What Pam would have appreciated more than anything else, not only at
this moment but at any moment during their eight hours of steady
traveling, was something to ease the divine itch in her cunt. A
beautiful, hard, shiny, stiff prick, for instance. Failing that, a hot,
sucking mouth, a tenderly probing tongue that would pull the juice out
of her vagina and the nervous strain from her clitoris. Even a big
finger, warmed by the summer sun and slicked from dabbling in the
flowing lips of her pussy, plunging into the squirming tightness now
covered by folded cuntlips while a gentle thumb knowledgeably and
gently brought the joyous surge of released lust from her clit, would
have been enough.
But all she was getting was words. Lovely words, true. Words of
praise and recognition. But, while words of love and lust add to the
intensity of fucking, they mean nothing except when they are backed up
by something more solid.
“You know, of course, Pamela,” the professor was saying, “that your
part in this survey is just as important as mine.” He was driving with
unconscious skill, which Pam had mentally recorded as a plus in his
favor—a truly masculine attribute, she considered it. But he was
driving with both hands on the wheel. How much more masculine, she
thought, if he could spare one hand to rest between her thighs, to open
her zipper—no, she would gladly take care of that—to push and prod
with friendly interest between the fat and hairy cuntlips, into the
slick pinkness where her heartbeats seemed to meet as lip pressed
against lip.
Her mind hazy with desire, she made the effort to come up with the
trite response demanded by the trite statement.
“Oh, not really, John!” she protested. “I'm just along for the ride.
You needed someone to be your wife—to pretend to be your wife,” she
revised, “just so your interviews will seem to spring naturally from
the social context. And I was lucky enough to fill the bill.”
She pulled her bare feet up on the front seat, locking her arms
around her shins, pushing her ass further forward. Her lovely legs,
bared up to the cuffs of her corduroy shorts, might as well have been
encased in slacks, she mused rebelliously. She had chosen these
abbreviated pants because they showed so much of her rounded ripeness,
and left off her panties deliberately.
Peeping down to her crotch, she could even see a few blonde hairs
straying out from what was now a mere strap of corduroy snugged tightly
against her compressed outer lips. She thought bitterly of the
Berkeleian theory—learned so long ago in Psych Two—that if no one
sees a tangible phenomenon, it does not exist. My nonexistent pussy,
she thought sadly. But her mind listened to John's rejoinder to her
last remark.
“You have done so much more than just fill the bill, Pam,” he was
saying. “Without your courage, your knowledge, I might well have failed
in this project of mine before it got off the ground. To think of
myself, trying to gain the confidence of these people, using my own
pedantic tools of communication!” He laughed at himself indulgently.
Pam saw a ray of hope.
“You mean like saying vagina for cunt, penis for cock, and
intercourse for fucking?” she smiled, noting that his hands clutched
the wheel spasmodically as these lovely words came from her sweet
mouth. “That's nice of you to give such importance to a contribution so
small, John.”
She resisted an impulse to move against him, since this overt act had
been repelled emphatically earlier in the day.
Classified
New Travellers Companion
