I scrambled to an upright position. I pushed female thighs wide apart and raised female legs high for easier entry. I shoved my cock up the quims, one gloriously, adolescently tight, the other like a lemon squeezer equipped with wondrous womanly muscles. Flailing hands clawed at my buttocks. Frantic teeth sank into my shoulder. I slammed my prick in and out hard, my balls slapping against the hot, wet curve of writhing asses.
“Oof!” I exclaimed. “Oof! Oof! Oof!”
“You’re hurting me!” Euphremia cried out.
“Lordy, Steve! This position is purely murder!”
Originally, it hadn’t occurred to me that any other position was possible. Euphremia (she had a 'reputation’, remember!) had introduced me to the more automotively sensible and comfortable seated-man-on-the-bottom position. I slid into it a lot more easily with Terry.
Spreading her pudgy thighs, Euphremia knelt between my legs on the seat and gently lowered herself onto my steel-hard, frothing cock. Terry, on the other hand, sat with her long legs stretched up my body with the angles waving over my ears. Terry definitely had the edge, if memory serves me right. Her position allowed for much deeper penetration.
“Touch me here!” Euphremia put my finger where I supposed her clitty was as she rode up and down my cock, her sparse bare breasts hanging out from under the bra with the taut nipples beckoning the fingers of my free hand.
“Play with my no-no!” Terry guided my hand between the flushed and squirming cheeks of her behind as I sucked her stiff berry nipples and firm, large bullet breasts through the polyester of her dress.
(Hey, look, Murray. I’m fucking!)
“Does this feel good?” Euphremia licked my ear as she bounced up and down.
“Y’all like this, darlin’?” Terry twisted over my deeply imbedded prick in small, tight corkscrew circles.
“Yeah!” I told them. “Great! Keep fucking!”
I was straining so hard now that at no time did my bare bottom touch the car seat. My thighs were bathed with the lubrication of female passion. My balls were on fire and tingling with the mounting pressure for release. I opened my mouth wide and sucked in breasts—one entire, and one gloriously overflowing. I shoved my cock tonsilward with one last brutal, mighty thrust. I came! (Step Ten.)
“I came!” I announced to Terry, Euphremia and Murray Wiener. “Did you come?” I asked the first two, considerate from first to last.
“Yes. I did.” Euphremia, at least, had the courtesy to lie. “The earth moved.” She was, however, a little short on originality. “It was wonderful!” (Many years later I ran into Euphremia and we went to bed together for old time’s sake. On that occasion she confessed to me that she had not had her first orgasm until one month after her twenty-sixth birthday, and then only with a vibrator.)
“No, I surely did not!” Terry was annoyed. “Now don’t y’all dare pull out now until I’m rightly through with you!” She twisted and squeezed and panted over my limpening dick until she finally let out a squeal, and-ball-wrenchingly—came.
When it was over, we shared a cigarette. “I guess you changed your mind, huh?” I couldn’t resist needling Terry.
“Y’all thank so, huh?” She winked.
“What do you mean?”
But she only winked a second time. I had to be satisfied. It was all the explanation I was going to get.
We drove back to the Mark Hopkins. On the way, Terry asked me a question. “Who’s Euphremia?”
“What?!” I was startled.
“Who’s Euphremia?” she repeated. “When you came, you spit my breast out of your mouth, raised your head to the sky and brayed her name: Euphremia. Who is she?”
I winked at her. It was all the explanation she was going to get. Now we were even.
I pulled the car into the underground garage at the hotel. We took an inside elevator up to Terry’s suite. I kissed her good night at the door and took another elevator up to my suite.
There was a note on my door to call the desk for a message. It was from Charles Putnam. He had left word for Rhino Dubrowski and me to be at Baroquian Orchard, a three-thousand-acre retreat for members of the Baroquian Club deep in the redwood forests about eighty miles north of San Francisco, at noon the following day. We would meet there with Putnam and the other interested members of the group behind the Whittier Stonewalls. There were careful directions on how to drive there. There was an additional instruction to the effect that nobody was to come but the two of us. The meaning was obvious. They were planning to discuss Terry Niemath and they didn’t want the quarterback to be present.
I stuck the instructions where I couldn’t miss them when I dressed in the morning and went to bed. Five scotches and a good lay. I slept like a log.
The next morning, when I awoke, I had time to kill. I decided it would be a nice gesture to have breakfast with Terry before leaving her alone for the day. I took the staircase down to her room and knocked at the door.
My first knock went unnoticed, but my second one brought a muffled answer. “Y’all come on in.”
I entered the sitting room. There was no one there. The door leading to the bedroom was closed. I walked over to it and knocked again.
“I said y’all could come right on in.”
I entered. I looked. My jaw dropped.
“Steve, darlin’. Welcome to the party.” Terry grinned up at me from her bed.
She was lying on top of the sheets. She was naked. There was a naked man on either side of her. One of them had his semi-erect penis resting between her voluptuous cheeks of her behind. The other was embedded in her pussy. Two bellhop caps perched side by side on the nightstand.
“Take off your clothes an’ join us, darlin’.”
“No, thanks.” I backed out of the room.
Well, Stephanie? How about that? Is there still no such thing as a nymphomaniac?
CHAPTER FIVE
En route to the Baroquian Club’s redwood retreat with Rhino Dubrowski, I was reminded of a time when I was a kid and my only erections came from inadvertent rubbing by a corduroy crotch and led nowhere. Back then, I was one of five founding members of an exclusive boys’ club. We met in a cellar and debated the joys and consequences of masturbation and ejaculation (which none of us had experienced yet). Being an elite group, we had no one to question our expertise. Occasionally we measured our weenies against one another. We felt, as I recall, very manly.
This feeling was bolstered by barring from membership all boys who were too fat, were too puny, had pimples, wore glasses, always raised their hands with the answers in class, covered their heads when a ball was thrown at them, or lived outside the neighborhood. All girls, having no weenies, were blackballed by definition. Another reason for their exclusion was our need for masculine privacy to figure out just what we were going to do to them as soon as we got old enough to be able to do it. Sometimes, one of us would snitch his sister’s bra and put it on and pretend to be a girl so we could act out these fantasies.
Our exclusivity was power. We were the ‘ins’; they were the ‘outs’; we were superior, and all the other poor zhlubs were inferior. I remember how delicious it was to intimidate and overawe the occasional guest a member was allowed to bring to meetings of our private club.
Now here I was on my way to being the guest of Charles Putnam at the ultra-exclusive Baroquian Club, where you not only had to be superior to be a member, you also had to be grown up! Wow! What an honor! I’d get to rub shoulders with really important guys who were 'in’, who were expert in many grown-up fields, and who had lots and lots of power. They probably wouldn’t measure their weenies against each other but, then, that’s how it is when fellows grow up. They have to put childhood pleasures behind them. Some childhood pleasures, anyway. Others were still indulged at the Baroquian Club.