In Prom Night Josie Luker tells us about her did-not-go-exactly-as-planned senior prom. In the course of her story we’ll meet Cherokee Canseco, Josie’s best friend, Josie and Cherokee’s fathers, Eric Luker and Robert Canseco, their dates for the prom Tim and Tom Oxley, and a certain limousine driver.
It’s been awhile since I posted a story. There are number of reasons, but the primary problem has been my health. At the moment things have plateaued. I enjoy writing these stories and have a few ideas in mind. I hope I can continue to write and post.
I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to write me and comment on my stories over the past few years and look forward to your thoughts on this tale. And to give credit where due, the kernel of the idea for this story was found in the Daughter.Swap video series.
As always, all story characters are eighteen years of age or older.
* * * * *
Studying her reflection in the mirror, Cherokee adjusted, re-adjusted, then re-re-adjusted her gown. “Do men have any idea how hard we women work to give them what they think is a fortuitous glance at a slice of cleavage or bit of side-boob?”
“Not any guy we know. Heck, when any of them gets a peek at your girls whatever bit of brain he has shuts down.”
Still looking in the mirror, turning to the left, then the right, Cherokee ran her thumbs along on the hem of her halter top, revealing a hint of the outer swell of her magnificent breasts, and with a sparkle in her hazel eyes said, “Well, whatta you think?”
What did I think? I thought my best friend was stunning, gorgeous, sexy, and classy. Her gem gown (for you guys, that’s a dark green) accented the smooth muscles of her shoulders and arms, her perfectly formed “D” breasts, and 36-26-38 figure. And while her gown hung loosely to her ankles, its slit was long enough to let dance all night long. She loved being the center of attention and in that dress she would be.
Stepping towards her I said, “You and that dress will be the hottest things at the Prom,” then squeezed my best friend’s full round breasts. My sex spasmed; Cherokee let out a sharp breath of air.
We’d been waiting for this night for months.
* * * * *
Senior Prom promised to be the perfect end to a perfect day. That morning our dads successfully defended their city/county doubles tennis championship. Afterwards, as we congratulated them with a hug and a kiss, they’d sprung a surprise: we had reservations at Violet’s, the most exclusive spa in town. After several hours of preening– manicure, pedicure, massage, the works — our dads took us to our favorite restaurant where, obsessed with how we’d look in our gowns, we’d only picked at our salads.
I’m of Scandinavian descent, a fair-skinned blue-eyed blonde whose 126 pounds are spread over a slender five foot eight inch body and 31-23-33 figure. The contrast with Cherokee is striking. She, of Cambodian, French, and Native American ancestry, has thick brown hair that hangs to the middle of her back and a creamy skin several shades darker than mine. And while she’s not that much bigger then me — an inch taller and a few pounds heavier — she managed to turn it into a curvy figure with breasts impossible to ignore. Despite my purple floor length column dress’s spaghetti straps and V-neck, my small B’s would be no match for her girls.
Our looks reflect our personalities. Cherokee, big eyes and big mouth, is always the first to laugh, to cry, or take a dare. When something has to be done she’s always ready, literally and figuratively, to get her hands dirty. Me? I’m more detached, stand-offish. People say I let Cherokee charge ahead, then follow in her wake. There is some truth there.
Tonight, however, Cherokee and I were on the same page.
I checked my phone. Forty-five minutes to the Oxleys arrived. Time to show our dads.
* * * * *
Cherokee shouted down the stairs. “You guys ready?”
“Yes, we’re ready. We can’t wait to see our little girls.”
“Not so little, and worth waiting for. Now close your eyes, and no cheating.”
,
“Is that necessary….”
“Yes, Daddy, it is, and you too Mr. Luker.”
With a groan of mock displeasure: “Okay, eyes closed.”
“Swear?”
“Swear.”
* * * * *
Eyes closed, our dads were waiting in the living room. Suddenly nervous — would daddy approve — I reached for Cherokee’s hand and we started giggling like twelve year olds until, getting a grip on herself — we were, after all, young women — Cherokee said, “Whatta ya’ think?”
I’m not sure what I was expecting. I mean, what’s the big deal, Daddy sees me a thousand times a day, but when he opened his eyes his focus was intense, almost tactile. Starting with my eyes, which filled with tears, then the rest of my face, his gaze flowed down my body. It took only took only a second, but felt much longer. When finished his eyes returned to my face and in a voice full of pride and love he said, “Josie, the dress, it’s perfect, like you.”
I smiled — my teeth had cost him a fortune — stepped into his arms, hugged him, whispered, “Oh Daddy, I love you.” Then, remembering how long I’d spent getting my dress just right, I stepped back and looked at Cherokee. I hadn’t heard what Mr. Canseco said to her, but watching her wipe a tear from her cheek I knew it was the right thing. It always was.
It was Mr. Canseco who brought us back to earth. “Your fellows are lucky, they’ll have the prettiest dates at the Prom. Eric and I have been thinking how to commemorate this special night. After much consideration we decided we couldn’t improve on tradition. We also didn’t want to waste an opportunity to toast our beautiful daughters.”
It was only then that I noticed the bottle of champagne sitting in a crystal bowl on a side table. Next to it was a row of tall slender glasses and a towel. Mr. Canseco theatrically covered the bottle with the towel, picked it up by its neck, and with a twist of his wrist — I heard the muffled pop — opened it.
“This is Dom Pérignon, the champagne for special occasions. Now ladies, this is the good stuff. If you really want to appreciate it, and I promise you do, there are a few simple rules to follow.
“First, hold the glass, which is called a flute, by the stem, never the bowl. The heat of your hand will effect the champagne, and not in good way. When pouring minimize the foam by holding your flute at a forty-five degree angle, letting the champagne flow down the side of the glass. Do not fill your glass to the brim, stop when it’s a less than half full. You can always go back for seconds. Also, always recap the bottle. If you don’t, the bubbles, and with them much of the flavor and bouquet, will escape. What is left is flat and tasteless.”
Carefully following his own instructions, Mr. Canseco poured a glass for each of us, passed it around, then held his up in the air. I did the same. The light accentuated the champagne’s golden color and tiny dancing bubbles. I also noticed the intricate elegant patterns cut into the glass.
“Daddy, I don’t remember these glasses, or bowl. They’re beautiful: are they new?”
“No, Josie, just the opposite: a family heirloom. Waterford Crystal, hand made in Ireland. They were my great grandmother’s, then my grandmother’s, then Mom’s. Mom only brought them out for special occasions, maybe once a year. Otherwise they were kept in her closet; only she was allowed to unpack, clean, and re-pack them. Whenever you touched one you felt her eyes on you, making sure you were careful.”
I remembered my formidable grandmother’s formidable look. She could be scary.
“I’d forgotten about them. Then, a few months ago, I was cleaning out her storage unit and there they were. I figured tonight was perfect for bringing them out of hibernation.”
“They’re, it’s all so beautiful. Thank you Daddy. You know how to make me feel special.”
“You are special Josie. Now maestro, please continue.”
Taking his cue, Mr. Canseco said, “Ladies, never gulp champagne — it ain’t Red Bull. Start by smelling the champagne; it’s a wonderful experience and will help you appreciate the taste. Take a deep whiff, hold it, let the scent wash over you. There will be multiple odors. Try picking one out.”
Tilting his glass forward, Mr. Canseco brought it to his nose and inhaled. Cherokee and I did the same. At first all I noticed were bubbles tickling my nose — it felt silly — but remembering what Mr. Canseco said, I focused. After a few seconds I saw he was right; there were a bunch of smells. I tried separating them, found one, concentrated.
“I see what you mean Mr. Canseco. What I’m smelling is sweet, like… like… like flowers in bloom.”
“Very good Josie. How ’bout you babe?”
Cherokee said, “What I noticed Daddy was a fresh citrusy smell.”
“Excellent, and you’re both right. Now the final step, drinking it. Start with a sip, just enough to cover your tongue; inhale as you drink, make sure to capture the aroma. Let the champagne roll over your palate. The taste is complex, take the time to enjoy all of it.”
Holding up his glass Daddy said, “Robert if you keep this up our daughters may yet develop sophisticated palettes. I just hope they can afford it. A toast, to Josie, my beloved daughter, and Cherokee, whom I’ve known from the moment she came into the world. Ladies, I marvel at the women you’ve become. Beautiful, strong, intelligent, often wise, kind, and decent. You’re beautiful women; you’re beautiful souls. To Josie and Cherokee.”
For the second time that night my eyes welled with tears. I brought my glass to my lips, took a quick sip, swallowed. I barely tasted it. Telling myself to chill, I took another sip, closed my eyes. The champagne flowed through my mouth like liquid velvet, coating my tongue in pure goodness. There were a kaleidoscope of flavors. I focused… not sweet like I expected, but… fruity. What fruit? Grapefruit, apple, a berry of some kind? No, more like all of them.
I opened my eyes. “It’s wonderful. What do you think Cherokee?”
Cool and collected, as if posing for a photograph, Cherokee was leaning back, her rump rested on the back edge of the couch, an exquisite leg protruded through her gown’s slit. She took a sip and, after a long moment, said, “It is good. What’s the name again Daddy?”
“Dom Pérignon.”
Now the center of attention, Cherokee, moving effortlessly on her heels, slinked to the table. I knew this, it was her, “I’m about to do something a little bit naughty, but you’ll forgive because I’m beautiful,” walk. Setting her glass down, she picked up the bottle, studied it, returned it to the bowl.
“I’ll have to remember that.”
With all eyes on her she turned, and now standing between our fathers, folded her arms into their’s.
“Daddy, Mr. Luker, thank you for the champagne, thank you for everything. You guys are the best. And I know all the attention has been on Josie and me, which it should be, but I gotta say you two are lookin’ good; those clothes,” — they were wearing neatly pressed slacks and button down shirts — “do show off those championship physiques. Whatta ya think Josie?”
“Best looking men I know.”
“I may be wrong, but I’m also thinking Mr. Luker is wearing a new cologne. I like it. Very much. So you guys have hot dates tonight?”
My dad, who has never quite sure how to handle Cherokee’s forwardness, explained the clothes. “Cherokee, your Dad and I dressed for the club. After the match this morning it wanted to take some photographs to hang in the building, for publicity, the usual stuff. After that we bought the Violet sisters a drink to thank them for getting you into the spa.”
A smile on her face — more teasing was on its way — Cherokee said, “I was wondering how you got us in. For the day of the Prom you need to make reservations a couple of years in advance. Guys would never think to do that and you two are as guy as it gets. Still, last second entry to the spa must be worth more than a couple drinks. I think you guys owe the very attractive Violet sisters dinner at least, and perhaps some additional services.”
* * * * *
Growing up Cherokee and I were the center of our dads’ universe. They never had girl friends, they never dated, and why would they? They had us. During the last few years however, it’s become clear our dads were perhaps not the monks we’d imagined. Nothing definite, but overheard snippets of phone conversations, the smell of perfume on a shirt, the mother of a friend’s over-the-top insistence that we say, “Hi,” to our dads on her behalf, all indicated that our dads had lady-friends happy to cater to their needs. They never talked about it, said gentlemen never did, but when Cherokee teased her dad about his love life, he took it in stride. Tonight was no exception.
* * * * *
“Additional services? Young lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about. The sisters are friends. We made a special request and yes, as a way of saying thank you we may take them to dinner. It’s what gentlemen do. But for tonight, you know the Rule. Prom makes no difference.”
The Rule: when we were on dates our dads stayed home. If we had a problem they’d be immediately available. We thought they worried to much. They said they were in the security business; they worried just the right amount.
* * * * *
Making our dads swear to be nice to our dates, Cherokee and I returned to my bedroom to primp and wait. We primped; we checked the time. We primped some more, checked the time: where were they? Primp, time: where the fuck were they? More primp, more time. Our dates were seriously late. What was going on?
Cherokee wanted to text them; I said not cool.
We went downstairs. Our dads could always make us feel better.
* * * * *
Cherokee and I had been best friends forever. It came naturally. Our dads were best friends. They met on the high school tennis circuit before teaming up at the University of North Carolina, where they won several Atlantic Coast Conference championships. After a decade in the corporate world and failed marriages they decided to go into business together, opening a security firm in Broomall, Pennsylvania.
Broomall was the perfect place to raise two girls: safe, stable, first rate schools. You knew every kid, mother, and father in town. Even better, while most parents worked in Philadelphia, our self-employed dads were local and available. They made every tee-ball game, every class play, and never grumbled about playing suburban taxicab for us and our friends.
Early in our senior year we were accepted by the University of Pennsylvania and signed up for a Friday afternoon course offered by the university’s Young Scholars High School Program. At first we drove to school, went to class, drove home. As we got to know a few people and with our fathers’ encouragement, we started spending the afternoon on campus. It was fun. Something was always going on: open-ended bullshit sessions, bands, impromptu parties. And then there were the guys; lots and lots of guys.
Which brings me to the confession central to this story: Cherokee and I were virgins. I’m not saying we were innocents. There were sex toys in our lingerie drawers, we’d fool around with each other, and in the years since junior high school had a few more make-out sessions with guys than either of us would like to admit, but they ended, at best, with oral sex or a hand job.
It’s not that we wanted to be virgins; we just couldn’t find the guy we wanted to do it. The boys in our high school? We’d known them forever. It would be like fucking your brother, and not in a good way.
Like every other woman on campus Cherokee and I were invited to the Friday night keg parties on fraternity row. Cherokee asked her dad if we could go. She got an unequivocal, “No.” To make their point the next day our dads unfurled a longish list of citations issued to the fraternities for a variety of offenses since the start of the school year: disturbing the peace, public nudity, serving underaged customers alcohol, etc. etc. etc.
No frat parties for us.
Until, that is, a few weeks later. Our fathers were scheduled to present the keynote paper at a weekend conference in San Francisco. Cherokee saw this as our opportunity to hit fraternity row. I, the good girl, objected: what if the party veered out of control, what if something went wrong? What would we do, drive home in the middle of the night, sleep in the car? Cherokee was having none of it. She said drop the bullshit and she was right. I was as eager as her to check out fraternities packed with guys as she.
So, we lied and told our dads we’d hang with friends in Broomall that night. Instead we were pushing our way through a drunken crowd at Delta Sigma Delta, where, I’m afraid, Cherokee and I became cliches: spanking new coeds at their first fraternity party, drunk, and looking to hook up. Fueled by a beer, a shot, more beer, a purple thing called Jungle Juice, a couple more shots of something, a jello thing, Cherokee and I were gyrating on a packed dance floor with an ever changing cast of partners until we latched onto two guys, or they latched onto us. In any case they were cute and said they were seniors, which in our inebriated state seemed worldly. At some point the four of us headed upstairs.
Informed consent? Hardly, but to be fair the guys were as drunk as we were; none of us were capable of making, much less executing, a plan. And to be even fairer, we’d come to the party hoping to finally find a guy we’d want to fuck. Not necessarily that evening, maybe after a date or two, but still a guy we’d want to fuck. Can I blame these guys for picking up on it?
* * * * *
The room stank of stale beer; the morning light played on my eye lids. My arms, my legs, my back, my neck, and, oh god, my head hurt. Something had crawled into my mouth and died. I rolled over, buried my face in my pillow. When was the last time hed washed this thing? I wanted sleep, sweet catatonic sleep, but that wasn’t going to happen. The sound of a fraternity waking up — voices, people moving around the halls, toilets flushing, doors slamming — filled the air.
My memory was spotty. Cherokee and her guy and me and mine had come upstairs. What was his name? Frank. No…, was it Hank? Tank? Fuck, I didn’t know.
I remembered the four of us stumbling into this room. There was kissing, disrobing, groping, more kissing, more disrobing, some caressing, some licking. What’s his name played with my breasts. I touched them: crap, they were sore as hell. No, he’d not played with them, he’d mauled them.
I reached between my legs; my panties were on. I touched my vagina, flexed the muscles of my core. I wasn’t sore. It seemed I was still a virgin. I took a sigh of relief. Who’d want to carry this wreck of an evening around as the treasured memory of the night she lost her virginity?
“You awake?”
It was Cherokee. I rolled over, reluctantly opened my eyes. She was laying in a bed across the room. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her guy was on the bed behind her, facing the wall, snoring. I reached across my bed, it was empty.
Cherokee said, “He left awhile back, woke me up.”
“Do you remember what happened last night? I mean, y’know.”
“Last night? Well, these guys ushered into this palatial suite, took their pants off — no underwear of course — but couldn’t get it up. We used our mouths, got them hard, but never long enough for anything to happen. I guess we all finally passed out. So congrats, we’re still virgins.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
With a herculean effort I sat up. Our clothes were piled atop a desk. Holding onto the bed frame for support, I stood, paused, and took two rocky steps to our clothes, my bare feet crunching on the dirt on the floor. I tossed Cherokee her’s, sat down on the bed, pulled mine on.
Downstairs we poured two cups of (god awful) black coffee we found in the fraternity’s kitchen. A guy offered to give us a ride to our car. I thought he was nice. Cherokee said he was scared; the look on my face said I was not one to fuck with.
Thirty minutes later we were heading home.
* * * * *
What remained of the first semester of our senior year was uneventful. There were no more fraternity parties. Instead we hung with classmates, went on a few group dates with the gang, but with college looming in our immediate future safe stable Brooomall had become boring.
The day after finals Daddy asked if I remembered Tim and Tom Oxley. Damn right I remembered them, every girl remembered them. They were gorgeous: clear blue eyes, strong chins, high cheek bones, perfect hair, built, wearing the right clothes in just the right way, and exuding the confidence that comes with a privileged life, wealthy parents, and a lifetime of being told you’re Adonis.
There was also this rumor, repeated so often it’d become gold-plated. The Oxleys were good in bed.
Trying to sound nonchalant I said, “Yeah. I went to high school with them. They were seniors my sophomore year. Why do you ask?”
“They called the office, asking if they could interview Robert and I. They’re working on a project about friends who form an entrepreneurship and remembered us from high school.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them sure. They’ll be here tomorrow, we’ll take them to lunch at the club. They have a flight out that night for Florida.”
I called Cherokee.
* * * * *
Dressy, but not too dressy — leggings, two inch heels, tight but not too tight tops — we accidentally bumped into our fathers and the Oxleys the next day at the club. They were better looking than I remembered. Being polite, they asked if we’d join them for a cup of coffee. We did. They mentioned their flight to Miami. By a happy coincidence Cherokee and I needed to check on something at the university. We could drop them at the airport, it was on the way.
By the time we reached the airport Cherokee and I had dates for the senior prom.
I told Daddy the next day. Shaking his head he said, “Congratulations angel, those poor boys never had a chance. I have one piece of fatherly wisdom. Pretty packages don’t make men.”
* * * * *
Okay, that’s enough background, let’s get back to the story. When we left, it was prom night and the Oxleys, our dates, were late and unaccounted for. Cherokee and I, primped to the point where we could primp no more, were sitting with our fathers, primed for a fatherly, “I told you so.”
We didn’t get one. Instead, aware of our anxiety, our dads told us we were beautiful desirable irresistible, that our dates would soon arrive, confirmed a few minutes later by a text, and had us laughing at oft-told tales of our childhood. They even employed the ultimate weapon, passing around pieces of my favorite European dark chocolate. Chocolate makes everything better.
A car pulled up outside, doors opened and closed.
We looked at our fathers, started to say, “Be…,” but they were a step ahead of us. “Don’t worry ladies, we’ll be nice.”
And they were, gregariously greeting the Oxleys, inviting them inside. Tim and Tom, at their glib charming best, apologized for being late, told us we were beautiful, complimented our fathers and the house. Something, however, wasn’t right and when they pinned on our corsages their breath made clear the reason for their glossy eyes and slack jaws. Our dates had been drinking, and not just a couple of beers. Still, they seemed okay. Their gaits were sure and no one was skewered by a corsage pin.
Our dads, of course, noticed and after a few minutes of small talk Mr. Canseco asked, “So how are you boys getting around tonight, rent one of those big party vans?”
Tim, my date, took the opportunity to show off. “No Mr. Canseco, we have a Picklesdorf, nothing but the finest for your daughters. It’s waiting outside.”
Mr. Picklesdorf, a friend of our fathers, ran the best, most in-demand, limousine service in the county.
Excusing himself to check on something in the kitchen, my Dad left, returning a moment later and nodding to Mr. Canseco. The Oxleys hadn’t noticed, but I had. Daddy had confirmed there was a limousine parked in front of our house. Our dates wouldn’t be driving. That was good.
Which is when Tom, Cherokee’s date, spotted the champagne on the side board.
“You guys drinking the old bubbly tonight?”
Giving Daddy my best, most plaintive, do-not-make-a-scene look, I said, “Yes, our dads proposed a toast earlier in our honor.”
Picking up the bottle Tommy said, “Dom Pérignon, I hear this stuff is good. I’d like to propose a toast.”
Both Cherokee and I gave our fathers our do-not-make-a-scene look and, after a glance at each other, Mr. Canseco said, “Sure,” spreading what remained of the champagne among six glasses.
Tommy held his up. “I propose a toast. To a fun evening with these lovely ladies.”
We drained our glasses, cell phones were exchanged, pictures taken, and our fathers escorted the four of us to the door.
* * * * *
Our dates held the limousine’s doors open. As Cherokee and I slipped inside I was struck by the odor: cigarettes, ingrained dirt, alcohol. I ran a fingertip on the seat. The fabric was greasy. Looking at Cherokee I raised my eyebrows. She nodded, then shrugged. She was right; there was nothing to do but go along for the ride.
As we pulled away Timmy shouted, “Okay, time to PARTEEE. Jeeves, we just had some rocking good champagne at the girls’ house. Brut or something, I forget. Ya got anything like that?”
A disembodied voice from the front sheet: “I have an excellent champagne sir, every bit the equal of Brut, which, to be frank, is overpriced and overpraised. Should I add it to your bill?”
“Fuckin-A yes, four glasses please.”
“Coming right up sir,”
The driver leaned to the right. I couldn’t make out his features, but he was big. Bottles pinged against each other and our driver, somehow, managed to fill four paper cups and pass them to Timmy as he drove down the road.
I took a sniff, then a sip. It was sweet, but a saccharin lip-puckering yuck sweet. I glanced at Cherokee. She was swallowing, trying to wash the taste from her mouth.
Our dates drained their cups. “Fuckin’ A. That was great. How about another round Jeeves? PARTEEEE.”
“Of course gentlemen.”
Cherokee said, “Nothing for us right now thank you, we’re still working on ours. I thought Mr. Picklesdorf had a rule against alcohol in his limousines.”
The driver: “The old man? For his best drivers, for special customers on special occasions like tonight, he makes an exception. Rules are made to be broken. The old man would prefer you keep it to yourselves. I can tell him he can depend on you, can’t I?”
Maybe I was overreacting, but I thought there was the trace of a threat, a hint of warning, in his voice.
Tommy said, “Hell yeah, you can count on us Jeeves. Our secret. You got any more of this stuff?”
He did, of course.
* * * * *
Cherokee and I had kept our dates a secret; people assumed we were going with each other. So when we stepped from the limousine with the Oxleys there was an intake of breath, followed by a collective hush. The senior girls were rendered dumb by the reappearance of these legendary, gorgeous, unobtainable, universally lusted for guys. Younger girls who didn’t know the Oxleys still couldn’t take their eyes off these impeccably dressed college-aged hunks.
The Oxleys were at their charismatic best. Confident in their appeal, arms around our waists, they worked their way through the crowd fist bumping, back slapping, exchanging snippets of conversation, feigning recollection of people they didn’t remember. It was the entrance Cherokee and I hoped for; we loved the attention. By time we reached the dance floor we were ready to go, charged up, turned on.
We got more aroused. Good dates, the Oxleys complimented our dresses, our hair, our perfume, told us we were beautiful. When girls hit on them the Oxleys handled it with class, polite but uninterested. And most of all, those boys could dance. Dancing turns me on and while Cherokee and I were good, the Oxleys were spectacular. You had to remember not to stop and just watch them. During slow songs, while our classmates clumsily groped and pawed each other, the Oxleys gracefully slipped an arm around our waists, their palms on the flat of our backs, eyes locked on ours or our heads on their shoulders. I imagined that palm holding me in place when hard as steel, he spread the lips of my pussy.
The DJ announced a break. Our dates led us from the dance floor, then offered to get everyone drinks. While alcohol was banned, the prom was awash in it. Throughout the evening flasks emerged from coats, back pockets, people’s hips. The Prom Committee’s non-alcoholic fruit punch had morphed into a concoction of unknown composition and lethal potency.
I watched our dates — they had great butts — stop at the punch bowl and, not for the first time that evening, drain a mug of the stuff in two gulps before filling four glasses and heading our way. I slipped my hand into Cherokee’s. “Babe, I’m having fun, but I need to get laid. How do they drink that much and stay functional?”
“I guess it’s why everyone says Penn State’s a party school, you go there to practice drinking. I’m with you, I’m afraid if we don’t get our boys out of here this is going to be a sequel to the flaccid frat boys and I really don’t want that. Tell you what. Next slow number get real tight with your guy, nothing crude, but close — let him feel your nipples — then lean in and talk dirty, real dirty, filthy dirty. Tell him every lewd thing you’ve imagined doing to him or anyone else since you were a freshman. And be graphic, don’t play good girl on me.”
The Oxleys returned, handed us our drinks. I took a sip; it was bitter, flavorless, with an alcohol content in the stratosphere.
The DJ started back up. Placing my drink on a table, I grabbed my date’s hand and headed to the dance floor.
* * * * *
I didn’t play good girl. My arms around my Oxley’s neck, my mouth on his ear, using my best throaty voice, I said, “Timmy I am so hot, so frigging hot for you. My pussy’s wet, dripping down my thighs. My pussy lips are soft and swollen, waiting for your dick. My cunt’s quivering needing you inside. Oh baby, the prom’s great, but I need to be fucked and you’re the man to do it.”
A few feet away, her fat breasts pressed to her Oxley’s chest, Cherokee whispered, “I’m gonna make tonight so worth your time. You like my titties? You want me to squeeze them around your big fat cock while you fuck them? You want to come all over them? They’re yours and if you’re a good little perv my blonde buddy might just lick the cum off them just for you. I shaved my pussy. No hair, just girl cunt. I can’t wait until were sixty-nining and you’re feeding on girl juice and your cock is stuffed in my face. And then you can fuck me. How do you want me? On my back, legs spread? You got it. Me on top, shoving my body down, squeezing my cunt muscles on your dick? You got it. On all fours like a bitch dog in heat? You got it. Fuck me baby, anyway you want. I want your cum inside me; I want your cum all over me.”
I slipped my right leg between Timmy’s legs, moved onto my toes, rocked my thigh on his erection. “By the time I’m through you’ll forget how to walk.”
When the lights came on the boys, hands on our butts, were giving us a deep sloppy kiss. Timmy retrieved his cell phone from his jacket, texted our driver, and the four of us headed for the door. Our progress was neither as quick — friends stopped us to say goodnight, frenemies to make catty remarks, and we had to thank the prom committee — nor as alcohol free — at each stop our dates shared a last drink or took a nip on their flasks — as I wanted, but we made it.
The limousine was waiting at the end of the parking lot; our driver leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. Several inches north of six feet tall, he weighed at least 250 pounds and while not chiseled, he was far from fat. There was a lot of strength in his big boned frame. Several long-standing stains were embedded in his white shirt; the jacket pulled over it wasn’t much better. His black oily hair was combed straight back and it had been a couple of days since he’d shave. Mr. Picklesdorf had a sterling reputation. Had the labor shortage forced him to lower his standards?
As we approached the driver threw his cigarette on the ground, glanced at the Oxleys, then turned his full focus to Cherokee and me. “Gentlemen, and lovely ladies — I don’t think I got your names — where to now?” I didn’t like the way he looked at me or Cherokee. Oblivious, our dates said, “Back to the hotel, Jeeves,” and giggling at their own joke, fell into the car laughing.
I hadn’t noticed it in the noise of the prom, but our dates were slurring their words.
We’d barely left the parking lot when our dates started nodding off. Cherokee and I tried to keep them awake: we talked to them, poked and prodded them. I ran my hand on Timmy’s crotch. It was a losing battle. A few minutes later Timmy, then Tommy, snored.
Then there was disembodied voice from the front seat: “Hey ladies, have fun tonight? It seems the Bobsey twins sure did.”
“Yes, it was fun.”
“I remember my high school prom; had a fucking ball.”
Deciding to ignore the driver, I checked my phone. People were already sharing pictures of the prom, there were a bunch of the four of us. We did look good. Engrossed, I didn’t notice when we’d driven by the first turn downtown until we whizzed by the second. Where was the driver going? That’s when it hit me, I didn’t know. The Oxleys said they had a suite. It had to be in one of nice downtown hotels — that’s where everybody stayed — but I didn’t know which one.
Trying to sound nonchalant I said, “I’m drawing a blank, what hotel are we in?”
The driver said, “Me too, it’s the one…. Fuck, I’m having a brain fart. I should know this. Let me double-check,” and started fiddling with his cell phone. As I waited for an answer he kept driving.
Finally, he said, “I got it,” and turned left, heading north, away from town, on a two lane asphalt road running north into the country. There were no lights, there were no houses.
“The hotel is the Shady Inn.”
I’d never heard of it. “Where is it?”
“Allen Street, in Stratford.”
What the fuck, Stratford was thirty miles away.
Cherokee, who’d been listening, activated her cell phone, its dull light could be seen throughout the car, and said in a precise calm voice, “Well, that’s not going to work. Why don’t you turn this thing around and take us home.”
“I’d love to ladies, but I can’t. The boys are the boss, they paid the bill and they told me to take everyone to their hotel — you heard them — so that’s where I’ve gotta go. I’d lose my license if I didn’t. You wouldn’t want that, would you ladies? I’m only a poor chauffeur. But don’t worry, Stratford’s fun. I know a bar near the hotel. If the boys aren’t awake when we get there I’ll buy you a drink. The way you two look, you’ll be welcome. And while the guys who hang out there aren’t as cute as your dates, they can hold their liquor.”
Cherokee said, “I’m going to call my father, let him know where we are. I wouldn’t want him to worry.”
The driver, with a laugh, said, “Good idea honey. I gotta warn you, it can be hard to get a signal out here. I’ve heard it’s because of the buried electrical cables.”
I looked to Cherokee, who was staring at her phone. I looked at mine. No bars.
I nudged my date, hard, with my elbow. He sputtered, then returned to snoring.
I glanced at Cherokee; at least she looked more possessed than I felt. Taking a deep breath, I tried to calm myself. No reason to panic. The driver might be creepy, but it was nothing Cherokee and I couldn’t handle. My pulse rate decelerated. We rode in silence for the next several minutes and then, “Damn.”
“What is it?”
Guiding the vehicle onto a cleared area on the side of the road the driver said, “The check engine light came on. No reason to panic, the mechanic said it might happen. The part is supposed to come in tomorrow, but right now I’ll need to reset the sensor.”
Cherokee, doubt in her voice, said, “Which sensor?”
“I don’t know, the fucking sensor, the one the mechanic showed me. Looks like I’m gonna need one of you to hold the flashlight. You, what’s your name.”
“Cherokee.”
“You’re nominated. I’ll get the flashlight and tools out of the trunk.”
Reaching under the dashboard the driver popped open the hood and trunk, got out, pocketed the keys, and lit a cigarette. I elbowed my date. Nothing. I did it again, harder. He moaned softly, resumed snoring. The driver laughed. “Blondie, frat boy there ain’t gonna be of any use, he’s out for the evening. But don’t worry. I know we’re stranded out here in these scary woods, phones don’t work, no one knows where you are, but I’ll take real good care of you. You don’t need pretty boy.”
The driver shambled behind the vehicle and started rooting around in the truck. Cherokee, digging into her small purse, said, “I know it’s here, I know it’s here, yeah,” and handed me the Mini. “If he does anything out there….”
“You’re not going out there, are you?
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because, because, because we’re big girls, we can take care of ourselves, because the car might really be broken, because although he’s a pig, he hasn’t really done anything yet, because how will it look if we call in the cavalry and it’s nothing.”
Cherokee’s door jerked open. “C’mon honey, I need you to hold the flashlight.”
With the door open you could see it, you could smell it. Half the car was sitting in a sea of sulfurous mud. Cherokee said, “Give me a second to pin up my dress, I don’t want to ruin it.”
The driver, impatient, grabbed Cherokee by the arm, yanked her from the car and dragged her around to the front. “Don’t worry honey, no one’s going to notice a little mud on you. They’ll be too busy looking at those tits,”.
Okay Bub, message received. You’re a lot stronger than we are and we’re scared.
The driver opened the hood. I couldn’t see him or Cherokee, he couldn’t see me.
I turned on the Mini.
* * * * *
While all dad’s worry about their daughter’s safety, our dads worry more than most. I think it’s because their jobs makes them aware of every threat, no matter how rare, to young women. Before we were allowed to date they made us promise to call them if there was a problem, a threat of a problem, or the hint of a threat of a problem. They also gave us an Iridium inReach Mini. About the size of your thumb, designed for hikers, it sends location information through the satellite system. If something went wrong with our cell phones — lost, broken, dead battery, towers down, whatever — all we had to do is turn on the Mini. Our dads would find us.
* * * * *
“No!” It was Cherokee’s voice coming from the front of the car.
“You’ve been showing those things off to frat boys and the rest of the world all night. Yeah, and I’ve noticed ’em, just like you wanted. But that’s enough teasing. It’s time to give a guy a look.”
“Look mister, let’s just get the car fixed…. What are you doing.”
“Well bitch, I asked nice. Maybe you’ll listen next time.”
Forcing down the urge to panic, I scanned my memory: what had Daddy said to do in a situation like this? I could hear his voice in my head and… it came back to me. I set my phone on video, squirmed between the front seats, and wedged it in the corner where the dashboard and windshield end. It would record everything happening in front of the car.
“You embarrassed honey. Don’t be, those are some titties. Y’know, you and blondie should be nice to me. After all, two young ladies stuck way out here with no one to protect them but me. Who knows what could happen? You girls need me, you need to be nice to me, you need to be real nice to me right now. Now bring those babies over here. I’m asking nice, this last time.”
“No means no. Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Why are you playin’ hard to get? You don’t want to piss me off. I promise, not a good idea. Now bring those babies over here. I just want to give ’em a little squeeze or two.”
I opened my car door.
The driver was yelling: “You saving those things for rich college boys? You think they’re to good for a limousine driver like me? Is your little blonde friend as stuck up a bitch as you?”
Cherokee, voice calmer, more focused than mine would have been, said, “You don’t want to do this. We may be lost for the moment, but they’ll find us. Let’s just get the car started and then you can take us back to town. Anything else that happened tonight will be our secret. No one need know.”
There was a silence — had Cherokee convinced him? — and then Cherokee’s voice: “Get your hands off me.”
There was a slap, so hard it reverberated in the small clearing, and the driver laughed. “We have a temper, don’t we. I like little girls with a little fight in them.”
Telling myself to be as brave as Cherokee, I took my shoes off and stepped out of the car, sinking in the mud. The driver, visible in the car’s headlights, was holding Cherokee’s wrists with one hand. Cherokee was struggling to free herself.
In the firmest voice I could muster I said, “Don’t touch her. You don’t want to start anything. I called for help, it will be here soon.”
The driver looked over his shoulder. “Hey blondie, don’t worry, there’s enough man here for the two of you, you’ll get your turn,” then shoved his free hand down the front of Cherokee’s dress, tearing it open.
“Nice titties, big titties.”
Daddy said no matter how big, kick ’em in the balls. I planted my left foot on the firmest spot I could find and holding on to the car to steady myself, gave the driver the hardest kick I could muster. As I did my left foot sank deeper into the mud, upsetting my balance. I kicked him hard, but on the inside of his thigh, missing my target.
Enraged, muttering, “Fuck, you fuckin’ bitch, you fuckin’ bitch,” the driver turned towards me. As he did Cherokee pulled free, but fell, landing on her backside in the mud. The top of her gown was ripped open.
I stepped back, but not fast enough. The driver grabbed my arm, yanked me to him — my feet actually left the ground — and pinned me against the vehicle with his body.
“Look blondie, maybe I was going to leave you alone, who’d be interested in your teeny titties when your friend’s are around. But now you pissed me off. You shouldn’t have done that.”
I struggled, but he was too powerful.
Then the driver roared, pushing me hard against the car and knocking the wind out of me. I fell to my knees. Cherokee was standing behind him, a big stick in her hands. She’d hit him in the back and was winding up to do it again. The driver turned to face her, blocking her second swing with his arm and shattering the stick. Stepping backwards, Cherokee tripped over a log, dropping what remained of her weapon.
I saw headlights. The driver’s threatening look said, “Don’t you dare…,” but I yelled for help, then heard, “Josie, Cherokee.”
Moving gracefully for such a big man the driver grabbed a wrench from the tools sitting on the hood and hid it on his leg, out of the light. “I’m glad you’re here mister, we’re having car troubles and,” pointing at me, “the girls are having problems with the mud.”
As Daddy glanced at me the driver cocked is arm. Before I could shout a warning Daddy, reacting to the look on my face, shifted his weight to the left. The wrench went whizzing by his head and daddy’s fist flashed forward. The driver fell straight down, landing on his butt.
Cherokee said, “Mr. Canseco,” stepped forward, and stumbled, cascading into daddy’s arms. The driver popped back up, wrench in hand, but Mr. Canseco emerged from the darkness and hit the driver, who went down again. Blood dripping from his nose and his arm, the driver struggled to stand.
“Best stay down.”
And then there were flashing blue lights. The police were here.
Scrambling to his feet the driver headed for the road, waving his arms and demanding the police arrest our dads, who he said attacked him. Anger shot through me, but Mr. Canseco lay an arm across my shoulders and said, “Its okay Josie, everything’s under control. We’ve already talked to the Chief, she’ll be here in a minute.”
The Chief was Paula Thompson. Built like a fire hydrant, five feet tall and hard as steel although no one had ever seen her near a gym, down to earth, and unmistakably gay. She rarely made it through a sentence or two without “son-of-a-bitch” sneaking in. When she applied for Chief of Police our dads had been among her biggest supporters, eventually overcoming the opposition of a small but vocal minority who cited Ms. Thompson’s (admittedly) libertine past and recent marriage to a strikingly attractive younger woman who was also Broomall High School’s librarian.
We were standing on the side of the road, clinging to each other’s father. Courtesy of the police department we each had a blanket draped over our shoulders covering our tattered gowns. The Chief, calm and in control, walked up. “Eric, Robert, ladies, your chauffeur’s raising holy hell over there. Says he was just doing his job when the car broke. The son-of-a-bitch says you girls got hysterical, attacked him, then your dads did the same.”
“We checked his driver’s license, it’s in the name of Elton Jones. The computer has nothing on an Elton Jones. I called Adrian Picklesdorf. Contrary to what you were told, it’s not his limousine. When I described the driver Adrian said he thought he knew him, says his name is Steve Windward. He worked for Picklesdorf a couple years back, got fired when a customer complained about his eyeing young women. Says the guy’s wanted in several jurisdictions around the country for stunts like this. Adrian’s on his way; I hope to get a positive identification from him. Adrian also said he’ll have one of his guys take the Oxley boys to their hotel. When I confronted Elton, Steve, whatever the son-of-a-bitch’s name is with Adrian’s story, he double-downed, insists you attacked him and Picklesdorf is out to get him.”
I could hold my tongue no longer. “He’s a liar Ms. Thompson, Chief, he attacked Daddy and Mr. Canseco, and he ripped Cherokee’s dress, and he threatened me, and….”– in the excitement I’d forgotten — “I made a video, it’s on my phone.”
* * * * *
Chief Thompson watched the video.
“Josie, that was real smart. I’m looking forward to listening the son-of-a-bitch explain this. I’d like to take your phone to the office and download the video tonight; I don’t want any chain of custody issues. The judges have been bitchin’ about that lately. Still, I know how you kids live on your phones. Betsy and I are leaving town tomorrow; I could bring it to you in the morning.”
I looked at Mr. Canseco, to whom I’m was still clinging, and saw no concern. “Okay.”
Daddy said, “Chief, we know it’s asking a lot, but could you wait to interview the girls until tomorrow when you drop off the phone. It’s been a long day; we’d like to get them home.”
Taking a second to suck on her lower lip — a sign she was considering — Chief Thompson said, “It’s not standard procedure, but I can say I wanted to study the video before talking to the girls. I’ll come by the house, let’s say 11:00 A.M. tomorrow. Josie, Cherokee, you should be real proud of yourselves, tonight you were brave, heroic, and smart. If you ever decide you want to be cops, give me a call.”
Holding myself tight to Mr. Canseco, Cherokee doing the same with my dad, I said, “Thanks, but our dads are the heroes, showing up just when we needed them, our knights in shining armor.”
* * * * *
I was sitting in the back seat, Mr. Canseco’s arm around me. He was warm; I liked that. I listened to the hum of the car on the road, to the sound of my own breathing. It was quiet. I liked that too. Our dads knew what we needed was peace, to be held, to feel safe, secure, and loved.
Mr. Canseco had rescued me. I took his hand in mine, traced its outline with my finger, ran my thumb on his palm, then along the base of his fingers. His hands were strong, his skin was rough.
“How does that feel?” I asked, my voice low.
“Nice, very nice. You have a good touch.”
Continuing to massage his hand I looked up at him and said, “Thanks for being there tonight, for rescuing me, us.”
Pushing several stray of my blonde hair back into place — his touch was gentle — he said. “It’s what dads do, take care of our girls, any dad would.”
In that he was wrong. Few dads were caring enough to stay home whenever we were on a date, or disciplined enough to turn down an evening with the Violet sisters, or wise enough to give us the Mini, or brave enough to take down a driver bigger than either of them, or empathetic enough to know what we needed was quiet, to be held and loved.
Laying his hand on my lap I snuggled closer, ran my open palm down his leg. He had nice legs, strong and muscular.
I started playing with my hair. The evening’s events — drunken dates, creepy driver, broken limousine — had muted my sex drive, but now it was roaring back. I knew it was crazy, this was Cherokee’s dad. I glanced at him, hoping he didn’t notice. He was good looking: six feet tall, big frame, well defined muscles, a full head of thick black hair, and wrinkle free skin (he claimed good genes, but was a fanatic about skin care) that would allow him to pass for a man ten years younger. He was also sweet and kind and brave and treated me better than any high school boy, better than any frat boy, better than any Oxley. He’d rescued me while my date snored away.
I squeezed Mr. Canseco’s thigh.
He looked at me. “You and Cherokee did real well tonight. I’m proud of you, both of you.”
He’d noticed my squeeze; he hadn’t objected. I squeezed again, snuggled closer to him. Mr. Canseco laid his arm across my shoulders. Content, I turned my attention to the front seat. Daddy was driving; Cherokee was slumped down in her seat dragging her fingernails up and down his leg. Daddy was lucky, I knew how good those nails felt on your skin. And how had she, despite all that had happened tonight, not broken a nail?
She said something to Daddy; he replied. Their voices were low and intimate; I couldn’t make out what they said. Cherokee sat up, turned to the left, and started working the muscles of daddy’s neck with her hand. I could see her breasts. The blanket she covered herself with at the scene had fallen to her waist.
I guess it was it okay. It was dark, other drivers, truckers, wouldn’t be able to see anything. Only Daddy could. Was my best friend flashing my father? Was he looking?
It was a crazy thought, but as I rolled my body against Mr. Canseco I thought it might be fun to let the blanket slip from my shoulders and give him a peek at my cleavage, but then Daddy said, “We’re almost home. It’s late. Eric, you and Cherokee are welcome to spend the night. It might help everyone decompress. The girls can get cleaned up, hit the sack, or stay up, get on their phones, whatever they want.”
Turning towards the back seat, making no effort to hide her breasts, Cherokee said, “Daddy, if it’s okay I’d like to clean up some and then sit with you guys. What do you think Josie?”
“Sounds perfect. Daddy, could you build a fire?”
“Sure can pumpkin.”
* * * * *
Cherokee was twisting her torso, trying to see the back of her legs. Finally, frustration apparent, she said, “Josie, I’m getting you a full length bathroom mirror for Christmas. Is there mud back there?
“A little.”
She ran hot water on a wash cloth, handed it to me, then spread her legs and leaned forward. “Okay babe, give me a hand. And hurry, we don’t want to keep the guys waiting too long. We don’t want to lose the mood.”
Long well-muscled legs, tight high butt, thick dark hair draped around her shoulders. She was frigging spectacular. I’d planned on an Oxley tonight, but if Cherokee’s sweet body was the evening’s entertainment? There were worst choices.
Noting my reaction, Cherokee said, “Josie, you look as horny as I feel. Right about now the Oxleys were supposed to be tearing off our clothes and despoiling our maidenhoods.”
Hand on her firm ass, I knelt behind Cherokee, catching the spots of mud she missed. Then, preparing to run the cloth down each leg, I found myself looking at her pussy. It was wet and swollen; she wasn’t kidding, she was turned on. I teased the opening of her sex with a finger and with a purr of pleasure she said, “Instead the Oxleys as are useful at tits on a boar, passed out and snoring. However, I do know two studs who are available and ready to go.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t bullshit me, I saw the way you were looking at my father.”
Caught, and a bit embarrassed – I could deny it but neither of us would believe me — I said, “Okay, yeah, maybe I thought about it for a second, but Cherokee he’s your dad. He’d never do it,” then added, more spitefully than intended, “and you were flirting with my Dad.”
“Yeah dummy, I know they’re our dads. I also know they’re in heat. I’ve heard that sharing a common danger arouses people and damn are they right. If I was wearing jeans I’d be creaming in them. You don’t need to be Einstein to see that our dads feel the same sexual energy we do. Yeah, I was flirting with yours and didn’t exactly get no for an answer. He’s classy when he looks, but he didn’t object to a private showing of the girls.”
That was my dad. I got set to reply, but Cherokee was on a roll.
“And don’t give me any nice girl crap Ms. Josie Luker, I’ve known you too long. I saw you and my dad cuddled up on the back seat. If the drive home had been any longer you’d two be at it already.
“Yeah, maybe after everything that happened tonight I’m supposed to be freaked out, but I’m not. What I am is the same person I was this afternoon: a horny eighteen year old hottie who needs to get laid. Your dad looks like the answer to that dream. Smart, funny, tight ass, and that touch of gray makes him look distinguished.”
I should say something — someone had to be the voice of reason — but Cherokee caught one of my nipples with her thumb and forefinger, gave it a gentle twist. I could feel that between my legs.
“I know you’re thinking we can take the edge off by doing each other. But where does that get us? We’ve spent months turning ourselves into bundles of sexual frustration in anticipation of getting laid tonight. And what did we get? The chance to lose our virginity to a pair of drunken frat boys in a skanky hotel? We didn’t learn our lesson the first time? The Oxleys did us a favor. Thanks to them our knights in shining armor showed up: two good looking, sexy men who look out for us, want what’s best for us, treat us right, and I’m pretty damn sure know what they’re doing in bed.”
Picking up her mascara, Cherokee said, “You with me on this? If so, follow my lead.”
* * * * *
Cherokee wiggled into one of my tee-shirts, white and way-too-small. The color contrasted nicely with her dark skin and the way-to-small revealed inches of her stomach and stretched tight across her breasts. I could make out the outline of her dark areolas and nipples through the thin fabric. She finished with a pair of black seamless skin-tight gym shorts.
I went with a light blue tube top and shorts.
* * * * *
Our dads were in the living room, Mr. Canseco sitting on a brown leather couch, my Dad on its twin. Lights dim, Diana Krall crooning in the background, fire roaring in the fireplace. It was the perfect setting to comfort a daughter.
Consciously posing, I leaned against my taller friend, wrapped my arm around her waist; she laid her’s across my shoulders. Cherokee said, “Hey guys, I hope we didn’t keep you waiting. Can you make space for a couple hot women?”
I watched daddy’s eyes. They moved from me to Cherokee and…, Cherokee was right. He was subtle, his glance respectful and flattering, but Daddy was taking in Cherokee’s extraordinary form: long legs, firm flat tummy, full round breasts, hazel eyes and full lips on a heart shaped face.
Had Mr. Canseco looked at me the same way? My pussy spasmed at the thought.
“Of course, please join us.”
Normally we’d sit with our dads, but now, slipping by Cherokee, I settled beside her father, leaned my body into his, draped an arm over his leg. Cherokee, bolder, motioned my father to open his legs, sat between them and, after straightening her thick hair with both hands, dropped her head to his shoulder.
There was a rectangular bottle on the coffee table, it’s dark contents danced in the reflected light of the fire.
Cherokee said. “What are you guys drinking?”
“Hennessy, a brandy.”
“Is it good?”
“Yes it is. It’s the perfect way to end a day, especially one as eventful as this.”
“May I have a sip?”
Daddy looked to Mr. Canseco, who nodded his approval. Before Daddy could act Cherokee took hold of his hands, guided them to her mouth, tipped the glass to her lips, took a sip, held it, swallowed. Rolling her body against Daddy she said, “Mmmmmmmm, sweet and fruity.”
Taking hold of Mr. Canseco’s hands, I did the same. Cherokee was right; it was good.
“Would you ladies like your own glass?”
Cherokee said, “Why, you guys afraid we have cooties? Promise, we don’t, got our shots just last week,” and taking hold of Daddy’s arms she again brought the glass to her lips, savoring the thick liquid before letting it dribble down her throat. When done, braless breasts swaying in her tee-shirt, she picked up the bottle, reached across the table to fill her dad’s glass, then curled back to fill my father’s.
“Maybe now you guys will be willing to share.”
Mr. Canseco, who’d been staring at Cherokee, held up his glass. “To our daughters, who handled themselves magnificently tonight.”
Daddy held up his glass. “To our daughters.”
Siding my hands up his legs, I said, “To Mr. Robert Luker, my best friend’s dad, my hero.”
It was Cherokee’s turn and her eyes locked on Daddy’s, she wet her lips, then purred, “To you Eric Canseco, this damsel’s knight in shining armor.” Then, moving with the grace of a cat, she wrapped her full lips on the edge of the glass, took a long slow sip, dropping her eyes as she focusing on the liquor’s taste and viscosity. When she looked up she smiled, slid forward, said, “Thank you Eric. I owe you so much,” and kissed Daddy’s cheek. Her lips lingered on his skin.
I couldn’t remember the last time she’d addressed Daddy by his first name.
There was a silence in the room, one of those silences you can cut with a knife. Cherokee’s motion, her touch, her voice, the kiss, the smoldering desire in her eyes, were unmistakably intimate, personal, and carnal. Cherokee had gone over the line; no one knew what to say.
Then Cherokee double-downed. Leaning into my father, she ran the pad of a finger along the bridge of his nose, then took his hand in hers, kissed it, held it to her chest. Following her lead I slipped my hand into Mr. Canseco’s, squeezed, ran my thumb on his skin, and lay our joined hands on his thigh.
Cherokee punctured the silence, changing the subject, slightly.
“There’s another thing we girls need to thank you for.”
“What’s that Cherokee?”
“For not saying ‘I told you so.’ You warned us about the Oxleys and pretty packages.”
Everyone laughed, breaking the tension, and Cherokee continued. “What’s going to happen with Chief Thompson tomorrow?”
On familiar soil, Daddy said, “She’ll describe the process, tell you what she’s going to do, ask some general background questions. She’ll want go know about the arrangements for the date, how the driver came into the picture, and everything you can remember after the prom, including how you ended up in the country and what happened there. If she gets into areas you think are private or uncomfortable, tell her you need a break and come talk to us.”
I said, “I can’t believe we’ll have to relive this. Mr. Canseco, would you hold me please? I could use it right now.”
“Of course, Josie.”
Mr. Canseco spread his legs. I moved between them, sliding back until my body rested on his chest. Pulling a favorite comforter over the two of us, I dropped my head, pecked him on the lips. He wrapped his arms around me. He had nice muscular arms and I pulled them tight, resting them on my braless breasts. Could Mr. Canseco feel their heat through my top’s thin fabric?
Cherokee, already sitting between Daddy’s legs, also pulled a comforter over the two of them. Daddy wrapped his arms around her. Could he possibly miss the heat emanating from those breasts?
Running her hand down Daddy’s leg Cherokee said, “I guess the Chief will want to know what we were doing in the middle of nowhere on prom night.”
“Yes.”
Cherokee, hesitation in her voice: “Do we have to tell her everything?”
“Is there something you’re concerned about?”
Looking at me Cherokee asked, “Is it okay babe?”
I wasn’t sure where Cherokee was going with this, but I knew the answer she wanted. In a serious tone I said, “Yes, go ahead Cherokee.”
“Okay, do you guys want to know the truth, the whole truth? You might not like it. You have to remember, we’re your daughters, but we’re also young women. You’ve got to promise you won’t get mad.”
Mr. Canseco said, “We promise. Whatever it is Eric and I can handle it.”
Cherokee continued: “How did we end up in the middle of nowhere? Well, to really understand…, I mean to start at the beginning…, uhhh….”
Daddy, voice comforting and supportive: “It’s okay Cherokee, you’re with friends, just say the words, no one here will judge you, we love you,” and started to massage her neck and shoulders.
Dropping her head forward Cherokee let out a long sigh. “That’s right, just like that, you know exactly what I need, feels so good. You have such strong hands.”
Mr. Canseco started rubbing my neck.
After a couple indolent minutes Cherokee kissed Daddy’s cheek. “That was wonderful. Thank you Eric. It’s hard to say, “no,” to someone who makes you feel this good. Okay, I’ll just say it: Josie and I are virgins. I know. Considering how popular and charming and beautiful we are it seems impossible, but it’s true.”
I intertwined my fingers with Mr. Canseco’s, squeezed.
“Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with us. We have all the normal urges and we’ve had offers. The problem has been who. Wait on Mr. Right and our wedding night? C’mon this is the twenty-first century. A guy from high school? We’ve known them too long and girlfriends say they don’t know what their doing; you spend all your time reassuring them and then it hurts. We met some guys on campus, but that didn’t work out. Details later. Then the Oxleys show up. Not the brightest guys you’re ever going to meet, but they’re legends: older, gorgeous, know how to dress, and have a certain reputation. Two eighteen year old girls who’ve been looking for a good time figure karma’s finally on their side. You know the rest. Your daughters line them up for prom dates — and what could be more romantic than doing it on prom night. We figure we’ll steal the show, skip the post-prom parties, go to their hotel, and no more virgin daughters.
“Instead, after months of waiting and mounting sexual frustration our prom dates show up late, half-drunk, in a dirty limousine driven by a pervert. At the prom they drink themselves into insensibility, the nice hotel turns out to be a flea bag one town over, and when we tell the driver to take us home he feigns car trouble, pulls over, and starts pawing Josie and me. And then, happily luckily miraculously, you two studs appear and save the day.
Cherokee dropped her head onto my dad’s shoulder. Her long brown hair fanned out against his body. “The highlights of the evening: drinking champagne with you guys, being rescued by you guys, sitting here with you guys.”
She kissed daddy again, this time on the lips. “We should have skipped the prom and spent the night cuddling with our favorite men.”
Watching Cherokee kiss my father set off fireworks in my sex. I leaned back, turned my head, tightened my grip on his thigh, kissed Mr. Canseco’s lips. No tongue, more than a peck.
“So guys, Josie and I want you to be our first. You two got it all: good-looking, experienced, we trust you, we love you and know you love us. Daddy, do you really want my first time to be with the next version of the Oxley’s I stumble into? Who better to introduce me to sex than your best and oldest friends?”
Mr. Canseco said, “Look girls, its been a long…,” stopping when my hand reached his dick. It was hard.
My father finished the thought. “A lot has happened tonight, you guys will feel differently tomorrow.”
Resting my hand on Mr. Canseco’s penis through his pants I said, “No Daddy, I won’t, we won’t. Cherokee and I have spent a year looking for the right guys and guess what, they were here all along. And don’t pretend you don’t think Cherokee’s hot.”
Looking directly into her dad’s eyes, Cherokee said, “Daddy, I love Josie. She’s my sister, my best friend. I want what’s best for her. Let her first experience be with you, a man who will treat her right, who cares about her.”
Forcing my hand inside his belt I added, “Y’know, I’ve always sort of had a crush on you Mr. Canseco.”
With my fingers worming their way under the band of his boxers Mr. Canseco surrendered. Curling his arm around my back he looked at Daddy. “Well, old friend, they’ve got a point. Do we really want them with lightweights who don’t know what they’re doing and don’t care about them. They deserve better on their prom night and I tonight they certainly earned it.”
Daddy was quiet. Would he go along with this? Then he smiled and Cherokee pushed the blanket that had been covering them to the floor. She was working her hand inside his pants.
* * * * *
I led Mr. Canseco upstairs to the guest bedroom, grateful that Daddy required me to keep it clean, re-make the bed every few weeks, and insisted on high-end Egyptian cotton sheets for our guests.
I was nervous. When I’d imagined this moment, it was with a boy, not a man like Mr. Canseco. He was experienced; I’d never done it before. Who goes first? What do you do next? I wasn’t sure. What if I wasn’t any good at it? Next to my dad, Mr. Canseco was the most important adult in my life, closer to me than anyone but Daddy. What if I didn’t please him?
Mr. Canseco, seeing the wheels turning in my head, said, “You okay Josie?”
Without much conviction I said, “Think so, I’m just a little nervous, I guess.”
“It’s your first time, you’re supposed to be nervous. Let me help. Turn around.”
I did and he resumed the neck and shoulder rub he started downstairs. I watched our reflection in a mirror. His face was screwed in concentration as his masterful hands worked the muscles of my neck and shoulders.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Josie. Tonight is going to be special. We’ll take our time. It’s a lot more fun that way. I just hope I don’t disappoint. Focus on my hands.”
That this sexy older man worried about disappointing me was absurd. I wanted to tell him, but couldn’t find the words. His hands on my neck, tension flowing from my body; I couldn’t concentrate.
He ran his thumb along the crease between my scalp and neck. Goose bumps erupted on my skin. I dropped my head forward, inviting him to do it again. He did. It felt even better.
“You like?”
Raising my head, shaking my hair back into place, I said, “Very much Mr. Canseco.”
“Maybe it’s time you called me Robert.”
“I’ll try, its hard.”
His started working the front of my shoulders. While we both knew where he was heading, Mr. Canseco took his time, giving me an amazing massage on the way there. When he reached my tank top his warm hands slid underneath and covered my breasts; he squeezed, gently steadily. I leaned back, letting him support my weight.
“Feels so nice.”
I knew my breasts were sensitive, but never imagined they could feel like this. There is no other word for it; Mr. Canseco made love to my breasts. Knowing hands kneaded, nimble fingers danced, rough thumbs swept over my skin. He told me how beautiful they were, how warm they were, how much he enjoyed touching them.
He seemed content to play with them all night long and while that would be fabulous, I lacked his patience. Pulling my tube top over my head, I twisted around, my inflamed breasts and nipples sliding on his smooth cotton shirt, and threw my arms around his neck. His eyes focused on mine and I knew that Mr. Canseco, Cherokee’s dad, was going to kiss me. Did it feel weird? For about a second, but could this guy kiss. Our warm wet lips came together, molded into, slid on each other. I teased his lips with the tip of my tongue, retreated. His tongue — bold and strong and sweet — followed mine, explored, claimed possession of my mouth. We kissed again, then again, our tongues and lips danced.
Nervous was no longer an issue. Throw me onto the bed, rip off my shorts, fuck me til the sun comes up.
Mr. Canseco had other plans. Ending our kiss he cupped my butt, held me to him. I dropped my forehead to his chest. I was panting.
“Josie, can you give me a hand getting these clothes off. Then we can take a shower.”
Shower, what shower?
Mr. Canseco went on. “After a day like today there’s nothing better than a long hot shower with a beautiful woman to wash away the grime. I’m going to scrub every inch of your magnificent body. After all, this is as new for me as it is for you. We have all night, no need to rush.”
Well, when he put it that way, how could I say no. I’d spot cleaned when we got home, but I still felt the evening’s muck on my skin. And I wouldn’t want Mr. Canseco to think I was frantic, or desperate, happy to settle for, “Wham bam, thank you ma’am,” my first time. And there was something else, I liked it when Mr. Canseco was in control.
Saying, “Yes sir,” I ran my hands, palms flat on his chest, and started on the buttons of his shirt. It wasn’t always easy, the buttons were small and my hands shook with lust, but I got them all, pulled the shirt and undershirt off him, pressed my face to his chest. His sprinkling of chest hair, like the hair on his head, was black. They tickled my nose. He smelled like a man.
He sat on the edge of the bed. I knelt, untied his shoes, slipped them and his socks from his feet.
Only his pants were left. Did I need permission to proceed? Maybe not, but I wanted it anyway. Asking for permission was sexy; getting it sexier. Touching his crotch through his pants I said, “May I?”
“Yes Josie, that would be wonderful.”
I pressed my palm to the front of his pants, moved it up the length of his erection, did it again. A low moan escaped his lips. Tracing the outline of his penis with a finger, I looked up, waiting to be told what to do.
Mr. Canseco understood. “Undo my pants Josie, then pull down the zipper.”
I unhooked the latch on his pants, worked the zipper down, pulled his pants to his knees. They slid down his legs, puddling at his ankles. I stopped, looked up at him.
“Take it out Josie. I hope it doesn’t disappoint.”
I pulled his underpants forward, over his bulge, and down. There it was, bobbing back and forth. The crown was purple, the shaft brown and laced with bright pulsating veins, and his ball sac symmetrical.
“Go ahead Josie.”
I wrapped my fingers around the shaft.
“It doesn’t disappoint sir.”
* * * * *
I was in the shower; Mr. Canseco, standing behind me, was massaging my scalp with his strong fingers. He’d been right. As he worked the shampoo into my hair, as the hot water poured over my body, I felt the day’s muck flow down the drain.
He brought his mouth to my ear. “Tonight Josie you’ll feel things you’ve never imagined I’m going to make your body sing. By the time we’re done you’ll be a woman, all woman.”
He finished my hair, closed his teeth on my ear lobe, tugged, then started working generous dollops of a favorite body-wash into my skin. Starting with my forehead he worked down: face, neck, shoulders, armpits, back. I’d never showered with a man before; I liked it. There was something sensual, something indulgent, about letting a man clean you.
He kissed the side of my head, dragged a thumb across my lips. My tongue flicked out; he slid his thumb into my mouth. I sucked on it, licked it, kissed it when it left. His mouth moved to my neck, where he nibbled and nipped the sensitive flesh. Even in this hot shower I felt chills run down my body.
I leaned back into him, closed my eyes. His soapy hands roamed my torso in long unhurried sweeps. His touch, light and provocative, left me craving more. When his pinkies grazed my nipples, my knees buckled. His hands grew firmer, more aggressive.
“Uunnnnnnhhhhhh, Mr. Canseco.”
He caught my nipples with index and middle fingers, rolled them back and forth, pinched them, did it again, harder this time.
“Oh fuck yes, uuunnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
I was ready to end the shower and head for the bedroom, but Mr. Canseco knelt and worked the wash into my butt and down each leg.
“Turn around Josie.”
I did. His face was level with my sex. Imagining his tongue wrapped around my clit, I grabbed his shoulders, and then I jumped and squealed. Mr. Canseco was sliding his pinky up my vulva. He brushed my clitoris.
“Mr. C, wow, wow, oooh, oh oh oh omigod, oh yes.”
Hands soapy and slick, Mr. Canseco caressed the folds, curves, and crevices of my outer and inner vulvas, then stroked my vaginal lips.
“Oh yes yes yes.”
He turned his attention to my clit. Never rushing, allowing me to savor each wicked moment, he circled it with his thumb, then, with me moaning for more, rolled his thumb back and forth on the nub’s protective hood. I whimpered.
Capturing some of the cunt cream flowing from my vagina, Mr. Canseco next pulled aside the clitoral hood and rocked the thumb directly on the aching nub. My knees buckled and leaning forward, I held on to Mr. Canseco’s shoulders. Taking advantage of my spread legs, Mr. Canseco scrubbed my perineum, my anus, slipped a finger tip inside. He wiggled the finger. My anal muscles clenched.
“Ooooohhhh.”
He returned to my clit, circled it with his thumb, and in a voice clear, calm, and certain, said, “Josie I want you to masturbate, stroke your clit, show me how.”
It was insane… and so dirty. I mean, of course I played with myself — I’d done it a thousand times — but never for an audience or on demand. The thought of doing it was crazy, and so sexy.
Pressing my middle and index fingers together, I strummed them over my clit.
“Like this Mr. Canseco?”
“Just like that. Does masturbating in front of me turn you on Josie?”
“Unnhh, yes sir.”
Saying, “You’re a naughty girl Josie,” Mr. Canseco slipped a finger into my vagina: joint, knuckle, all the way. He wiggled it, shook it, moved it around.
“Uunnhhhh.”
Another finger joined it; two moved as easily as one. It was not a surprise. I was a virgin, but I’d known a dildo or two and busted my hymen a long time ago.
As he twisted the fingers in my cunt, his thumb joined my fingers stroking my clit. I pushed my rump into his hand, squeezed my breasts and thumbed my nipples. My cunt spasmed, clamping the walls of my vagina on his fingers, trying to pull them deeper inside.
“Uuunnnnhhhh.”
And then, I was coming. It never happened this quickly, but I was frigging coming; a short sharp hard orgasm that shook my body and curled my toes. Mr. Canseco stood and I leaned into him, sucking in air. As the orgasm subsided he reached past me and turned off the shower.
He kissed my neck, nipped an ear lobe. “Josie, I can’t describe how much I want you right now.”
Damn. I’d just come, but I was ready for more.
Mr. Canseco ran his hands through my hair, squeezing out the water, then used a towel to dry the rest of my body. No one had done that for me before.
Insisting that I return the courtesy, I meticulously inspected his wonderful body, dabbing up any recalcitrant drops of water. When done — his hard tight butter required special attention — I slipped my hand into his, kissed him.
As we entered the bedroom I said, “Y’know Mr. C, it was real nice sharing a shower with you. We need to do that again. It will help save water.”
I did not give him the chance to respond. Instead, laughing in glee, I pushed him onto the bed and pounced. Holding his hands down I said, “Got you,” and kissed him. Distracting me with a kiss, he escaped my grasp. We wrestled; hands explored, kiss followed kiss until, after a fierce struggle, he rolled me onto my back, pinning me to the bed. He nipped my neck, licked my breasts: his tongue was rough and soft and wet and fricking enormous. His dick, hot and hard, bumped against my chest.
He kissed down my body, across my toned torso and abdomen, stopped at my sex. I was glad I’d shaved.
“Fuck me Mr. Canseco.”
“Y’know Josie, we’re about to become lovers. You can call me Robert.
I know sir, but it’s sexier when I call you Mr. Canseco.”
“Then please do. The only thing better than a stunning blonde is an aroused stunning blonde.”
With mock disdain I said, “Men,” then added, more seriously than I’d intended, “Do you really think I’m pretty Mr. Canseco?”
“Yes Josie, I do. You were a beautiful baby, you were a beautiful child, and you’ve become a beautiful, stunning, sexy, desirable young woman. Yes, I think you’re pretty.”
Playing coy I said, “Have you been checking me out Mr. C?”
Had Daddy been checking out Cherokee? I could see why, Cherokee was gorgeous, but still, that would be naughty of Daddy. Also kinda sexy.
Ignoring my question, Mr. Canseco blew a stream of hot air onto my clit — every cell in my body felt that — and his mouth covered my sex. A finger entered me. I howled my delight.
Mr. Canseco didn’t toy, he didn’t tease. He attacked my clit, sucked the nub into his mouth, freed it of its protective hood, battered it with tongue and lips, licked it with broad savage strokes of his tongue, over and over. I was a sand dune on a beach, without control, at the mercy of tides and winds. Mr. Canseco drove my overheated body to the brink of an orgasm, then switched his attention to my labia, vaginal lips, inner thighs, holding me on the precipice, then returned to my clit and do it again.
My arms and hands, with minds of their own, grabbed his head, pinned it to my sex, squeezed my breasts and nipples, twisted the bed sheets, did it all again.
He pushed a second finger into me. They explored and stroked, stretching the wet walls my vagina, generating waves of delight. And then he found my g-spot, pressed curled fingers to it, rubbed it, quick and smart.
Ohmigod. My lower body shook in rapid intense shudders; the physical and mental merged. All I could think about was his mouth tongue fingers. I arched my hips and grabbed his head, holding his mouth, his relentless mouth, to my dripping sex.
“Unh, unh, unh, unh, unh, unh, unh, unh, unh, unh, unh.
I couldn’t take much more. I needed release. I needed release. I needed….
And then it was here. Lights dancing behind closed eyes, angels singing in my heads, my loins detonated. A tsunami of pleasure ripped through me, relieving the pressure that moments ago threatened to tear me apart. Screaming, “Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes,” arms and legs flailing, bereft of control, I rode out the orgasm. And through it all Mr. Canseco and his amazing mouth never stopped. His tongue, active and wise, extended and intensified the orgasm, then gave birth to another, an intoxicating echo of its predecessor. Then a third. After that I could take no more.
Mr. Canseco lifted his head; his face was inundated with cunt cream. I giggled. Pleased by the wanton pleasure written on my face, he smiled and kissed me right above my vagina, then up my body, trapping a fold of skin between his teeth with each kiss. His warm moist breath felt good.
He settled next to me on the bed. I rolled into him, laid my head on his arm. He draped a leg over me. The perspiration on our bodies mixed. We smelled good.
Laying there in a post-orgasmic haze, enjoying my body, resting it against Mr. Canseco, everything was perfect. My mind drifted. I’d let a few guys and a few gals eat me, but only Cherokee and her Dad had been really good at it. What was it: genes, old family secret, coincidence? Perhaps a subject for the next time we were all together.
I started to come back to earth. Mr. Canseco was tracing patterns on my stomach with a finger. I asked what he was drawing. When he told me I laughed.
And that’s when I heard Cherokee’s rasping voice. She was saying something. I didn’t know if was a word or a grunt, but it was born in her solar plexus and bursting from her mouth with increasing volume and intensity.
The fire smoldering between my legs re-ignited.
Had Daddy and Cherokee heard me? I could imagine Cherokee, loving every second. But Daddy? Did some part of him wonder if he was doing the right thing? Was Mr. Canseco asking himself the same question? He shouldn’t — it was all amazingly right — but just in case I rolled onto my side, looked into his eyes, touched his cheek. “Mr. Canseco, I’m so glad you’re my first.”
“So am I. You’re an extraordinary woman Josie Luker.”
I kissed him; he kissed me. I rolled onto my back, spread my legs.
I heard Cherokee come.
Mr. Canseco moved onto his knees between my legs, I reached for his dick, held it in my hand, waggled it back and forth. Hot blood was surging into it; it hardened in my hand. I let it go, watched it flop back against Mr. Canseco’s stomach. I ran my fingers up and down it. It was as hard as steel; its skin wonderfully soft.
“I’m ready Mr. Canseco.”
He moved his body atop mine, held himself up on his elbows, and slid his hard hot dick on the face of my vagina. I was lay there, enjoy it, but then his cock-head bumped my clitoris. I needed more of that. Raising my hips I moved with him. His shaft nestled between the lips my vulva, grazing my clitoris with each thrust.
Mr. Canseco got back onto his knees and using his dick as a bulldozer spread cunt cream over the face of my pussy. He pushed a glob inside my vagina. My pussy had never been this wet soft swollen. The massage, the foreplay, the shower, the cunnilingus had all prepared me for this moment, when I surrendered my virginity.
I wrapped my fingers on his shaft, slid my thumb across its head — it was thick with pre-cum — then pressed his cock-head to my clit. The nub blazed in electrical delight. Mr. Canseco slapped it against my clit several more times, each a sizzling delight, then stopped, paused, and looked at my sex.
.”Josie, you have a beautiful pussy.”
God, I wanted this man.
Moving his body back atop mine, he fit his cock to the lips of my vagina, but the head slid off. I reached between us, guided it into place.
I thought about a girlfriend’ description of her first: a boy making it up as he went along, who required constant reassurance, whose idea of romantic was the cramped back seat of a car, and who immediately violated his promise to keep “our secret” so he could brag to his friends about the girl he’d just nailed. My first time: a sexy man I cared for and who cared for me, with a nice hard body, who knew what he was doing and didn’t mind taking charge. A girl’s dreams can come true.
“Josie, if I push too hard, move to fast, let me know.”
“I will.”
Mr. Canseco rocked his cock-head on the opening to my vagina. There was a moment of apprehension; my arms and legs tensed. In a voice soft, wise, and understanding, Mr. Canseco said, “Relax, take a deep breath.”
Placing my hands on his ass, I did. Mr. Canseco pushed. I felt the lips of my pussy stretch.
Wanting to catalog every sensation, to engrave this moment in my memory, I closed my eyes. Mr. Canseco pushed, once, twice, a third time and there was this moment of pain mixed with intense pleasure. The crown of his cock — I could feel its warmth — was lodged in my sex, my pussy lips spread around it. I rolled my hips against him. My pussy lips slid over the cock-head. He was inside me, barely, but he was inside me.
I opened my eyes. Mr. Canseco’s gaze was locked on mine. “I’m ready.”
Listening to my breathing, my gasps and moans, watching my body twist and turn, Mr. Canseco entered me. His dick moved deeper, the walls of my pussy stretched.
I felt a bond, an intense closeness with this man.
“Oh Mr. Canseco, you’re so big, feels so good.”
Taking his time, sometimes retreating, he kept moving deeper within me.
His chest, warm and nicely muscled, grazed my breasts.
I slipped my arms around his body.
And then his hips were pressed to mine; he was all the way in. How long had it taken, two minutes, twenty? I didn’t know. What I knew was that Mr. Canseco was inside my body. I’d never felt this full. I nudged my pelvis into him, he nudged back. We did it again, a little bit harder. I loved the feeling of him pushing into me.
This man owned me; I’d do anything he asked.
At first I lay there, immersed in carnal bliss, glorying in my body. Mr. Canseco flexed his abdominal muscles, making his dick jump. It felt a little weird, and a whole bunch of good.
Mr. Canseco started rolling his hips on mine, swirling his dick in the depths of my pussy, giving birth to waves of an almost understated pleasure. I had never felt anything like it; not as intense as my g-spot or clit, but real nice.
I felt something new, a spark at the base of my clit. As he rolled his hips on mine Mr. Canseco was pressing his pubic bone, grazing my swollen clit.
Holding on to his shoulders for leverage, I arched my hips into him, increasing the pressure on my clit. The spark became a fire.
Mr. Canseco began sliding his penis in and out of me, each time a bit longer, a bit farther until only his crown was inside me. I felt empty; I wanted him back.
“Ready Josie?”
“Yes sir.”
Mr. Canseco entered me, and kept going. There was little resistance: he slipped into me like a hand into a velvet glove. The walls of my vagina vibrated, my clitoris burned, there was an obscene tingle in my asshole. Nothing I’d known had prepared me for this man and his penis. When he reached bottom I sighed and said, “Mr. C, your dick was designed for my pussy.”
We kept at it, moving with increasing speed and force. Mr. C adjusted his stroke, dropping his hips and pressing his cock to the roof of my vagina until, ohmigod, he found my g-spot. I hollered my joy.
My clit, vagina, g-spot, asshole were aflame. The fires intensified, spread, merged, threatened to consume half my body.
Mr. Canseco’s grunts and wheezes grew harder, more intense. My confidence blooming, I grew increasingly assertive, meeting his thrusts with my own, rotating my hips on his. I squeezed my cunt muscles and was rewarded with an animal growl.
I squeezed again; his dick jumped inside me.
My libido was in control, any sense of patience or restraint forgotten. Meshed together like long practiced lovers, he drove into me hard and deep, over and over.
My breathing deepened, my skin flushed. My pussy, tight soft wet and hot, stroked and hugged his member.
“Oh yeah, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,oh, oh.”
I’d waited for this for so long and it was beyond fucking wonderful. Mr. Canseco and I were lovers. I wanted it to go on forever; I wanted to come; I wanted his cum. Fucking was great.
Mr. Canseco raised his body on his hands, ducked his head, licked my breast and its sweet pink nipple. I arched my back, forcing more tit flesh into his mouth, then twisted my body, pulling the saliva covered breast from his mouth and offering him the other. He wrapped his lips on my areola, gave it a quick hard nip with his front teeth. I felt it between my legs.
We fucked and fucked some more. I loved the way it smelled, the way it sounded. Mr. Canseco varied his movements, thrusting at different speeds, different angles, driving me to ever higher plateaus of pleasure and arousal.
“Oh, Mr. Canseco oh, this is what I’ve dreamed of, but better, so much frigging better. So good, so good, so fricking good. Ohhhhhhh god yes fuck me fuck me fuck me.”
The pressure was building between my legs. I squeezed my breasts, thumbed the swollen nipples, wrapped my legs on Mr. Canseco’s waist, grabbed his butt, pulled him into me. Our bodies came together with an audible, “thwack.”
Then Mr. Canseco’s hot breath and voice were in my ear, saying things I never imagined coming from the mouth of my best friend’s father.
“I love your pussy Josie. So tight, so wet, so hot. Feels so good on my cock.”
“Mr. Canseco, uuunnnnhhhhhh.”
“Sweet girl. I love fucking you. So fucking good. You’re so fucking good.”
“Oh god, oh god, uuuuunnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
“You’re fricking gorgeous. I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come in your sweet tight pussy. You’re making me come, making me….”
His thrust into me in wild abandon, like me now a slave to his lust, hitting my clitoris, crushing my g-spot, over and over and over.
“You’re sexy hot desirable. Every man who sees you wants to fuck you, but they can’t have you. Your pussy belongs to me Ms. Josie Luker, you’re mine.”
His words reduced me to my primal core. I needed hard dick, hot cum. I needed an orgasm. And then it was coming with all the subtlety of a freight train. Yelping, “Oh oh oh oh Mr. Canseco, oh god, I’m gonna, I’m gonna, I’m coming, oh fuck yes, uuuuuuunnnnnnnhhhhhhhhh,” my body turned inside out as an orgasm, born in a sudden burst, blazed through me, washed over me, shattered me.
Mr. Canseco’s breathing, deep and intense, was interrupted by a guttural moan. He jerked, pounded my pussy. Hot ejaculate raced up his dick and exploded within me, flooding the deepest, most intimate parts of me with his hot seed.
My jaw locked, my cunt contracted, and gibbering, “Oh god, oh god, oh god oh god, oh god,” I came again, writhing under my lover’s warm sweaty body. I could feel his penis inside me. I hoped it would never leave.
* * * * *
Light seeped through a corner window, birds were singing, but all I could think about was last night. I’d crawled into Mr. Canseco’s arms, fell asleep.
I reached for my lover. He wasn’t there.
I rolled onto my back and looked at the ceiling. I had never felt this peaceful, this good. My mind was calm and clear, and my body…. I had no words. I reached for my sex and found some of Mr. Canseco’s dried semen. It must have leaked from my pussy. I sucked on the fingertip. That was a taste I could get used to
I was reaching for seconds when there was a light knock on the door and Mr. Canseco stepped in. His voice low, not sure if I was awake: “Morning Josie, you up?”
“Yes Mr. C, just taking my time. Why don’t you take off those nice clothes,” — he was impeccably dressed and groomed, he must have gone home to shower and change — “and join me.”
Placing a hand on my shoulder, Mr. Canseco kissed the top of my head and said, “What have I created? It’s tempting, but Chief Thompson’s coming to interview you and Cherokee.”
With that, as if on cue, Cherokee burst into the room. Her long dark hair was tousled, her eyes dreamy, and she smelled like my father. Did I smell like her’s? She was wearing one of Daddy’s white button down shirts, buttons undone, and nothing else. I could see the sides of her breasts: large and heavy and round, olive in color, tanned like the rest of her.
“Hey Daddy, Jos….. Ohmigod, last night was fricking amazing. Josie, your dad’s not only hot, he’s great in bed and — you’ll have to tell me everything — from the way you were yakking I’m guessing my Dad knows what he’s doing.”
Without waiting for an answer she turned and hugged her father. Her breasts flattened on his chest. “How was it Daddy, did my best bud over there show you a good time?”
Mr. Canseco raised an eyebrow and Cherokee, her voice a monotone, as if reading from an old script, said, “I know Daddy, a gentleman never talks about his evening with a lady, he considers that private and personal.”
“Okay ladies, the Chief said she’d be here at 11:00, and she’s usually early. I’d like you two downstairs in forty-five minutes so we can prepare you for the interview. Cherokee, I brought some clothes from the house, jeans and some shirts. Dress down, remember, you’ve been through a harrowing experience, you’re emotionally exhausted. Try to get in that frame of mind.