!ADULTS ONLY! DIRTY PARTS!

      She moaned, and this encouraged him. He
kissed her hotly as both hands massaged and kneaded her buttocks. He moaned throughout the kiss. He brought a hand around to her front and rubbed her vagina area.

      Then she shuddered violently when he, on his knees now, ran his tongue down her stomach and plunged it straightaway into the top of her vagina. And proceeded to lick up and down and around. The shock of it, the newness of it, for no man had ever done that, sent ripples of something unnameable and indescribable through her. Her knees almost buckled out from under her as a small orgasm overtook her. She moaned, louder now.

      He stood up and ordered her to lie on the bed. She obeyed. When she was thus placed, on her back, her legs held coyly together, she felt surreal. It was all happening to her, but somehow it wasn't.

      She watched him as he undressed. He fairly tore his clothes off as he watched her and eyed her body up and down. He looked insane. Spittle flew off his chin. Sweat glistened on his forehead, on his shoulders, and on his hairless chest.

      She felt herself blush when his erection was revealed. It swayed with his movements. Its size both startled and frightened her. It was long, and extremely fat, with a huge purplish-pink head. But it was odder looking, too. It was bent, acutely, to the side, his left side. The bend was so severe it almost made a half-circle. It frightened her. And amazed her. He wiggled it in her direction and smiled at her.

      "It won't be long now, Hon!" he said as he slowly rotated the large member through the air.

      In her younger years, she had never seen anything like it. And, amazingly perhaps, she had seen many a dick.

      In high school, she had given eight boys handjobs, when the hormones that led to petting seemed ready to go out of control and threatened to lead to more. She was saving the 'more' for marriage. The boys didn't complain. They had today.

      In truth, she greatly enjoyed being the cocktease; it pleased her, but she knew it could be a dangerous game to play. So, to this end, and in pretense to spare the boys from getting what they called "blue balls," she offered her hand in masturbation. It never went beyond that or sometimes letting them kiss and fondle her firm, young girlish breasts.

      After the first time, when the boy had spurted all over her brand new jeans, she started carrying extra Kleenex for the after clean up. She would make the boy, with the threat of not doing it, promise to tell her when his moment had arrived. She would then wrap the head of his spurting joint in the Kleenex, wad it up (the Kleenex not his joint) and put it in her pocket or purse for later disposal. She didn't want to litter.

      Now and then, and she felt weird doing this, she would open up the wadded tissue and inspect its contents. Out of curiosity--and who knows?--to see if the color was white, as it should be, or had she run into a strange aline boy who spasmed green? Or blue? Or purple? Her favorite color.

      All eight of the boys shot white, as is to be expected, and returned for many rematches. The moment a boy had her alone somewhere--zip--out
would come his favorite plaything.

      It all happened so frequently, and so totally mechanically, she felt as if she was a demented nurse who had developed an unusual method for
collecting sperm samples.

      At one time, she had no less than six such wadded up samples in her pocket and purse combined. All carefully preserved in Kleenex, for which purpose, as you savvy readers undoubtedly already know, Kleenex was invented in the first place.

      She had marveled at the differences in the boy's penises. A large one, a skinny one, a fat one, a short one, a short, fat one, one curved up, one curved down, a little head, big head, medium head. It
amazed her no end. God hated sameness. At least in boy's penises.

      Four of the boys had tried to get her to perform oral on them, two by pushing her head in the general direction, but she was having none of that icky stuff.

      She would firmly tell them, "Poppycock! Take what I offer or get nothing." None of the boys pushed the matter any farther.

      When she went off to college, in another town, and shared a dorm room with a roommate, she went wild in her tease-'em-then-please-'em game. Dozens and dozens of college boys felt Pooty's hands on talent. And dozens more, dontcha know?.

      She quickly grew a reputation and any guy who was tired of using his own five-fingered Mary, knew just where to go and just who to see: The big-titted virgin who was saving up her anything "more" for her prince charming. "You can't fuck 'er, Harry, but get 'er to put Vaseline on it and you just might not know the difference."

      Her roomie, Wendy Turkle, informed Pooty one day that they were starting to refer to Poot's actions as "Getting Kleenexed!" and comments such as "See Poot, she'll Kleenex out your pipes for you!"
were becoming commonplace.

      Pooty didn't care. Who knew her in this town, anyway? And they don't ask for ID when buying Kleenex. At least not yet.

      Besides, who was the roommate to talk! She was well known as Windjob Wendy, for her oral skills, which, she eagerly told Pooty, were getting better with every guy.

      "You should try it, Poot. It's really rad!" Someday, Poot told her, when the Prince came a-knocking. With his "more" hangin' out, I guess.

      At times, the girl-talk they shared would give Doctor Ruth severe palpitations. But they had fun with the whole thing. Windjob would tell Kleenex what sperm tasted like to her (salty with a long-staying aftertaste) and give her all the juicy, you-shoulda-seen-me-in-action details of the event, including, usually, whether the guy smelled musky, sweaty or like shit in a diaper.

      Kleenex would match her in the details arena, like the time the guy spurted, with Pooty being too slow on the Kleenex, and it hit the ceiling fan! Right there in a dark booth in the back of Howard Johnsons!

      Sometimes Pooty would unfold the Kleenex tissue for a joint-committee inspection, analysis, and college-like discussion. Ah, those were the days! The salad days of yore. The halcyon days. When college really meant something to a kid.

      Some of Windjobs stories were so unbelievable, so preposterous, that Pooty felt compelled to tell her as much.

      "Wendy, you're full of poppycock! Just full of it."

      Don't worry, Poot. We haven't forgotten you're lying naked as a jay on a bed in a mansion, watching the last of your husband's attire hit the floor and . . .