Smitten Kitten

She leaned back on the low settee she stood beside, cocked up one leg, and lazily flipped her skirt open. Wide open. It fell in loose folds, to her left side, and across her belly. Her womanly opening—vagina, pussy, twat, cunt; none of these seem to describe what I saw—presented to me as if on a silver salver. There was no trace of any fur, and her outer lips were slightly open. The center strip was bright red, and shiny. She opened her thighs a little more, and looked directly at me with eyes that seemed to have doubled in diameter and intensity."

"This is my womanhood," she murmured dreamily, "which I want you to see. I am already quite wet, and so it is obvious that I desire sex with you. This is the start of my posing for you. Most men want to start with breasts, but I thought to pleasure you in unusual ways. I believe your tongue tip would just fit through my nether lips, don't you think?"

And so my tongue tip did, finding a large and quite prominent clitoris pushing back. Some moments later—time undetermined—I found myself on my knees, tongue lapping and probing at her 'womanly parts,' while my lover groaned and shivered with orgasmic pleasure.

Martine did not say that her posing, over much of her apartment, on her furniture, and on her rugs would be accompanied by my licking and oral loving of her now bare-to-the-waist body.

A sudden turn, expertly done, put me on my back, and my erect cock thrust deeply into the opening that I had most recently ravished. Martine, looking down at me, fingered the sole button that held together the sides of her blouse. I started at her hand, as, in a quick twisting motion, the button was unfastened, and the blouse drooped open. She leaned forward, enclosing my head, face, and my tongue and lips in a white gauzy silk world, comprising two soft but still firm size B-cup breasts, surmounted by two of the stiffest, and longest, nipples I'd ever seen.

"Suck them," she ordered, "as they are, at least for this afternoon, yours."

Inhaling her perfume, and feeling her spasms of orgasm around my cock, I bent upward to my task.

Lightly thrusting with my cock into infinite wet slippery glory, I did just that, working first one and then the other, and discovering that I was making love to that rarest of women ... one who can orgasm, powerfully and liquidly, on nipple stimulation alone. I found this out by being cummed on, repeatedly, as we lay joined on Martine's carpet, thrusting and sucking, groaning and speaking in tongues.

Her crumpled silk blouse joined her skirt on the floor, as—still penetrating her writhing body—I picked her up and staggered into her small bedroom. We both fell on the bed, me on top, and I started serious thrusting into this piece of French-Creole (I found about later) sex-goddess.

From underneath me, legs drawn up and scissoring, I heard a clear voice, between groans of pleasure. "Drive your manhood into me. I cannot be hurt by your love. Go on, you must THRUST yourself. Do it now."

Another hundred or so motions later, I felt the jism boil up into my straining cock, as I thrust hard. Once ("French slut!"). Twice ("Fuck me NOW"). Thrice ("Sex you, sex you"). . Four times ("Give me your spurting life, I demand it!"). Fifth, (weaker ("Ahhhh, shiiiittt"). Sixth, and last, a dribble ("yes, do it, do ME").

This was followed by the predictable collapse of an exhausted me, onto the white coverlet of her bed ... her thoroughly violated bed. I looked over at the woman I'd just assaulted and saw ...

A stretched-out female form, all aglow with sated desire, lightly covered with the sweat of passion. My lover-of-the-moment slowly cocked up one leg, and supported her head on her palms, stretching out her nude body even further. She murmured, though clear and distinct, "you were good. Very good. I will not need to think about sex again until day after tomorrow. I am full of your liquid passion. I will hold it inside my body for many hours tonight."

She added, smiling again to my open-mouthed gape, "ah, that shocks you. But why? With your wonderful penis no more inside Martine, I have but the liquid gift of your spurting seed to hold, and so hold it I shall ... until all the juices of passion are transferred from your thrust-gift to me."

"I am still posing. Do you like the show? I do not have to ask if you enjoyed the sex with me. That is, as you Americans say, a 'no-brainer.' " Then she did laugh, long, but not loud.

After a brief nap (well, actually, a space where I remembered nothing, being in a sex-induced state of coma), she and I remained nude, as she continued to pose all over her apartment. Without an erection, or even the chance of one, I could only appreciate her motions and still-life pauses as an erotic art. But if I had had the strength, I would have taken her again, and again.

As well she knew.

When the sun was descending, she made me dress, and gather up my computer. She remained nude, as she guided me downstairs, and to the door of her shop. There, in the open doorway, facing out onto the street, she kissed me, leisurely and throroughly, her left breast in my right hand, and her right bare buttock in my left hand (because she'd placed them there).

She said, breathlessly, to my ear alone, "you shall return soon. Here is the key for you and your daughter-lover. I do not give many of these away. Enter without knocking. Come upstairs. Remove your clothes. If I am home, you will enter and penetrate me, and pour your love into me. I shall be wet and ready. You shall enjoy my nude body in many ways. Martine promises you this."

She closed the door, and I heard the lock click. Somehow, I wandered down to the dock, made the last water-taxi of the evening.

The sun was barely down when I re-boarded the Smitten Kitten. The shrieking and screaming was over, and the girls were gone. Britt was dozing in the cockpit, or so it seemed. As I carefully stepped into the cabin, my zipper was jerked down, my limp cock drawn out and a pair of luscious lips fastened onto my cock, and proceeded to give the start of a monumental blow-job.

I heard Britt's lazy voice from the cockpit. "That's Lupe. A real Latina slut. She's Mexican. She has an oral fixation, and nice big soft tits. She loves to show them off. She can cum with just her nipples played with and sucked. She not gonna stop until you cum. I'm watching. Let her take her time. Oh, yeah, she's staying with us tonight. She and I will play for you later, maybe tomorrow, so you can watch. She'd like a ride back to San Diego. Think about it, while she sucks you dry. Yummy!"

I tried to think, but that was unexpectedly difficult as my engorged male member was being tickled by Lupe's tonsils, and slurped by her long, wet tongue. Round and round, head bobbing and thrusting, sucking hard, then lightly licking. Big black eyes mostly closed in pleasure, lips firm on my shaft and head, even lightly biting and nipping. Making throaty sounds, with little grunts of pleasure, as she stroked my shaft up and down. Her big light-brown tits, capped with surprisingly large auroleas and firm, hard nipples, swaying and swinging, pulled down by gravity.

Britt had really drained me good the previous night, and my afternoon with Martine had also, so it took Lupe over half an hour to get me erect and off, down her throat, as she swallowed my weak spurting few drops of semen with ease. Scream with release, and spurting cock, going rapidly limp again. Looking down at our new passenger, who looked back with a sleepy smile, She spoke with only a slight accent, "yeah, soooo good. I'd do that again, a lot. No, don' cover up. Let me see that beautiful cock. Don' mind if it's soft and small, I fix dat pretty soon, again."

Britt piped up from the cockpit, a grin in her voice. "Not if I get my little twat there first."

Lupe looked up, still holding my tiny used cock. "Anglo slut," she laughed.

Britt shot back, "Latina ho."

The obscene insults flew back and forth, interrupted by giggles, until Lupe leapt on Britt, dragged down her bikini bottoms, and fastened her oral vacuum lips on Britt's crotch. Britt's head snapped back, apparently as Lupe's tongue found Britt's clit. There followed considerable thrashing and mewling, until Britt's lips fastened on one of Lupe's nipples. Then it was time for Lupe to break the suction, arch her back, and let out a machine-gun rapid series of Spanish, until she shook, bounced off the cockpit seat and landed on the deck.

I'm still curious what that stream of rapid-fire Spanish meant, in translation. Lupe still won't tell me, even now.

Anyway, I suggested dinner in town for three, but that was vetoed by two naked nymphos in two languages. So I had to scramble for supplies, to feed one normal person and a two-girl barbarian raiding party ('first you rape; then you pillage; and THEN you burn'). So I somehow grilled two dozen sausages and artichoke hearts, plus warming a loaf of Italian bread, plus a 'salad' (a head of lettuce, cut up three ways, and eaten speared on a single chopstick, with dressing poured over it), plus a secret hot sauce that Lupe brought out of her bag ... I thought of trying to drink the Avalon City Water plant dry, for a while. My dear God, who on earth grows those hellish little peppers? This was capped off by a bottle of Chillian wine (very good, by the way).

And that was followed by the descent of full night from mere twilight, with each hand, arm, shoulder and side of my body cuddling a nude teen. I insisted on fetching two blankets from the cabin, one for each girl, shared with me. Both Britt and Lupe kept giggling, and re-arranging the covering wool fabric, theoretically so as to get the most warmth. Trouble is, each re-arrangement somehow exposed a breast, or a leg, or something else of a lewd nature. This went on for quite some time.

My trouble was being twenty years older, and having only recently been sucked off by a sexy female teen, from Latin America (Belize, I found out later), I just couldn't get it up. And I did so want to be up, so I could bury my manhood in both these sexettes and slow fuck them into multiple orgasms. But I just couldn't.

So I had to admit defeat, and hung my head in shame, my 'other head' already hanging down in limp noodle mode.

Then, I had my ears gripped by a couple of hands. A Caucasian grip on my left ear, and a Latina grip on my right ear. A couple of pretty faces pushed close. Alternating sentences somehow, I was told:

Britt: "So what?"

Lupe: "Das' right!"

Britt: "I don't care if it's soft, I'm gonna suck on it."

Lupe: "Give you A-1 First Class latina blow job."

Britt: "I'm gonn kiss and feel up Lupe while I do it.

Lupe: "I'm gonna kiss little bitch kitty here, and play with her clit."

Britt: "We're gonna lick you."

Lupe: "an' suck da balls."

Britt: "one for each of us."

Lupe: "an' den we lick each side of soft cock."

Britt: "While we run our hands all over your body."

Lupe: "Den we feel out each odder, some more."

Britt: "while you watch and play with yourself."

Lupe: "I eat her clit."

Britt: "I suck her tits."

Lupe: "You stick finger in her ass."

Britt: "You shove finger in her twat."

Lupe: "You play wit her boobs"

Britt: "You tug on her nips."

Lupe: "She cum lots."

Britt: "She cum lots."

Lupe: "Den we sleep."

Britt: "Damn straight."

Lupe: Raised her eyebrow, and winked at Britt.

Britt: Raised her eyebrow, and winked at Lupe.

Then they attacked me. See above, for further explanations.

I still don't understand girls. They slept together in my bunk, and I got the single berth just across from the marine head. The giggling and the slurping noises stopped fairly soon, and replaced by sighs and quiet snores. I drifted off, too, only to awaken at about 3:00 AM with a piss-stiffened boner, which I could only take care of on my knees. The pumping sound woke up Britt, who slid out of bed, crouched over to me, waited until the last drops, wiped my still-stiff organ clean, and then pushed me over on my back and mounted me, 'stiffy' sliding into her body with practiced ease.

I knew I couldn't cum ... that this was only a pee-hard-on ... and so I let her thrust and withdraw ... knowing that, sooner or later, it was going to go flat and soft again. No one was more surprised then me when, abruptly, an orgasm washed over me and I spurted another few drops of jism into my teen-lover.

Giggling, she said, "betcha didn't expect that one." From the other berth, I heard more giggles and the sound of quiet applause. I fell asleep again very quickly. I think that is what the world calls a 'quickie.'

Next morning, and, moving stiffly, looked out the companionway hatch at two energetic nymphettes in barely-there bikinis, animatedly plotting my total sexual destruction. After an over-careful shave, toothbrush and putting on of shorts and a shirt, I got out a black marker and a sheet of paper. Again, carefully, I wrote in large block letters: COMPLETELY FUCKED OUT MALE -- DO NOT EVEN TRY! I pinned this to my own chest. Strictly in self-defense.

Emerging from the cabin into the awful, bright Catalina sunshine, the two of them rolled to their feet, and advanced far enough to see me standing shakily, holding on to the boom. They read my sign, stuck out their tongues at me, and went back to sunbathing and plotting insurrection. I collapsed in the cockpit, my every move followed by two pairs of sharp black teen eyes.

I made Britt and Lupe fix breakfast, by the simple tactic of trying to stand up and falling down in the cockpit. That resulted in huevos rancheros, rolls with butter, sausage, home fries and juice.

Plus coffee for me. Made by Lupe, it was destined for the infernal regions: black as sin, hot as hell and strong as the devil. I don't think I'll ever drink American coffee again without thinking of somewhat diluted dishwater. It wouldn't just 'put hair on your chest;' it'd make you look like a shag rug.

Breakfast done, I retreated into the cabin, to get some more 'work' done, using the wireless connection to my laptop, now powered by the Smitten Kitten's main battery.

During my stay on the beach, before being drained by Martine, I'd issued a couple of command-type suggestions to a college-age assistant that I'd found in a school-bulletin-board ad. David Ewing had proved to be ideal, as he was the living essence of a geek, without being one in truth.

My researches had narrowed down to a trio of new hires for the company. One in the mail room, one in the personnel department, and probably the brains of the outfit, Lisa Montoya, a wizz-bang who'd been hired as assistant to the systems administrator for the company. She was smart, aggressive, bi-lingual, and ultra-competent, along with being stunningly attractive. I also discovered that she was amoral, sexy, fearless, and did her planning in detail and for the long-term.

Apparently the strategy was part of an industrial espionage and sabotage plot that she masterminded for two of our competitors. We were to be stripped of our best and brightest people, getting them labeled as sexual perverts and child pornographers, and making this information publicly known. Then, when these executives, managers and workers were on the brink of bankruptcy, after being fired and blacklisted, our two competitors would be able to snap them up for their projects, while paying them a lot less than they were worth.

As usual, when working with amoral people, Lisa overplayed her hand, and set up the imaginary person I'd created (with management's agreement and help), without ever personally checking to see if this person existed in the flesh, so to speak. My work there on Avalon beach, by the old Casino, narrowed my search to these three people, as the only ones having access to the physical workspace and to the computer access and passwords.

Running mostly on hunch, but surprisingly accurate, anyway, I had my part-time assistant, David, check out Ms. Montaoya's workspace. Despite having an online access to the near-total computing and storage power of the company, she had a neat pile of DVDs on her desk, in the back of a handy drawer. So David just came in after hours, lifted the whole pile, and took it home. Half an hour later (she didn't even use encryption or passwords), we had the whole plan, in terms of the pornographic pictures (BDSM and child—pretty nasty) placed on the ex-employee's disks, and the list of the people that she'd planned to destroy, blackmail and exploit.

It was the work of one night to substitute a 'special' employee list of my own, compile it with faked resumes and grossly-exaggerated salaries, and to put the rigged DVDs back in place (yes, in the same order, facing the same way, in the same stack order, in the same place in the drawer. We were careful).

We made sure—by re-aiming the security camera on that floor--that, when Ms. Montoya came in, we could see her gathering up the DVDs, which she simply slipped into a holder of blank DVDs, down in the bottom of the pack (there were only three). What we didn't anticipate—David e-mailed me—was that the order to re-position the security camera went through the system administrator's office, and, of course, right across her monitor (because the regular system administrator had been her last victim, and he'd been fired).

David reported that she hadn't been in a hurry at all. Picking up her purse, she went into the woman's restroom. About 5 minutes later, the cleaning person had emerged, and taken her cart over to the freight/service elevator. Calling this with the correct key, the cleaning person had entered, and punched for the service basement. Of course, this was Ms. Montoya. We would have been totally taken, if David and I'd not put a small beep-transmitter in the based of her DVD pack. By the time David exited the building, and ran around the corner, Ms. Montoya, now re-dressed as a heels-and-pearls executive, and had boarded the San Diego Trolley ... for the San Diego State University stop, and the end of the line, 'way out to the west of the city. Going the wrong way for flight to the border.

David had followed, puzzled but game. Keeping my instructions (for a 'loose' follow), he'd stayed at the train station, and been rewarded when a typical student strode in from the restroom, barely catching the trolley as it pulled out. Dressed in a white, button-up blouse, a denim mini-skirt and flat shoes, plus back-pack, she looked like a typical commuting Latina student from Chula Vista or National City.

But they rode to San Ysidro, at the border, and Ms. Montoya simply walked over the border into Mexico, and completely out of U. S, Jurisdiction.

Now on his own (he e-mailed), he followed, dependent on his pocket money, MasterCard and my promised expense reimbursement. Getting into a cab—and a conversation—with her, they both went to the local tour bus depot, and bought first-class tickets to Guadalajara, Mexico.

Now, this is where it starts getting crazy. Remember, David Ewing looked like a geek, complete with glasses, pocket protector, a little clumsy, not socially smooth. According to his e-mail, they took adjacent seats on the bus, in the rear, and before the bus had passed the downtown, Lisa Montoya was flirting full-steam-ahead with David.

By the time they were on the outskirts of Tijuana, proceeding over to the great southern desert and south, they were sexually teasing one another. Before another hour had gone by, she was bare-breasted, his trousers were open, and his cock was in her mouth. By the time the bus had settled into the steady run south to their destination, he was buried balls-deep in Ms. Montoya, and was thrusting into her, as she muffled her screams of orgasm with a small pillow.

He wrote me that they must have made penetrative lust-sex somewhere between twelve and fifteen times that night ... on that bus! He also discovered that, at least with her, he could re-charge completely every 30-minutes or so.