Make Love, Not Water

Make Love, Not Water




The hilarious "memoirs of a square"--whose erotic exploits were more way-out than you could ever imagine!



Publié par
Date de parution 07 janvier 2013
Nombre de lectures 27
EAN13 9781608726998
Licence : Tous droits réservés
Langue English

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Make Love, Not Water

William Furber

This page copyright © 2006 Olympia Press.

William Furber


It was Saturday morning, and we were alone, and we were naked. We lay face-to-face in the semi-darkness of the sixth-floor storeroom and adjusted our tingling bodies to each other and to the several cartons of books that served as our bed. Charterhouse lifted a slender thigh over my hip to permit my hand easier access to her slippery warmth. For perhaps five minutes we lay that way, played with each other without shifting our weight, ran our fingers up, down, inside one another, and now and then kissed.

“Are you going to put it in? she said with her clipped British accent.

“Will you leave it in?” I countered.

She chuckled and nibbled the lobe of my ear.

“I fear we're not talking about the same thing,” she said.

As my editor, she presumed to see through me.

“I'm talking about my prologue,” I said.

“I'm talking about your super prick.”

She gave it a less-than-gentle tug.

“Are you going to leave it in?” I asked.

“Absolutely”—I fiddled with her fleshy clitoris; she wiggled her hips, and the decisive word was a long time in coming. “... not. Our books must all begin with sex.”

We'll see, I thought.

I rolled on top of her. She slid accommodatingly beneath me, arched her knees and directed my cock with her fingers to the swollen threshold of her pleasure. Slowly, irrevocably, we began the journey home.

“Do I... leave it in?” I whispered into her ear.

“You leave... it in.”

“The prologue?”

“The... prick.”

She was writhing determinedly beneath me. I lifted myself off her, extracting my throbbing organ millimeter by millimeter until only its bulbous tip remained caught in her lips.

“No!” she groaned. “No!”

She tried to compensate for my retreat by thrusting her hips higher and higher. But I had the advantage of the superior position.

“Keep it in!” she hissed. “Please!”

“The prologue?”

I extracted another several millimeters. She locked her legs around my waist.

“Anything! Everything!”


“Yes, God damn you! The prologue too!”

“Hail Britannia!” I exclaimed, and sank fully into her depths.

“God damn you!” she hissed again as we worked easily back into the rhythm. “God... damn... you... ungh!”

We fought, literally wrestled, slapped our bellies together and grappled with each other's flesh. The pressure mounted in us both until, grunting, groaning, hissing, her seismic tremors began, and she shuddered and slammed against me. And first in tight spurts, then with rushing force, I emptied myself into her, filled her up and collapsed, exhausted, on her still trembling body.

Several minutes later we were lying on our backs and staring at the gray ceiling.

“You're going to keep your word about the prologue, of course.”

She rolled toward me, threw her right thigh over mine and crushed the wet wool of her crotch into my leg. She pumped against me three or four times.

“Have you got an Afterward?” she asked.


They called me Mr. Middle West. Not because I hailed from St. Louis or Chicago or any of those thousands of luckless, dry burgs boxed in on all sides of America. Not that. No: at the time they wrapped the sobriquet around my lanky frame I was affecting the stance of the Far West, the far-out Far West of faded blue denim, slouch and bowlegs; of howdies and red-eye, fair belles and fancy tooled boots. And my friends, see, they were in another thing altogether: bleach-blotched Levis and that consumptive body droop; ciaos and Chianti, chicks and scuffed engineers.

And I had never been west of the lordly Hudson. My friends liked to say I was from nowhere. I was from Brooklyn. If you asked them—my friends, I mean; not all the dismal, unresponsive Brooklyns of this world!—if you asked them, they would tell you I was one of those who, in Jack Kerouac's phrase, never knew the time. I was, they said, always a good month late. Maybe. Not being a girl, I didn't worry much about it.

Now, you say, you have me pigeonholed; you think you know all about me. But you don't. So stick with me, dear reader: I promise you a tale of wondrous delights, a mosaic of the natural and the perverse, a running montage of delectable goings-on among villagers of the East and of the West; I promise body dynamics to stun the gymnast and the practiced contortionist, love games not from Krafft-Ebing but from life. For this is the story of square pegs and round holes, of malleable materials and their demoniacal conjunction. Stick with me, dear reader. Be tenacious. Be lovable.


I guess I wasn't very lovable myself in the early mid-Fifties. Twenty-seven, unlearned but miming the Princetonian manner—oh I had manners then!—I was, sure, a little rough in speech. Origins, you understand. My head, you might say, was in Princeton, New Jersey; my stomach, home with Ma in Brooklyn, New York. The ideal square, insisting that I, the resident aristocrat of Canarsie, be “soived propuhly all duh food on duh left, Ma; yuh take away duh empties off a guy's right.”

Poor Dad, a motorman on the BMT who had lost his nerve and been put to work dispensing tokens at Union Square—he never saw, never heard me; just stared ahead with his tunnel vision, sat tight, forward on his seat, forever anticipating disaster—not the visible disaster of his family, but some horrible switchman's oversight that would result in bent track and crumpled cars, hundreds of maimed and dead passengers, reduction in pay and possibly, just possibly, loss of seniority. Oh God, poor Dad!

“Onna left, Ma!”

And the pudgy woman waddled behind my chair to the proper side for proper service and tendered me the platter of burned pork chops, dried-out meatloaf or whatever the fare was that evening. Whereupon my twenty-three-year-old sister, Ethel, five years a file clerk at Metropolitan Life, brayed across the table something about that overgrown snob, meaning me. Her diction was too atrocious to capture even phonetically.

“Don't boddah Amstel, Ethel,” Ma advised. “He's a man of duh woild, y'know.”

“Man udduh woild, my ass!” Ethel invariably shot back. Invariably because two hours' daily commuting and Metropolitan Life and Brooklyn and our parents—look at Ma now, for instance: she pretended not to hear her daughter's coarse language, or mine, later—these old molds taught Ethel the value of patterned behavior, the reliability of it, its safety in the face of all threats, large or small. “An' I don' see why yuh gotta call'm Amstel, Ma, when yuh know, when y'know all along Hoiman's on his boit license.”

To Ethel, everything was either legal or it was not. Certification meant nothing to her, whatever its source. We were Catholic, but Ethel held to the opinion that all births were somehow legislated in Albany.

“Duh boy's a man, Ethel, an' old enough tuh pick a name fuh hisself if he likes.”

“From a beah can?”

“Deah's dis British actuh who done it, yuh bitch! Now ask me who, like always.”

“Who?” Ethel asked me, like always. Her brown eyes were scorched black.

“Aleg Guinnuss! He can do it, so can I.”

I set the fork or spoon or whatever it was back on the platter.

“Thanks, Ma.”

She moved on to my father and nudged him with the platter's edge. He felt nothing, just stared ahead. Ma pushed a morsel of meat onto his plate; it fell with a plop, or with a plop and a clink, if it was something with a bone in it.

“Eat,” she told him.

He ate.

This scene repeated itself hundreds of times. Every night, in fact. And Ethel never came up with a retort to my appeal to Alec Guinness's authority; Dad never spoke; Ma never ceased to bow to my every wish, my every prim Princetonian desire.

Then it all changed.

“Aleg Guinnuss is a fag,” Ethel spat one night.

She had become plain and was approaching ugly. But in high school she had been a pretty girl, luscious even. In classrooms at Brooklyn College I would dream of going home and doing her in, creeping up on her in the shower or before she went to bed or even while she was asleep; I'd dream of caressing her firm, soft, down-covered buttocks, first with my hands and then with my tongue, running the latter along her damp crevice and into the hair-crowned sea-well between her legs. In my mind I would be undressed too; I would lie on her back with my wet face thrust between her legs, my hard-on stabbing into the pillow beside her head. She would waken, aroused, turn her head and kiss my cock, wrap her tongue and lips around it, possibly even groan a bit. Then I would dismount and turn her over, she would see it was me and would say my new name, “Amstel, Amstel, it's you, my brother, kiss me, love me tenderly and fiercely, fuck me, oh fuck me, my brother, I want...”

And I would smile benignly, bend low and suck her deep pink nipples, pass my hand over her smooth, tight girl's stomach down through the forest of her imagined virginity, past her swollen lips, into her hungry cunt.

“Oh, Amstel,” she would gasp.

I would run my tongue over her belly, ream her belly button, move on to where three fingers of my hand slid up and down inside her, push my tongue in beside my fingers and wiggle it against that inner nipple, her clitoris.

Now I would be straddling her, my balls dangling to her nose, my extended cock stuck in her hot, sucking mouth. Leaving my left hand and my tongue working inside her, I would reach under her right buttock with my free hand, play with the knot of her asshole, reach up further into her cunt and spread it wide with both hands.

“Wider,” she would insist. “Wider!”

My nose and mouth would be inside her now, I'd nibble on her clitoris with my lips, with my teeth I'd even nip it. Slowly I would extract my cock from her mouth (a suction release); I'd move my hands and face from her groin and pivot on her belly until my wet face touched hers, my legs were between hers; I'd kiss her gently at first, then passionately; I'd wait until my tongue was in her mouth before I'd force the head of my pulsating penis past the cold wetness of the coiled hair that ringed her cunt.

Then I'd drive, drive, drive my organ home; Ethel would cry out suddenly, sharply, as I pierced her maidenhead; for a few minutes our bodies would slap against each other and then, ecstatically, she would tremble and shake and groan and I would pump my being into her and we would expire, panting, sweaty, drugged by the musky effluvium from our bodies. Afterwards, Ethel would lick her blood, my come, her lubricious discharge from my cock, and she would swallow deeply.

CHAPTER TWO: January Continued

That was the fantasy. The hard-core reality was another story —one, dear reader, I intend to report in the following pages. But first, about Ethel's teenage beauty: it was present, always, and no fantasy could omit it. I had watched her grow into that beauty, waited for it. When I was twelve, Ethel was eight; and though I was into masturbation, it would be four more groping years before I would conceive of her as a possible love object.

(NOTE: The subject of self-abuse has been dealt with in numerous volumes. I touch on it here advisedly because, though it provides an enjoyable release, fucking and sucking are the pastimes I prefer. However, years before I turned my squareness into an asset, jerking off was my only means of sexual gratification. How about you?)

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—these were the years I trained myself to lust after the woman's body. At twelve, I dedicated most of my handjobs to a shapely but (I see now) homely homeroom teacher. At thirteen, my allegiances varied: Anne Warneke, a skinny brunette who sat next to me in Latin moving her lips sensually at each round vowel; she shared my bathroom thoughts with Carole Matosio, a black-haired girl who all day wiggled her seated ass as if she were trying to wear away the wood beneath her; and with Joan Lantz, the dumbest girl I've ever met, bar none, but the one with the biggest boobs, too.

At fourteen, my dedications strayed after my loyalty to Janet McGrady, a girl friend who, once she had my ring wrapped in tape and on her finger, allowed me to stick my tongue into her ear and lick out a morsel of bitter wax. Otherwise, this darling forbade all penetration of her orifices. If only she knew how I entered her in my soaring thoughts. Would she have minded?

I wondered. I wondered. And while I wondered, Janet got knocked up. She had been getting it all along from a guy who worked after school and nights in a drugstore and convinced her he had the advantage of adequate precautions. The three of us had just turned fifteen. Janet and her Cautious Lover got married; I moved on. In my imagination, that is. I left no possibility on her feet: teachers, classmates, family friends, neighbors—they all got theirs and loved it, some more than others. Yet there comes a time—there came a time—when mere imagination ceased to satisfy. I had to have something for real.


It hit me one day at Coney Island. The two of us, plus Ma, were huddled among the thousands of bodies bared that day for the sea and the sun. I was half-asleep on my stomach, dreaming about... about conquests, conquests I would make for real, conquests I would make only in my head; and I realized, zap! like that, man, I was dreaming about dreams, I had to have the real thing or I'd starve, just shrivel up.

I rolled over on my back. A shadow passed over my face; some salt water dripped onto my forehead. I opened my eyes and looked up. Ethel was back from the water, drying her face with a towel.

“Duh, how is it?” Ma mumbled.

“Oh, it's real keen, neat, Ma.” Ethel was breathing heavily from her splash in the water.

“Dat's nice.”

Ethel. She was wearing a two-piece bathing suit, not a bikini, but a simple red-panties-and-blue-bra combination. The panties were tight—last year's suit, I guess—and as I looked up I could see thin blonde hairs poking out on either side of the crotch. Not much, sure; but for a fifteen-year-old kid lusting for a whiff of the real McCoy, there it was, a revelation!

My cock stirred inside my bathing trunks. Wet pubic hairs pinched my organ as they tried to prevent it from growing. A lobster in seaweed. I shifted my weight, tossed a glance at Ma who was gazing off at the water, nothing, and shoved my hand into my trunks to peel away the swath of hair from my prepuce. Ouch.

“Hoiman!” Ethel squealed.

I yanked my hand out, awaited Ma's reaction. None. She was still looking off into nowhere, chewing her gum diligently.

“Hoiman!” Ethel said more softly, falling to her knees by my side and grinning mischievously. “What ya doin'?”

“Playin' wid myself.”

“Playin' wid yaslef? Whaffore?”

Like she didn't know.

“You wanna do it?”

“Me? Touch it?”


She hesitated, wanted to, her eyes hopped from my face to my groin, to Ma, to sunbathing neighbors and children, back tome.

“Ya won't squoit on me?”


“Let's get unduh da blanket.”

Ma was squashed into a legless beach chair; the blanket was for me and Ethel. We both slid under it, but we kept about a foot apart.

“Whaddaya kids doin'?” Ma said, noticing at last we were on the wrong side of the blanket.

“Da sun, Ma. It's boinin' us bad.”

“Very smaht of youse,” she remarked. “Don' get boined ya give yaself a lotta trouble.”

And she looked away, fell back into whatever she had fallen out of to notice us.

Ethel and I lay there awhile, maybe two, three minutes. The blanket was rising around my midsection like a midpoled flea-circus tent. I reached down, knocked the pole aside, felt the blood-filled organ hot against my abdomen. I was sweating; sand stuck to my back.

“Now?” Ethel whispered.

I looked around. No one looked back.


I watched her hand move under the blanket with a mole's progress. It stopped around my belly button.


“No,” I whispered. “Ya crazy?”

She was tormenting me. A kid of twelve, tormenting me already. She giggled, pushed the tips of her fingers beneath the elastic waistband. Stopped again.

“Gowan!” I said between my teeth.

She pulled her hand back, moved it down over the top of the suit, groped gingerly for my cock, rested her fingertips on it.

“Grab it!”

She did. And held.

“Move it!”

I looked at her. Her face was alive with a half-smile, a question. She moved my cock like a lever, back and forth.

“Not that way. Rub it!”

She did. Gently. I thought I'd explode.


She hesitated.

“Like dis.”

And I stuck my left hand beneath her panties, pushed my fingers down through her soft pubic hair, arched my center finger and hooked her little dry hole. I wiggled my finger back and forth, in and out. Ethel's legs parted slightly, and very quickly her hole was no longer dry but very wet and slippery. Like the real thing!

“Now me,” I begged. “Now me!”

She followed my example, thrust her hand beneath my suit, grabbed my organ and rubbed it, so hard I knew my cock would bleed before the day was out. But this was no time to teach my sister subtleties. I rolled onto my side to disguise our purpose; Ethel rolled toward me onto hers, and we worked fiercely at each other, or as fiercely as you can with a million on the beach and your mother plopped into a beach chair a few feet away.

It was more comfortable with my thumb in her. In about five minutes I had her shaking with what I realize now was her first orgasm, but what I took then to be pain. She didn't scream, didn't cry out; and I was damned if I'd quit before I came, no matter how much she hurt. So I kept on, kept moving my thumb like I thought a cock should move, and she kept moving her hand like it was a cunt. But oh, so dry!

I came.

I came big.

I closed my eyes and let my muscles expand and contract at their will. I came all over Ethel's hand, all over everyplace inside my trunks. I loved it, and so did she.

For awhile we were quiet, just lay there with our hands in each other's suits. Ethel giggled.

“Duh, whatso funny?” Ma asked absently.

“It's hottah undah heah,” said Ethel.

She gave my limp penis a squeeze. The skin-tears smarted.

“Maybe yuh wanna go back in duh watuh?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Ethel took her hand from my suit; I extracted my thumb from her cunt. I brought it up to my nose, sniffed it furtively, plopped it into my mouth. Ethel brought her hand out from under the blanket. She got up on an elbow, and we both looked into her cupped palm. The well of gism there I estimated (sure, a bit generously) at about half a pint. It made me proud. We both giggled. Ethel brought the well to her mouth, lapped it out of existence and swallowed hard.

“Don't it come in flavuhs?” she said.

We went down to the water to wash off. Salt groin pain. She bled too, but her bathing suit had been red to start with.

CHAPTER THREE: January Continued Some More

I thought of this, I thought of all of it in the split second that followed Ethel's surprise retort and her sneering reiteration of it: “I said,” she said, “Aleg Guinnuss is a fag.”

“I hoid, I hoid,” I said, and wondered what it was I had ever seen in her sexually. Her face was flat and puffy like a pregnant woman's; but she wasn't pregnant, couldn't be: the flattening process had been gradual, had taken five years, which is a pretty long gestation period. And it wasn't just a flattening of features, it was a definite leveling off of personality too. All her spontaneity had vanished, all her sudden surges of lust, her interest in all things sexual except maybe the drab affairs detailed luridly in the movie magazines she brought home now and then.

She was a twenty-three-year-old spinster. I had given up asking her to fuck on her twenty-first birthday. For two years she'd been putting me off with the same line: “I'm havin' a period, bustuh. Fuck off.” So I did. The only way she might be pregnant was if someone had pulled it off while she slept— not impossible, nor was it any less possible that she might have been impregnated while awake—without noticing the intrusion. In my family, certain essential things were simply ignored.

Which is why I was taken aback at this unexpected extension of our traditional exchange. “Aleg Guinnuss is a fag!” I snorted. “Where'd ya pick up dat piece a crap, ya joik? Off da batroom doah at woik?”

I laughed at that and turned to see if anyone wanted to join me. Dad was loading food mechanically into his face; Ma's jaw hung open; her immobile fork made a bridge from her plate to her open hand. Only Ethel had heard apparently, and she was not in the least amused.

“Dat's right, smahtass. Egzackly wheyah I found id out. I wuz takin' a leak an deah id wuz onna metal doah. I wrote id down jus fa now. Yuh got anythin' says diffrunt?”

“I'm no fag! Yuh got dat down in red an white!”

“Oh, yeah!” It was the second or third time I'd seen her smile since high school. “How duh I know dat, hunh?”

Dad's plate was empty; he sat frozen, staring out from the darkened car of his mind. Ma looked through him.

“How many times we don it huh? How many times?”

“Yuh tink dat's doin—”

“Times,” Dad growled suddenly. “Times! Always on time. Miss a schedule, might bust duh shit outta evryting, lose ya life, ya pension, ya seniority even. Gotta watch out, stick wid duh clock.”

“Tick, tock, tick, tock,” went Ma, remembering a childhood rhyme, bobbing her head delightedly back and forth. “Tick, tock, tick, tock, duh mouse, duh mouse, duh mouse, duh mouse—”

“What duh fuck is dis!” I slammed my hand on the table.

Ma stayed in her rut, but silently, at least; Dad faced me, or the source of the slamming, and snarled: “We don't change no fives, tens, twenties aw up! Regulations, and dat's final, pal.”

“What?” I said to Ethel.

“Take it tuh Lindsay! Next!”

“What?” I said again.

“I said, 'Ya tink dat's doin' it?' Well, do yuh?”

What a little bitch! I slipped off my right Weejun and thrust my argylled foot beneath the narrow formica table and into Ethel's crotch. She jumped from surprise, caught herself and then, with both hands, caught my foot behind the heel. She wore no underpants; my foot plunged into her cunt up to the instep. She worked the foot as she would a fingered dildo, twisting it, forcing it in, out, in and out. The blank expression left her face for the first time I could remember; she swayed back and forth, cooed, loving it; pleasure colored her features; and finally she shook so hard I thought her chair would break; she moaned, pulled my foot in past the instep; came against it; shrieked and slumped forward into her plate, satiated.

She took her hands from my foot, and I extracted it, nearly losing my sock in the process. “Dat's moah like it, big boy,” she gasped.

“Lady,” Dad growled, “yellin's gonna get yuh egzackly noplace. Yuh wait yuh toin like ev'rybody else.”

“I didn't feel nuthin',” I told Ethel with as much cruelty as I could muster. “It wuz a drag.”

“Id wuz up deyah, big boy—way up!”

“Up!” chirped Ma. “Up duh clock!” And she began bobbing her head from side to side again, cheerfully reciting, “Tick, tock, tick, tock, duh mouse ran up duh clock. Hickuhry dickuhry dickuhry dickuhry dick—”

“Fuck!” I shouted angrily. “Fuck evryting! Fuck duh woild in pahticulah! Lemme outta dis lowclass crazybin! I'm goin tuh Princeton, goddammit!”

“Princeton ain't on dis line, buddy. Prince Street, maybe?”

“Fuck me, Amstel, oh fuck me, my brudduh....”

“Fuck youse all!” I screamed, jumping up from the table, resisting the urge to overturn it. “I'm gettin' outta heah now!”

“Fuck me, Amstel!”

“Brighton? Brighton Line?”

“—uhry dickuhry dickuhry dickuhry....”

“Princeton, goddammit!” I yelled back at them as I rushed out of the house. “An Ma, Ma—it's dock, duh next woid's dock!”

“Fuck!” she called after me. “Fuck! All I heah is fuck! What's fuck mean?”

“Fuck me, brudduh, fuck me,” Ethel pleaded, but I slammed the door with all my might, shut them out and me out, and on one dry and one wet foot, clunk-squished my way to the nearest subway station, stumbled onto a train hurtling toward Manhattan—and freedom!

CHAPTER FOUR: January Still Continued

I surfaced at the end of the line: Eighth Avenue and Fourteenth Street. Had the line been extended forty or fifty miles, it might have taken me near my preferred destination—Princeton. Of course there was no way of being absolutely certain. I leaned against an abandoned news kiosk—significantly situated on the only corner in the intersection not boasting a bank —and kicked subway charts around in my mind, thought how I now had nowhere to go. It was a dark, cold corner. A brisk wind blew through my grey flannel suit and chilled me to the marrow. A Yorkshire terrier, coatless like me, trotted up and sniffed at my right foot, suddenly lifted its leg on my shoe.

“Sorry,” said his bearded master from the other end of a clothesline leash.

“Dat's awright,” I allowed. “January's a wet month anyway.”

“It's February,” he said smugly, reeling in his dog to cross the street.

I looked at my piddled-on shoe, made a mental note to change my socks.

But where? All my changes of clothes were at home, and I would never return there. I was broke, without prospects for either room or board, or even for water in which to soak my socks.

Not that I didn't have an occupation. An occupation I had; what I needed was a job. I wrote pornographic novels in German for a French publisher who allowed his books to be pirated by a subsidiary in Taiwan in order to have a ready explanation for authors who demanded larger royalties. “Dis done,” he'd honk. “These putains of Chiang's—they flood the market, what can I do? I can't sell nothing.”

Dear M. Goddard,” I wrote him once. “As these Taiwanese pirates are owned and operated by you, don't you think you could ask them to pay royalties to your authors?”

“Mon cher ami,” he replied, “you must understand I own them, I do not control them. Vive la difference*.”

And the eternal difference meant, to me, a life under my parents' roof, eating my parents' food, little if any spending money for anything. Is it any wonder I turned out square? Of course not. The wonder is—and I'll never cease to marvel at it —that with such parents as mine I turned out at all. As it was, I was ten months in coming; doctors made book on whether I'd make an appearance at all.

Something caught my attention across Fourteenth Street—a lighted window I hadn't noticed before. I suppose the light had just gone on, because its brightness—white, not yellow— was so intense I don't see how I could have missed it. And the window was so big—it went from the floor almost to the ceiling and was as wide as the end of the loft it enclosed.

From my diagonal perspective, I couldn't get a clear view of the entire loft, which was on the second floor above a locksmith's shop. I could, however, make out some low tubular scaffolding supporting a platform of heavy planks. Just the corner of the platform, no more. I walked up the block a ways until I was directly across from the loft.

Despite the lighting, I saw nothing unusual. It looked like somebody was preparing to do some work—painting, plastering, whatever—but if so, I asked myself, why was the platform so low? It couldn't have risen more than four feet off the floor.

Someone leaped onto it suddenly. It was a man, naked, about six feet tall, slender but not thin, muscular but not bound with the bulky strength of the professional weightlifter. I though of the Biblical Adam as he squatted alone at the edge of the platform, then offered his arm to someone else trying to climb up. It was a girl, shorter than Adam by perhaps five inches. She also was naked, beautifully naked, her blonde hair unusually long for the late 'Fifties, falling down her straight smooth back almost to the soft out-curving flesh of her buttocks. Eve, I thought. She had to be Eve.

Regaining their balance they broke apart momentarily and faced the window as if executing a fancy Latin dance step. Both had tight bellies and plentiful pubic hair; Eve's ample breasts were totally without sag, a silent contradiction to Adam's long, pendulous cock.

They squatted at the platform's edge, this time to receive from an unseen party an immense round mattress, which they pulled up and dragged to the center of their stage. They returned to the edge again and extended their arms to two other persons—both of them women.

One of the newcomers wore her dark hair cropped short and tight around her head. She was pretty, not beautiful like Eve; if she were dressed I guess you would say she was a sexless young suburbanite, petite and cute. Her companion was the tallest of the women. In shoes she might have been Adam's height; her body was fleshy and lush, used certainly; for while the others I figured ranged in age from their late teens (Eve) to their late twenties (Adam), this one—her full red hair reaching her shoulder blades, her breasts betraying their heaviness —this one looked about thirty-five.

It was a curious tableau, like a silent movie. They stood talking for a while uninhibitedly; I supposed they thought no one would see them. The building behind me, like most of the others along the street, was commercial by day and darkened and empty by night. Miss Suburbs gestured toward the mattress, walked over to it. The others followed, stood around it pondering it, apparently discussing how they would use it. They broke into laughter at one point—something said by Big Red (as I quickly came to think as the perfect name for the most prominent of the women). They turned their heads to a rear corner of the loft, nodded and spoke to someone I couldn't see who was obviously talking to them. In a moment the girls left Adam alone by the mattress and retired to a distant and darkened area of the platform.

Adam sat down in the center of the mattress in a lotus position. Three-quarters of his back faced me, but I could tell from the downward direction of his attention and the slow, monotonous rhythm of his arms that he was playing with himself. He leaned back on one elbow, stretched out his legs, and I got a clear over-the-shoulder view of his activity and began to feel as if I were performing it on myself: his cock was gigantic in stature; the only way I had of measuring it was in relation to the fist he was working it with, and it was at least three fists in length.

Eve, with a look of soft lust, floated into view, stopped beside the mattress, circled it slowly, twice, her eyes fastened on Adam's body, studying his enormous tool. She ran her hands up and down her own body, over her breasts, down her stomach to the triangle of her pubic hair, behind her over the voluptuously contoured white cheeks of her ass, once inserting a hand between them. This last she did while standing with her back to the window just before Adam, who was lying back completely now, took his hand from his cock, looked up at Eve, and raised his arms longingly to her.

She sank to her knees on the edge of the mattress, bent over Adam and kissed him deeply, crawled forward more so that she straddled his head, a tuft of hair sprouting between her legs from behind; she nibbled Adam's pubic hair, moved a few inches forward and dropped down, covering the head of his cock with her mouth. I could feel the wet heat of her mouth on my own rising organ as I watched her work it over Adam's.


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