That goddamned Carla! She could make a guy's prick start to pound. And make his conscience pound even harder.
In the car there was no room for my conscience. We squeezed in on the front seat, me at the wheel, Margo jammed next to me, Jon next to Margo. Mrs. R. was in her element. One hand on his pants, one on mine, enjoying the scenery. Feeling wasn't enough, she had to switch on the car lights to see which dong was redder.
Whatever decision she came to was lost in the general hubbub. We had arrived at the cabin.
A stunning picture stood just outside the building. Portrait of a Lady Nudist. Only the picture was animated. I'd almost forgotten that Beth was assigned the role of nudist. She played her part to perfection. I'd almost forgotten that she had such tits-to-toenails talent. Silently appraising the competition, Margo greeted her coolly. Jonathon providentially had neglected to close his fly. His whang started out to meet the chatelaine of the cabin. Beth eyed it timidly. “Pleased to meet you,” she murmured.
“Allow me to introduce you to Mathew Hammond.”
A chorus of “How do you do” reverberated through the tumbledown dwelling. I stood back, proud of my buddy. Matt could have passed for an artist anywhere. His jeans were properly tattered, his T-shirt was artistically paint-bespattered, he was nude, but not where it mattered. (That is, he was barefoot.) With the casual air of a showman, he displayed his art works.
“Most ingenious,” Jonathon admired.
“The colors! Exquisite!” Margo sounded ecstatic.
“I understand you use a unique medium,” Jonathon hinted.
“Is it true that you paint with your penis?” Margo wondered.
“I don' know about that, lady,” Matt confessed. “I jus' dab paint on my dick an' go to it.”
Our blonde, naked hostess opened a bottle of wine bought for just this occasion. Chilled burgundy served in Dixie cups seemed almost festive. Jonathon accepted his drink, patting Beth's ass in a fatherly manner.
“Mr. Hammond, may we prevail upon you to demonstrate?” he asked, taking the words out of Margo's mouth.
Matt was willing, but prevail and demonstrate eluded the ignorant bastard. He looked puzzled until I explained in words of one syllable, “The folks wanna see it.”
Grinning, Matt unbuttoned his jeans and showed it.
“Magnificent,” Margo whispered, open-mouthed.
“Christ! You have enough there for a fresco,” her husband commented.
Matt didn't know a fresco from a flamingo, but he appreciated the awe-struck note in Jonathon's voice. Turning to face him, he said, “Thanks, chum.” The bisexual Baltimorean mistook those kindly words for an invitation. He reached out to stroke Matt's dangling paintbrush.
“Hey!” exclaimed the genital Giotto. “You wanna get your ass whipped?”
“Yes,” Jonathon admitted.
“Well I'm one guy who c'n do it!”
“Please!” Margo elbowed her way into the fracas. “Me first. You can ream Jonny later.”
Matt backed away in confusion. He had meant whipping by belt, not by buzzer. Only the staunchest heavyweight faggo would consider taking Matt's jumbo jujube up his keester.
To avert further dissension, I said, “Won't you show us how you paint, maestro?”
With Margo's invaluable assistance, Matt smeared streaks of purple and orange on his ramrod. Jonathon also insisted on helping. He “posed” Beth in a series of legs-open attitudes.
“What the fuck are you doin' with my girl?” Matt asked. His indignation would have been more understandable if Margo hadn't been hanging on his hard-on.
“Isn't she your model?”
“Yeah. But I don' need no model for this one.”
Matt whacked his whacker over a fresh piece of canvas. That painting was destined to remain unfinished. Margo requested a private audience with the artist. As Matt led her beyond the partition, she admonished gently, “Wash that gook off your prick, please. No orange and purple prongs for me, thank you. I'm conventional.”
The wet rag was put to use.
A new obstacle interfered with the culmination of a sweet courtship. Margo had glimpsed the bedroom facilities. “Please! I do want that cock in my cunt, but can't we go somewhere more-”
“More fancy-” Matt supplied.
“No. More spacious. There's hardly room here for Beth, Doug, and my husband. Unless we have a terribly cramped daisy chain.”
We agreed to take the show outdoors. Blankets spread on the grass under the stars, with a high-powered lantern for the benefit of the voyeurs among us.
First, we stripped in the cabin. Matt shucked his jeans and his T-shirt. Naked, his hard-on restored to its natural color-blood red-he helped Margo take her clothes off. He was unexpectedly gentle and his task was unexpectedly easy. Under her white evening mini, Margo wore only wispy panties and even minier tit cups. Rubbing his prick over the front of her panties, the artist uncovered her boobs and started to suck them.
Not consciously imitating his host, Jonathon also happened to be sucking titty. Beth's. Not one to stand idle, the blonde had insinuated horny fingers into Jon's fly and was holding his rod, as if weighing it.
Who thinks of the poor pimp at such moments? I had to take my own duds off. Bare ass, we trouped out to spread blankets. Then Matt spread Margo.
Margo squirmed to lure in the marauder. “Please fuck me,” she whispered.
The two couples were side by side on the grass, on the blanket. Fucking in close proximity, studs lose more than loads.
Again I felt like an outsider. Grabbing a tit here, an ass there. Waiting my turn, watching.
Finally, the boys dismounted, leaving the girls panting. I went out of the arena to take a leak, and came back, hard-on throbbing, ready to jab it into any hole. Debbie's, if need be. Matt and Jon accosted me.
“Jon's gonna lemme whack his ass!” Matt said, boyishly.
“Matt's going to let me suck it,” Jon confided.
Gee, that's great! Swerving away from the perverts, I threw myself down on Beth. She was nearer. I was in her as my weight descended. I started screwing.
Margo lay alone for a minute on her side of the blanket. Then she too welcomed a vaginal visitor. Matt or Jonathon, I supposed, barely glancing and not much caring. Margo cared, however. She was basically conventional; she liked to know who was boffing her.
“Who are you?” she asked, conversationally.
“I'm the bellboy at the Iowan,” a hoarse voice responded.
Margo's eyes met mine; her gaze wandered to where my staff was sheathed in Beth's cunny. “B-but that's impossible,” she stammered.
Nothing's impossible, lady.
Ernie had joined the party.
Margo didn't ask to see his identity papers. After a session with Matt, a normal-sized 17-year-old dick can be soothing. I gave Beth my juice and watched Ernie zoom his young load into Margo.
Beth stole off to piss or change Debbie's diapers or scratch her snatch in privacy. Margo stretched languidly, excess love froth dripping out of her cellar. As I prepared to muff dive without an umbrella, a tortured cry echoed from the cabin.
“Are those two fucking?” Jon's wife asked, in the midst of a yawn. “I do hope Mathew isn't trying to ream poor Jonathon. That husband of mine is congenitally over-optimistic. He'll never be able to take Matt's prick. Only a woman can!” She patted her cunt complacently.
I observed that my buddy would no doubt settle for a suck job and that Jon would no doubt be happy to oblige.
This failed to console her. “The dear boy has a habit of biting off more than he can chew,” she murmured. “Poor Jonny. Or should I say poor Matt?”
I figured I'd better run in to see what was happening.
In the studio-bedroom, I found the artist painting his most vivid canvas. Jon's hairy, nude body was criss-crossed with streaks of vermilion. They looked like blood for a damned good reason-Jon's was bleeding. Tied to the bed, he seemed comparatively relaxed after his ordeal. Nevertheless, he was shouting. “Please, Matt, please!”