Old Lucifer reared up in my hand as if with a mind of his own and a determination to crash between those invitingly agape portals. I reined him in and kept looking.
Karen’s middle finger was going like a piston now, driving her into a frenzy with its prodding of her anus. Her other hand, four fingers held close together, thumb opposing, was plucking at one of her pink-purple aureoles as if determined to root out the still invisible nipple buried there. Her plumpish, peach-colored thighs slapped together with an audible “squish-squish” sound. Above them I could see the raw red flesh inside her vagina as its ivory lips stayed opened wide to allow the berserk clitty plenty of room to go through its tricks.
Suddenly, Karen dropped everything. One hand let go of her breast, the other withdrew from her anal passage, and they met above her hand-slapping thighs. For a minute it looked like she was trying to cram the fingers of both of them between those creamy vagina lips.
The clitty was lost to sight behind the prying fingers. Then Karen started to grunt. (Yes, grunt; there’s no other word for the sounds she made; squeal might be a more delicate description, but grunt is more accurate.) The sounds went on while her thighs went “squish-squish,” and her bottom thumped on the bathroom carpeting, and the pink-purple aureole tips of her breasts (still no visible nipples) jerked back and forth toward the ceiling. Finally her whole body tensed; the aureoles held still except for a skyward quiver; her peach-colored bottom poised clear of the floor; her hands dug in so that the knuckles whitened; the grunting stopped to be replaced by a deep, shallow gasping. She stayed that way for what seemed like a long time, and then her body seemed all at once to relax. She sighed. Her eyes closed.
I watched her lie there for a moment, and had just about decided that the show was over and I might as well leave the keyhole when there was a light tapping at the other bathroom door, the one leading to the girls’ room. “Karen?” a girl’s voice called out questioningly. “Can I come in a minute?”
Karen scrambled silently to her feet, pulled the gingham dress back up over her naked breasts, and smoothed it down over her legs. “Come ahead, Brett,” she answered.
Brett, her brunette roommate, entered the bathroom. “Could I run a tub for myself while you’re finishing up in here?” she inquired of Karen.
“I was going to take a bath myself.”
“Oh?” Brett’s tone wondered what Karen had been doing in here all this time, but she didn’t put the question in words.
“Do you think there’s time before dinner for both of us to soak a little?” Karen asked.
“Afraid not. Unless --”
“Unless?”
“Unless we share the tub.”
“Why not?” Karen grinned that All-American Girl grin.
“Why not indeed?” Brett smiled back. She started the tub running and then went back into their room, vanishing from sight. A half-minute later her voice called from there. “Put some bubble-bath in the water if you like,” she suggested.
Karen poured some flakes into the tub. I saw the water, about a quarter of the way up the sides of the tub, start to form a rich froth. Karen took off her dress and tossed it through the open doorway into their room. Naked she was a peach-sunned bundle of compact pulchritude, her freckles and pug nose just a bit out of whack with the uninhibited sexuality she’d indulged in before.
Brett entered again. She’d taken off her sack dress and the bikini panties she’d been wearing under it and put on a loose-fitting robe of some kind of thin cotton material which proved to be transparent when she stood with the light behind her. The light from their room, I was happy to notice, was behind her. “Get into the tub and I’ll lather you up,” she suggested to Karen.
The blonde eased her fundament into the tub, squealing as the warm water lapped at it. Finally she settled down, her pine-cone breasts floating amongst the bubbles on top of the water. She leaned forward and they dipped into the bubbles like twin kittens dipping their noses into a saucer of warm milk. Brett lathered a washcloth and started laving Karen’s back.
Standing, with the light still behind her as she bent over Karen, the sinuous brunette presented a very sensual picture herself. Her legs were clearly visible, thanks to the light shining through the smock and between them. A rather long mane of blue-black pubic hair was also visible, curling around the insides of her slender, lightly muscled thighs. As she twisted over Karen, her tubular breasts swayed—oversized and long -- the pointy nipples clearly visible.
“Why don’t you get in?” Karen inquired as she leaned back after Brett had finished soaping her.
Brett slipped out of the smock. I had an unobstructed view of slim hips, slender but enticingly sculpted behind, thickly furred vagina, and oversized long breasts with long, maroon nipples. The nipples, which seemed permanently stiffened, sprang out of the milk-white breasts themselves; what aureoles there may have been had not enough pigmentation to show up against her breast flesh. Her bottom was also snow-white in a bikini design. The rest of her, including her Modigliani face, was a deep, golden tan -- striking with her blue-black hair and almond-shaped green eyes.
Facing each other in the tub now, the two girls made a pretty picture. Blondeness contrasted with brunette appeal, pigtails versus a long, loose mane like an inky cloud. Petite, well-rounded pulchritude, pink as a baby’s bottom, bosomed like twin balloons, but demurely non-nippled, vied with the streamlined sleekness of tanned limbs moving lasciviously, and alabaster white breasts, large and tubular and almost obscene in the way their long nipples strained to rigidity and pointed. It was The Girl Next Door coupled with the witchy bitch-vamp of legend, a dusky Circe smoldering on the rocks—or, rather, in the tub.
I started to smolder, too, as Karen reached out, lifted one of Brett’s oversized breasts in one hand, and proceeded to soap it with the other. The blonde was thorough. She lathered the palm of her hand and kept rubbing the foam over the long, hard nipple. Brett made small waves in the tub by way of response.
When Karen was through with the lingering process of soaping the second breast, Brett leaned across the tub and kissed her. Karen made no complaint; it obviously wasn’t the first time the two girls had kissed; it also obviously wasn’t the first time they’d done a lot more than kiss. I wondered if the bathtub was their usual trysting place.
The girls lips moved a little away from each other and their tongues flicked out-—Karen’s thick and pink; Brett’s slimmer, pointed, a deeper shade of red-—and the tips dueled with each other. Brett’s hand was busy under the water, between Karen’s legs, doing something I couldn’t see. Karen responded by picking up a sponge on a long handle and inserting it under the water between Brett’s supple thighs. Brett slid backward until her chin was resting on the water and her body arched so that I was able to see the long mane of blue-black pubic hair rising to the surface of the tub. The sponge had parted it and was moving like a piston.
Deliberately, carefully, Brett lifted one of her tubular breasts out of the water and rinsed the bubbles and soapsuds from it. When it was clean—the maroon nipple rigid and shiny—she held it up and motioned to Karen. The blonde shifted position in the tub, rising to her knees and bent over Brett. Karen’s own pink bosom bobbled over the water as her mouth dipped down to capture the breast tip offered it.