She had expected to have to wear red lipstick, a micro-mini, and thigh-high black patent leather boots over black mesh stockings, like the girls who strutted their stuff under the streetlights downtown.
A car motor gunned impatiently at her back, reminding Mary of where she was and what she had to do. Though Perry was apparently satisfied that Mary would obey, he had sent Larry to make the delivery. And Larry had instructions to wait until the girl was safely inside with her john before taking off.
A slim finger pressed the doorbell. Electric chimes sounded inside. Mary heard footsteps, and caught her breath as the door swung open.
The teenager was not sure what she had expected her first customer to look like. Mary only knew that she was surprised at the man who appeared in the doorway of the large white house in the ritzy residential section of town. He was a tall middle-aged man, graying, beginning to bulge around the middle. He was not handsome, but his heavy, jovial features were not at all unattractive.
He looked, Mary suddenly realized, fatherly. At least she thought he did. She had never really had a father of her own. Only Uncle Herbert… but it wouldn't do to think of him. Not now.
The man's broad face lit up with a warm and winning smile. "Good evening, my dear," he said in a rich smooth voice. "Come in, come in. So good to see you. What's your name?"
Mary stepped across the threshold. The man took her arm, and her flesh seemed to tingle where he touched her. What would it be like? she wondered fearfully. But even as she did, she felt her anxiety ebbing. The man's sincere and friendly manner was putting her at ease.
Behind her, she heard the purring of an engine as Larry eased the Cadillac away from the curb.
"My name is Marti," Mary said as the man closed the door behind her. "Marti Rheinhardt." Perry had warned her not to use her own name, for obvious reasons. Instead he told her to choose one that sounded similar, so it would be easy to remember. Mary had seen the name Marti Rheinhardt somewhere, and decided to use it.
"I'm pleased to meet you," the customer said, ushering the girl into a spacious living room. "Call me… Mr. Burns."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Burns." Mary was conscious that hookers often had to play roles to satisfy the appetites of their johns. But Mr. Burns – the name was no doubt as false as Marti Rheinhardt – made her feel so comfortable she just acted like herself. Though she found that in her little-girl clothing, she tended to act younger than she usually did.
"You're a very polite young lady," commented Mr. Burns. "Very well brought up. I like that. Here, do sit down and make yourself comfortable." Mary sat on the divan, crossing her legs as she did so.
"Would you like a Coke?"
Mary nodded. The man went into another room, came back shortly with a glass full of bubbling soft drink.
"You're a very lovely young lady," Mr. Burns said, sitting down beside her as she took a sip of her Coke.
Normally she looked closer to twenty. But with the Mary Janes and pigtails, her green eyes made huge by skillful eye makeup, a healthy natural-looking blush of pink rouge on her cheeks, and her naturally red lips untouched by makeup, she might almost have passed for thirteen, but for the enormous boobs thrusting out the front of her dress. They gave the lie to her statement.
Nevertheless Mr. Burns accepted it. Something told the girl he wanted to believe it.
"I have a daughter, you know," he said. He glanced at a table beside the couch. A photograph was there in a stand up frame. It looked like the graduation photograph of a lovely, brown-haired girl. "She's away at school now. On the East Coast. I remember once when she was that age, it was two years after her mother died, when she…" He stopped and seemed to shake himself. He looked at Mary.
"You've almost finished your Coke, Marti dear," he said. His voice was a shade huskier. He was breathing faster. "I know. Why don't I make you a nice chocolate sundae. Little girls love chocolate sundaes."
Mary started to refuse. So soon after drinking a Coke, a gooey, sweet sundae was the last thing she wanted. But she remembered in time that in hooking as in other trades, the customer was always right. "Yes, please," she said. "That would be very nice."
Mr. Burns rose and left. Mary put the empty glass down on the coffee table and looked at the picture of Mr. Burns' daughter. It gave Mary a strange feeling.
Why was Mr. Burns paying Perry Roadman a goodly sum for a four-hour session with a call girl? The man seemed to Mary to be the kindest she had ever met, and just as charming. With his wife dead and his only child at school, he should have had no trouble finding attractive women all too glad to help relieve his loneliness for free. In her few years Mary had learned that genuine warmth and tenderness were rare commodities. Burns had lots of both. And they were what a woman wanted. Why had he hired Mary?
Unless he had some needs that were not so easy to satisfy? Mary felt a peculiar tingling in her pussy.
Mr. Burns returned from the kitchen. This time he had a tray, loaded with a bowl, an open pint of vanilla ice cream with a scoop stuck in it, a can of chocolate syrup, and a spray container of whipped cream. He set the tray on the coffee table and sat down beside Mary. His thigh brushed hers.
"I'll make you a sundae right here," he said. He was almost panting now. Mary's eyes traveled to his crotch, saw a pronounced bulge. He was getting a hard-on! He spooned ice cream into the bowl.
"Do you like sundaes?" Burns asked as he poured the syrup liberally over the ice cream. Dumbly, Mary nodded. The man picked up the can of whipped cream, sprayed a conical swirl over the top of the sundae. "Good, good. Here, have some."
He dipped a spoon into the sundae. Mary reached for the spoon, and Mr. Burns' warm hand closed over hers. Gently, he guided the spoonful toward her mouth.
Eyes round and fixed on the man's face, Mary let him steer the spoon into her open mouth. She closed her lips around it and sucked off the ice cream and syrup. A little chocolate sauce stuck to her lip. Unconsciously, she licked it off with her tongue.
Mr. Burns let go her hand. His hand dropped to her ripe right boob, cupping it. Mary was not wearing a bra beneath the dress. Her nipple was hard, poking into his palm. "You have such large breasts, sweetheart," Mr. Burns breathed. Mary bit her lip.
"Mr. Burns…"
The man had his hands on both tits now, massaging the pliant cones of flesh. The fabric of the yellow dress scraped deliciously over her swollen nipples. "Don't call me Mr. Burns," he gasped. "Too-too formal. C-call me Daddy!"
"Yes, mmmmmmmmmm… Daddy." Mary rolled her shoulders, pressing her tits into his avid palms. She was suddenly hot and willing.
So Mr. Burns wanted to play with a make-believe daughter. That was fine with her! Her pussy was hungry to take all he had to give.
Feverish fingers tugged at her blouse, pulling it open to bare her tits. They looked just like twin, generous scoops of vanilla ice cream, the nipples like brown cherries firm and ripe atop them.
Burns pulled the opened dress down over Mary's shoulders. Her tits heaved to the rhythm of her breathing, jigging slightly. His eyes were fixed hypnotically on the milky mounds of tit flesh. Slowly, he pushed her onto her back.
Reaching behind him, Burns dipped the scoop into the ice cream. While one hand squeezed one of Mary's boobs, he brought the scoopful of icy confection up and deposited it right on the jutting nipple.
Mary gasped and jumped. The dress was around her upper arms, pinning them to her sides. "Oh, Mr. – Daddy!" she yelped. "That's cold!"
Paying no attention to her protests, Burns dropped a second scoop onto her other jug. He had a hand on her shoulder, holding her down.