendril of hair across his blushing face. "I want to fuck you. God, you made me come, darling! You made me come like a fountain!"

But it had been wrong. Once he was finished, he wanted nothing more from Patricia Wright except her speedy departure. He wouldn't even accept her kiss – it was as if he felt his mouth too dirty to be caressed by her lips – and he squirmed anxiously in her embrace. She could have held him, forced him – God, she was four inches taller than he, for one thing! – but it wasn't the right thing to do. He'd bought her time, she was there only to make his dreams come true.

"I'll see you again, won't I?" she asked him, hurrying into her clothes while he watched, ten feet away.

Mr. Charles only nodded, his eyes lowered, unwilling to meet hers. She wished that just once she could go to him, kiss the shame from his mouth, fish his cock out of his shorts and guide it into the snatch he'd eaten so splendidly. She wouldn't even charge him for it. But if he didn't want it, she wouldn't force it on him. Pam dressed and she hurried out the door. There was a hundred dollars, in twenties, in her purse, and she had two more clients to meet this afternoon.

"It's the adventure," she told herself on her way to meet Mr. Ford at the Capri Lounge, a secluded bar on a quiet side street downtown. "The adventure is what I dig. The money? Who gives a shit about the money? I certainly don't." On the other hand, she had to admit, the money was a big part of it. Ever since that first day, when Richard Mason had picked her up at a hotel bar, assuming she was an expensive hooker. And today, a few months later, part of her was an expensive hooker. Of course she didn't need the money; no matter how much it thrilled her to receive it. Still… if Richard Mason hadn't given her a hundred dollars for the temporary rental of her body, she wouldn't be here today, en route to meet her third sex partner of the day.

Mr. Ford, a lawyer from Chicago, was a referral from her very first trick. This was the second time he'd booked her, and she was looking forward to a session with him. Of course, the people who might consider poor dear Mr. Charles a weirdo would go apeshit if they had a look at Mr. Ford and his bedroom desires. Not Pam/Patti.

She entered the Capri Lounge on the stroke of one, and there he was, sitting at the bar. A really handsome, distinguished-looking man, just like his friend Richard Mason. The kind of man any woman would be delighted to be seen with in public. In his early forties, she supposed, with an excellent body for his age. Flat, muscular stomach, broad shoulders, athletic legs. God! She hoped Kerry was in such good shape ten years from now! And if she had anything to say about it, he damned well would be!

They shared a couple of civilized drinks – this time didn't begin until they entered the hotel room, and it was pleasant to sip Scotch and make small talk with such a good-looking man in a public place – and his eyes glowed with anticipation. She could tell he was really up for her, turned, on by the very idea of getting into her tight panties this afternoon. Mmmm, so was she!

Everything was ready in his room. The projector was set up, the screen in place. Mr. Ford enjoyed watching porno movies, and he liked to be loved while he watched them. The first time he'd brought a six-hundred foot reel of film, containing three super 8 short subjects, spliced together. All of them featured the legendary Johnny Wadd, a California stud whose cock measured well over a foot long when it was erect (and in these movies it seemed to be little else but erect and active). He fucked a beautiful brunette, he fucked a beautiful redhead, and he fucked a beautiful blonde, all in sharp, glistening color. The movies were well produced, well-photographed, and Pam watched in fascination as Johnny Wadd drove his huge prick up the delicate-looking asshole of pretty Linda McDowell, watching even more fascinated as the lady writhed in a beautiful approximation of sexual bliss. Being cornholed was one thing. Pam had done it often enough. But being cornholed by a tool the size of a fencepost? It sent shivery flutters up and down her body and she settled eagerly onto the cock of her client, Mr. Ford, romping up and down as he fed her hungry pussy and watched the movie over her shoulder. She hoped today's movies were as good as the last batch.

She and Kerry had gone to porno films once in a while; a twin cinema at the local shopping mail features them occasionally. Those she'd always found rather boring. Most of the actors couldn't act and it seemed rather silly to be in the midst of a crowd of theater patrons watching a film of people fucking and sucking. It was so much more fun to get her husband home and relive the movie with him in the flesh.

Somehow it was different on a trick, though.

There was complete privacy, and she was bare-ass naked, just easing her cunt down upon Mr. Ford's naked, erect cock as he turned on the projector, and it all seemed so natural. Maybe she should buy Kerry a super 8 projector and half a dozen dirty movies. God! They didn't need any extra stimulation at home! They had one another, and so far, that had been more than enough! Still…

Mr. Ford sighed as he reeled his cock up her pussy. She settled down upon him easily. He had a certain procedure about this, and she didn't want to stir him up too much during the first film. What he liked was to fuck slowly for about ten minutes, after which Pam would kneel, take his dick in her mouth, and suck until he squirted. On her first date with him, he'd explained that he wished to come in unison with his hero Johnny Wadd. When Johnny Wadd spurted jism onto the face of his partner in the final movie, Mr. Ford wanted to be spurting an equally hot flow of seed into the face of his play-for-pay girl Patricia Wright. Kinky? Maybe. Fun? Yes!

A challenge, too. She'd been just a trifle slow the first time, and Johnny Wadd's cum was already flowing before Mr. Ford's pecker vomited out its river of sperm, but it was only a trifle, and apparently he wasn't dissatisfied, for he'd asked her to come back and do him again. Well, this time she'd be a lot better.

Again he had three short films spliced together on a large reel. She could expect about forty minutes of filmed fucking and sucking, and her only problem was to keep him stiff until the end of the last film.

The first movie was nice, and Pam found it reasonably erotic. A plumpish, short-legged girl with large breasts and silver-blonde hair began by masturbating herself, a finger buried in her curly-bushed twat. She wasn't extraordinarily pretty – cute was a better description – but she did an excellent job of conveying erotic arousal.

Before long she was joined by a young man whose face bore an almost satirically sullen expression. He presented the girl with a large vibrator-device and she lifted her skirt, rubbing the instrument across her burnt-gold beaver with delight showing on her face. In short order her man's pants were dropped to his knees and the girl had her hands on his cock.

The editing was abrupt and jumpy, but the message came across spectacularly. When the girl fed his cock into her mouth and began to suck, Pam felt a touch of envy building in her breast. The silver-blonde girl was extremely good, and she obviously enjoyed her work. Eyes closed rapturously, she sucked up and down the stiff, oversized cock, swallowing as much as she could take home, cheeks drawn in dramatically, her lips seeming to float up and down the man's pecker.

Pam moved slowly, erotically, on Mr. Ford's cock. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, and she was mounted on his lap, facing away from him. As she fucked up and down she reached in to add a little stimulus to her cunt and clit, but it wasn't really necessary. Mr. Ford was built beautifully. Not as thick or as long as Johnny Wadd, perhaps, but built like a man. A real man. Eight inches, and thick in proportion, he filled her cunt expertly, spreading the lips just enough to make the juices start flowing from deep inside, lubricating her sheath to help him stab further and further up it. Size-wise, he reminded her very much of her husband, and she'd never found a cock she loved as deeply, as wholeheartedly as Kerry's, but Mr. Ford was a close match.

The film continued, and she continued to ride her client as he desired, stroking his cock within her cunt in sensual pussy-shivers. On the movie screen at the far end of the room, the silver-blonde girl was being fucked and eaten in quick alternation. She and her quite willing partner shifted positions at the drop of a hat, though it was interesting to note that the girl didn't remove her turbaned scarf, nor did she do more than untie her wraparound dress. Of course, she wasn't wearing anything under the dress, so when it was untied, the lucky stud had a girl-full of goodies at his disposal, and he made use of all those goodies.

The girl looked as if she were totally stoned on sex. She sighed and moaned as she was fucked, and when she wrapped her hands and mouth around the boy's cock, it was Katy bar the door! After a dozen shifts of position, she took him into her mouth, eager fist flying on his dong, and she made his cum fly into her waiting orifice. A long sticky-looking trail of white cum dripped from her lips as she mouthed him, and her lips and cheeks were obviously moist with squirted semen as the film ended. Pam squeezed her pussy on Mr. Ford's cock, almost wishing he'd saved this film for last. The girl's enthusiasm had burst off the, movie screen and infected Pam. She lifted high on Mr. Ford's cock, then plummeted down, sucking him all the way up her sex-greased channel, and she felt him shudder inside her, as if he meant to blow his nuts, now. Oh, no! she thought. Oh, God, no! He'd never forgive her if she got him off too soon!

Why was she so excited? From watching a plump blonde girl screw and suck on a movie screen? The girl wasn't even what Pam would consider pretty. She was too big-breasted for her short frame, too thick in the thighs; her face too plain. But so enthusiastic!

The second movie began with only a second's intermission. It wasn't as good quality film, and it appeared to be threaded onto the reef in reverse. The setting was obviously California, but the billboard in the rear could only be read with a mirror, and the driver who picked up the hitchhiking heroine was on the wrong side of the road.

Pam settled down upon Mr. Ford, caressing him with her vaginal muscles. "Better," he whispered into her ear. "Don't fuck so fast. There's more to come." His hands were on her tits, pulling at the big stiff nipples, and she wanted so much to move, to bounce and rock and ride like a rodeo cowgirl on his bucking bronco of a prick, but her own pleasure was no more than an incidental. She had duties and obligations to her customer, and his pleasure came first.

The girl in this film struck Pam as much prettier than the other, despite a frizzy Afro-style wig she was wearing. Her body was long and lean, the breasts well-carved, the pussy very lightly-furred, as if it had been shaved recently and the hair only just started to grow back. She wasn't beautiful either, but she was attractive in a very 1977 fashion, and when the film cut from her entering the hero's van on a busy L.A. street to the pair of them naked and in bed, her body was equally nice to look at.

The man kissed her, one hand cupping her left lit, the other stroking, in long shot and close-up, the lightly-haired cleft of her pussy, fingers dwelling on the pouty-looking twat lips, occasionally slipping between them and plunging into the girl's slick, purplish vagina. She writhed in pleased response, her tummy moving softly, and Pam could almost feel those fingers on her own cunt right now – but no, it was Mr. Ford's dick, and it was much nicer than fingers could ever hope to be.

But for all her promise, the girl proved to be less than adequate when it came time for her to suck her man's tool. Pam's eyebrows curled disapprovingly as the girl started sucking. She wasn't very good, and she didn't look at all comfortable with a pecker in her mouth. Of course, she tried, but it was clear that her talents did not lie in the direction of oral sex. When her man's passion grew, she resorted to the adolescent subterfuge of simply jerking him off, into her mouth. He touched her frizzy wig and she pulled back quickly, stroking him with her fist as sperm began to fly in thick lashing from the end of his cock. And as she watched, her mouth curled into a quizzical smirk.

"Do that for me," Mr. Ford panted, "but do it better. I know you can do it better, Patti darling, just do it, okay?"

Of course she could do it bettor, and of course she would do it better! Pam jumped off her client's heavy, swollen hard-on and she knelt between his widespread legs, her mouth moving up and down the barrel of his hot cock. She sucked at his balls, feeling them roll and twitch in her mouth, but she was careful not to suck too hard, lest he shoot prematurely. Slowly her lips began to ascend his rod, until the bulbous knob of his glans brushed against her mouth and she could taste the promise or his cream on it. Pam opened, her lips and pulled him inside.

She tried to watch the movie as she sucked, but she had a duty to her client that transcended her own interest in erotic cinema. Still, as she ate, she was aware of what was happening on the movie screen. The girl being eaten by her guy (and he ate her very nicely, much more skillfully than she'd gobbled him). Then the girl being fucked by her guy (and she fucked very nicely, her face expressing a sweet kind of rapture as the hard cock moved in and out her almost bare labia). A second orgasm, this time on her flat stomach, the man stroking his cock until all his watery cum had spurted upon her. Both of them coating their fingers in the stuff, tasting it. The man lying back, spent, his prick melted to a deceptively small stub. The girl beside him, not fully satisfied, or so it appeared. The girl picking up a realistic-looking rubber dildo, kissing its knobby tip, looking at the camera quizzically. Was she going to fuck herself with it? God! Was she, perhaps, going to fuck him?

Pam had one client, a traveling salesman named Mr. Dolan, who loved to have a vibrating dildo jammed up his ass while she gave frantic, furious head to his swollen cock. Pam sucked, and Pam watched, but she never found out what the girl intended doing with that rubber sex substitute, because the film ended and another one began.

She moved slightly, still mouthing Mr. Ford's prick, and she focused her eyes on the screen. This one she'd have to watch carefully, so she'd know when to make him come. Not too fast, not too slow. He wanted to squirt in tandem with the hard-cocked stud in the movie and she wanted to make him squirt just as he wished to.

However, as the last film got underway, Pam began to wonder if there even was a hard-cocked stud in it whose orgasm could be synchronized with Mr. Ford's. That would make it a good bit more difficult, she realized, and she turned both eyes toward the screen as she ate him, hoping to absorb the situation and figure out what (and when) she must do to him. Whoever said it was easy being a hooker? A man was fragile and easily hurt and bruised, whether he was a husband or a hundred-dollar trick.

The film began with two rather young girls on a picnic outing in the country. A red-checked tablecloth spread under a tree, food and wine, toasts drunk back and forth. They were pretty girls, too, Pam noticed – the kind of girl who always made you ask yourself, "How did anyone like that ever get into a movie like this?" One was blonde, with the palest, most delicate face and features Pam had ever seen, the other a sandy-haired girl, more robust, more tanned, lovely in her athletic, long-legged fashion.

They drank to one another's health from champagne glasses, and then the sandy-headed girl yawned, threw back her arms, and commented in a subtitle that it was such a hot day – why didn't they take off their clothes and enjoy it?

Her friend giggled at the idea, but in a matter of seconds both young women were stripped to the waist. The blonde girl was pale-skinned there, too, and her tits were cupcakes of sweetness on her breast, capped in rosy-tinted nipples whose tips were already stiff. The other girl was a little fuller of breast, but even put together, the actresses couldn't muster a pair the size of Pam's. On the other hand, they didn't have to test their boobs for firmness and springiness every day, wondering when the lovely full mounds would turn into drooping sags. There were benefits of being small-fitted.

"You have such lovely tits," the blonde said, touching an index finger to each of her friend's hard brown nipples. She pushed, as if the candy-drop nips were little buttons, and her friend covered the caressing hands with her own. Slowly the two women moved closer, their eyes shutting as their mouths came together, and then they were kissing hotly, each of them fondling the others bare breasts. The camera moved in for a tight close-up of the smooching mouths, showed off the tongues as they pulled back and forth, the dribbles of spit that formed on each woman's mouth. Clothed, the blonde girl looked almost innocent. Naked, hotly kissing her friend, she presented quite a different picture.

Pam watched with growing interest. The women were really into this, she couldn't help noticing. When they kind, when they, felt one another, you could tell, even on 8mm film, that they meant it. The sighs, the rolling eyes, the fluttering fingers, the stiffened nipples, the way bodies brushed together and clung as if they were glued. She felt a wetness oozing between her thighs and it was a pleasant sensation. Pam squeezed her legs together upon the puffy swell of her cunt and she made that pleasant feeling build and grow, and she didn't let up for a moment in her oral attention to Mr. Ford's cock.

The only problem was – if this was a lesbian flick, as it appeared to be, how would she know when to make him squirt? Oh, play it by ear, she told herself. Or at least by tongue. You're a pro, aren't you? At least an afternoon pro.

The angle changed quickly, and the camera was suddenly very far back, an extreme long shot. The girls were still busy with one another, removing shorts, kissing, feeling, but they were tiny dots of flesh in the middle of the screen. A quick, blurry pan, and the camera was face to face with a rather handsome black man, tall and well-built. From the smile on his face he had apparently seen something which pleased him, and Pam smiled too, for the movie had finally taken shape in her head. No problem now, she thought. It's in the bag.

Back to the ladies. The blonde was on her back, legs wide, the sandy-haired girl kissing her stomach just above the small, triangular patch of dark-gold pubic hair. As she kissed, the other girl began to rub the blonde's cuntal slice, and the camera moved in close to show that slice, its lips prominent and deeply cleft.

Fingers spread those lips, revealing the violet pink flesh inside, and Pam watched with interest, still eating Mr. Ford. The camera kept closing in, as if the filmmaker meant to thrust his lens up the blonde girl's pussy, but somehow Pam didn't think that was likely. The sandy-haired girl eased a finger into the snug little pussy mouth and there seemed to be no room for anything else in those tight confines. She began to fuck in and out with her finger, and the blonde's flat stomach suddenly began to ripple in soft waves, her thighs trembling on each side.

The women were both fully naked now, and as Pam watched and sucked with equal commitment, they moved into a lesbian 69, the blonde on the bottom. The sandy-haired girl kept using her finger in her girlfriend's snatch but she brought her mouth into play as well, long pointed tongue shaking and tickling the clitoral nub at the upper end of the blonde's gash. From time to time she licked lower, casing her tongue into the vaginal mouth alongside her finger, but it was clearly a tight fit. And a pleasant one, if the ruddy, healthy glow of her face proved anything.

A quick cut brought the viewer's attention to the blonde, who was quite eagerly mouthing the cunt that had settled atop her sweet face. She didn't look at all innocent now. She licked pussy, then raised her straining head to let her tongue glide across the other girl's asshole, a tiny red pucker amid a forest of thick dark hair that completely filled her crotch and threatened to spill uncontrollably down her long legs. At the nine time she kept her fingers very busy on the sandy-haired girl's deeply tanned ass, pinching into the firm-looking buttocks, spreading them wide so that pussy lips gaped forth from the canyoned slit.

The color was excellent, and the photography was quite flattering to the two girls, who were lovely to begin with. Their skin glowed in the slightly diffused sunlight, and they moved upon one another with a becoming pace. Pam found herself strangely touched, not knowing why. She cupped Mr. Ford's balls in her hand and let the other hand drop between her own legs, where it found a twitchy, itchy, rather bitchy cunt waiting. Pam took a deep swallow of dong and thrust a finger up her snatch.

She wasn't sure why this particular movie was affecting her so strongly, but she knew that it certainly was. There was something quite beautiful about the lesbian cunnilingus the two girls were performing, about the interlocking patterns of the two lovely female bodies. It was softness mounted upon softness and she found it almost irresistibly erotic.

I wonder what it would be like? Pamela thought, still wolfing pecker. She had a busy finger in her snatch and a hard dick in her mouth, but her eyes kept returning to the screen and she found herself full of curiosity. How would it feel to slip her tongue into another cunt, to feel a feminine tongue nibbling its way up her own twat?

She'd never done anything like that in all her life; she'd never wanted to, for God's sake! Back home in DuBois, girls were too busy getting it on with boys to waste time fucking around with other girls. She'd not had a really close girlfriend since, oh, hell, since junior high, at the latest. But now, she found herself growing quite interested, and as she delved in her nookie with a stiff quivering finger she could close her eyes and pretend, almost that she was one of the women up there on the movie screen, that an alien female hand was caressing her cunt. But how about her part of the action? Shouldn't she be eating or doing something? Pamela tried to guess how a cunt might taste, but it was hard to fantasize orally when her mouth was full of a large, throbbing rod that drew nearer to gushing each time she suctioned it.

Cut again to the black man she'd noticed earlier.

He was still watching the girls, his face glistening in the sunlight, white teeth shining. One hand dropped to his crotch, and he rubbed until a lump filled out the front of his pants. He looked down at it, nodded, and moved out of the frame.

The next shot featured the naked bodies, one tanned, one lily white. A black hand entered the frame, came to rest upon the sandy-haired girl's back. "Hello, girls, need any help?" read a subtitle.

The girls came apart, looking up at the man, and the blonde's eyes were large in panic. But her friend was quite up to the occasion. Grinning broadly, she rose onto her knees and kissed the big hard lump in the man's pants. Then she unzipped him bid hauled forth an enormous, black tool, which she rubbed against her cheeks in a kind of ecstatic yearning.

"Care to join us?" she asked, looking up at him, indicating the picnic lunch spread out on the tablecloth and the naked bodies of herself and her blonde friend.

"Mmmm-hmmm," the man said, pulling off his pullover top. In another moment he was naked, in the pass, and the sandy-haired girl was planting herself atop him, guiding his hard black dick into her brunette-furred snatch.

"Aaaahhhh," she moaned as she plunged down burying his pecker in her hole. She fucked him with great agitation and energy for several moments, and then she arose, turning round to face away from him. He held his prick upright, and she took it home again, settling down with a pleased expression on her face. As she began to fuck, black hands came up to entrap her firm, tanned breasts, and black fingers began to squeeze passionately at her fat, thick nipples.

The blonde girl poured a glass of champagne and tipped the glass while the man drank the bubbly wine. When he was finished, she moved in and kissed him, her pink tongue licking the driblets of champagne from his lips. He captured her tongue and began to suck it. She pressed against him for a few moments, then retreated and offered him her small but perfect tits, first pouring champagne from the bottle across their small, pink-capped cones. He was as eager to suck her nipples as herd been to suck her tongue.

Meanwhile, the sandy-haired girl was still fucking furiously, her eyes closed in concentration. The blonde girl poured more wine on her breasts and gave them to her girlfriend, who proved that she could still appreciate a female body even when she was being fucked by as large – as impressive – a tool as the man possessed.

Somehow Pam found herself a little disappointed. The presence of the man had upset her mental rhythm. It was too bad the producers hadn't kept the film strictly girl-on-girl. She'd found herself really digging that scene, because of its beauty and novelty and erotic appeal, and now, with a man brought in, it was just like any other fuck film. She kept moving her finger in her cunt, but more from duty than desire. Most of her attention was being given to Mr. Ford now.

Oh, shit, Pam told herself. It doesn't matter what turns you on! You're just an afternoon whore. Your job is to keep the customer satisfied. So it's just as good the movie isn't turning you on any more. You can keep your mind on the job you've already been paid for, and you can do it right.

The sandy-haired girl withdrew quickly from the slick black cock. It glistened like polished leather in the sunlight and it jiggled about in lurching circles as she raised her cunt off it. The blonde girl was on her belly, head aimed into the man's crotch, and her small pale hand immediately seized the dick, firming it, holding it upright. She slid closer and opened her mouth wider than seemed possible, widely enough to suck in the man's testicles. And they weren't small nuts, either. Big, heavy-looking stones, encased in a large dangling scrotum, but they fit into her mouth with no trouble, it appeared, and she sucked them, hand closing and relaxing around the barrel of the cock.

But she didn't look particularly interested in what she was doing, or so it appeared to Pam. Oh, Christ, the woman reminded herself, you're reading your own attitudes into that stupid fuck-film girl. And she probably is stupid. For a whole afternoon of fucking and sucking and lesbian sex, she couldn't be getting more than maybe a hundred dollars cash. It probably took two or three hours to make the movie, and people all over America can buy it, watch it any time they please. She's a permanent fantasy fuck-object now, thanks to the miracle of film. While I'm getting a hundred dollars for fifty minutes of my time and when it's over, the client takes away nothing except his memories. Maybe, she thought, maybe I'm a fantasy fuck-object, too, but I'm smart enough to do it my way.

The sandy-haired girl came into frame above and her hand replaced the blonde's on the man's pecker. She opened her mouth and started swallowing and, incredibly enough, her mouth descended almost to the balls her friend was still sucking. And it was a long, thick cock, too, a real challenge for throat artists.

Pam watched another minute, while the girls continued in their oral manipulation of the man's cock and balls, and then, with care and expertise, she removed her mouth from Mr. Ford's dick. She kept her lips upon him, moving up and down, so that the rhythm wasn't broken for even a second, and she looked up at the projector. Not much film left. She'd have to hurry, if she wanted to do it the way her client preferred.

Mr. Ford didn't seem to notice that he was no longer shafting his way into Pam's mouth. His loin's still bucked upward as her tongue and lips moved up and down his tool, and his balls quivered where she held them in one cupping hand. His cock was dripping from her saliva and, when she ran her tongue across the fat swollen knob, she could taste a preliminary leakage of cum from deep in his nuts. He was on hair trigger right now, and she could pull him off just about any time, but it was most important to do it his way.

Pam looked at the screen again. The sandy haired girl was still sucking up and down, her cheeks drawn in tightly, her face reddening from effort. Suddenly, without any warning, she pulled the dick out of her mouth. Uh-oh, Pam thought. She was afraid she'd misjudged. If the screen stud was about to come, Mr. Ford wasn't. Not quite.

The blonde raised her pale pretty face and she had a champagne glass in her hand, probably the same one she'd given the man a drink from. She lifted the glass and the sandy-haired girl angled the black cock downward, until the big knob was aimed into the glass and, as the two girls watched smirking at one another, the man began to squirt.

His cum shot in big, thick lashings into the glass, coating the inside wails, and he shot another gout of his stuff each time the sandy-haired girl stroked him with her hand. Pam sighed, for she'd blown it again, so to speak, and she hurriedly fed Mr. Ford's rod back into her mouth, sucking him in a frenzy.

But wait – it wasn't quite the end of the movie. Mr. Ford had his hand on her head, guiding her down upon his tool, and he thrust up, thrust more eagerly, and she could almost sense that he was waiting for something, something else, something that turned him on enough to wait for.

The sandy-haired girl watched as the cock finished spurting its gummy white sperm, and she looked at her blonde girlfriend. The blonde took the glass, tilted it from side to side, then raised it to her mouth. And drank. She turned the glass almost upside down, pouring all the man's cum into her mouth as if it were fine champagne. Her cheeks puffed out as she drank it, but Pam couldn't see the gulping that indicated she was swallowing the semen. Was there something else?

There was.

"Aaaagggghhhh…" Mr. Ford groaned. It was a deep, soulful groan, and he almost rose bodily from the edge of the bed, ramming his cock into Pam's throat cavity. She pulled back, letting his dong slip free, and she pressed his cock to her face, hand fisting around him. The cum was rising through his shaft. She could feel it. Everything seemed to be happening in milliseconds right now, time slowed to turtle's crawl, but that only made it more exciting.

She looked at the screen. The blonde moved her face toward the other girl, and mouths met just above the man's midsection. As the girls' lips touched, the blonde opened her mouth and spewed out a full helping of the cum she'd drunk from the glass. It ran across the sandy-haired girl's skin, some of it going into her mouth, some of it sliding down her chin, and there were white drippings on the man's belly where the sperm fell upon him.

And then there were white drippings on Pamela Wilson's face too, as Mr. Ford's cock literally exploded against her cheek. He came in a hot fury of semen that splattered her flesh and clogged at the entrance of her nostrils and seeped into her open mouth, and she caressed him and kissed him and licked away his cum while more flowed down the stiff, jerking barrel of his cock to take the place of what she'd already drunk, and on the movie screen the two girls were still sharing a cum-flavored kiss.

Of course he was putting himself into the movie, pretending that he was the stud up there on the screen. Pam was just a pussy and a mouth to get him off. But what the hell? Somebody had to do it, and the money and the pleasure did as much for her as they would for any other woman. She jerked him until her entire face was sprayed sticky with his cum, and she sucked his cock until it went soft in her mouth and he had nothing more to give.

Well, she had to be going soon. She was due to meet Mr. Webber, an she'd have to clean herself up before joining him at his motel. She'd also have to change clothes. For him, she wore a low halter top and star-spangled hot pants. He liked to make the most of her resemblance to TV's Wonder Woman, and she was happy to indulge. As Mr. Ford's limp dick fell out of her mouth, Pam found herself thinking only of the trick that lay ahead. The one just finished was history.

"I'll call you next time I'm in town," Mr. Ford told her. "I'll bring same more movies, too. Maybe I'll bring a lot of movies, and hire you for a whole afternoon. Would you like that?"

"Mmmmm, yes," she nodded. "I'd like anything that turned you on, baby."

"Oh, yeah," he said, lying back on the bed. The projector was rewinding now. "This was perfect, Patti, really perfect. You did me just the way I wanted. I just wish I came through here more often."

"Well, don't forget to call me," she said, "any time you're in town. Maybe we'll spend an afternoon – a whole afternoon – together sometime soon. That could be a lot of fun. For both of us, mmmm?" She blew him a kiss from the doorway and started out. She'd have to bribe the desk clerk downstairs to give her the loan of a room where she could shower and change clothes. The only thing she hated was wiping the cum off her face. It felt so sweet and sticky drying on her skin, and the taste of it was still strong in her mouth. Damn, she thought, when Kerry gets home from work, I think I'll rape him.