Brett reached out and her hands closed over the plump cheeks of Karen’s behind. As the blonde kissed and licked and sucked the brunette’s nipple, Brett pinched and squeezed and scratched the now-writhing bottom. All this activity caused stormy seas in the bathtub now, and the bubbly water was sloshing over the sides onto the carpeting.
After a long time Karen stood up in the tub. Brett kept playing with her rear, her fingers moving boldly between the reddened cheeks now, as Karen rinsed the soapsuds from the area of her groin. Karen's cute little clitty was up again, straining and purplish, the vagina lips framing it white and trembling.
Brett raised her head. She buried her mouth between Karens fleshy thighs. The blonde’s knees bent as she settled over Brett, blocking out her face completely. Her rear, still impaled by Brett’s probing finger, moved as if there was an electric vibrator inside it. I could clearly hear the sounds of Brett sucking, licking, and gulping from her position between Karen’s legs.
The brunette pulled away before Karen could come. She scrambled to her feet and both girls got out of the tub. Brett s nipples were magnified by the soap bubbles on the tips of them. The length of her curly pubic hair had been parted to reveal long lips at the entrance to her vagina. They were a deeper maroon color than her nipples. Her long clitoris, aroused, was a lighter shade. It kept appearing and disappearing between the quivering vagina lips.
Brett stood there a moment while Karen sat on the edge of the tub and buried her face in the pubic sporran. I could see the blonde’s pink tongue moving back and forth with the pumping of the clitty. Brett’s hands moved over her own breasts while this was going on, pinching the nipples hard, flopping first one and then the other breast up and down the way a man might heft a limp penis he was trying to bring to rigidity. Her sculpted behind, long and sleek, moved with a long, drawn-out rhythm as she pressed her clitty to Karen’s mouth and then withdrew it.
As I watched, Old Lucifer was moving with a will of his own. His raw, red head was bulging, his one eye frothing. And the inside of my fist was getting slippery.
Brett pushed Karen away, bent down, and kissed her on the mouth. They embraced and sank to the carpeted floor together. Brett’s long nipples pushed into the pink aureoles of Karen’s breasts for all the world like miniature penises trying to invade virgin vaginas. Their legs entwined. The long, blue-black beard between Brett’s legs fanned out over Karen’s groin, the dark tendrils entwining with the blonde triangle.
Stretched out on the bathroom carpeting, their flesh still slippery with the soapy water, froth still clinging to their breasts in places, soapsuds running down their limbs and slicking the crevices of their sex organs, the two girls clung together in an orgy of erotic lovemaking. Their mouths darted over one another, tongues flicking, lips sucking. Their hands moved from breasts to behinds to quivering crotches. Their fingers investigated each others orifices at length, probing twisting, pumping. Their legs opened and closed like two pairs of synchronized scissors. Their vaginas meshed; their clitties twanged against each other.
It was hot in the bathroom, and they were perspiring. So was I. And the closer they came to orgasm, the closer I came to coming.
Karen began to grunt again with the onrush of her climax. Brett laughed a harsh, strained, excited trill of laughter. Their bodies tensed against each other. They climaxed.
So did I. I came with a mighty gush. It knocked me off balance. I grabbed the doorknob for support. It gave under my hand. I tumbled into the bathroom, penis spurting like an eruption from Old Faithful.
I landed on top of the girls. The three of us finished our orgasms together. Who says three’s a crowd?
Of course they were surprised. They were also -- when they comprehended my state—interested. There’s no telling what might have happened with the three of us if not for the fact that just then there was the sound of three loud, distinct rifle shots.
They were followed by a scream—Alicia. I was still scrambling into my pants when the scream turned into recognizable words. “The President!” she yelled. “The President!” And she kept on repeating it. “The President!”
I raced down the corridor to the office where I’d left Nick Dickson. The door was open. Alicia stood in the doorway, still moaning “The President!” and pointing.
She was pointing at a body sprawled out on the rug. It was Nicholas Swillhouse Dickson. There was evidence of a shower of broken glass over the desk where he’d been sitting.
The shots had come through the window. High powered rifle, I guessed. Telescopic sight. But who had fired it?
“Insecticide?”
Chapter Four
Nicholas Swillhouse Dickson wasn’t dead. He’d merely fainted. From fear, I supposed.
“ ‘I am not a crook!’ ” Such were his first words when he recovered consciousness. “Let there be no mistake about that. I am not a crook!” he repeated. The tic in his eye blinked the traffic on its way.
None of the three shots had so much as grazed his ski-slope nose. “Insecticide”-- if indeed it was “Insecticide” who was responsible—-was evidently a lousy marksman. Dickson was alive and quoting himself.
“I am not a crook!” Dickson groaned again.
“My father is not a crook!” Dickson’s family, concerned, had congregated in the doorway. The speaker was his brunette daughter, Muley, so nicknamed because of her stubborn loyalty to her father. “I lived with the man for over twenty years and never did I miss so much as one penny from my piggy bank. ‘Honesty’ is my father’s middle name!”
“No, dear. ‘Swillhouse’ is his middle name,” Muley’s mother, Natalie Dickson (known to the tabloid reading public as “Nat”) corrected her daughter.
“The man is a tower of strength!” Pisha Dickson, Nick and Nat’s other daughter announced, eyes picking up a shine from her sleek, Clairol-blonde hair. “He should be an inspiration to us all. He doesn’t know the meaning of fear!”
“The hell you say!” Nick Dickson muttered through chattering teeth. “If somebody shot at you, sister, you’d be plenty [expletive deleted] scared. Let me make that one thing perfectly clear!”
“Remember what you always say, dear,” Nat Dickson chirruped brightly. “ ‘The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.’ ”
“Did I say that?" Dickson was pleased with himself.
“Yes, dear.”
“I certainly have a knack with words, a facility for the catchy phrase.”
“Oh, yes, daddy!” Nat reassured him. “ ‘Come let us reason together,’ ” she quoted.
“Said that too, did I?” Dickson was definitely perking up.
“’Ask not what your country can do to you, but what you can do to your country!’”
“How’s that again?” Dickson looked puzzled.
“It’s ‘for’ you, mummy,” Muley corrected Nat.
“And ‘for’ your country,” Pisha added.
“I’m sorry, daddy.” Nat was contrite.
“Doesn't matter.” Dickson was magnanimous. “What’s important is that I said it.”
The stroking, I judged, could go on forever. This was as good a time for me to interrupt as any. “If you think you’ll be all right for a little while, Mr. President,” I said respectfully, “I’d like to go outside and have a look around the grounds. Maybe I can get a clue as to the identity of your would-be assassin.”
“Go ahead, Karl.” He waved me on my way. “But ‘don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes!’ ” he called after me.
Nat, Pisha, and Muley applauded.