Liberty detailed how she’d been carried away by the experience. I envisioned her mouth, opening. greedily, enveloping the conical white breast Phoebe offered. l tasted the soft, sweet pinkness of the nipple with her. I inhaled the perfumed lust musk of the redhead’s burning body. I could see the two of them embracing, pulling apart to doff their nighties, coming together again in a compulsive, convulsive spasm of passion.
Phoebe straddled her, sitting between her legs, pressing the fleshy cheeks of her bottom against the firm blackness of Liberty’s, grinding to establish clitoral contact. Liberty dug her nails into Phoebe’s white buttocks, pulling her closer, and at the same time rising from the hips until their pulsating lower lips were mingling their honeyed wetness.
They strained together in this position for a moment, Liberty’s plump black hips rotating frantically, Phoebe’s head tossing, red hair fanning out behind her, bullet breasts bobbling, low thrill moans whinnying from between her kiss-formed lips. But they couldn’t sustain it. Phoebe fell forward, sprawling over Liberty, and again they embraced and kissed-—mouth to mouth, white breasts stabbing against black, limbs entwined in a passionate tableau of ebony and ivory.
When the kiss was over, Phoebe slid down to the other end of the bed, her flaming curls at Liberty’s feet. She contrived to slip one leg under Liberty and stretch out so that their lower bodies were pressed tightly together with the legs like the blades of two pairs of scissors held axis to axis. Expertly, Phoebe manipulated the cores of their bodies so that Liberty’s clitoris was clutched and pressed against her own.
Phoebe caressed Liberty’s foot and sucked at the toes. Liberty, eyes shut, head tossing, fondled her own breasts in response to the sensations traveling up her body from below. She concentrated on the sensations provided by Phoebe’s hard clitty caressing her own. She felt her toes curl with the thrill of Phoebe’s nibbling. She pressed down hard, wanting to feel the erect, aroused clitoris fluttering inside her.
“. . . It happened for us both at the same time,” Liberty told me. “I never felt anything like it before. It was as if everything inside me exploded. It washed over both of us—-once, twice, three times! It felt like it would go on forever!” Her voice was coming out in gasps now.
I opened my eyes. They focused on Liberty’s upthrust tunnel of love. It was awash with re-created passion. The purplish lips were vibrating like a harp. The red clitty had doubled its size. She was on the verge of orgasm.
I wasn’t too far from it myself. And that, I remembered, would have been fatal. It was much more important to utilize my erection than to relieve it. I forced myself to look away from Liberty, to shut my ears to the groans accompanying her approach to climax, and to concentrate on the pushbutton executive phone clutched between my thighs on the low coffee table in front of me.
I gauged the distance. I prayed for genital muscular control. I willed my penis to action.
It moved! It leaped out! It struck the panel a hair-breadth from the button marked “O” for “Operator”!
“. . . never forget that feeling when I knew I was coming. . . .” Liberty was groaning.
I concentrated. I willed it to lash out again. This time it hit just above the button, still barely missing it!
“. . . and I could feel Phoebe bursting and about to come again herself. . . .” Liberty’s thighs were a blur of ebony motion rubbing against each other.
One more time! I watched Liberty to gain the fullest inspiration for my lust. When I felt it peak, I whipped my erect penis at the pushbutton panel again.
On the button!
The response was instantaneous. The operator’s voice came loud and clear from the speaker, filling the room. “Op-er-a-tor. May yi hel—lup yew?”
“NOW!” Liberty screamed. “NOW-NOW-NOW! I’M COMING!”
The mouthpiece amplifier picked it up. “I beg yaw-er par-don?” the operator responded.
For a minute I couldn’t answer. I’d gone limp with relief-—all of me! Finally I managed the words. “I want the police,” I said.
“Yew can di—al the po-lice di-rect-ly, sir,” the operator informed me. There was a click. She’d disconnected!
The line was dead!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I do not love thee, Mother Bell!
The reason which I blush to tell.
But this I know—I know quite well—
I do not love thee, Mother Bell!
The line was dead! And so were we. Dead, that is! If our lives depended on my manhood, we were dead! The outlook was decidedly limp. . . .
“What happened?” Liberty had come down to earth.
“The operator hung up,” I told her despondently.
“Well, get her back!”
“I can’t.”
Her eyes followed mine. “I see.” But Lrberty wasn’t about to give up. “Look at me!” she commanded. And keep looking!”
Dully, I focused my eyes on her.
“Look at my mouth!”
I looked at her mouth. The lips were formed in an “O.” Her tongue reached out full length and laved a wide area including parts of her cheeks, the upper portion of her chin, and her lower and upper lips. The sensual message was clear. . . . Memories, memories . . .
“Now, look at my breasts!”
I did. Slowly, independently, they began to move in small, opposing circles. The red roseates once again widened; the purple nipples extended and twirled. . . . Mammaries, mammaries . . .
“Now, look down below!”
I looked. Her ebony thighs were quivering. The high, juicy mound was moving, the downy black hair covering it rippling like a field of dark wheat in a summer breeze. The purplish lips were actually pursed, contracting and expanding like a valve seeking a piston to draw into itself. Each time they opened, the blood-red polyp of her clitoris moved up and down rhythmically. I stared, entranced, for quite a while. . . .
“Now look at yourself!”
I lowered my eyes to my own groin.
Olé!
Things were looking up again!
I took no chances. I struck—so to speak—while the iron was hot. This time it hit right on target first try.
“Op-er-a-tor. May yi hel-lup yew?”
“Don’t hang up!” I yelled. “Whatever you do, don’t hang up!”
“I beg yaw-er par-don?”
“Just don’t hang up! This is an emergency!”
“I wi-yull con-nect yew with the e-mer-gen-cy sew-per-vi-sor, sir.”
There was a click and then a buzzing. For a horrible moment I thought the line was going to go dead again. But then another voice spoke.
“E-mer-gen-cy sew-per-vi-sor. What is the na-choor of yaw-er e-mer-gen-cy?”
“I can’t maintain an erection,” I confessed.
“I beg yaw-er par-don?”
“A hard-on, dammit! It’s already going down, and our lives depend on it!”
“Listen to him, lady!” Liberty urged.
“It is a-gay-yunst te-le-phone com-pa-ny po-li-cy to al-low the tray-uns-mish-shun of ob-uh-scene lan-goo-age o-er ow-er wi-yurs.”
“Shee-it!” I exploded.
“I wi-yull con-nect yew with the sew-per-vi-sor in char-uge of ob-uh-scene te-le-phone caw-ulls.”
More clicking and buzzing. Then: “Sew-per-vi-sor in char-uge of ob-uh-scene phone caw-ulls. How may we fuck yew?”
“Listen.” I forced myself to calm down. “I’ve got a problem.”
“I wi-yull con-nect yew with the e-mer-gen-cy sew-per-vi-sor.”
“No! Wait! I want to talk to you!”
“Is thi-yus an ob-uh-scene phone call, sir?”
“Screw! Piss! Cunt!” I screamed.
“Balls! Prick! Cocksucker!” Liberty chimed in.