First his nuts were pulled up involuntarily, high within his pendulous scrotal sac. And then his muscles stiffened and contracted and a roar of bull-like animalism flew out of the depths of his very being.
"You wanted it," he panted. "And now you've got it. Oh baby, feel Uncle Drew shooting. Feel Uncle's load, all of his come, now, yes fuck now!"
The hot bursts of gism cascaded like a geyser out of the deeply ensheathed and buried head of his ejaculating penis. Come splashed against her cervix and then due to the force of gravity slid down along her well-stuffed vaginal walls, barely able to flow, downwards, for her cunt was so amazingly filled and blocked up with the burning shuddering length of his joystick.
He leaned against her, groaning and shaking as more and more gism sprayed into her tender and battered private parts. She said nothing, too exhausted and drained of energy to move a muscle. But her vaginal walls contracted in voluntarily, responding to the pleasing soothing balm that was his hot viscous come.
How long they leaned against the wall of the stall shower he didn't know. How long it took for him to exhaust himself, to drain his hot viscous come.
How long they leaned against the wall of the stall shower he didn't know. How long it took for him to exhaust himself, to drain his balls and deplete them of their second and nearly as abundant load of semen, was something else he didn't know, either.
But that was of no ultimate importance in the scheme of things, anyway. Only pleasure was of the essence and please was most assuredly what Mr. Drew Livingston was able to experience as he and his Swedish teenybopper clung to each other, having exhausted themselves in the best possible way known to man.
When he'd managed to return to his senses and pull his head, not to mention his body, together, he gently eased back, letting her down to her feet once again. When his cock had slid out of her cunt, squishing loudly as he left he snatch and her cunt flaps snapped shut almost elastically, he turned around again and adjusted the taps.
This time they really showered and the warm and then cool water helped him clear his head and return to his senses. Ten minutes later he stood in the foyer of Rene Martinon's city apartment, dressed and ready to leave.
Christine had given him the phone number of Rene's house in Fontenay-aux-Roses but he didn't think he'd all and announce his upcoming visit, knowing as he did that surprise – in all things – was always a more successful approach to difficult situations.
"Is there anything else you want to tell me… before I leave?" he asked her as she stood near him, stark naked and just as inviting, just as much of a turn-on, as she'd been when he'd first entered the apartment.
"Yeah, there is something, Livingston. Come again, why don't you? If I'm here, I'd be more than willing to entertain, just the way you know how to entertain me," she replied with a suggestive and salacious little laugh and accompanying grin.
"Don't put it past me, either. I just might show up again, unannounced," he replied. "Esecoa, u of au osm't wjere sje's si – psed tp be. Who is this Martinon guy, anyway? What is he, a hypnotist, luring young girls into his clutches?"
"Isn't that what you like best, Mr. Livingston? Young girls, like me," Christine said with a conspiratorial wink. "As for Rene, I suggest you find out for yourself and then make your own value judgments. Anything I might say about him might be taken in evidence, against me, that is. And using his pad is so much more fun than staying in Stockholm and going to school. I'd hate to fuck up a nice cozy arrangement. So do me a favor and don't bring me up. What little Rene doesn't know, doesn't hurt him."
"My lips are sealed… until such time as I'll need to open them again." Then, with a sly chuckle, he dropped down to his knees, kissed her dry and fleecy little love crop with his lips and darting tongue and finally, though reluctantly, got back to his feet and made his goodbyes.
He cast her a last longing loving glance and then the door closed behind him. Drew made his way down the stairs and out onto the bright late morning street. He was filled with ambiguity, physically sated thanks to Christine Pedersen, but more emotionally disturbed and distraught about his niece than ever before.
For what he found most difficult to deal with was his growing awareness of his own jealousy, the fact that even if Amy was perfectly content, even if her relationship or arrangement with Martinon was completely on the up and up, he'd make sure to take her home with him and back to her parents.
Otherwise, he felt that he might not have another chance to seduce her, not for as long as she decided to remain in Paris, cared for by a man who seemed to share the same kind of sexual tastes as Drew himself. And that, when everything else was considered and all the cards stacked up and accounted for, was the most difficult thing to deal with of them all.
The only way to find out if Amy was till in Paris, still at Martinon's suburban retreat, was to go there and look for himself. A phone call certainly wouldn't have done the trick, though out of curiosity he did place a call, wondering if Amy would pick up the phone at the other end.
The voice he heard belonged to a man, though he couldn't tell if it was the voice of an adolescent or an adult. And he didn't wait around to ask, either. He hung up just as quickly, stepped out of the cafe where'd he gone to buy a jetton and place his call, and hailed the first taxi he could get.
"Fontenay-aux-Roses," he said briskly, giving the driver the remainder of the address once he had settled himself into the back seat of the cab.
The driver began to argue in French, bemoaning his fate, telling Drew that it was too far to go and that he'd never pick up a return fare. Reaching into his inside jacket pocket, Drew pulled out a thick and no doubt impressive roll of French franc notes.
He waved them at the driver and with a muttered oath about rich Americans, the man sped out into the noontime traffic. Drew alternately dozed and looked out the window and about thirty to forty minutes later he stopped the driver just before the man began to pull the cab up a narrow gravel driveway.
An old and handsome looking house stood at the end of the drive, surrounded by well-landscaped bushes and shrubs. Not wanting to make a grand entrance, he paid the driver for his efforts tipped him handsomely and stood off in the shadows of an overhanging tree until the taxi had disappeared from sight around a bend in the road.
Then, he moved down the drive towards the front of the house, not able to detect any sounds, or any signs of life, for that matter. Yet he knew someone had to be hole, for there were two cars in the adjoining garage, a recent addition, for the house looked as if it dated from back around the turn of the century.
There was a low sleek sports car of a type he'd never seen in the States, as well as a more commonly seen Mercedes four-door hardtop. He lives well, that's for sure, he told himself once again, for there could be no doubt in his mind now that Rene Martinon was indeed quite well off able to afford two cars – if they were both his and Drew saw no reason not to believe they weren't – if they were both his, and Drew saw no reason not to believe they weren't – as well as two residences. An apartment in the city with its resident blonde-haired teenage seductress, as well as a handsome small estate in the country, perhaps still being occupied by a certain young American girl by the name of Amy Mitchell.
Needless to say, he hoped that was still the case.
He waited a moment in front of the old oak door and then lifted the knocker when he failed to see a doorbell. A moment later footsteps could be heard echoing from the other side of the door and the knob turned and the door swung open.