Bless and Keep Us All Hallow's Eve

Apparently, Jane had seen me first. She had stopped abruptly, racket hanging at her side; Barbara's ball shot past her, unheeded. And then, Barbara, too, turned. What did it mean that these two, so outwardly different—Barbara the Swedish beauty, Jane with the short-cut coppery-red hair crudely nicknamed "basketball boobs"—were together this morning? As they were in that distant, unimaginable dimension that was last night?

Without a word, with what seemed scarcely a glance, both girls walked toward the gate where I stood. It was Jane who swung open the gate, holding it. Both stood looking at me, making no move to come closer. Then, Barbara frowned, her blue eyes cold under the pale eyebrows, here perfect pink mouth pressed shut. She said, "What are you doing, here, Walter?"

The voice had the effect of shattering crystal, the sudden alarming sound of things...well...crashing. Here, in bright daylight, Paul's pathetic fantasies had trapped me again! What could I possibly say? Oh, Barbara, I love to watch your body, your strength, your animal energy—the energy of a fleet gazelle?

"Oh!" I muttered. "I just..."

Barbara's expression did not change, but she stepped toward me. Very close. And I could see through the clinging shape of her sweat-soaked white blouse that she wore no bra. The perfect, firm shapes came to a point, now, under the cloth. I could not help myself, I stared at them. And she stood so close, now!

I could have muttered an apology and fled. I could have mouthed some pathetic excuse and back away, liked a humbled servant. But suddenly I felt it, the burning, the fiery brand inscribed above my cock; I had become accustomed to it—a burn is easier to ignore than an itch—but now I thought, again, of the reality inscribed in my the flesh of my belly that could not be a fantasy.

I raised my eyes to Barbara's, to the sweetness of those few freckles on her perfect skin, freckles dancing over the straight nose and high cheeks—freckles like laughter on a magically perfect evening.

My hand came up slowly, paused an instant, and then cupped her right breast, the assertive, summoning hillock and its pressing tit. As I did it, my mind seemed to succumb to some whirling centrifugal force, a scrambling of my ability to think. I felt it as fear. But my gaze never wavered from the sky-blue stare in the pretty face.

The racquet dropped. Simply dropped. Her gaze did not flinch. But her fingers came up and one by one, as in trance, they opened the buttons of her blouse. Finished that task, she merely pulled aside her wet blouse. They were cones of firm flesh, except that the cones toward their tips were upswept, as though to lift the little nipple onto a throne.

She simply looked at me, waiting. Both of my hands closed over her breasts and I could feel their coolness as the air dried the sweat.

I glanced at Jane, who watched, expressionless. When our eyes met, she smiled once, briefly. But I looked back, now, to Barbara. Wordless, racquet hanging at her side, Jane walked away across the schoolyard.

Barbara's small hands came up, now, to cover each of mine, press them into her own flesh. "Not here," she said, softly. "Come."

Her hand sought out mine, took it. She stooped for her tennis racquet, then turned and tug my hand. She walked erect, back straight, head proud, her hips slightly swaying, toward the woods at the rear of the playground. The racquet swung at her side. She had made no move to button her blouse.

The stony dirt path led to a hickory grove. I wondered if it were deliberate because the dry, crisp bed of leaves was a sunlit yellow, the leaves a golden bed. And so, as she gracefully lowered herself to them, her golden hair spread on against the golden forest floor. She gazed up at me now, light-blue eyes intent. She raised her eyebrow, but when I did not speak, she jacked up her hips and her two quick hands pushed down the tennis shorts, and her black thong, right over her knees. At the apex of her girlish legs, at the base of her pale belly, was the brushed furze of curly blond.

In a moment, her agile feet had slid down and kicked aside her shorts. Finally she spoke, whispering, her gaze never slipping from mine. "What should I do, Walter? What do you desire of me? Will you come to my bed of gold?"

It was so wrong! What power forced her to do this? She, so pure and beautiful, offered like a dish of exquisite delicacies! I could have dropped to my knees, then, and pressed my face into the fallen leaves for shame. To look on her offered innocence was obscene! I must not!

I did not realize that I closed my eyes. I only heard her voice. "Will you let me see it, now? I ask this, Walter. So often, they whispered about it, and they giggled, and I did not believe them. But last night, I saw and it excited me. It hurt me. It frightened me.

She added: "The woman may only ask. Will you show me?"

I pushed down my dungarees, mechanically. Dropped them to my ankles and kicked them aside. I closed my eyes, though, as I worked my underwear over the rigidity of my stiff prick. So long a thing that meant mere embarrassment and mockery! But now, this golden goddess stared up at me, without apology, as though hungering.

"How may I have it?"

I dropped to my knees in the warm leaves. The sunlight shattered by branches above made a pattern of wavering shadow on her thighs, her belly, even on her patch womanhood.

"No," I said, staring at her, staring rudely, helpless to rein-in my desire. "No, tell me how to do it...for you..."

I had lowered myself to lie between her spread legs. I saw only that womanly mount of yearning, framed in gold. My lips were pressed to it, now, but what should I do?

"Tell me," I said.

"Then part me, if you want. Open me. Do you see the little pink head of my clit? It's hard to see until it's stiff. If you wish, you may take it in your lips, run your tongue over it. But gently, as if the swollen head of your dick were in my mouth... Do you understand?"

And I lost myself, there, making tender love to her most sensitive and vulnerable flesh, and learned that but to pass my tongue across it made her thrust up her belly and cry out.

"I want that," she murmured. "I want that in my cunt. I belong to men, only to men, but my cunt still longs."

And so I ate her, gently ate her, ate and licked her until she cried out for me to stop, please to stop, oh, God! Stop! But I did not. Suddenly her slender thighs closed convulsively and her small hands were in my hair dragging away my head, and she was crying, "I cannot! I cannot! Oh, mercy, master, I cannot!"

And in the end, I rested my cheek on the modest patch of soft hair, not wanting to be far from her sex and its smell, and my hand rested on her warm and rounded thigh. But when my tongue darted once across her peaceful clit, her thighs clenched convulsively, and she gasped, "No! No! No more!"

"And what if I held you spread and did it and did it?"

"No, darling, no. I could not bear it."

And then began the weirdest conversation of my life to that moment, my cheek still resting on her exquisite mound. "Other men do this to you?"

"Yes. Any of them. Does it trouble you?"

"Yes," I admitted. Absurd! My petty ego!

"They command me as do you. They just brush my cunt in the hallway or touch my ass, and I must go with them."

"Do you like it?"

"I crave it. Every day. As often as I am wanted."

"And it is like this?" I asked, overcome with despair.

"Always different. And always I want it."

"I wish you were mine."

"I belong to the Beast of the Apocalypse."

I lifted my head. I felt anger, a desire to humiliate. My fingers reached for her and parted her, roughly, jealous and resentful.

Her voice was serene. "You are looking at it, now? My cunt? My clitoris?"

"Yes, all of it!"

"Do you like it, Walter?"

"I want it to be only mine! No other man's."

"But why?"

"I think that I love you. For a very long time, but I was afraid to say it. I think that I love you."

"I am the concubine of the Beast, nothing more. He shall devour the flesh, in the end, and he shall claim the soul."

"No!" I said. And then, grinding my lips into her belly, "No."

"You have not consummated."

"No!"

"May I have it, then?"

Softer, now, muttering. "No, don't think so..."

"Very well, I am only a woman."

"Do you want it, Barbara?" I demanded.

"In me, yes."

"And if I don't?"

"I am but a woman."

"Take it then!" I was wild with desire, my long penis stiff to bursting, arched back so its thick red head touched by belly. "Take it!" I cried, "Take it!" And I placed its nuzzling head against her delicate little slit, and I drove it in with a desire to punish her, to punish the concubine that I had craved, sought out, and enslaved—and wished only to be my love.

"Oh!" she gasped, eyes shut, exquisite pink lips parted, now.

I gave it to her again, needing her, loving her, hating her, so that my brutal thrust jerked back her whole body in the soft bed of leaves.

"You'll get it!" I cried. But then, of course, I was coming, after only two thrusts, coming and crying out, my eyes rolling in my head...

After I moment, she asked, "Are you done, then?"

"I'm...I'm sorry..."

"It's all right, Walter."

"But you..."

"I am a woman for your pleasure."

Again, my face pressed in her soft, pale belly, pressed there as though I never wanted more. My hands seizing her warm hips, drawing her to me. "No," I murmured. "No, please," although what I felt was a drained contentment like a drug, so I wanted only to sleep.

"I want it," she said.

"What, Barbara?" I asked sleepily. I rolled over now, onto my back, and the warm, yellow, nut-odorous leaves were a bed. I closed my eyes and lay still.

I jerked as I felt her lips close over my prick, gently licking it clean—but more! The tickling tongue circled it's the swollen head, again and again, and paused to tease the tab of meat at the base of my throbbing glans penis, so I could not suppress my low moan nor keep my hips from undulating, thrusting myself up toward the ecstatic sensation.