26 Nights

by 26 Nights (Memoirs of a Contemporary Gentleman) [MF] (retail) (epub)

  Those moans rose in intensity and volume as Edna’s mouth did its work (abetted to what extent by our rhythmic motions I can’t really say). Then they rose to a shriek and died away. By then I was quite absorbed in the pleasure of what I was doing, and was only vaguely aware that Betty, after a minute, had pulled away from Edna and crept around behind us—until I felt something on my back. Touching me. Stroking … kissing …

  I leaped up as though Betty’s hands and mouth had been branding irons, turning to confront her, and hearing a groan of protest from the abandoned Edna.

  “No!” I bleated. “Damn it, Betty, you said you wouldn’t …” I faded out, feeling stupid, with my erection waving in the breeze.

  Betty reached for it. I pulled back.

  “I just want to touch it,” Betty said. “Oh, please, Steven. I just want to …” She reached again, this time with her mouth.

  A wise (if somewhat sexist) man once said that women have no sense of honor. There were times—such as right then—when I wished I didn’t either. I had to keep the image of Miss Greenglass firmly in mind to keep from giving in to Betty. On the other hand, I was also honor-bound to complete my liaison with Edna if I were not to forfeit my wager.

  “I just want to kiss it,” Betty pouted. “Kissing doesn’t count.”

  “It counts, it counts,” I growled hoarsely. “Edna—can’t we just tie her up or something?”

  “I have a better idea,” Edna said. “She can kiss me instead.”

  “But—” I started.

  “Be quiet,” Edna said. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Betty? Wouldn’t you enjoy that?”

  “Well, it’s not the same,” Betty said. Then she grinned. “But hell, it’s not bad either.”

  And in a moment Betty was lying on her back again, but this time the ingenious Edna was crouching over her face, lowering her crotch to the redhead’s eager mouth. Edna gasped as she made contact; then, with Betty well engaged, she beckoned me toward her.

  Standing astride Betty’s supine body I was well positioned to enjoy the ministrations of Edna’s fine, passionate and highly talented mouth. Not to mention tongue, lips and teeth.

  Edna groaned around my flesh as Betty pleasured her, and as she climaxed, the moaning and twitching of that wonderful mouth brought me higher and higher, until I too was pushed over the brink, spurting with splendid intensity into Edna’s sweetly gulping throat.

  Ah, women! Women! Who needs honor anyway?

  Chapter 6

  FORTUNE, MY FATHER USED TO TELL ME, IS acquired by dint of hard work, diligence and assiduity. And he was his own best example, having through those means acquired quite a sizeable fortune indeed—which he then passed on to me, with no effort whatsoever on my part. From this I learned three precepts which have stood me in good stead throughout my life; choose your parents with care; never work hard when you don’t have to; and beware of generalizations.

  However, even inherited wealth is not completely without its responsibilities. Although I delegate to others most of the labor of maintaining and enlarging the family firm and its ever-increasing profits, and never except on dire occasions actually visit its depressingly businesslike offices, I am still its nominal head, and as such must spend a certain amount of time pretending to guide and oversee its activities—a responsibility which I manage to discharge from an office in my home, with the assistance of my highly efficient and highly desirable amanuensis, Miss Greenglass.

  Aside from the tedium of actually having to apply oneself to business, this position has other drawbacks, one of them being that the success of the firm apparently gives me the aspect of a financial wizard, or at least some kind of expert on the business world. Consequently I am occasionally sought out by the media for a knowledgeable opinion, or even an interview, on the state of the economy or some such topic. Unless I am feeling particularly pontifical, I generally turn down these invitations, preferring to avoid anything connected with work whenever possible.

  Thus, when Miss Greenglass informed me that one of the local television stations had called with a request for a brief interview the next day on one of those late-afternoon “news” shows, which consist of a soupcon of news surrounded by an ocean of trivia, both she and I expected that I would decline handily.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Did an astrologer cancel out? Some diet book author have another engagement?”

  “It seems they want to get your views on the latest economic downturn,” Miss Greenglass reported. “It will only be a ten-minute segment, the booker said.”

  “Pass,” I said. But then a thought hit me. “Wait a minute—which show did you say this was again?”

  “It’s called More at Four,” Miss Greenglass said, indicating by her tone her not very high opinion of either the show or its title. I knew that tone well.

  “More at Four,” I mused. “Isn’t that the one Fern Forrester is on—you know, the sexy redhead with the cute lisp?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Miss Greenglass said.

  “I believe it is,” I said. I glanced at my watch; it was three-fifty. “We can check it out in a few minutes. This Fern lady is very attractive indeed. And as you know, I just happen to be in the market for an F lady right now.”

  Miss Greenglass raised an eyebrow. “Fern Forrester?” she said. “You don’t think that that’s her real name, do you, Mr. Walling?”

  “Oh no,” I groaned. “Here we go again. Look, I understand about nicknames not being proper names—I remember Betty all too well—but this is not a nickname, it’s—perhaps—a stage name, or whatever. Surely that counts. If Marilyn Monroe were still with us, would I have to put her under N for Norma Jean? A little common sense here, please.”

  Miss Greenglass sighed. “I suppose it’s a debatable point,” she said. “I shall leave it to your own conscience, Mr. Walling.”

  “Good,” I said, though I was not completely happy with that reply—as she had no doubt foreseen.

  A few minutes later I found the remote that operated the television set in a corner of the office, and tuned it to the desired channel. “Ah yes,” I said as the program began. “That’s the lady, all right.”

  Fern Forrester shared the anchor desk with one Larry Brewster, a fellow with a teased toupee and a perpetually sardonic expression. Fern’s hair was reddish blond—at least this season—and she had a marvelous set of cheekbones, a ripe mouth and what appeared to be a sleek, well-engineered body, although most of the time only the top half of it was visible behind the desk. Watching her did nice things for my hormones, and I saw no reason why, given her first name and my fortuitous means of access, she should not be the next step in my progress toward winning my wager with the even more delectable Miss Greenglass.

  “You may tell More at Four that I will be happy to appear on their estimable program,” I said to her. And with that I decided I had done enough work for one day.

  The following afternoon I arrived at the television studio shortly before the program was to start. The producer quickly turned me over to Larry Brewster, who proceeded to ask me what questions he should ask me on the show. It was evident that his knowledge of the subject was about as abundant as his hair. When he had written down my suggestions, I mentioned casually that I would be pleased to meet his lovely co-anchor. He shrugged briefly, and pointed to a small vanity table to one side of the set, at which sat Fern Forrester herself.

  “Behold the queen,” he sneered.

  Thanking him for his courtesy, I strolled over. Fern was applying last-minute touches to her face and hair, which already looked perfect to me.

  “Miss Forrester,” I said. “So nice to meet you. I’m Steven Walling.” I explained why I was there, throwing in a compliment or two along the way. She didn’t look at me; her eyes never left her own face in the mirror.

  “Well, I’m glad Larry has to do you,” was the first thing she said. “Usually I get all the dull stuff.”

  “Um—yes,” I said, smiling, although she didn’t
notice. “But I’m not always that dull, you know. I can be quite charming, actually. I’d like to show you. Perhaps if you’re not busy we could have a drink after the show.”

  “In your dreams, fella,” she said flatly and, still without looking at me, got up and walked away. Her legs, I saw, were as luscious as the rest of her.

  I turned to see Brewster, who had wandered over unnoticed. He was smiling his most sardonic smile, which made me want to knock his toupee off. “Sweet girl, isn’t she?” he chuckled. “Want some advice?”

  “From you?” I said. “I don’t think so, thanks.”

  He shrugged again. “Tell you anyway,” he said. “Try her after the show. Whole different story. Once she’s in front of the camera she gets so hot she’ll fuck a wino. The bitch.”

  I wondered if Brewster was speaking from experience, but I wasn’t about to ask him. However, I decided to hang around until the program was over, just in case.

  I watched the show on an offstage monitor as I waited for my segment. On camera, Fern seemed a different person—warm, open, charming and apparently unaware of the sexuality that came so strongly through the screen.

  The producer came by to tell me that my segment would be next. “Quite a gal, isn’t she?” he said when he saw me watching Fern.

  “Indeed,” I said. “Tell me, is Fern Forrester her real name?”

  He laughed. “No way. She was born Frances Malzetech. And she’s not the twenty-seven she claims to be either!”

  I didn’t care about her age. But I was glad she was a genuine “F,” and that neither I nor Miss Greenglass would have to worry about my conscience.

  My interview went smoothly, and no doubt just as boringly as Fern had anticipated. I watched the rest of the program. Near the end, while some giggly clown was doing the weather report, Fern came off the set for a moment to check herself in the mirror again. She saw me standing nearby.

  “Still here?” she asked, looking at me closely for the first time. There was something different about her. Her eyes were glowing. Her skin was flushed under the makeup. She almost gave off sparks.

  “I enjoyed watching you,” I said. “You’re very … professional.”

  “Well, thanks.” She sat at the mirror and started poking at her hair.

  “About that drink …” I began.

  She looked at me again swiftly. “What do you want, fella?” she said. “You want to screw a TV star?”

  “Well …”

  “Sure you do. Everybody does. You wait right here. I’ll be back.”

  I waited right there. I watched on the monitor as she and Larry did a little cutesy patter as they closed out the program. Before the credits had stopped rolling, she was beside me. “Come on,” she said. “Follow me.” And walked away before I could say a word.

  I thought probably I should be offended at her attitude, and for a brief moment I thought of just walking out of there. A very brief moment. Watching the elegant carriage of her slender body and the shapely lines of her long legs, my groin throbbed. Of course I didn’t like her much, but my groin didn’t care about that. I followed her.

  She took me to her dressing room, which was small and cluttered. There didn’t seem to be much room for sexual activity. But it was bigger than the dressing room at Brooks Brothers, and I’d done all right in there. I noticed a lot of mirrors around. Aside from the dressing-table mirror, there was a full-length looking glass on one wall, and a smaller one hanging on the back of the door, plus a few others here and there. Fern closed the door and locked it. Then she turned to me, looking me up and down. “Okay,” she said. “This is your lucky day. Take your clothes off while I get rid of some of this makeup.” Just to show some independence. I didn’t start stripping right away. I leaned against the wall and looked around while she sat at the table and started removing her TV makeup. “When you brushed me off before,” I said. “I took you for the frigid type.”

  “Well, usually I am, dear,” Fern said. “I don’t want you to think I’m a nympho or anything. But I do get hot after a show. Damn hot. Ask anybody around here.” She smiled at me in the mirror, a twisted smile, but her eyes were burning. I figured I had shown my independence sufficiently, so I began to undress.

  “You know why?” Fern asked, although she didn’t wait for me to reply. “Because when I’m on, I know that men—hundreds, thousands of men—are watching me and lusting for me. It’s true, you know. Men tell me that. And they write to me about it. Not just weirdos, either. All sorts of men. They watch me on the air and they think about fucking me. Sometimes they sit there and jerk off, watching me. When I’m on camera and I think about that, I get hot as hell. My nipples go all hard and I get wet between my legs. Then, afterwards, I have to have somebody. I just have to.”

  I took my pants off. “So you latch on to whoever’s around,” I said.

  “Don’t be nasty, dear.” She stood up and faced the full-length mirror. “You’re getting what all those men only dream about. They strip me in their fantasies, imagining how it would be to see me take my clothes off.” She raised a hand to her dress and began to open the buttons down the front, then slipped the dress off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Her figure in the bra and panties was fuller than I expected, but the overall effect was still one of slender elegance. My cock stood up to show its appreciation. But she wasn’t looking at me. She was staring at her own reflection. Her hands brushed over her body, lightly caressing it. Then they reached back for her bra catch.

  “They would give anything to see what my breasts are like,” she murmured. And took off the bra.

  They were terrific. Perfectly round, with hard brown nipples. She touched them. Her eyes never left her own body in the mirror. Neither did mine. I dropped my shorts.

  Fern took off her panties. “They dream of seeing me naked,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Look, I’m naked. This is my naked body.” She moved closer to the mirror, until her nipples touched the glass, then pressed herself against it. A tiny gasp came from her throat. For a moment I thought she was going to kiss herself in the glass. But then she moved back a few steps. Still gazing at herself as if in a trance, she slid a hand down over the front of her body. Her legs moved apart slightly and her fingers went between them. “Look at me naked,” she moaned, stroking herself. “Fern Forrester, naked.”

  I had the feeling she wasn’t talking to me any more, but to the unseen hordes of lusting TV viewers. I wasn’t even sure she knew I was still there. But the throbbing in my groin told me I was there all right. I moved forward and reached for her. At my touch, she gave a start. Then she pressed herself back against me.

  “Fuck Fern,” she said breathlessly. “Fuck the TV lady.”

  “That’s the idea, all right,” I said, rubbing my hardness against her smooth derriere.

  “Wait,” Fern said, pulling away. She reached for her dressing-table chair and swung it around so it faced the full-length mirror. “This way,” she breathed. “Sit down. Sit down here.”

  I sat. There was no bed or couch in the room, so the chair was probably as comfortable a place as any. I assumed she would straddle me face-to-face. Instead, she lowered herself into my lap with her back to me. Of course—that way she could still see herself in the mirror. All of herself.

  She sat down on me slowly, her thighs spreading wide, and as she moved back against me she reached down between them, found my stiff penis and guided it into her descending pussy. We both gasped as it slipped into her. Her tight warmth slid down over me like a custom-fitted sheath.

  Fern hissed with pleasure. “Ah,” she said. “Ahhh. Oh. Ahhh.”

  “I agree,” I said. And I did.

  Fern spread her legs as far apart as they would go, which let me slide more deeply up inside her. It also gave her—and me, over her shoulder—a good view in the mirror of my cock stabbing into her vagina. In fact, the view of her whole body in that position was pretty spectacular.

  Her hips began to squirm as she gazed at t
he reflection in front of her. I encouraged her by pumping myself up and down slightly, and she took the hint and began a slow movement, rising and falling rhythmically.

  “Look,” she breathed. “I’m fucking. I’m fucking you. Ohh … oh, look how beautiful …”

  It was beautiful, with her sleek body in motion, her breasts quivering, her legs open to show the long stretch of her inner thighs. She watched herself as she fucked harder. I reached around her to put a hand over her breast and rubbed the hard nipple, bringing a moan from her. I slid my other hand down over her stomach to her moving pussy.

  She inhaled sharply when I touched her little button, and then moaned again as I gently brushed my fingers across it. I continued to explore that sensitive area, while with my other hand I played with her breasts, squeezing and stroking them and twiddling the nipples. Fern’s breathing became harsh and she began to move harder. My own breath was coming faster, and I moved with her as much as I could beneath her writhing body.

  “Uhh …” Fern gasped. “Unnh … Aaahh …” Her movements got jerkier, and I knew she was on the way. I brought my head forward and licked at the skin of her shoulder, suppressing a desire to sink my teeth into it.

  “God, I’m … I’m going to come …” she panted. “Oh, look … I’m coming … watch me come … ooh … watch Fern come … Aaahh … Unnnhh … Aahh …! Look at me … aaahhh!”

  I watched her, and she watched herself. Her hands clutched at my legs and her body spasmed once, twice, three times. Her mouth was open and gasping. Her eyes never looked away from the mirror.

  She went limp then, slumping in my lap like a deflated plastic doll, with my hard cock still inside her. I had held off to give her her orgasm, and now it was my turn. But Fern didn’t seem interested. I gave her a few moments to recover, but the occasional involuntary twitch of her pussy kept me on the edge. I moved my hips suggestively. No response. I fondled her nipple and licked the back of her neck, trying to raise some interest. Fern only made a noise that sounded like a sigh.