B & B with Usha

'Who?' she gasped at me.

'The caliph. Would he treat the girls like this?' I repeated my query.

'Probably,' she whispered, eyes half closed, aimed at the ceiling.

'Would they make love?' I asked next.

'The caliph?' she moaned.

'The girls,' I corrected her, one of my hands having dared to catch a thin spaghetti strap and slip it from her shoulder. No reaction, other than a shoulder sag as the strap slipped off and down her arm. The other did the same.

Both shoe-lace straps lay down her arms.

'The girls,' I repeated, 'Would he expect them to make love with him?'

'I ...' her voice was throaty now, 'don't know.'

'Think, Usha pet,' I said, lips at her ear, in amongst her fresh, clean, sweet-smelling hair. 'If I were the caliph, and you were the daughter of one of my subjects, would you not expect to have to do whatever I wanted?'

She shook her head, but more from despair than reaction to my question. Then she whispered, 'I suppose so.'

'Suppose so,' I snapped, as if amazed. My fingers went into her top, each side, eased it downwards. 'If you don't do what I command I can have your father put to death,' I said, and felt her body freeze. 'So what would you do if I demanded you make love?' I asked, watching the white of her top, ease South, (with some difficulty, it has to be said, as the top was tight, and hers was substantial!) Into view: the most neatly-shaped nipples I'd ever seen. A perfect small circle of chocolate areola, with a pea-shaped extension exactly positioned in the middle; round and dark and firm. I pushed the tight top unceremoniously down to her waist. As my hands returned and reclaimed their prize and closed over her skin, she groaned and her knees gave way.

I pulled her against me, so she wouldn't fall, but kept my hands around her breasts. God but this cutie was stacked! These were undoubtedly the most beautiful breasts I had ever seen. Including Playboy centrefolds. She was outstandingly built. The wonder of it all was that they reacted as young breasts should react: firm and full but soft and plump and smooth and warm and electrically wired to the centre of her soul. Caressing them triggered this outrageous reaction! It was as if she couldn't function, couldn't think, if I was arousing her glorious breasts. Incredible for me to handle and stroke, impossible for her to ignore or resist. The perfect arousal device! Maximum pleasure for the guy, minimum resistance from the dolly-bird.

God but she felt good!

I pulled her with me to the bed and proceeded to learn some more about her. I learned, for example, that if I released both breasts at once, that her eyes started fighting for focus and her hands started pushing me away and her legs started closing and she started to want me to leave her alone.

(I learned to keep a hand hard at work on her breasts.)

I also learned that my arm over one breast, hand on the other, keeping both engaged, kept the sweet girl in my control. I also discovered that her pubis was wildly sensitive, too.

Best strategy for young, soft, impressionable Usha, was to keep a hand on all of her warm plump arousal devices at once. As long as I did that all of the rest of her was available ... to me ... to stroke, caress, and lick, or kiss – or even bite, if gently done. She was a most divinely put together little plaything. And responsive as a hotly primed volcano. Soon we were kissing open mouthed. She on her back on the bed, me sprawled out on top of her. I had her breast in the palm of a hand and was fondling it warmly as she thrust it upwards, wantonly. My other arm was stretched around her, hand under her skirt at the back, fingers in the waist-band of her panties, exploring the globes she had there. She was nicely built all over. Where ladies should have globes, she had globes. And Jesus H. Whatsisface, they were globes to write home about!

Her arms were tight round my neck. Her mouth hard against mine. Both our sets of lips were stretched wide and our tongues were slithering hungrily everywhere, anywhere, the deeper and further the better. I held a plump breast in one hand, a firm buttock in the other, and my thigh was lifted high between long girlish legs that were wrapped around my thigh. Her pelvis throbbed and spasmed against me. Her groans and gasps were deep, and sounded distressed. But the heat and the fervour of her kiss, and the harsh rough grip of her arms and her legs, suggested the distress was longing-driven. (And her longing dovetailed nicely with my own.)

With breasts that ignited such a level of arousal, that caused such a loss of control, I think I expected sweet Usha to have a vagina well used to intrusions of the sort I entrusted to her care – in my case more proudly and convincingly erect that I think it had been for a decade or more. But this wasn't the case. As she presented her pretty pussy for my urgent and lengthy administrations – one hand, note, still fondling a quaking and darkly flushed breast – she must have known that the tip which eagerly slipped between her honey-moist labia lips was no longer my fingers or tongue, but was the tip of a very hard and very excited male sexual organ – all be it the colour of apple and slush, rather than coffee and cream. Yet I got the impression ... she seemed unsure of what came next.

I eased her over on her back – in the foreplay she'd rolled over me, then I had rolled back over her, then she had rolled back over me. I parted her pretty chocolate legs, revelled in the crimson of her snatch, kept a hand at work on her a quaking, throbbing, breast. I position the tip of my tool – the tool to melt chocolate, hopefully – just at the opening to her, holding her labia out at either side. Then I eased myself slowly inside her.

Her pelvis snapped backwards, pulling out of range. I took a second breast within my grasp, fondled both of them, gently tickled nipples, caressed the skin, took as much of each as I could in each hand, and gently squeezed her. I was rewarded with a languorous arch of her back and a deep-throated groan. Her head arched backwards from her body until it faced the headboard, and her pelvis adopted a more accommodating angle for my purposes. I eased my penis into her. And found her hot. (That was the primary sensation.) But Tight came next. Hot and Tight. Hot and tight and tactile and alive and the young lady knowing I am there, in her secret place, as intimately present as a large, red, London bus. Next I was hit by the sensations of outrageous slickness, and slitheriness, and the subtle little ripple in the walls that clung around me like a sheath, moist and hot and slick, like honey, heated. (Heavenly!)

The girl didn't do this every day, it was clear. Not even every week, I guessed. I wondered how often she'd done it before? Her hymen was broken, I noted, forcing in another (tight) inch. Feeling her pelvis relax, her thighs angle up. The touch of her heels on my backside as she crossed her young ankles behind me. Another hot inch I worked in, feeling the throb in her wall, feeling it grip me tight, then ease.

Timing the relaxation of the girl with the flare of her thighs. with the thrust of my push, I eased in a further small way. Both my hands were caressing her breasts. The moment too pure for force, for squeezing, for sexual aggression, or pain. The moment was pure – pure entry, pure arousal, pure consummation of the act we had embarked on. Her young heels bore down on the base of my spine. Her breasts seem to curl in and out of my gentle caress like two kittens deprived of affection. I dropped my lips to her breasts. I took a nipple in my mouth, and sucked. I was rewarded with the breast forced upwards, hard and urgent, and her hand curl tight into the hair at the back of my head.

She wanted her nipple aroused. She wanted my lips and my tongue and my hands against her, caressing, exciting her skin. This telegraphed all around her body. The next inch of entry I gained, was her sucking me into her much more than my push from without. The tip seemed warmly embraced, as a ripple of arousal journeyed up the sheath of her vagina. How much further to go? I wondered, revelling in the feel of her insides. Aroused by where I was. And in whom.

My tongue slithered hungrily around the hard pea nipple in my mouth. She arched her back and drove it further in. The final push was both of us. Me with an, 'Ungh!' an, 'Aagh!' and two powerful thrusts from my hips. She with an, 'Ow!' and a long plaintive, 'Ngraaah,' as her pelvis flared and her thighs thrust up in the perfect angle to marry us both. Tight in, we both drew breath. I felt she might be thinking, 'what next?' But she learned pretty quickly, my luscious young fox. So long as I stayed on her breasts, it appeared. But that was okay, I could live with that. I had a thing about them too!

Soon we were rutting like dogs. My tool in and out of the sweet young thing's pussy like a visitor eager to stay – then equally eager to leave – then equally eager to stay once again, as she played the welcoming hostess, then chased me as I left, then turned round and welcomed me back on my heartily thrusting returns.

Her yelps became high pitched, as I drove her over the top (more than once). Once on her back . Once, wantonly astride me, me with a breast in each hand, arms stretched, reaching high. Once, as she knelt on all fours on the bed, me from behind her, hands stretched around her, reaching underneath ... where her breasts, like eager puppies, wanted petting all the time. (Would I disappoint?)

When we finished – when I was finished with the sweet little thing, (having myself, in the end, come like a steam train with a fountain fixture fitted!) – I let her recover on the bed. She still had her top and her plum coloured skirt around her waist, but all her other clothes had long since been removed – some with my help, others she did on her own. (Her knickers she did on her own, may even have ripped the poor things.) So long as the sweet girl's breasts were receiving the unwelcome attention they apparently craved, the girl was putty in my hands. (I'm inclined to think in anyone's hands.) But as soon as they were released from sexual torment, her prudish better nature took control.

As it was now ...

As she slipped from the bed and embarked on a search for her apparel, I tried to help. She refused to catch my eye. She pushed my helping hand away – more than once.

(A third time, rather roughly!)

When she was dressed, and her hair was in order, and she'd spent some minutes in the bathroom to touch up her face, she came out, and for the first time in quite a long time, her eyes met mine, and she said, 'Mr Fairley.' I preened, expecting some compliment or other. We had done rather well, I thought. Lasted bloody nearly half an hour! 'You are a pig,' she said. Which kinda burst my balloon.

Then she slapped my face. And left.

She took my bags down, next morning, without a word.

And put them on the pavement, by the taxi. On a turd.