"You're shooting juice out all over my balls," she whispered. "Your cunt's fat and slick and hot and gooey! There's a big load of jism in my balls and I'm going to shoot it right up you, right up your pussy! Ohhh! Oh Jesus!"
She was jamming the battle into her sister's cunt in a blind and savage burst of lust, and Reina, making animal noises, was crushing her down to the blanket, trying to get her legs around Angela's head. The pinkness of her opened pussy was visible in the light of the electric lantern Jud had given them, and Angela strained toward it, trying to get a mouthful of all that wet and swollen sweetness.
They were all laughing and crying as they began to get untangled. Corrie regarded the plastic bottle with exaggerated fear. "This thing got out of control! It was raping me!" she said.
"I got so hot," Angie said. "Gee, honey, I hope I didn't hurt you!"
Carrie hugged her and kissed her, pressing her aching boobs, feeling of the nipples. "When you come Angie," the girl asked, "do you feel it here? In your boobs, I mean? They always seem bigger, and the nipples get so hard!"
Angie hugged her, hard, still hot and aroused from the quick girl-fuck, the memory of the hard old man last night, and the more recent memory of their sixty-nine in the tack room. The older girl's hands went deep between Corrie's asscheeks, fingers slipping and caressing in the juices that were so warm and sticky and sweet.
In the middle of their embrace, she felt her sister become limp and realized she had fallen asleep while Angie was arranging Corrie's legs and turning her on her side, the dark girl smiling sleepily, crowded in next to Coralee, and the two of them snuggled together, sound asleep in seconds.
Angela shook her head, amused but exasperated. "I'm the one who should be sleepy," she murmured. "But I'm charged up."
She pulled her knit shirt over her head, liking the feel of it as it stretched and brushed its way across her tits, and stepped into the miniskirt. She went out into the soft dust, still warm from an unusually hot spring day, enjoying the feel of it on her bare feet, and stared around, her eyes quickly adapting to the dark. There was a light on in the bunkhouse, and she went softly to look in the window and saw only Sid, lying on top of the blankets in his bunk, looking at a skin book.
She knew that Jud had driven down to Santa Vaca, having an appointment with an attorney, and her female loins suddenly ached for the feel of a grown woman against her body.
She knew, there was a break in the fence which separated the red house from the stable area, and she went to it, hugging her breasts in the dark as a slight chill blew up from the little creek a quarter-mile south.
She did not call out for Rhoda, but looked carefully into each room, not vastly disappointed at finding no one in the house. Her inner warmth was more a matter of natural desire, of normal heat, than a snarling, raging need. There was a comfortable feeling in the house, and Angela felt keenly that this sense of welcome was something to treasure.
In a large bedroom, she saw a number of photographs, in frames, of a slender but voluptuous blonde girl, shown with yellowed clippings from a newspaper. The datelines were 1948, twenty-five years before, and the girl was, beyond a doubt, Rhoda Kenny. She had been Rhoda Schaefer then, but a smaller clipping announced her marriage to Judson Raiford Kenny, just graduated from Stanford.
The two were older than her father and mother, and Angie drew a fiercely happy breath. An old man like that, forty-six years old, able to fuck like Jud, better than any boy. Wow!
And Rhoda, how beautiful she had been elected 'Miss Poinsettia' in that far-off year. Seventeen years old, the old clippings said. That made her forty-two, now. Or forty-one. And Jud had been twenty-one. It made the future somehow richer and more promising, the fact that people that age could still be so beautiful. And so deep in sex.
And Rhoda! How marvelous that she was still into sex, still hot. Quick tears of empathy, of love, stung Angie's eyes.
In the dear, cool night, softened by a big moon, she heard a ripple of laughter, a few words she could not understand, and then a scream. It came from the back yard, and Angela went swiftly and quietly out to stand behind a long, rambling outbuilding from which a dim light was showing a bank of windows. A soft, warm light, and she saw it was from a dozen candles, mounted around a large, low couch.
CHAPTER SIX
Oddly enough, it was not Burt Rasco's prick which the girl noticed first, although it was hard to ignore, being hard, erect, and shining with its own distending blood and the slick juice from a woman's pussy, where it had obviously been.
Rather, it was the body of the woman, and Angela silently drew in a breath in tribute to Rhoda's beauty and it was the woman's lower body that her eyes focused on. The belly, from the navel down to the open, glistening cunt; the lovely swell of hips and generous roundness of buttocks, the inner thighs, opened comfortably and hospitably. But actually, Rhoda was a real beauty, all over.
Her voice was quiet, happy, clear. "You're not keeping score, are you, Burt?" she asked. "Oh, I love the way you fuck! On and on and on!" She looked up at the standing man with deep friendship in her face and body, and her hand gently drew the big prick to her mouth, where she ran her tongue around its gleaming head in sensuous art.
"You hollered loud enough to wake the horses," Burt joked, moving slightly to keep his hard prick active in her hand. "I must have really released something new in you."
Rhoda pulled at him so that he knelt on the big couch, then rolled down beside her. He kissed her boobs, so swollen with life and lust, and she pressed one of them into his mouth, which closed on it.
"I've been hot all day," Rhoda whispered. "It's Angela. Isn't she something? Her pussy is the wettest, slickest, the sweetest-tasting I've seen in twenty-five years!" The woman laughed. "I guess old Jud got into her night before last."
Watching the wantonness of the pair, so free and easy, so steeped in lust that they made every slight movement seem like part of an orgasmic ballet, Angela shivered. She had found a canvas chair which held her ass tightly, like a hammock, pressing her buttocks, her thighs, her cuntlips all together in a constriction of heat. She knew that inner feeling of fullness, part of it coming from the swell of her pussy as blood crowded, fiery hot, into her labia, her clitoris, the dark depths of her belly. And part came from an overflow of cunt-juice, which, having no place to go with her cunt clasped tight, pew and expanded like flood waters.
As she heard her name, and thought blindingly of the way her pussy had felt as Rhoda fingered it, and she had sucked at the woman's mature breasts, she closed her eyes and groaning, forced one hand between her thighs, loving the feel of her cunt hair scraping on her fingers, and slowly, carefully worked deep into the slickness and soft heat of her slit.
When she opened her eyes, holding her breath to keep from coming at first touch, and reveling in the feel of two fingers getting ever deeper and deep into the slowly moving well of her cunt, Rhoda was on her knees and elbows, her head on the bedspread, a look of joy on her face she turned toward Angela's viewpoint.
And Burt, grinning, was bolding the marvelous, shining pussy open wide, his face a few inches away, and the highlight on his lips and cheeks showed that be had had his face deep in those hot and fragrant folds. He ran his tongue out, licking around lips and chin, and said: "Rhoda, your cunt's a banquet! It's like a pudding! I could drown in it!"
"Suck it, baby!" Rhoda's voice was pleased. "Fuck it! But don't drown in it!" She waggled her beautiful ass invitingly. "Suck everything out of me that you can, honey. And then move down and take my clit! Nobody does that like you do!"