The Seehofer Chronicles Vol. 01

Becca's small breasts sat with a slight upward tilt upon her chest, her nipples pointed with a precocious audacity, taunting her flat mate. Bunny considered how her own large breasts certainly did not sit upon her own chest, rather they hung or more aptly clung with apparent desperation, trying to defy Newton's gravitational laws, which she never comprehended. Newton's laws that is, not her slumped boobs.

Bunny longed to run her tongue over Becca's dark nipples and coax the small buds erect. She knew they would grow a quarter of an inch or so and she relished the challenge of drawing them to their full, engorged glory.

Although seemingly with her eyes firmly shut, Becca watched through her unblinking narrowed eyelids at the reflected image of Bunny's face, which was studiously scrutinising her breasts. She enjoyed playing the exhibitionist, teasing her flatmate. That insatiable part of her mind wanted Bunny to caress her yielding boob flesh and squeeze her annoyingly sensitive nipples to convey those intense messages of pleasure to her voracious genitalia and brain.

Becca had intentionally encouraged Bunny's 'favours' (as Bunny often referred to them) and often felt guilty that she seldom returned the consideration for Bunny's pleasure and relief. Bunny was homosexual whilst she was not. Becca had no idea of her own orientation, certainly hetro yet bi-sexual by accustomed practice. She didn't care who satisfied her gluttony, so long as it was met.

Becca and Bunny had gone their separate ways following school. Whilst Becca had achieved success at Cambridge, Bunny had settled for a life of confused mediocrity until she discovered her exceptional talent when it came to hair and beauty products, becoming an accomplished and highly respected stylist. Becca had "rescued" Bunny (Bunny's own choice of word) from a particularly violent relationship with a budding film actress, who abused her position of control over the vulnerable Bunny.

The former head girl was certainly no shrinking violet but she was emotionally frail in sexual relationships, weak and easily exploited. Consequently, for the past eighteen months, Bunny had lived with Becca and become her flatmate, confidante, and mother hen. Bunny took her sexual gratification from pleasuring Becca, who saw the service as a small price to pay for the lavish amount of time and attention that Bunny gave in return. If Becca admitted to one character flaw, it was her selfishness when it came to sexual shenanigans. Altruism was not a condition Rebecca Seehofer acknowledged.

Becca opened her eyes and offered a beaming smile of white teeth to the mirror for Bunny to intercept. Bunny gave Becca a look of maternal concern; she hated these dates that Becca had to attend, eliciting complex and negative emotions that she suppressed with tacit difficulty.

"We'd better get ready, poppet," said Bunny, "I've laid out the grey dress, you know, the one you wore for Sergei." Bunny knew every outfit Becca possessed and each occasion on which they had been worn.

Becca reached for Bunny's hand, gently squeezed it, and smiled generously. "Thanks, Bunny. I don't know what I do without you."

"You'd do just fine, poppet," replied Bunny in a tone echoing with self-deprecation. "Just promise me you'll be careful. I don't like this Lawson Hackett."

"You don't know him," commented Becca sharply.

"I don't think I want to, Becca..."

CHAPTER 9 - THE PENTHOUSE.

Friday, 22^nd August 1970.

Central London.

The door to the penthouse suite swung invitingly inwards and Becca Seehofer, clutching her overnight case, took a calming breath as she stepped over the threshold, barely glancing at the handsome young man who ushered her in, content that he bore all the hallmarks of the CIA.

Her four-inch heels sank into the deep pile of the beige carpet and she turned the corner from the lobby to enter the spacious suite. Three suited men were sitting around a circular table decked in a green cloth, the game of poker in temporary abeyance as the fourth player admitted Becca. The table, strewn with chips, intimated that the game was mid-hand. An empty bourbon bottle stood forlornly on the table accompanied by overflowing ashtrays. Becca noted the foggy ambience of the room, cigar and cigarette smoke blurring the air. The distinctive sound of Motown, the track unfamiliar to Becca, played unobtrusively in the background.

"Hi, Rebecca, be a doll and fetch another bottle from the kitchen."

Becca recognised the east coast accent of Lawson Hackett. He was sitting indolently at the card table, contemptuously declining to abandon the scrutiny of the cards in his hand. The two other men did deign to glance her way, no doubt intrigued by her arrival. Had Lawson made them aware of her summons? Becca knew better than to conjecture, but she recognised the muted looks of approval.

"Yes, sir," answered Becca, "is there anything else, sir?"

"No, that's fine for now, honey," answered Lawson.

She noted the smiles that flickered across the faces of the two men gambling with Lawson when they heard her response and guessed they were pleased by her submissive rejoinder, delivered in her practiced plummy English accent, so easily acquired after her years at private school and Cambridge. Becca collected the bottle of spirit and stood to Lawson's right at the table. She watched the handsome younger man, who had performed his duties as doorman, retake his seat at the table.

"Forgive my rudeness, gentlemen, this here's Rebecca," announced Lawson to his guests around the table. Becca felt his hand on the back of her left stockinged thigh, just above her knee, and cast him an enquiring glance.

Lawson Hackett was a good old American boy who had somehow become thirty-two whilst maintaining a college attitude. He was well groomed with short, dark blonde hair, as she remembered from her previous associations with him. His smooth, tanned skin and the chiselled chin accented his strength and vitality. Becca had heard him described by an American colleague as being a "Jock" and was still unclear whether the epithet was a compliment or a slur. She assumed it had something to do with his passion for football when he was at college. She neither knew nor cared what a "Quarterback" was. She supposed it was something less than a "Semiback".

Lawson slid his hand smoothly so that it slipped beneath the hem of her grey dress, his fingers expanding to embrace the stockinged flesh as his hand rose teasingly up her shapely left thigh. The tactile digits detected the change of fabric texture when they broached the top of the stocking and paused to luxuriate in the warmth of the exposed flesh above. His hand curved around her thigh, allowing his fingers to encompass the soft skin of her inner thigh. His thumb pushed up to press lightly against the silky fabric of the French knickers whilst his hand loitered as if unsure of its next destination.

The three men around the table seemed unable to decide where their attention was best applied, in appraising the pretty face of the young English woman, evaluating the contours of her body hidden by the dress, or to watch Lawson's hand exploring the secret delights concealed by the flowing garment.

Becca flinched when Lawson's thumb exerted a gentle pressure against her anus, the silk teasing her clenched sphincter whilst his fingers pressed against her vulva, wriggling to slide her knickers between the folds of her labia. The three men were drawn by her affirmative reaction as Lawson probed. All three smiled and Becca made an instant assessment regarding the nature of the three voyeurs.

Of the three men, two could have been cast in the same mould as Lawson Hackett. Both appeared tall in their seated posture and bore the same expressive elusiveness. Being neither particularly handsome nor unsightly, they were groomed to exude the aura of confident facileness. Their large mouths accommodated an over abundance of neat white teeth, denoting them as being distinctly stereotypically non-British. The man sitting next to Lawson, on her right, groomed a distinctive moustache reminding her of the image of the Marlboro cowboy.

The fourth man of the group was patently younger than the thirty-somethings who dominated the room. She guessed him to be in his early twenties, of a similar age to herself. His handsome features clearly lacked the confidence of the other three men, confirmed by his forced smile in response to Lawson's ministrations. This was patently a new experience for him yet he would soon no doubt gratefully morph into a similar being as his companions. Lawson made no attempt to introduce his card partners. Becca thought the younger man looked rather cute.

"Pour the drinks please, Rebecca," suggested Lawson after removing his hand from under her dress. She poured Lawson a generous measure into his tumbler before circling the table to the moustachioed man, the first of the duo of Lawson clones.

As she leant to pour, he offered a sharp smack to her backside. She had anticipated the blow after noticing his purposeful wriggling, yet she had not foreseen the vigour of its delivery. It was no playful slap but an aggressive spank of barely-concealed spite.

She issued a cry of pain imbued with genuine shock and missed his glass, spilling the spirit over the played cards on the table. She was assailed by the raucous laughter of three of the men and felt the glowing heat generated by her pained buttock. Only the younger man's laughter appeared affected.

The laughter subsided and Lawson spoke. "Earl, I know you like to be firm with the ladies but Rebecca here is an English lady. Like I said earlier, she's almost royalty, so don't you go treating her like some New York whore or I'll throw you out, you hear, you dumb redneck?"

"Sorry, Law. She's got such a sweet fanny!" The four men laughed again as if to gloss over Lawson's lightly delivered but patently serious warning.

"Yeah, she sure does. Show Earl what you've got, Rebecca," ordered Lawson.

Becca leant towards the third man, sitting opposite Lawson at the circular table, and placed her hands on his shoulders for support before bending forward to almost the horizontal, arching her back, and thrusting her bottom towards the spanking, moustachioed Earl.

Earl did not hesitate in accepting her offered butt, gripped the hem of her dress, and lifted the soft material over her bottom to allow it to bunch in the hollow of her spine around her waist. He was rewarded with the vision of Becca's arse, the swelling contours of her buttocks framed by the high cut of the white French knickers. Becca knew how to flaunt her ass; she was under no illusions about its captivating appeal, honed by hours of swimming.

"Would sir like me to pull my knickers down so that he may gain a better look?" asked Becca demurely, maintaining her assumed subservient role.

"No, please... The pleasure would be all mine," mimicked Earl, struggling to suppress his southern drawl.

Earl grasped the top of her knickers and tugged them impatiently down to drape around her spread thighs, the stretched elastic of the waistband clinging with lurid alacrity to the pale flesh of her thighs, allowing the white silk to billow like unfurled sails. Becca was pleased that her unveiling had occurred so quickly, perhaps it would not be such a long night after all.

The heavy atmosphere of the smoke infested room eddied tantalisingly around her exposed skin with a tangible embrace before she felt the calloused fingers of Earl paw her right ass cheek. His hand swept around the firm curve in a clockwise motion before he placed his thumb at the base of her spine. She was aware of the pressure of his thumb pressing against her coccyx before his hand slid slowly down into the open valley prior to encountering the embrace of her clenched cheeks. The impatient thumb bludgeoned its way through the furrow, its destination her concealed anus where it lightly pressed against her puckered hole. Earl, like Lawson, was evidently an ass-man.

It never ceased to amaze Becca how many American men, when abroad, seemed to be fixated on anal sex. She conceded that was perhaps s unfair, for that rule of thumb could be equally applied to men of all nationalities. The current rule of thumb sustained its gentle but insistent enquiries against her puckered hole without violating its sanctity.

"Does sir like my botty?" enquired Becca coquettishly.

"I'm sure 'sir' loves it, Rebecca, but I think he's had long enough, Mike needs a drink," declared Lawson as master of ceremonies.

It was Mike against whom Becca was leaning and she looked up enquiringly into his face. She was greeted by a salacious grin from the second Lawson clone. Mike could only imagine Earl's presumptive enquiries but was none the less aroused despite the lack of visual affirmation.

Becca stood up, allowing the dress to fall from around her waist. She tottered around the table, her leg movement restricted by the French knickers, still clinging to her thighs. She was reminded of the tiny steps taken by a geisha when serving Japanese businessmen.

Mike remained silent when she served his drink and she paused, waiting for his attention. She was surprised by his actions. He simply reached up under the dress and slowly drew her knickers down to her ankles where she lightly stepped out of them. Mike examined the briefs, especially the gusset that had until recently covered her pussy. He nodded at Lawson.

"Wet, the goddamn English girl's already wet!" exclaimed Mike.

"I told you, Mike," said Lawson, "Rebecca is a very talented girl."

Becca took her cue to move onto the youngster who was staring nervously at Lawson, patently looking for instruction.

"Ryan, you'd better help young Rebecca out of her dress," suggested Lawson.

Avoiding eye contact with Becca, Ryan nervously stood up. She knew he was tall after his duties as doorman. At six three, Ryan towered over Becca and shuffled quickly to stand behind her. His apparent haste might have been explained after she caught sight of his crotch and the clearly distended material of his trousers. She felt the tremors when he placed his left hand on her shoulder and grasped the zip fastener with his free hand. He tentatively tugged at the zipper until it sped with its own momentum down to the small of her back.

As her gown parted, Becca pulled at the sleeves and Ryan gazed upon the buttery flesh of her shoulders and the white horizontal band of her bra fastener. The top half of the dress fell from her body to gather at her hips.

Becca paused, drew her shoulders forward to emphasise the undergarment, and shrugged to intimate that he should unfasten it. The trembling in his fingers intensified whilst he fumbled with the hooks and eyes before the underwear magically separated like the parting of the Red Sea. Becca wasted no time on ceremony. Ever the professional, she stepped out of the dress and bra to stand entirely naked save for her white stockings, suspender belt, and grey patent leather heels. She took a discreet pleasure from the reactions of the three men she could observe.

Lawson nodded his approval, mindfully recalling his previous encounters with the English girl. Earl's eyes flitted up and down her body, scanning her delightful contours and the full bush of luxuriant blonde pubes that had been neatly trimmed to enhance the thick carpet of hair. Mike's eyes were fixed upon her breasts, his glance to the ceiling confirming that he was drawing an imaginary line from her nipples to the far ceiling where they appeared to be pointing.

Becca twisted on the spot and faced Ryan. He was blushing, staring intently over her shoulder, towards the distant wall as if it held the secret to the meaning of life. She smiled sweetly at his innocence, embracing the thrill gained from his obvious anxiety. She stood decorously before him, like a succubus feeding off his apprehension.

It was such moments that emphasised her gift for seduction. She exuded a nerveless confidence, unfazed by flaunting her nudity in a room with four strangers. As yet, she remained unaware of the sexual course the evening would follow; nevertheless, she knew that she would embrace whatever came her way with reciprocated skill and impious pleasure. Such was the complex nature and genius of Rebecca Seehofer.

Her right hand moved surreptitiously towards the bulge in Ryan's trousers. His gaze remained fixed upon the distant wall when she kneaded the swollen flesh, her fingers differentiating between the distended tissue of his shaft and the supple inflexibility of his balls. The three other men watched with amused anticipation. Becca quickly unfastened the belt of the grey suit trousers and in one fluid movement, pushed his trousers and shorts down to free his genitals from their cruel confinement.

She kept her smiling face resolutely fixed upon Ryan and watched impatiently for him to look down at her. It was whilst her left hand cradled his lower left bollock held tightly to his body by the anxious contraction of his scrotum and her right palm supported his swollen but apparently bashful phallus that he deigned to look at her. Regardless of having admitted her into the penthouse, Ryan had scarcely paid any attention to Becca. He now noted how pretty she was. The "girl next door" was an oft-used description but in her case, it was a most apposite term.

Ryan was definitely out of his comfort zone. When he discovered that his boss had ordered a courtesan for the evening, he was overcome by a curious cocktail of inquisitiveness and abject terror. He was no prude, yet never had he participated in group-sex and he wondered if this was part of his initiation with which Earl had delighted in taunting him.

Although deeply uncomfortable with the situation into which he been enticed, Ryan's indifferent and aroused penis clearly had other ideas. He was determined not to let the side down and appear weak before this prostitute. He was paranoid about cumming prematurely and even more fearful of being incapable of ejaculating on demand.

The youngest CIA agent closed his eyes when the beautiful English girl stroked his shaft to full vigour. Her skilful hands assessed his cock as being straight and a slender five and a bit inches long. She thought it was a thing of beauty and instantly dismissed the notion as being professionally inappropriate.

Initially, Becca too wondered if the man was capable of climaxing in front of the others. However, experience had taught her that this frightened man was quickly going to blow his load. Becca knew full well that any inexperienced man such as Ryan would be overwhelmed by the socially intricate and contradictory complications of group sex. He would likely as not be rendered incapable of further participation for a good while, if not for the remainder of the evening, after his public cumshot, an ejaculation instigated by panic rather than lust. She guessed that Lawson Hackett was probably happy with such a scenario. After all, three was company and four was definitely a crowd.

"Does sir like me stroking his beautiful, big dick? I'd love you to put it in my tight hole and fill me with your spunk," said Becca in her best plummy accent. Becca's palm stroked the underside of Ryan's plump glans whilst her other hand skilfully wrung the pulsating and veined shaft.

It was too much for Ryan. In wide-eyed alarm, he ejaculated.

Becca's tummy was stung by the first blast of warm jism when Ryan's cock convulsed in her hand. He groaned with shocked relief but most of all, humiliation from his dreaded premature spunking.

Becca smiled in mock delight, studying the final surge of semen leaking limply from his cock into the palm of her hand, knowing that it was good manners and professional courtesy to look on approvingly as a man gave his all.