Roland watched a woman who his earlier perusal of the Hosting database told him was Pam 887 mince past on her way to the elevator, carrying an overnight bag, and grinned. Apparently Alan 136 was shooting for double occupancy... Why he'd want to screw the librarian type wasn't clear, though - the dude looked fairly prosperous to Roland.
There was a knock, and Alan spied a familiar form through the peep. Opening the door, he gathered Pamela in and queried, "How was your day, Dear?"
Weighted down with the overnight bag, Pamela was in no condition to defend herself when the hands that gathered her in split, one cradling her bare back under the sweatshirt, and one slipping under the waistband of her stretch pants to cup an ass cheek. But she was beyond all that, so she only experienced a mild start before she replied, "Too long," and offered her lips. After a few seconds, she just dropped the bag in order to have both hands free to rub on him.
Alan stepped back, breaking the clinch. “You didn't dress up for me?" he teased.
“I was in my nightie when you called," Pamela replied, "But if I'd had a flat on the road, or something, it might have been embarrassing, being found in it. I'm here, but I'm not sure I'm happy about it."
Alan looked mildly surprised. "Oh? Why?"
"Well,” Pamela’s embarrassment showed. "By rushing down here, I've pretty much labeled myself 'whore'. 'Shameless slut', at least."
"I don't think so!" Alan disagreed vehemently. "You're only about two decades behind on sex, and I'm a known quantity with a limited shelf-life! You'd be wasting precious time if you weren't here! And as for shameless, well, you've disproved THAT already!"
"Hmmph. You're dealing in logic. That's what MY head said, and it's what brought me here. But value judgments are another matter entirely." She glanced toward the bath, "Is the water run?"
"Just finished." Alan stepped back and watched her watch him as she threw the sweatshirt over her head, stepped out of her panties and stretch pants. She'd been wearing something that pretended to be running shoes, but slipped on her feet. She kicked them off and stood there in just her socks. Alan waved toward the bath, and followed her, watching her ass wiggle. It was a little... loose... Not that he considered that to be a BAD thing - the wiggle was enticing, actually. Pamela bent over, bracing herself on the side of the tub with one hand while she skinned off a sock with the other. This was the first time Alan had good light to look at her presented in that manner, despite the doggie-style ending of their second bout the night before. Alan stepped up and put his hand on the saddle of her lower back. Pamela stopped and glanced around at him, surprised. "I just wanted a good look," Alan explained. He lifted the hand and held it out; Pamela used it to balance her as she stepped in. "Sorry, no bubbles."
Pamela smiled as she settled in. "You've spoiled me in one night to the point that I'm acting like a tramp. Margot is jealous - if it weren't for Vern being a decent sort, she'd be trying to edge me out, since she's decided that you're uncommonly thoughtful. Bubbles? Pass."
Alan grinned and slipped out of his shirt, then started working on his pants. "I have feet of clay, too. I might have gone down and gotten some from the gift shop, or something, but they'd have obscured you."
Pamela sat watching Alan slide out of his clothes. It HAD been fairly dark by the time they'd been naked the night before; she'd had impressions, and that was really it. Alan wasn't fat, but he was thickening with age, and he had a sparse patch of graying chest hair. The appendage that had brought her so much pleasure the evening before didn't LOOK as big as it had FELT - but then it didn't seem to be stiff, either. "Why would you want to look at me?" she wondered aloud. "God knows I'm no great shakes."
"You make it sound as if you're ugly, or something," Alan retorted, as he started wedging himself into the tub behind her. "That isn't the case. If anything, I'd say you're just poorly advertised." He peeled the paper off a bar of hotel soap, wet it, and began feeling up Pamela's breasts under the guise of washing them.
"Um, right. Nobody's THAT poorly advertised!" Pamela demurred - but it was weak; she was relaxing into the feel of his hands on her, and WANTED to hear good things.
"Well, let's see. You're painfully shy. You dress like a virgin librarian. That nose is generally associated with nasty, bad-tempered, naggy women - but in my experience, you're not one. Looks are deceiving, but everybody believes what they see. Since you don't broadcast any sexual attractors, you're not going to be looked at very closely."
Pamela sighed. "My nose isn't my only detractor. What about THESE saggy things?" She indicated her breasts, the left one of which Alan was still pretending to wash.
Alan chuckled. "Go braless a few times, and see what happens. I've seen similar racks on twenty year olds - some girls just sag a bit. They're not baggy, have a nice shape, and they're not hard to look at. And THESE," he tweaked a nipple, "are VERY nice."
"I have to wear padded bras to keep them from showing," Pamela confided.
"If you didn't, you'd have attracted more men," Alan reposted. "Erect nipples are a turn-on - they're sexual advertising." The soap drifted over Pamela's belly and ribs, and began to lather in the upper edge of her pubes. Was he going to wash her there?
"Well, maybe," she sighed, "but halfway down my chest?"
Alan picked up an arm and began gently working it over; Pamela shelved a minor case of disappointment at the change in targets as he demurred, "They don't sag THAT much; all in all, they're a plus, believe me. You're self-image is your worst enemy. You don't THINK you're sexy, so you aren't. Margot is handicapped by her weight; she has big breasts, but they're actually TOO big, moving into the 'udder' range, especially when not confined. But Margot THINKS of herself as a sexual being - therefore she will have an audience. You don't; you think of yourself as a drone, and therefore, no one sees any sexual potential in you. Except me - and I've seen the actuality."
"We were BOTH desperate, or we'd have never come HERE!" Pamela argued.
"Yeah, and Margot was entertaining TWO males in short order, while you ALMOST didn't get to one!" Alan laughed. "Margot knows what she wants, sexually, and is gutsy enough to go after it, because she knows that if she waits for it to come to her, she'll do without. You never really got there, somehow. It really wouldn't take that much...." He was working the other arm, soaping her from wrist to armpit - from behind, which was awkward, but worth it.
Pamela murmured, "You're right. Margot had a plan, targets. We came here a month ago, and didn't do anything, just worked the system, watching the ebb and flow. Margot became convinced that this was a great place to get a quality male. She made a list of things that she wanted to do, if the opportunity presented itself - and she hit a bunch of them, last night. I just showed up and hoped...." She settled into his shoulder and eyed him, "What made you pick me?"
Alan chuckled, "Two reasons: First, it was a Monday, and there wasn't a whole lot visible out there - why did you come out on a Monday, anyway? Why not a Friday?"
A bit nettled, Pamela answered, "We weren't THAT brave, yet; besides, the rates go up on the weekend - traffic gets heavy. I needed training wheels..."
Alan nodded. He was not unaware that Pamela hadn't really liked reason number one. Time to mend fences, "The second reason was your video."
"I made a video? God, I was AWFUL with the system! Nothing worked, or everything worked wrong! What did I do?"
Alan laughed. "It caught you sitting there, and you said, 'I must be insane!' with this distracted look on your face. Then you wet 'Oops!' and started clicking buttons."
Pamela sighed. "So I made an utter fool of myself, and you found that entertaining..."
"Quite the contrary!" Alan demurred. "I felt that the clip revealed things about you, things that I didn't even evaluate on the surface. But it said you were for real, and not too wildly brave or experienced. It said that you were looking for some of the things I was - some intimacy, not just a quick fuck." He started lathering up the soap. "Gimme a leg."
"I’m not double jointed!" Pamela protested, "Maybe I should turn around?"
"Not just yet," Alan directed, "I have reasons for this position. Spread your legs."
Pamela did so, and his hand dove between them, doing slippery, wonderful things under the guise of washing her pubes and labia. Pamela moaned softly. That he was pretending to be all business when his finger slid up and down between her inner lips was known to both of them. "Okay, now you can turn around," he announced - but the hand didn't leave....
"Not sure I want to, now," she sighed.
Alan chuckled. "I can get at it from the other direction." He proved it, too, thoroughly lathering both of her long legs from her toes to the opening between her inner thighs. "Okay, now turn back around. I want to play."
Pamela was more than willing to re-settle herself against him while he added more water to warm it and raise the level. "I feel so... decadent," she sighed, leaning against this man whom she'd known only a day, but who now knew more about her than any other.
"Still worried about your self-respect?" Alan laughed. "Maybe I should come see you tomorrow, hat in hand, begging humbly for your favors. Would that be better?"
Pamela smiled, "You say the sweetest things. I feel better already. Would you?"
Alan shrugged, "Sure. If it will help. This is an unusual situation; in some ways, we're 'way ahead of the power curve, and in others, we're not even off the blocks. Looked at from some directions, it appears worse for either of us than it really is. Still, this is our SECOND date - in most ways, we're about where we would be if we met in a bar and I got you drunk and battered down your defenses."
Pamela sighed, "Assuming I had any. Apparently, I don't when I'm drunk. But we were VERY sober last night - and that counts for something." After a moment, she changed the subject, "I'm starting to get really... hot... but tub baths don't really get the soap scum off. And if I'm going to wash my hair, I'll need to get my shampoo."
"Did you bring some?"
"Yes." For now, Pamela neglected to mention the fact that she was equipped for more than one night.
"Okay, why don't you hop out and go get it, and I'll drain this and start the shower. There are plenty of towels." Pamela nodded and surged up, almost causing a flood. As she stepped out, Alan rose more gingerly behind her, and started the tub draining. Pamela settled for a quick wipe and a tuck of the towel around her, then, still dripping, dove into her overnight bag. While she was at it, she fished the two blouses and her pantsuit and skirt out of the bag and hung them in the closet, feeling somewhat guilty; they hadn't REALLY discussed her spending the ONE night, never mind two! Unintentionally, she was giving off 'spider' vibes, as if she was trying to trap him. Maybe she'd better come clean....
Alan knew that something was up from the look on her face on her return. "Um, about tomorrow night," she mumbled diffidently.
"Margot told me she was going to entertain Vern at home - so she recommended that I pack for two nights..." Pamela couldn't meet his eye.
Alan stuck his tongue in his cheek to keep from openly grinning. "So we'll have to wait for Thursday for the hat in hand thing...."
Pamela sighed. "I've moved even further into the slut zone... I just wanted you to know it wasn't the CONNIVING slut zone. At this point, I don't seem to have any hope of recovery."
Alan tried to let her off the hook. "Well, nothing is certain. You're just being prepared. It’s all sensible and logical - it just doesn't meet the general concept of proper behavior when you're trying to establish a long-term relationship. Given that we have already identified this as an issue we're not going to have much control over, it makes sense to get the most from the time we have. The general rule really doesn't apply, and you need to get away from it - I already have. I feel complimented that you want to spend all the time you can with me, and I hope to make the whole thing worth it. Conventional rules are for conventional relationships; when you have one, you can abide by them. This is... different. We have different needs, and a different timetable. Let's make the most of it."
Pamela's "Okay," was weak. Alan made shift to ignore it, taking the shampoo and conditioner bottles from her. The conditioner thing was so patently feminine - he'd have never thought of it, and she obviously went nowhere without it. Well, he had as little chance of becoming familiar with such things as she had of his male quirks - best to cherish them while they could. Pamela disappeared behind the shower curtain, and Alan followed, busying himself with looking for a place to put the bottles while she faced the shower head and got her hair wet. But there is something about a woman with both hands in her hair, elbows out, breasts presented; Alan's hands found them without his conscious thought. She flicked forward, instinctively, but he murmured, "Shhhhh, I'll be good. Let me know when you want shampoo."
Aside from that, the shower went basically without extraneous horseplay. Alan was content to let Pamela do what was necessary to get clean and dry, absenting himself for the whole hair-drying ritual. Pamela was mildly disappointed, until she discovered that he'd ordered more wine sent up. She came out of the bath in the obligatory terry robe as Martin was making his exit; he made no indication of recognition. "So, what's next?" she asked, observing, "It's starting to get late...."
Alan reduced the lighting to a bedside lamp. "I thought we'd neck a while," he replied, then more diffidently, "I want to see you."
Pamela nodded, hesitated a moment, and the robe made a puddle on the floor. Alan handed her a glass, but it was more an excuse to get close than anything else. Pamela couldn't fathom his smile - no one else had ever been that excited by her appearance. Speaking of excited... that bulge in his robe... "I want to see, too," she announced, holding his eyes.
Alan nodded, waved her to sit on the already turned-down bed, and busied himself with getting out of his robe, and effort mildly complicated by his wineglass. He shucked out an arm at a time, facing away from her, and surprised them both when he turned - the place she'd settled was further toward the foot of the bed than he'd anticipated, and when he turned, she got to examine his almost totally erect cock, up close and personal. "Oh! Sorry!" he exclaimed, and made to back up, but she recovered before he did and stopped him with a hand on his ass.
In response to his blank look, she announced, "I want to see this in particular. Would you...?" She handed Alex her wineglass, leaving him standing there feeling foolish and somewhat vulnerable with both hands occupied while she held him in place by his hips, examining his erection closely.
The item under examination firmed visibly, rising to a near vertical position. After a moment in which Pamela seemed to get closer and closer, she locked eyes with him, looking the question, 'Can I touch it?' Alan assented just as silently, and she reached out gingerly to take possession. The feel was amazing to her, a soft, smooth surface over a rigid core - and HOT! The shaft pulsed and surged under her hand, the mushroom head swelling a bit, the opening at the end flexing a bit, even. "I thought there was supposed to be some loose skin..."
"I'm circumcised; that covering has been removed. When I was young, doctors went through a phase where they recommended it for sanitary reasons."
Pamela nodded absently. "I'd wondered. On videos you see both - sometimes it seems to go from one state to the other."
"Some guys apparently use up all of the loose skin as they become erect. I'm not really a student of such things..." Alan's eyes laughed gently.
Pamela returned the smile, "Keep you hands to yourself in the Men's Room, do you?" In the meantime, her hand explored his cock, then his testicles, then returned to the shaft. Almost instinctively, she jacked her hand up and down the shaft gently, feeling his buttock clench in her other hand. "Did that hurt?"
Alan took a breath, calmed himself. "Quite the opposite, actually. That's masturbation..."
"Oh." Yes, that made sense. She worked her hand up and down, actually sliding it over the sensitive crown at the top of the stroke. The thing was pulsing, alive, in her hand, seemingly independent of its owner - except for the fact that Alan was obviously responding with little movements and twitches, and a stifled groan. "Is this good?"
"Well, yes, but..."
"But you can do this for yourself," Pamela hazarded.
"Yes. It lacks for certain things, too - warmth, wetness, a certain texture...."
Pamela eyed him sidelong, "Only to be found in one place?" She continued working him, enjoying watching him stifle his reactions.
"There are a couple of perfectly acceptable substitutes," Alan pointed out. "If you've seen videos..."
Pamela's smile turned predatory. She leaned forward and released a gentle wash of her warm breath over the tip. Alan's eyes closed, and he went rigid, thinking distantly, 'I'm going to break these glasses in a minute...' "I, uh, need to put these down..." Pamela eyed him for a moment, amused, before she released his hip and sat back, not QUITE releasing her grip on his cock until he backed out of it. He turned and placed the glasses on the nightstand, thinking, 'The woman has grown fangs!' He returned cautiously to his previous position, and she collected his phallus as soon as it was in reach, resuming the sliding caress, taking her time and doing some kind of rotating motion with her palm at the tip. Alan couldn't decide what it was, exactly, and guessed that he probably couldn't replicate it - wrong angle or something - but the sensations it was imparting to his sensitive glans were maddening! "We could do this mutually," he offered, looking for a distraction.
Pamela KNEW she had him going, and the feeling of power that swept over her made her brave. Her eyes laughed as she regarded him. "Wouldn't that just be a distraction?" She had both hands on him now, one holding the shaft while the other spun over the cap of his glans. Alan was making little movements - not quite lunges - as she frayed at his control.
"Yeah, probably," Alan admitted. "We could take turns... Want to go first?" Pamela shook her head smiling. She had him; he'd remember THIS before he messed with HER mind! She waited, while he stood there, feeling her draw his spunk from him. Dammit! He didn't want to just squirt on her! Time to just play the cards, and hope - higher mental functions were eroding away as his 'little head' diverted blood from the big one... "Look, in a minute, I'm going to shoot all over your chest, and then I'm going to fall on you when my knees give way. Do you want that?"
Pamela eased up on him a bit, "You have a suggestion?"
"Yeah," Alan tried not to appear as relieved as he felt. "If we're going to do this one at a time, and I'm going first, then we should change positions, so I can sit down, at least,"
"Where would I go?"
This piece was the minefield. "You should, uh, kneel between my legs," Alan suggested diffidently, racing to add, "Only so you can maintain eye contact!"
Laughing eyes regarded him, sidelong. "Alan? You want me to... suck it, don't you?"
He could waste his breath denying it, or... "Yesss." She'd done that spinning thing to his glans again, at the last moment, causing him to hiss.
In her head, Pamela could hear Margot advising, 'Suck his cock, Sweetheart - you've got him by the balls, now!' Smiling but wordless, she got up, not releasing him, and started rotating to her right, turning him with her until their positions were reversed. Then she began lowering herself (and, perforce, him), allowing him to seat himself on the edge of the bed while she knelt.
Alan snatched a pillow, "For your knees," and she took it, one-handed, never releasing him. Alan swore to himself that when his turn came, he would bring her to heel; this challenge could not go unanswered! But for now, Pamela held sway and that was fine...
Pamela's smile grew feral; it was time to up the ante. She worried a bit about taste, but did not allow it to show on her face. By all accounts, fellatio, (okay, she admitted to herself, cocksucking), was a mainstream practice - it couldn't be TOO horrible. Watching him, never allowing the smile to leave her face, she flicked her tongue across the tip, picking up the bubble of fluid bulging from the opening at the tip. While Alan dealt with the explosive sensation, she analyzed the flavors. The fluid was a lubricant, no doubt; certainly, it wasn't urine. And the taste of his glans was probably not much different than if she had licked his hip - maybe a bit more salty or musky, but not much, especially straight from the bath!
Alan wrestled with himself for control; the warm, wet, supple flash from her tongue, atop the stimulation she had already heaped upon him, had him boiling, his control tenuous. He wouldn't last long; maybe he'd better bring up ejaculation? "What're you going to do with cum?"
Pamela flicked her tongue over him again, glorying in his galvanic response. "In videos, the guys always masturbate on the women's faces," (tongue-flick) (gasp and jerk) "But that's not the right thing in real life, is it?" (Flick) (Gasp).
"No," Alan's voice was strained. He couldn't remember ever having been teased like this - Hell, she didn't even know what she was doing, and she was driving him nuts!
"I guess I'll discover the taste," Pamela announced, then ovalled her lips and fit them over his glans.
"AAAAaaaahhhhh!" Alan went rigid, and his exclamation just missed being a scream! He grabbed a double handful of the bedclothes, then released them, doubled forward, and slid his hands up and down her back as she played him, swirling her tongue around his sensitive glans. "You've done this!" he accused, "No one could be this good...."
"Uh uh," Pamela averred, backing off. "All I know is what I see in videos."
"Yeah, right." The good news, however, was the momentary respite; Alan had been on the bleeding edge. Now, as Pamela resumed her effort, it felt wonderful - but time to ejaculation had backed off a bit.
Pamela noticed, too, and had mixed feelings about it. Bringing Alan to his knees immediately would have been... pleasant... but she probably wouldn’t have learned much. Instead, she started working to absorb some of the shaft, drawing it in, watching him. Almost immediately, she noticed that his reactions to the new effort were gingerly. She sucked hard, going deep - and he flinched.
Backing off, she held his eyes. "Tell me."
"Teeth," Alan replied, gasping a bit as she went back to tonguing his crown inside the ring of her lips. "Lips, tongue, cheeks, moderate suction to bring it all together - and lots of saliva - but NO teeth!"
'Duh!' Pamela castigated herself, 'Vagina's - pussies - don't have teeth....' She backed off the suction, hollowed her cheeks, and worked the tongue, and Alan relaxed visibly. She WAS a bit dry, though, and it made new ground hard to cover. After a couple of strokes, she popped off again. "Saliva?"
"Yeah," Alan hissed. It was hard to talk when she re-engaged. "Lubrication."
"How?" Alan looked away guiltily. "Tell."
"I dunno." But Alan was still looking away, avoiding her eyes.
"You do." She dropped over the head and then withdrew, sucking powerfully so it made a pop when she broke free. "Tell!"
His eyes flicked to hers, and away. "Gag."
Alan's eyes returned to hers. "Go deep. When you choke on it, the spit machine will fire up." He didn't look particularly proud of the suggestion, perhaps because it sounded like he was trying to talk her into deep throat. "You're doing fine, now," he concluded lamely.
Pamela nerved herself, and went deep, until the spongy head touched the back of her throat. The reflex triggered, but didn't produce much; she couldn't bring herself to really press. Alan said nothing, watching her; this was good enough - he figured he had a minute or two, at best, given what she was giving him. Pamela waited a couple of strokes, and tried again. This time, Alan gave voice to his thoughts, "You don't need to do that - things are really good, just as they are."
But Pamela wasn't giving up. "Help," she directed, at the end of an out-stroke.
Alan looked unhappy, anticipating the next request, "How?"
"Gag me," Pamela sucked him in, expelled him, "Hold me in place." The lips flowed over him, and withdrew. "Make me take it."
Alan shifted uncomfortably. "You REALLY, REALLY don't have to do that!"
Pamela just looked at him. He was being nice, saying the right things, and no doubt he was ashamed of himself - but his cock had swollen and firmed even more as they discussed it. Reluctantly, he put his hand behind her head. "You want to have some signal, in case it gets bad?"
Visibly gathering herself, Pamela replied, "No. I'll chicken out." Soft lips stroked Alan's shaft again, and she continued, "Five seconds, or it pops through."
"Pops through?" Alan repeated, stupefied.
"I know it'll fit." Pamela took a deep breath, and leaned into it, waving him on before dropping her hands to her knees, eyes locked on his.
Alan bit his lip and applied pressure to the back of her head. The eyes got watery, but she dared him with them as her throat began to work. "Open it!" he demanded, committed, and applied more pressure. Pamela reddened, her shoulders hunched, and her head dropped; she'd retch, now, no doubt of it. And then, suddenly, he was in her spasming throat!
Alan let up, instantly. Pamela backed off, red-faced, leaking saliva, but somehow, her face managed to convey triumph. The exercise had met its theoretically primary goal; Alan was awash, his cock wet to the root. Pamela got her breathing under control and resumed her efforts, assisted in going deeper by the lubrication. Alan didn't encourage her with his hand any more, but he moved it to caress her cheek; the woman had a lot of moxie! After about ten strokes, Alan began to feel that first tickle that said the eruption was on its way. He started to open his mouth to utter a warning, but it was lost in the look in Pamela's eyes as she gathered herself. Alan got out, "Uhhh," as Pamela lifted her hands to his hips, but conscious thought fled as she lowered her head and impaled herself on him, this time on her own, her eyes locked on his.
It might have been those eyes; it might have been her throat working on his glans. Whatever it was, suddenly, Alan's knees were jumping as, control totally lost, his cock swelled, surged, and fired a BIG shot of semen, right down Pamela's throat! Pamela backed off to take the second pulse in her mouth as Alan wrestled with himself not to grab her head and hold it there, her nose buried in his pubes, while he emptied himself totally down her throat. "Uh, uhhh, uhhh, uhhh," he gasped, as his diaphragm contracted to support the blasts. Pamela took deliveries, the sticky, slick flood pouring across her tongue, coating her taste buds with its salt-sweet flavor. The first blast having bypassed her mouth totally, the remainder wasn't quite a mouthful she had no problem handling it. Alan collapsed back onto his forearms, and again Pamela felt the surge of power that this presumably subservient activity granted her. "That was... You were..." Alan discovered that he just had no words. Pamela contrived to smile around the suction she used to tease his glans.
After a moment, over-sensitivity made it urgent that he disengage her - but she knew she had him on tenterhooks, and resisted his efforts. Finally, he got both hands under her arms and lifted her bodily from his lap. "Real proud of yourself, aren't you?" he laughed. "Well, you deserve it - that was incredible! But it’s MY turn..." Unsaid, the thought, 'and I've got my work cut out for me!' went through his brain. He stood, too, and rotated Pamela so that the backs of her knees met the bed, then seated her - but before she was settled, he knelt, snatched her legs into the air, and dragged her pelvis to the edge of the bed.
Pamela was more than mildly surprised by these maneuvers; she ended up on her back with her knees draped over Alan's shoulders. "Hey! Aaaaaahhhh!" Outrage turned to pleasure as Alan began to attack her pelvis with his tongue, licking and nibbling at her inner lips. "Oooooohhhh!"
Watching her closely, Alan tried various targets, moving from her lips to drive his tongue into her vaginal opening, then drifting up to run his tongue alongside, then actually across her clitoris. Pamela went bug-eyed at that later activity, the gasp of shock replacing the glassy-eyed look that had settled as soon as he began. "Ooohhh God!" Alan found that working his tongue at the gates to her vagina was almost as effective, but clit work left her unable to hold his eyes - she would stiffen and throw her head back to toss from side to side. Once he had some idea what the hot spots were, he played her like a musical instrument, working her clitoris until her hands came down to push him away, then shifting to drive his tongue into her vagina until the guarding hands went away.
He never REALLY let up, however, and on the third cycle, pushing him away failed to slow things down. Pamela began to shake, moaned loudly, and grabbed his head, crushing his face against a suddenly spasming opening as she rolled her hips and shuddered, "Oh, GOD!" This lasted a good thirty seconds, while she blew like a horse on the backstretch at Santa Anita, before she released his head.
Alan chuckled, "As you can see, TWO can play THAT game!" He went back to work, low, collecting her dew as it dribbled from her opening.
Pamela was virtually incoherent, "I want..." she moaned.
"More tongue work?" Alan guessed.
"No, more! I want... it!" There was no question what 'it' was - none at all.
Licking Pamela had brought Alan rapid recovery from his orgasm, so he chuckled and stood, pulling Pamela's legs up with him. He stepped forward, nosed his glans against her opening, and let himself in. Pamela did everything in her power to ensure he had no problems with the insertion - she wanted it, BAD! Alan was barely settled before Pamela's hips began to rock; she used his grip on her thighs as an anchor to drive herself onto his penis. Mere insertion brought her halfway to orgasm, and she covered the remainder at a rapid pace. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Ohh!"
Alan's grin was feral. This was Round Two; the edge was DEFINITELY off, and he was going to make this one memorable! Well-positioned and well-organized, he worked to deliver a serious pounding, watching Pamela's flattened breasts slide on her chest like two sunny-side up eggs on a Teflon skillet. Pamela's first orgasm roared through ninety seconds later to the tune of, "Ooh! Ooohhh!! OOHHHH!!! OOOOHH GOD!!!!" Alan didn't let up, he just kept on swinging. He had her RIGHT where he wanted her!
Over the next twenty minutes, Pamela came six more times, in a pattern of one huge shuddering surge followed by two smaller, gentler pops while her capacitors recharged for the next big one. Alan began to feel two things: his age, and that tickling feeling in his shaft that presaged orgasm. Time to pick up the pace!
Pamela, who had just finished Number Seven and should have been in a low point in her response cycle, wasn't allowed to go there. Repeated, rapid-fire shocks to clitoris and an incremental increase in the girth and stiffness of Alan's plunging penis turned the corner for her and she began to climb toward Number Eight. Moments later, she passed the gentle peak point and began to surge and pant. This fed the fire in Alan's loins and he AGAIN picked up the pace, settling for something thoroughly shattering! Just as his cock slipped ALL control and he began the final ascent, Pamela went stiff as a board, howled "OooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!" and hung there, spasming. Pamela totally whited out; as the first pulse of his orgasm surged along Alan's cock, he watched Pamela's eyes roll up in her head! Alan had NEVER seen ANYTHING like it! Alan was a lot quieter, forcing a tense "Huuurrgh!!" out of constricted lungs while he tried to bury himself in Pamela's depths - but it was no less intense; Alan was totally wasted. Finished, he disengaged, (there WAS no other option), rotated a limp Pamela until she was fully on the bed, circled to the other side, climbed in, snuggled up, and collapsed.
Pamela returned to consciousness fairly quickly, to find an arm across her chest just below her breasts, a nose in her neck, and gentle snoring sounds coming from her right. Well, that worked. Stretching, she managed the switch on the bedside lamp and fell asleep rubbing the arm, absently.
THIS night, there was no second round; the appetizer and the serious main course left no room for dessert. Alan awoke at about one a.m., suffering from urinary urgency, which he got up and dealt with rapidly. Returning to bed, he pulled a heavily sleeping Pamela against him and returned to slumber.
Wednesday morning brought disarray similar to Tuesday, if for slightly differing reasons. Alan hadn't fixed the alarm clock, and two people, rather than just one, required the use of the bathroom. The previous evening's ablutions had been totally abrogated by the activity that followed; aside from being sweaty, Pamela was, well, gooey! Factor in an additional ten minutes in the lobby, collecting a second room key for Pamela, and the pair was glad of the excuse of awful traffic to cover their late arrivals in the city. Pamela returned first, letting herself into the room somewhat self-consciously, but Alan didn't allow himself to be trapped, this day, and arrived a bit after six-thirty. After a quiet, conversational dinner in the hotel restaurant, they cuddled on the bed watching television, contenting themselves with mere intimacy until after the lights went out, and then having the kind of gentle, spooning sex that characterized the second bout Monday night. This time, Pamela bent herself to the point that Alan had no trouble getting purchase and they never went to doggie-style; Alan merely quietly vented his testicles, drew a four times contented Pamela to him, and drifted off, nuzzling her neck.
Thursday morning was finally fairly organized. Oh, the pair still had to duck each other in the bath, but they had expectations and planned for them. They were able to be less hurried, could banter and help one another with things like neckties and zippers. Neither was late for work, although both were distracted by thoughts of the night to come.
Pamela raced home after work, intent upon swapping her used outfits for a fresh replacement. Margot came in to find her coming down the stairs, re-packed overnight bag in hand. "Going back?" she asked mildly.
Six emotions blended themselves into Pamela's expression - not all of them pleasant. "Tonight is... all we have," she husked.
"Go get it then, Sweetie!" Margot encouraged, hugging her and rubbing her back. "You're gonna have to tell me all about it, later."
"I will," Pamela promised, and let herself out the door.
The awareness of the imminent end of the interlude brought an intensity to the evening's activities. The pair ate in the adult room of the restaurant, and while they were not nude (two other couples were, and one was dressed in the ubiquitous bathrobes), they necked, kissed, and fondled freely, playing off the other couples. Returning to their room, they deliberately played voyeur with the computerized hosting system, watching groups engage in various acts in the sauna, Jacuzzi, swimming pool and fitness center as they prepared frantically for the climactic sex acts that were to be the climax of their stunted relationship. When the time came, it was no holds barred as they raced together in a frantic attempt to merge permanently, first in a wild doggy-style bout triggered by some steamy sauna action, then, after a short breather, a long bout of straight missionary sex. Each was inclined to be frantic, and each was aware that the ultimate target was a case of sated physical exhaustion. Pamela nursed Alan's erection to life again after the second bout, and rode him cowgirl-style until her legs gave out, then Alan lifted her off, knelt her up and somehow scraped together enough semen for a third orgasmic deposit from a long doggie fuck that left them too wasted to even turn off the TV/computer.
Friday morning was deliberately hurried; clearing the room added a distracting urgency to events. They parted in the parking lot after a searing hug and a kiss, having exchanged addresses and phone numbers, Alan carefully entering Pamela's number, ("It's actually in Margot's name, you know...") in his PDA. Neither of them really had any illusions, however, and both went about their daily duties in a subdued manner.
That evening, while he was rearranging his various items of personal equipment prior to going through the security screening, Alan's attention was momentarily taken by an altercation of some type going on on the stairway that adjoined the security checkpoint line he was standing in. As he looked over the rail, a heavyset man in the section of the line next to him mishandled his bag, crashing it into Alan's arm. Alan's PDA left his hand and described a graceful arc to the floor twenty feet below, where it shattered, causing further uproar there. Somehow, Alan managed to make his plane, despite a lengthy interview with disgruntled airport security personnel who apparently insisted upon believing that he'd dropped his PDA for some nefarious purpose.
Pamela was in instant withdrawal. It wasn't just the sex; Alan had been pleasant company, and they'd forged a bond. Margot suggested that they go out clubbing, but Pamela just wasn't interested; for the first time in a long time, sex wasn't high on her priority list. Margot got her started and let her rattle on about her adventure, but it became rapidly apparent that the more she described the state of joy she'd attained in the past four days, the more it contrasted with her state as she related it. When Vern called at eight-thirty to suggest that Margot spend the night with him, Margot leapt at the chance of escape gratefully. Pamela, alone, distracted herself in various ways for the rest of the evening; physical satiation provided a buffer against her redoubled loneliness.
Saturday, however, that buffer began to thin. That wasn't the only problem; Alan was supposed to call, and he didn't. As the day wore on, betrayal was a bitter pill that seemed to increase in dosage, hourly. Certainly, both had acknowledged that the relationship had no future, but still... In the time they'd spent together, Alan had never lied to her, that she'd detected. Why would he lie about a simple telephone call to say he was okay? Margot's attempted consolation, ("Honey, why prolong the agony? He probably decided it was best not to have you hang on the phone blubbering on about what might have been and blew it off. He's male, you know -- they don't deal with that kind of thing well,") went over like a lead balloon. Alan wasn't like that, was he? Sunday was worse; Pamela barely got out of bed, indulging herself in an orgy of self-pity. But life goes on, and Monday brought work, inescapably. Monday night, Margot teased Pamela into shopping, and she took the first steps toward a new, braver, racier Pamela.
For Alan, Saturday morning brought the realization that he was well and truly screwed. He fired up his laptop to extract Pamela's address and telephone number, and it wasn't there! He hadn't synchronized with his PDA! He had Pamela's name, and a vague idea of her address - but the phone was in Margot's name, and he had NO idea what THAT was! Alan spent the morning looking at Internet directories, and even made a few embarrassing, stab in the dark phone calls, but he just didn't have enough information to work with. At work on Monday, Alan attempted to bring more resources to bear, but continued unsuccessful. Finally, the fact that he had already failed to keep his promise to Pamela made the whole thing moot, and he reluctantly let it go.
Tuesday, the new Pamela debuted at work. There was nothing truly outrageous here, but the length of her skirt climbed a good four inches to a location arguably above the knee and the exposed legs were further defined by somewhat higher heels - again, nothing outrageous, merely a little less sensible. Pamela's standard, frilly, button to the neck blouse was replaced by a silky, open-necked number that threatened to show cleavage, if you could get her to bend over, and the unpadded, less-robust brassiere passed the mark of her always-erect nipples right through her silky blouse.
The effect of this change was immediate and measurable. Half of the department's male staff displayed a reaction of one form or another, including a couple of notably younger men. Reactions ranged from mild confusion to the extreme of the assistant AR clerk, who found five different occasions to come to her desk and discuss one thing or another with her nipples, to Pamela's mild amusement, (the kid was a little dorky, and fresh out of college, nearly two decades her junior, after all...) In the close confines of the copy room, detection of a hint of her new perfume occasioned a loud inhale from Ed Lemanski, followed by red-faced embarrassment at her detection of the attention. A catlike smile from Pamela at that point had him retreating from the room in confusion. In fact 'confused' was a good description of the reaction of several males in the office who aimlessly orbited the vicinity of her cube while trying vainly to work out what change she had wrought to set off their mental alarms.
Women had it pretty much figured out; Pamela had spent most of the previous week displaying a satiated glow that clearly indicated the fact that she was being regularly sexed. A couple of them had approached her on the matter, and a few guarded lunchtime confidences had been passed. The men had, by and large, noticed SOMETHING the previous week, but given that there had been no other changes and her preoccupation with Alan had made her less interested in other targets, the draw was low intensity. Now, Pamela's sexual nature was fully awakened, and the supply had dropped off, so the signals got louder as various replacement candidates garnered her attention. On Thursday, the Director, Michael Duval, called her into his office. "It has come to my attention that you are dressing somewhat differently," he announced, patently unsure of himself.
"Yes," Pamela replied, surprised. There were other women in the office who presented a three-ring circus, by comparison....
Michael took a moment to examine her objectively. There was nothing here to complain about; apparently, it was all relative. He'd called her in to upbraid her for flaunting herself - but that was foolish, given the presentation before him. How to weasel out? "It’s... quite nice. A bit more provocative while maintaining correct standards. Some others in this office would do well to emulate you." There, did that do it? And, Christ! Were the woman's nipples erect CONSTANTLY, or...? Pamela observed Michael's distracted examination of her bust and those nipples actually elongated a bit, but her primary emotion was a mild amusement that she went to some pains to conceal; Michael was a bit portly and stuffy for her taste. Michael shook himself, "Uh, that's all. Thanks for stopping in." He broke eye contact until she turned away, then examined her ass as she departed, musing. Could he handle a mistress? And, if so, what could he offer her?
By the weekend, Pamela was getting both used to and pleased with the new level of male attention. She and Margot went out shopping on Saturday and pulled out all the stops. The pair went out on Saturday night, (Margot had put Vern on the back burner for a bit, to keep him from getting cocky), but Margot summed up the situation by observing, "We've gotta go back to the Inn, Sweetie - pickings are slim, here..." Still, Pamela actually found the dance floor a couple of times while sober, and, while the providers were less than satisfactory, she collected an unprecedented, if modest, amount of male attention. Pamela's confidence picked up, and with it, a feedback cycle began. She began to get more notice, which caused her to give more notice....
This went on for about a month, until one Thursday evening, when Pamela's world suddenly lurched drunkenly. It all started innocently enough; Pamela wandered from the living room, where she and Margot were watching television, into the downstairs bath, usually Margot's more or less exclusive domain. As she settled herself to empty her bladder, Margot's package of tampons caught her eye. For a moment, nothing happened, but then a number of small items began to resolve themselves into a pattern, and vague unease rapidly crystallized into shock! Numbly, Pamela completed her toilette, and staggered back into the living room. "Margot," she quavered, "I'm late!"
"For what, Sweetie? Dinner?" Margot was distracted by the TV, and missed the immediate import.
"No! LATE, late - I haven't had my period!" Pamela retorted emphatically.
"What?" Margot's face registered surprise. "Since when, Sweetie?"
"A week ago Tuesday, on my regular cycle." Pamela began to look frantic.
"Well, Sweetie, maybe you're just slowing down. It's a little late for you to be getting pregnant." Margot, in an attempt to soothe her, went instantly into denial.
"I don't think so," Pamela argued, "There are a couple of other things... changes..." Suddenly, Pamela was certain, sure. Yes, she was pregnant. Oh, God!
Margot required more objective proof, occasioning a trip to the local pharmacy, but two different types of pregnancy test confirmed Pamela's instinct. "Well, Sweetie," Margot chuckled, "There is no question who - Alan spent most of a week washing your ovaries, and I haven't noticed anyone since..." Pamela nodded; she'd come a ways, and had even begun to pick out possible targets, but.... "Well, you need to tell him, then."
"What?" Pamela retorted. "Not that! You KNOW what he'll think! Oh, God!"
"What are you going to do?" Margot smiled ruefully. "Do you know? Bet you don't. Guess what? Embarrassing as it is, it's partially his fault, and partially his responsibility, and he has half-interest in whatever it is you're growing. You OWE it to him to tell him!" It took twenty minutes' worth of gentle persuasion, but eventually, Margot got the point across....
"Alan Hamilton." Business habit had him answering the phone with his name.
"Alan?" a feminine voice issued from the earpiece, "It’s... Pamela."
"Pamela!" Instantly, guilt ravaged him. "I'm glad you called! I'm sure you think I'm an unfeeling jerk, but I can explain..."
Alan's reception sidetracked her. "Maybe I should have called before..." Margot, listening on the extension, rolled her eyes.
"I sure wish you had!" Alan averred. "I dropped my PDA down the stairs at the airport and broke it! I spent two days trying to find your number!"
"Um, well, okay," Pamela tried to get back on track, "I need to talk to you about something."
"Okay, but give me your number first!" Alan replied. "I don't want to go through THIS again!" Margot began to wonder; either the guy was honest, or he was a world-class liar....
Pamela wandered totally off-track while she fulfilled the request. Alan completed both inking it in his address book and applying it to his laptop database, and announced, "Okay, now that I can call you back when you hang up, you can start yelling at me."
"Um, the yelling may all go the other way, I'm afraid," Pamela replied tonelessly. "I've got this telephone thing pretty well beat. This has to be the most embarrassing collection of clichés we're collecting, but... Alan, I'm pregnant."
There ensued a long silence while Alan's mind went rushing along, remembering that first night and his conscious decision to assume that Pamela had birth control handled. The idea that he might not be the sole contender in the paternity stakes never occurred to him. Finally, he murmured, "Sorry."
"Sorry?" This sounded bad... Pamela began to feel a little congested. Tears were coming.
"I should have asked, that first night, but I was afraid I'd just scare you. After that, it didn't seem to matter." He paused again. "Do you... have plans?"
"Um, not yet," Pamela admitted. "Margot convinced me that you were an... interested party."
"Thank Margot for me," Alan replied. "This isn't a conversation we should have over the phone. Hang on a sec, will you?" It was late, but Alan's corporate travel provider offered twenty-for hour online service. It took about five minutes, but when Alan came back on the phone, it was to say, "I'll be in at eight-thirty tomorrow night on Continental. Do you want to meet me at the airport, or should I plan to get a rental?"
Margot waved a dismissal. Pamela responded, dazed, "We'll pick you up."
"Okay. Try to put it aside until we talk. No need to get all stressed out playing a thousand scenarios in your head. We'll go over it all tomorrow night. Okay?"
"Okay." Pamela's agreement was a bit faint.
"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow night, then. Bye!" Alan was already mentally packing his bag. He'd stay over Saturday and return Sunday night. If she wanted to keep the baby.... Now Alan was the one playing scenarios. Thing was, he wasn't mad, or even particularly upset. He felt.... strange. God only knew what she thought of the whole thing. It surprised him that she hadn't taken precautions - but then she was an incredible innocent, sexually, despite her age. Why mess up her metabolism with birth control pills when you're not having sex? If she was pissed at him, that could make things awkward... Oops! Quickly he dialed the number she'd given him....
Margot put down the phone, impressed. "You know, Sweetie, he really might HAVE accidentally broken his Palm Pilot or whatever. I'm kinda surprised..."
The phone rang. Pamela picked it up. It was Alan. "Dear, can you recommend a local hotel? I don't think I'll want to go to the Inn; besides, isn't it a little distant?"
"Um, one second," Pamela turned to Margot. "Alan's looking for a hotel." She shrugged.
Margot eyed her, eyes laughing. "Sweetie, if he's being this nice about it, is he gonna stay in a hotel? We'll look, in case things don't go well, but just tell him we'll handle it. Just like that. Okay?"
"Okay." Turning back to the phone, Pamela relayed, "Don't worry about it - we'll handle it."
"Margot and I."
"Okay." Alan chuckled; he thought he'd detected Margot's fine hand in things.... "I'll see you tomorrow night, then. I'm planning to go back Sunday night, so whatever you find should be for the two nights, okay?"
"See you tomorrow night, Dear. Bye!" Alan sat there, thinking, 'I've got to find a better diminutive for the woman...'
Margot eyed Pamela. "You know, I don't think he's gonna come all this way to tell you what a slut you are and that the kid's not his and you can go piss up a rope over child support."
"He may want me to abort it," Pamela replied, thoughtful. "He might offer to pay, and see me through the thing, or something."
"Well, you need to start looking into that basic issue. Are ya gonna want to keep it? You're no spring chicken ya know."
"No," Pamela grinned. "But this is likely to be my only shot."
"True enough, Sweetie, but at your age there could be complications. You might want to try to go see your doctor tomorrow and get HIS advice."
"Hers," Pamela mused. "I'll call early. I'll still be lucky to get in...."
|Next Chapter||Previous Chapter||Return Home|