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Coral Lips Smiling At You

Van Cardui

This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.


This book dedicated to Jane, Jan, and Marianne in direct proportion to their subtle proportions and the parts they have offered.

ONE

I JEREMY WATTS, late of Uncle Sam's Vietnamese adventure, have awakened in many a strange bed in many a strange house but, I hope to tell you, none so strange as the pad I dug when I opened my eyes the morning after my first meeting with the strange Doctor Paul Descartes.

So off-beat, in fact, that it took me many minutes of active recollection before I had my head together and had worked out the background, the whys and wherefores of the big four-poster canopied bed, the mid-morning sun streaming in through iron-filigreed windows to light up a large room sparsely furnished and, most important, the long black-haired Chinese chick who, as bare-assed as I was, on top of the crimson counterpane, was in her sleep squeezing my piss-proud, early-morning, half-hard prick with her delicate little fingers, nuzzling eight inches of not quite yet rampant rubbery flesh against her cheek.

Bare-assed indeed, since her hard round lemon-yellow hemispheres were astride my upper arm, staring at me one-eyed. My right hand was palm-up under her belly, and from her mass of long black hair one thin arm curved out to lay on my own furry stomach.

Sight brought sense and sense brought erection. As I felt myself grow harder I saw her circling hand relax and clench around me, the long-nailed thumb stroking my blue-veined skin.

Hot damn!

Slowly I put it all together in my head, getting the incidents out of sequence like a badly edited movie. Or like a cinema verite non-production. I'd gone to bed with this Chinese chick, Dahlia, Descartes' Eastern import, and with Celestine the French maid, and with Miss Holly C, a strange chick who fancied herself a pirate. I looked keenly around the room and confirmed that these two had split the scene while I, worn out by my sexual activities of the day and night before, which included laying all three of these, slept on and on and on.

But Celestine and Dahlia and Holly were only appetizers to the meaty mouthfuls I was yet to satisfy my hunger on, sexually speaking.

I guess this all sounds a little mysterious. Let me go back and explain....

Out of the Service some six months or so I'd been drifting around the country looking for some kind of deal that made sense to me. Yesterday afternoon (I'm writing this first part of my journal at the desk in my room here, after breakfast), yesterday I'd been hitching somewhere in the wilds of California and had, late in the day, gotten a ride from a guy who said it was okay for me to sack out on the back seat. When the car stopped, some time later, I woke up to find the guy standing over me with a gun, fumbling with his fly. Well, I don't aim to do anything under the threat of a gun, whether I like it or not, so I chopped his arm and took his gun away. The cat was so scared that when I disgustedly told him he could take off he zoomed away like a bat out of hell, leaving me alone in the twilight, miles from anywhere so far as I could tell, standing on a narrow country road.

I trudged along for the best part of a mile thinking evil thoughts and then, as if in answer to my imprecations, a Lincoln convertible came speeding along. I jumped in the middle of the road to thumb a ride out of here back to civilization and almost got mowed down for my trouble. The blonde chick who was driving just kept on coming straight at me as if she didn't see me, and I jumped like an Olympic champ to get back onto the grass. Man! She was scorching. But while I was still staring after her, cussing her under my breath, she slowed down. I began to run, thinking she'd changed her mind but no, she turned off into a little side lane that led to a pair of tall iron gates. I got there just in time to see her hold a conversation with a disembodied voice that I figured came from a squawk-box set in one of the massive stone pillars that held the gates and ended the high wall that ran back off into the bushes, and then the gates opened, electronically powered, I guessed, to let her through.

Well, well, what the hell ... as soon as she had passed and before the iron gates had swung back to close entrance, I sprinted through them. I wanted to catch up with the chick and let her know about hitch-hikers and their uses.

But it had been a long haul till I saw her car again, parked in front of a low, large, rambling house about a mile up a long and twisting driveway that ran through close-planted shrubbery and low-hanging trees. The sun was down now and so I took the chance on running, bent over ... as if that would have helped me if I'd been spotted... across the fifty yards of clear, unobstructive lawn that seemed to surround the place to the nearest window, which turned out to be lit from inside and unshaded.

Man, I felt like jerking off when I looked through to see the chick—a plump and pleasant blonde—stripping herself in front of a guy who, from his surroundings, I took to be a Doctor. He was a cripple, at least from the waist down, for he sat in a wheelchair in an office that seemed rigged for a non-ambulant, full of switches and buttons.

Well, I'm trying to make notes on all this stuff, since I don't know how the whole thing is going to end right now, so I'll not go into details but try to fill them in at a later date when I have more goddamned time.

Suffice it to say, like they say in these literary books, that the chick did a strip such as I've never seen even in a whorehouse, standing under a spotlight and doing things that G. R. Lee hadn't even thought about. And then, fuck it, she'd sucked the elderly, white-haired old Doc off... and then had gotten it from a lesbo nurse who raped her with a dildo! But, man, what kind of place was this?

Well, being a veteran I should have known better, or heard better, but I dimly recollected something whistling in my ears and then, thunk!, something hit me in the head and I blacked out.

When I came to I was on a doctor's examination table. And not just any old doctor, either. I awoke to a trio of faces, the old man—well, not so old; maybe mid-forties, but bitter, peering into my eyes; the lesbo nurse; and a giant of a Negro, all of seven-three or four, who looked like a zombie.

Again I have to hurry this, the old prick is rising as I anticipate my telling, and I have other things to do.

I'd stumbled across a kind of secluded and exclusive clinic, run by Doctor Paul Descartes and his aide, Nurse Barnes, with the big Black, Moss, to assist. The clinic, I was told, was there for the benefit of fucked-up chicks who came, a dozen or so every month, to get their libidos checked.

The current dozen (and their predecessors and, presumably, their successors) were under the hypnotic spell of the Doctor, their suggestibility enhanced by a period in a sense-depriving Black Room and a dose of some drug he'd stumbled on to. Moss was also under the influence and so, I was told, were two maids, Dahlia the Chinese chick, and Celestine, her sister maid, there to look after the clients, all of whom were rich.

Descartes is crippled (sorry about the tense changes, folks, but my head is kind of scrambled right now; later I'll try to sort this out and get it all together), and because he's crippled he has an urge to take it out on chicks and use them as his sexual slaves, with Nurse Barnes as his eager assistant.

The whole place is wired for TV, apparently, and he's blackmailed me into staying on here for a while. Hah, not that I need to have that edge on me to persuade me to dig this whole fantastic scene. And I don't care if he does send unretouched pics of me to Swedish magazines! But on the other hand his threat to have me cooled by Moss and have parts of me disposed of somewhere in the wooded grounds of this place weighs, like they say, a trifle heavy on me.

Well, well, what the hell, I'll have a ball in this place.

I've had to promise to satisfy each of the chicks in turn, to some kind of a roster we'd worked out. I've humped Pia, a thirty-five-year-old Italian divorcee, and Holly, the twenty-three-year-old heiress, and both the maids.

Folks, you know something? I suddenly realize that I'm about to put this all into a book: Me, Jeremy Watts, an author. I'm nothing special, just a clean-cut American boy who dreams of mother and apple-pie and who's done his time in Vietnam, but this whole fucking place—and I use the adjective advisably—is just too much, just too goddamn much.

I mean, here in the heartland of the good old U.S. of A. I stumble into something which is right out of the dreams of every warm-blooded (Hot-blooded?) American boy, a bunch of fantastic broads, in every size and shape and color, just waiting to get their rocks off. I think I owe it to you others out there in the heartland to depict in words and log this scene, in case you never get into such a weird situation. But I hope someday you do.

But for now I have to take care of Frau Odil C, the Junoesque older German widow; the going-on-fourteen sophisticated Morel; Kashmah, the buxom belly-dancing scorned-wife Egyptian; Emily the banker's wife; Notire, the Tahitian heiress, young, dark, and chic white-thinking; Jacqueline, the cool fashionplate widow; Ingrid, the turning-thirty fashion model; and Dine, the voluptuous redhead.

And of course there's Lois, Morel's anxious housewife of a mother. And Fenella, the small flapper-headed blonde divorcee I'd followed into this place. These two I could stick in anywhere. They've both been “punished” last night for trivial wrongs the Doctor invented, Lois being fucked by the giant Moss, and Fenella sucking and chewing off Nurse Barnes.

Damn, someone's knocking on the door I'll get back to this later.

The mere thought of all those beautiful bodies, just ready, willing and able to indulge their sexual fantasies with me and get themselves fucked got me aroused despite my ardors of yesterday, and Dahlia's unconscious, dreaming pressure on my prick didn't help.

I was tempted to wake her up and order her, as I could any of the people in this house except Descartes, Barnes and Moss, the Doctor having transferred his power of command to me, to at least put her delicate teeth and fine lips around me; but then, she'd had her shot the night before, and I wanted to get started on the others. I gently slid myself out from under her, let myself off the monstrously high and broad bed to the carpeted floor, and went into the huge bathroom, big enough itself to hold an orgy. I pushed the door to, had myself a luxurious piss, and ran the bath.

Fifteen minutes or so later, when I came out, Dahlia had gone, with her clothes and, it soon appeared, with my costume of the night before, a kind of swashbuckling outfit. I looked in the big wardrobe that stood beside the bed and the only thing that seemed to suit me was a thick, flowing Oriental-type robe, with wide sleeves, a plain round neck that I had to drop over my head, and about big enough round to fit a pregnant elephant. It felt kind of odd to be naked under this, but that was okay, I figured. I slipped into a pair of plain brown-leather thongs that seemed to match this.

I'd trimmed my tentative beard the previous afternoon, and everything looked cool. Before I went to investigate the food situation I decided to start my notes on this fantastic frolic—which by now you will of course have read.

I worked for a while at the desk by the filigreed-steel escape-proof window until I heard the door behind me open. It wasn't kept locked any more, I noticed, which made me feel a little better about things. I turned to see that saucy Celestine was bringing me a tray, a veritable silver platter with hot rolls, butter, coffee, orange juice and four soft-boiled eggs.

She looked at me enquiringly with her round, black eyes under their long lashes, and I nodded to the wooden bench at the foot of the bed, the same bench on which I'd made her perform so erotically last afternoon after the good Doctor had assigned her to me. As she bent to deposit the tray I took in the delicious picture of her again, only slightly changed from yesterday. She still wore the frivolous white lace cap atop her shoulder-length chestnut hair, and was still squeezed into a black silk maid's dress that fitted her like a glove from wrist to throat to aproned waist. But she'd discarded the white, starched, frilly lace petticoats for an equally short soft red half-slip that rose black-embroidered, together with the micro-minidress, to show off trim white inches of thighs bisected vertically by black ribbons of garter that held up her opaque black stockings, making her look as though she'd stepped, nearly crotch high, into a barrel of tar, glossy in the morning light as they descended to the ridiculously high-heeled, silver-buckled black shoes that held her trim little feet.

Under my loose robe I got hard again, uncomfortably so against the rough cloth, but again I restrained myself from taking advantage of the French gamin. I'd not only well and truly fucked her previously, but she'd also been finger-fucked by Holly while I was screwing Dahlia, all together on the bed, so she could wait awhile. I thought. But she was after it all right, the little French fox, for she wiggled her butt at me as I looked, then came to stand in front of me, hands behind her like a good maid.

“Is there anything else you want, Master Jeremy?” she asked.

“For fuck's sake, Celestine, call me Jay, will you?”

“Well, Master Jay, then.”

That's better than the other, at least. No, I don't want anything else right now, kid. Presently I'll go potter around the place; perhaps you can show me where everything is.”

“Oh, I expect the Doctor will want to do that, Master Jay.”

“Well, O.K. Is he up and about yet?”

“Oh, yes; he's been up for hours. Nurse Barnes and Moss, too. And most of the ladies.”

I had to laugh out loud at that, that she should call these chicks ladies, especially after she'd been frigged by one of em. And I was reminded that when he introduced them to me Descartes had only told me their first names, followed by the suffix C. And when I'd asked what that stood for, the whole dozen shouted out CUNT!

That's all they were, in the Doctor's estimation, apparently.

For now I let Celestine go, ate a leisurely breakfast, cursed the mustard-colored robe for its lack of pockets to put cigarettes in, found that the sleeves doubled as pouches—which solved that problem—and wandered out to find the Doctor and whatever else turned up.

I pulled the door to behind me and stood for a second in the alcove formed by the three-foot thick walls of the place, surveying the thick-carpeted corridor floor. The night before I hadn't been able to pay too much attention to the layout of the place, just the large downstairs dining room to the left of the entrance hall, the flight of wide, broad-stepped stairs leading up from it, and the maze of corridors leading off from the upper gallery. And, of course, the downstairs office and examination room of the Doctor, where Fenella had been so strangely treated.

Dim overhead lights glowed discreetly along the passage, and I remembered that I should turn right. And did so. Mainly I was eager to further investigate the Doctor's secrets and get accustomed to his place, but it seemed this was not to be.

I would have thought that my sandals would have been too soft on the thick pile to have been heard, but as soon as I had turned the first corner and started in the general direction of the stairhead, an alcoved door at my left opened and a husky voice called my name. Bathed, breakfasted, a new day in hand—what-the-hell! Paul Descartes could wait a while.

I turned my head to see, with difficulty, that it was Frau Odil C. who was addressing me. Click-click, went my mind as I followed her through the doorway. German-born, late-forties or early-fifties, six feet or so tall, Junoesque in proportions. Widow, guilt ridden because of late husband's participation (shared by implication) in destruction of Jews and Gypsies. Now attempting atonement by acting as J or G surrogate. When last seen, with long black (dyed?) hair and hidden visage of a fortune teller; a long-robed concealment of voluptuous promises. And a strange fur-like covering of the skin.

“Good morning, Odil,” I said, blinking as I entered the loom. She said nothing as I passed through the doorway, but locked the thick wooden door behind me.

Incense burned somewhere and smoked the air, but through the haze I could see that there was no window to the place, only a fireplace which apparently doubled as an air-conditioner from the whir that came from it. The furnishings were simple—a pile of soft mattresses covered by thin carpets in many colors, engoldened by the yellow lights in the low-hung chandelier, but revealing enough of their blues and scarlets and livid greens to show they matched their fellows on the floor and their companions covering the walls. The ceiling was white (oranged by the lights) and crossed by broad brown beams of wood.

A light that was not quite a strobe lamp flickered fitfully on a black round table set in the middle of the room, blanking out, for clear, the corners and exact dimensions of the enclosed, confined area. The figures embroidered or woven into the carpets on wall and floor gleamed fleetingly and fadingly with portents of mystery and sensuousness.

I finally located another small table, companion to that which bore the pulsating lamp, on which stood a bronze platter in the center of which a brazen tripodic cup wafted dragonlike upward the burning embers of powerfully-scented incense. Jasmine and sandalwood burned my nostrils as I turned to take in the sight of Odil, who stood right behind me.

Even in her bare feet she topped me by two inches, and the effect of height was enhanced by the way she had her long hair piled atop her head, and the bulky softness of the loose-flowing robe she wore with the high-puffed hood.

Black, gold-flecked eyes glittered in the recesses of her worldly-wise, shadowed face, and a subtle smile marked her boldly-slashed lips as she brought one hand up to one-fingeredly motion me to silence, and the other to push me gently back till my ass hit the edge of the low pile of her bed.

I settled myself comfortably as she went about her thing which was, after all, merely to seduce me. I still remembered that I could tell her to do anything, and that she must obey me. But all the chicks in this strange place seemed to have let their libidos take over, and I was content to go along with their fantasies.

While she went through her particular thing I guess I stroked my beard, in a wise manner; and stroked my rampaging prick, in an arise! manner. But I can't be too sure of anything that I did.

Still mysteriously robed and hidden, Odil backed again to the door, fidgeted under a tapestry till she found the switch, and doused the overhead lights, leaving us in the pulsating glitter of the flashing, erratic-rayed lamp on the black table, which swung in color and rhythm like Alice D's Discotheque —a heady, acidly-atmosphered place to attend, if you've never been there. Colors, dimensions, odors and other anchoring essentials were completely disoriented, so that I gave up trying to identify the background and instead concentrated on the fuzzily outlined center of attraction, Odil, who seemed to have acquired a golden aura like that of a fallen angel.

Standing between the two black tables, whose shiny tops flowed and glowed with color, she first drew herself up on the tips of her toes in a way that would have made any prima ballerina envious, shod or not. The wide sleeves of the soft outer robe came out like butterflies as she raised her arms high above her head, then settled back to ride down her limbs till they were caught at her elbows.

Her left hand went back and down to throw off the soft hood over her hair and the right dropped behind her to bring up another kind of cover which required both hands before it was fixed tightly to her with the black tresses safely concealed under it. Now I was presented with the sight of a cat's head, ears erect, coming low over her glittering (now, suddenly I saw—elongated eyes!) and catching up hard and fast over her chin, just beneath her lower crimson lip.

A contortion behind her and another upthrust of her arms as they pointed themselves at me, following the perspective lines of her glance, brought to my fascinated attention the fact that she had donned, in some fashion, black-blue velvet gloves, golden claws at their tips; such as might be expected of a magic tiger, flexing flashing in the disorienting lights, cruelly curling in the ivory engoldenment of this sense-dedicated room.

Odil vanished into the flickering shadows and did something to her legs—it's all vague and two moves beyond reality and comprehension—and when she returned her bare feet were likewise encased in cat-like slippers, with toe claws all a-gleaming in the odd lights, hooking into the colorful carpets like those of a lovesick lion.

Now she stood again at her tallest. Ripped at the belt of the thin robe. And let it fall slowly about her in the strange, scented airs of the place.

Revealed, motionless, willing and eager for my inspection, Odil was clad in a skin-conforming suit of blue-black velvet, piled like a Burmese cat, legs crossed, arms high and close together, only her face white in the darkness, sabre-cut by a grin of vermilion, but with two circles of pallid white in the center of her un-catlike breasts, centered themselves by amorphous patches of red that held my own hot erotic gaze.

Odil was something that you should only meet when you're really turned on!

Six feet of staggering black velvet, sexually inclined. A pair of enormous, well-encased, divergent breasts, strongly overshadowing a long broad belly, with soft wide hips, black-and-white undulating, no, strike that—midnight-blue-and-silver flexing—curving tightly down into one of the most muscular cunt-cases I've ever seen.

Between her thighs there was an upthrust of slotted strength that, reaching out as it was, then looked as though it was about to give birth to a new limb, an elephant's trunk, perhaps, something questing and sucking, with a wanton, wanting life of its own.

Inside the encasement of pseudo cat-fur only Odil's circled face and nipples thrust out toward me. She should have posed for a devil-worshipping Medieval Old Master in her guise, for never before nor since has there been anything so feline in human form.

High on her toes she came toward me and, only a few feet away, pivoted gracefully like a goddess to show me her back, her hands intricately interweaving so that the claws still reached down for me. Under her sleek-eared, unseamed Bubastis-hood her powerful neck leaned into broad shoulders whose strength was only partly concealed by the graceful curves of her crosswise arms, wrist against wrist, ten talons glitteringly groping for my psyche. Flowing tight suit of velvet accentuated her back with its deep groove until its subtle point rose into well endowed buttocks, fleshy haunches within their dark cat-fur covering so that the upstanding pile of spinal fur threw black shadows as it vanished discreetly under the mere nub of a tail.

A tail!

Yes, a tail.

Goddamnit, the German broad had a tail. Or at least the semblance of one.

Is there such a thing as a Manx German?

Whatever, this chick had a four-inch stub of a thing that only served to emphasize the split between her widespread halves of ass. Like a hunter bemused by his prey's scut I watched that bobbing black thing flick and twist before my eyes.

Then let 'em wander down the lengths of the muscular legs, from the clenching thighs to the fascinating hollows behind the knees, to the ribbed, pile-driving calves; down to the softly shuffling ankles and (bending to see) the worn-haired soles of this dynamic hunk of feline femininity that was genteely caterwauling for me. Or for some rutting male.

I reached out and touched her fat ass. Under my fingers the short black fur burned like emeralds discovered in the dark, crackling with static electricity. Must have been some kind of nylon stuff.

Waggling the high-haunched smooth-curved thing at me in a last tantalizing twist, she crossed her ankles and slowly spun until she faced me. Now I could see that in the cutouts of her breasts the dark aureoles, surrounded by a slight whitened glow of flesh, acted as trays on which stood two magnificent pitchers of nipples, long and smooth and shadowy, miniature bowling pins awaiting a strike.

Within the confinements of the mantling hood Odile's face was white and dramatic, painted eyebrows drawn out in an extravaganza of feline phantasma, black and stark on her skin, hooked at the outer corners by a beckoning secretive-ness.

She stood upright before me on her taloned toes, and her nipples eased in and out of their velvety encasements like extruding bullets from a gun's barrel in a slow motion film, hard and sleek and beautiful.

Though it was morning, there was no time for me. Though we were of different ages, there was no time for me. Though we were invidious strangers, there was no time for me. And as she beckoned, I followed, until I stood on the carpeted floor.

Of a sudden this monstrous cat threw herself down on the floor at my feet and, after rubbing herself against my legs, casually flicked the buckles of my sandals and drew my ankles from them. Under my soles the thick pile of the carpet tried to imprint its curious pattern on them, using my cold sweat as engraver's acid. My eyes were both at floor level and ceiling high, in this odd room—each pore of my body contained a sense that was eye and touch and taste.

Her hands reached up my ankles, scratched briefly at my calves, and fondled the back of my thighs. Every hair on my body rose to her sensitive touch, and my balls grew hard so that I could feel them as separate entities between the thighs she caressed.

With a lithe movement she switched her legs beneath her and crouched, cross-legged, in front of me. Her hands circled my butt and then she was standing up and pulling the mustard robe from me, shaking it free from my chin, and dashing it down somewhere to the side of us. I was naked to her and to the subtle-fragranced room, with its time-defeating strobic golden light.

She seemed to be in tune with some rhapsody that I could not hear. Her feet, limbs, body undulated to the strains of an unheard ballet. Her eyes did not really see me, and it was not really me that her fingers reached out to touch. Odile's conscience-driven ears were plugged to all but the strains of the Gotterdammerung that goaded her psyche.

Now, for me, it's Wagner in terris if that's what it takes to get these big broads moving, but somewhere at the back of my mind I remembered Descartes' thing about Odile's guilt-complex. Okay, I wasn't the demolished million of woubleyou-woubleyou two, but if she had to screw herself out of the ground her old man had spiralled her into, that was fair enough by me. A screw's a screw, clock or counter-wise.

Anyway....

Her soft-palmed hands toyed for a moment with my balls and succeeded in arousing my ten inches of prime flesh to perform, hanging out from me like a Nike missile from its silo. I made a reach for her but she zapped my hands back to my sides with a karate chop of the wrists, and followed up with a finger softly placed to her lips.

O.K., I'd be dumb and malleable for her....

... leaving me standing there Odil backed away, twisting silently on her soft-bound feet, then slowly laid herself back down on the floor, with her arms and legs twitching and convulsing, and her eyes staring at me from under hooded lids. Working her butt around, she finally got her legs between mine and brought her satined soles softly up inside my thighs as I stood spread-legged, daintily touching the hairs of them and occasionally digging her adopted claws into my flesh. She lay on her back before me, legs upthrust and akimbo, arms bent about her shoulders, hands linked under her neck, with her body going silently up and down on the carpet like a caterpillar.

I was as hard as the last spike in the intercontinental railroad, determined to nail down this drunken piece of track, but I tried to hold onto whatever maleness I had going for me. Tuck Odile's wiles! was the thought in my mind. But of course; said the voice from the lower depths of my gonads.

Suddenly there was a change, and I looked down to see that she was sitting up and plunged her head down, over long-stretched arms, till it was between the essential V of me. Long cat-ears turned slightly to rasp under my balls, and seeking hands ran themselves slowly up and down my legs.

Tremors of communication flowed through me as she spoke.

“I am a witch ... I am your witch,” she said. “I am a strange, non-Nordic person, descended from the true Aryans, the black-haired nomadic Gypsies. I am possessed of occult things, things that spread their wings in the attic vaults of reason. I am part of the patina of tradition, the overlay of mystic fascination. I am an Aryan from the cradle of civilization. I am a witch of the world....

“And I am your familiar....

“I am your black cat....

“I am your deeper pools of existence, black and unknown, yet living Odil is where your secrets are hidden. Odil is where your devils are biding themselves.

“And Odil is here; yes, Jay?”

The last was a snap that hooked me out of ... oh, I don't know; all kinds of philosophical thoughts and brought me back to the scene in hand. If she wanted to be a Gypsy, I was all for wearing golden earrings and invading her caravan.

Her face changed. Instead of being a forecaster, behind-the-glass-crystal type of woman, she became animal. Another twist of her handsome body laid her flat-assed down beneath me. Not, you understand, that there was anything really flat-assed about those sumptuous curves.

I'd missed something, somewhere.

Because in the middle of her exotic writhings she'd managed to fumble at the joint of her thighs and pull some kind of ripcord zipper that opened her up, as her great-butted velvet-clad magnificence arose under me, to show a streak of white flesh.

She backed onto her knees so that the outer edges of those half-cups of catskin eased themselves off her to reveal the inner, softer, fleshier portions of unrestrained ass. Then it bucked up against me, stroking each side of my inward thighs, until I was ready to go right then. But then. Odil flattened herself out and again began to curl herself, catlike, around my ankles, pushing and pressing as if she were in heat. The stump of her tail stood rigid, and I wondered if she could control it, it looked so natural and hard and flexible.

Another luscious movement beneath me, and her furry hands were creeping up until they held the two halves of my hairy buttocks and, as I strove to maintain balance, she lifted herself till her cat-face was opposite my bolt-and-nut construction. A long tongue slid out from between the scarlet slash of her lips, lazily, kitten-yawning, until it reached the tip of my ready-to-go ramrod. Curling in on itself, her tongue became a hot cylinder that, like an air-to-air refueling operation, slowly imbedded itself in the hole at the end of my prick.

No more. Her eyes were turned back, leading her body to sacrifice itself to anything to assuage the once-upon-a-time-wash of being.

It was as if she had driven a red-hot shaft of heat down the cold corridors of my being. I held myself in and drove my length into the warm tunnel that was offered, and, as I had expected, she withdrew from the charge, but not before she had sucked and gagged for a moment on the warm length of my prick. I was eager to find out just what she did have in store for me.

I was not long in finding out.

A stroke of one of her powerful hands snagged an ankle away from under me and I found myself lying on the thick pile of those oddly woven carpets, with the strange scent of Odil cloying my nostrils.

Some idiot once said that all cats are gray at night. I hope to tell you that Odil was a cat of a different color.

She lay on the floor, she reached and stretched; she was so eager for fulfillment that it flayed my eyeballs to look at her, and I'm a guy who has plunged into many a sexual scene.

Odil writhed herself back until her backside was presented to me. Her feline zipper split her up the ass, and, as I kneeled on the soft floor, her butt moved back and forth against my stomach with a static electricity that shocked the very soul out of me.

She pushed my knees aside, clamped her thighs over my prick, and pulled down on it till she was flat on her stomach beneath me, rubbing her furry legs up and down my ten-inch cock till it crackled. Her velvet-piled butt was hard up against my belly and she nearly brought me off then, but some element of intuitive timing took her away in time. She lay on her side, her head on one straightened arm, then reached with the other till she held an uplifted ankle, that leg bent gracefully at the knee, toes pointed in their clawed covering like a ballet dancer's. With her other leg also flat on the ground her crotch was opened up like a black-bushed mouth, a...

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