And now for our #2 sex object, the brunette: Slim and aquiline are the two adjectives which best catch her essence. Her body was slender, almost serpentine in its suppleness; her face was aquiline in that odd, almond-eyed way Modigliani portrayed his female models. She wore what was known in the early ’6os as a “sack dress.” Snug around bodice, hips, and bottom, and loose at the waist, it reached to below her knees except when she stretched, at which times it rose to mid-thigh with her movements. At the moment, tangled with Alicia and the blonde, she was stretching in at least six different directions, and long, supple legs were visible along with a slim but finely etched behind encased in treacherous bikini panties. Also, the way the material of the “sack” tightened over her breasts, I would have bet she wasn’t wearing a bra under it. The bosom the material outlined was too large for her slim frame, but I leave such discrepancies for the purists to carp at. Skinny girls with big breasts have always been a turn-on for me. And the material—-some kind of thin linen, I think—also revealed that she had long, pointy nipples tapering upward from her large, long breasts. She was writhing like a snake in her efforts to extricate herself from the tangle with Alicia and the blonde -- or perhaps to keep from extricating herself from the tangle with Alicia and the blonde.
Finally the three of them, with a hand from me, regained their feet. Alicia was either reluctant to introduce me or still angry at the way I’d pinched her; I couldn’t be sure which. But in the end she gave way before the awkward silence. “Karl Powers, President Dickson’s new bodyguard,” she told them. The blonde’s name was Karen, the brunette’s Brett. Either Alicia didn’t mention their last names, or I didn’t catch them.
When the pair had passed on down the hall and we were alone, I voiced my curiosity to Alicia. She wasn’t exactly a font of information, but she did clue me in on a couple of pertinent facts. Firstly, both girls had originally come to Rococco’s island with Heinrich Bussinger (back in his pre-marriage days) who had absent-mindedly neglected to take them with him when he left. They’d been there ever since, and the fact that Bussinger had since defected to the Russians didn’t seem to make them any less welcome. The only thing required of them was that they conform to Dickson’s dress code. Alicia also told me that they had the room next to mine and we shared the bathroom between the two rooms. If I thought that was interesting when Alicia told me, I had no idea how soon it was going to be a matter of downright fascination to me.
“How soon” was determined accidentally, after Alicia left me off at my room, while I was undressing. I had taken off my pants, folded them along the crease, and was holding them by the cuffs preparatory to hanging them up, when—-as I might have anticipated—my wallet fell out of my pocket and my loose change scattered over the floor. I hung up the pants and retrieved the wallet and change. I thought I had it all, when I spied a stray coin on the rug near the door to the bathroom. I squatted on my haunches, picked it up, started to straighten up, and cracked the left temple of my forehead solidly on the knob of the bathroom door.
I saw stars. There was a painful throbbing. I stayed in a squatting position and laid my temple against the cool, soothing metallic plate holding the doorknob. After awhile the stars went away and the throbbing subsided. I opened my eyes. And that’s when I saw the opening of the scene that was to hold me for the next half hour or so.
One of my eyes, when I opened it, was on a level with the keyhole of the bathroom door. It was an old-fashioned door, and the keyhole was quite large. Large enough, indeed, to comfortably frame all of my popping eye.
What was making it pop was the sight of Karen, the petite blonde to whom Alicia had introduced me in the hallway, sitting on the edge of the large, old-fashioned bathtub with the square neckline of her gingham dress pulled down so that her naked breasts hung out over it. Her brassiere was draped over the washbasin. Her panties—demure and fully cut -- were down around her ankles. She was playing with her breasts, fondling them, cupping them, teasing the nipples.
About Karen's breasts— As I mentioned before, they were shaped like pine cones, but larger. Freed of encumbrance now, they were revealed as much larger. They were a rich pink color -- as if she had been sunbathing in the nude, and hers was the kind of skin that didn’t tan but reddened. Her nipples, not very pronounced, were lost in the extremely wide aureoles which tipped the upsweep of her breasts. The aureoles were a darker pink shade than the breasts themselves and looked almost purplish against the swelling flesh surrounding them.
As Karen played with her breasts, she was staring straight ahead. At first I thought it was merely a vacant stare, a mindless tribute to her preoccupation with the sensations her hands were arousing in her breasts. Then I realized that she was staring at something.
There was a mirror on the back of the door between my room and the bathroom. I guessed it because there was a similar mirror on the back of the door between the girls’ room and the bathroom and I could see into it through the keyhole. Indeed, it gave me a side view of Karen which showed the side curve of her breast to titillating advantage.
And what was Karen staring at? It wasn’t hard to figure out when I looked straight ahead through the keyhole myself. The keyhole was about on a level with the top of the bathtub. Looking straight ahead, I was looking right up Karen’s gingham dress past peach-colored thighs to a honey-blonde triangle, surprisingly white vagina lips and the cutest little half-inch clitty you ever saw. The clitty was rigid and twanging up and down all by itself without being touched.
It was the sight of the clitty moving independently that way that made me aware that my jockey shorts were once again becoming too small for me. As the Man from O.R.G.Y., I was certainly no run-of-the-mill peeping tom; so I often told myself; my voyeurism was dictated by the necessity for research in my profession. Now, eye still glued to the keyhole, I pulled off my jockey shorts. I took myself in hand and kept looking. So much for professional objectivity!
Karen was staring into the mirror up her own dress at her well-oiled and pulsating sex organs, as steadfastly as I was peering through the keyhole. Now she cupped one breast and raised it as high as she could; she bent her neck; her tongue stretched out and the tip of it slowly circled the wide, pink-purplish aureole. After awhile she switched breasts and repeated the maneuver with the other one. By way of response her behind moved up and down on the edge of the tub; her knees moved wider apart; the muscles in her fleshy thighs flexed and unflexed rhythmically; her clitty throbbed, moving up and down between the ivory lips guarding the entrance to her love tunnel.
With an effort of will, I kept my fist from moving back and forth over the stiff shaft it was clutching. I had to readjust the angle of my eye vis-a-vis the keyhole as Karen now slid down to the carpeted bathroom floor and stretched out there. She also shifted around, evidently looking for the best angle to watch herself in the mirror.
The blonde settled for a position on her side. One of her hands kept caressing her breast tips. The other one reached around behind her and pushed up the gingham dress in back. She fumbled for a moment, and then an audible moan of satisfaction escaped her lips.
By looking in the other mirror, the one on the girl’s door opposite my keyhole, I could see what Karen was up to back there. The derriere I’d imagined earlier, in the hallway, wasn’t up to the real thing. Pink like the rest of her, Karen’s bottom was round and symmetrical as a cannonball, springy as a gamboling young antelope, and with a cleft as neatly drawn as the equator. Halfway along that equatorial line, Karen had inserted a middle finger to the second knuckle.
Shifting my gaze back from the mirror to Karen herself, I could see the efffect that pumping middle finger was having. The gingham dress had ridden well up in front now, and I could see that the milk-white lips of her vagina were straining wide apart so that her clitoris was now completely exposed to view in all its pulsing length. The clitty had deepened now to a purplish color and it was longer than it had been—or perhaps it was just that more of it was visible because of the gaping lips.