Blow Job Girl

Confident that I could milk details from Paul later, I focussed on what I come for -- my turn with the Blow Job Girl. Finally, I admitted to myself that I was not just here to see her perform -- I wanted young lips wrapped around my aching cock, a spunk coated eager tongue swirling down my shaft, my bulb making a tanned cheek bulge. I deserved it, I figured. Half a summer watching my daughter's chums parading around half naked, I needed some relief.

Unlike the scattering of people just beginning to gather around Hilda and Gwen, the circle surrounding the Blow Job Girl was densely packed, at least three or four deep at the far end, where I gathered her head was facing. A few clusters bordered the main pack, mostly twosomes or threesomes either making out of fucking, turned on by the Blow Job Girl's enthusiastic display.

As I got closer, I could clearly hear the raucous cheers, the redundant coaching. Calls of "lick his balls" competed with cries to "take all that meat deep in your throat, slut", and related variations.

It was fairly demeaning to the young lass hidden in the crowd, presumably on her knees. I was glad that my little daughter Daisy was no where near -- I doubted she was at Waterman's Cove, though since Hilda was her buddy, perhaps Daisy had come along, but stayed safely on the conservative side of the bluff.

My thoughts about the Blow Job Girl's situation shifted slightly though as I circled around the pack, taking a wide berth so no one backed into me -- if they did my hard cock might give them an unpleasant rush up their bum. I heard a woman saying, "Look at the flood down her legs -- I'd love to lick her clean."

A man, likely that speaker's husband or boyfriend, replied, "I bet she'd love that too, you are such a good cunt lapper, but you may need to settle for my cock."

"I wonder if she licks pussy as wildly as she swallows cum," another woman wondered out loud.

A glance told me that this last line was spoken by Gail, a cute Asian lady who sold produce at the market on Saturdays, and clerked in the bookstore. She was busily stroking a cock that I saw belonged not to her husband (she was married to a big black ex football player turned fireman), but rather to Mr. Peabody, the bookish bespectacled town librarian, who I had always assumed was gay. I guess I was wrong, because he had three fingers crammed up Gail's tight pussy, which was quite a feat, as his index finger was jousting around Gail's clit with a feminine digit, which I traced up a tanned arm to find that it belonged to Harriet Halverstram, a local lawyer, married to a surgeon. I looked around the crowd and confirmed that Matt Halverstram was next in line for his blow job. So, even if he cared what his wife was doing, he would hardly be on the moral high ground.

"Your pussy is as wet as hers, shall I eat it?" I heard Harriet say. I watched as Gail turned and kissed Peabody, tongue bulging in his cheek, while Harriet nibbled Gail's shoulder, licked up her neck, and then pulled the hetro smooch apart, shoving her own tongue deep into Gail's mouth.

I lost sight of the peripheral threesome as I worked my way to the front of the circle around the Blow Job Girl, but not before I saw two female hands snaking around Peabody's solid cock, using it as a handle with which to pull him aside. The last I noticed, Gail was leaning back against a stack of driftwood, Harriet snacking on her tits while at the same time guiding Peabody's shaft into Gail's dripping pussy.

I found myself wondering if Harriet would be lucky enough to munch that cream pie. This shocked me, since I had never tasted another guy's seed before, yet here I was, jealous of Harriet's opportunity to sample the essence of Peabody, mixed with Gail's generous leakage. I knew I would never be able to look at Gail again without imagining my head between her thighs. Perhaps I would have to visit the bookstore, see if she had any special titles in the store room.

Harriet's husband had advanced to the star spot directly in front of the Blow Job Girl by that point. By the sounds of his grunting, he was far too busy to worry about what his wife might eat.

Even as I circled directly behind Halverstam, I could not see the Blow Job Girl clearly, because the crowd was tightly packed, cheering her on. "I count 47 mouthfuls," a well tanned young blonde marvelled.

"The record is 49, we need to find her some fresh cocks," someone else declared. I was shocked that the voice belonged to Muriel Spurrell, the town matriarch, widow of the long time banker. She had to be at least 80.

"Well, Muriel, you ought to know," I heard John Booth, the retired police chief, reply, "you set that record, but it must have been a decade ago."

"Not quite," the crone said, "it was the Millennium New Year's special party here."

"Then does it really count as the record?" That voice belonged to Floyd Faber, the tax collector, a very detail oriented guy, who I noticed was still wearing his black socks with his wing tips, even though he was otherwise naked, with about six inches of pencil thin prick at right angles to his body.

A muffled response came from the middle of the pack. I was not the only one who could not hear what the Blow Job Girl said.

"A lady should never talk with her mouth full," Muriel laughed, very girlishly for a senior citizen.

"Even if it's scrotum that her lips are wrapped around," agreed a bystander.

"What she said is that she doesn't care if Muriel's record is official, she'll go as long as there are hard cocks to pump fresh seed into her mouth -- her tummy is no where near full," a tiny naked girl I recalled as a student who worked at the coffee shop translated. I admired the lithe olive skin which was capped by hard brownish nipples that never showed in her coffee stained uniforms. I mentally noted that I should leave bigger tips. Maybe then I would get at least a last name to add to the 'Cindi' on her name tag.

"I guess Floyd will get a turn this year then," Chief Booth joked.

"I think he's been saving up since his turn a couple years ago," Cindi commented, staring at Floyd's stiffness.

"Oh, I bet he relieves that regularly," Booth chuckled.

"Well, its not Floyd's fault that last year's Blow Job Queen got a sore stomach after a dozen loads." Muriel concluded.

By now, Matt Halverstam's shoulders were shuddering, and though I could not see his feet, I guessed that he was bouncing in the sand, trying to lever his cock deeper into the Blow Job Girl's throat as she swallowed his cum.

"Don't forget to lick the shaft clean, sweetie," another old lady from the church choir commented.

"And draw each ball back into your mouth and roll it around to make sure he's good and clean," another voice contributed.

"Well, if he gets hard a second time, it wouldn't be the worst thing," Cindi said.

"You only say that because you've never been the Blow Job Queen, dearie," Muriel replied. "The second time around it takes way to much work to get a load. That's how you end up with a sore jaw."

Cindi giggled. "Then maybe I would just have to have him fuck me then. The longer that lasts, the better."

I found myself wondering who would get to eat that cream pie out of the youthful pussy. Coffee to go would never be the same.

By the time my attention returned to the present, Halverstam had staggered away, slumped on the sand. Cindi had indeed headed over to comfort him, her tiny hand already curling into his lap. I paused briefly to observe, my hand cupping my balls as my aching cock began leaking precum. Expecting that Cindi would soon be straddling Matt's hips, I might have wandered closer, hoping to be invited to join in, either pumping my seed into her throat or splattering it all over her chest and tits.

That plan barely began forming when Chief Booth noticed me.

"Here's a nice fresh one for her," he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the circle, brushing idle gawkers aside to line me up next to Floyd, whose quickly drawn cum was already chugging into the throat of the flaxen haired Blow Job Girl.

Without missing a beat, as she kept her head down, milking the last drops from Floyd, her hand reached over and caressed my cock, strong fingers wrapping around my swollen shaft at the root. Before rolling up, to caress the silky outer layer of skin, one practiced pinky teased my scrotum. I heard Mildred say "You better leave Floyd's cleanup to one of the other gals, that next one looks ready to blow."

The pun created a giggle fest. In the meanwhile, the Blow Job Girl cupped my heavy cockhead in her palm, curled her hand around it and squeezed gently. Only then did she look up, and our eyes met for the first time.

"Hi Daddy," she said.

The onlookers gasped. Incest was unknown at these events.

"What are we going to do?" she asked. Her willingness to even consider continuing shocked me.

"Well, dearie," suggested Muriel, "you do need one more mouthful for the record."

"Yes, Daddy, what are we going to do," my angel asked me.

"Whatever you'd like," I answered, as I always had.