Erotica from Penthouse (26 page)

I took her in my arms, ready to forgive all. Feeling her against me was heaven. If ever anything was designed for pure pleasure, it was her body. But as I mounted her she once again stopped me. “Just a second,” she whispered. She had some cream in one of her hands. It was cold as she rubbed it up and down my cock—but I knew it would soon make the hotness inside her just that much better. “Oh God,” she said, rubbing the cream, “please be gentle.”

I got on top and was about to try to penetrate her again when she said, “Let me.” She guided my cock to the entry. “Easy,” she pleaded.

I sank into her, knowing now what had happened. She had inserted me into her anus. The idea did not please me but my cock rejoiced inside her and it was difficult to restrain it—it had a mind of its own now and what it wanted was a whopping good fuck. But I did it slow for a few seconds. Even then she was whispering urgently: “Easy, easy.” When I came, I corked-off royally, exploding into her.

Then I held her for a long time.

We docked at Nassau in the morning and said our goodbyes. I didn't know where I was going next but I knew I would always remember her: harking back to my days as a high school wrestler, I would remember her as the all-time one-hole-barred Greco-French mat experience of my life: The Virgin of the
Evening Star.

THE CASTAWAY AND THE PROSTITUTE

By Mike Durgan

I was on the bum in the Bahamas, just following the prevailing breezes and trusting to lady luck. I had stowed away on a cruise ship and gotten off in Nassau on New Providence Island, where would I meet the girl they called The Inch.

But on my first night in Nassau I was very much alone. I had no money for a hotel and like a true castaway slept on the beach. I crashed on the still-warm sand behind the sprawling British Colonial hotel, the dowager queen of the snot-class establishment. Although the moon was out and the palm fronds rattled gently over my head, the experience proved less than idyllic.

I was hungry as hell but the only eating done that night was by the sand fleas who gnawed me unmercifully. And while the sound of the ocean was all around me, my throat was dry as the Sahara—a condition much aggravated by the sounds coming from the bar of the British Colonial, where the tourists reveled into the wee hours of the morning. Nothing, it seemed to me at the time, carries in the night like the clinking of ice and the soft titter of female laughter. I, of course, imagined these women to be pretty and sexy and my spirit was not helped by the idea that they would be bedding down with other men. Lights flashed on in the rooms upstairs and I got an occasional eyeful of a pretty girl undressing or of clutching honeymooners. But no sooner did things get interesting than the lights went out. Worst of all was the open window on the second floor from which came the sounds of a young woman in the throes of ecstasy. It continued for a long time and it ate at my lonely heart. But I had to hand it to the fellow who was with her, for he had her hitting high Cs that could have broken glass.

No Oriental torture master could have devised a more cruel night.

The next day I sold a pair of old binoculars I found to a pawn shop on Bay Street. I only got $ 10 for them, but it was like stumbling on gold. I could eat and have a few drinks.

And that night I met the girl they called The Inch. Not wanting more flea-bitten misery on the beach, I had wandered away from Nassau, following my nose down a narrow, unlit road until I heard music and soon came to a place called Dick's the Cat and the Fiddle.

I walked in and was surprised to be the only white man in the place. I bought a bottle of Pauli Girl beer with my last dollar and leaned back against the bar. I was in an all-night joint where the Bahamian night people go—cocktail waitresses, bartenders, dancers, musicians, and whatnot—to unwind after work. The room was about a third full, some of the patrons still in the costumes of their trade: The air was heavy with cigarette smoke. A small steel drum band was playing and a girl on the floor was dancing by herself. She was so sexy she gave me an instant zing. But she was tiny. Even in heels she was not five feet tall.

“Cute girl,” I said to the fellow next to me.

“You'll be talkin’ at her in about two minutes,” he muttered.

“How's that?”

“Cause you a tourist and she a hooker.”

She was looking straight at me now and I was looking straight back. She danced like she was born to the beat of a drum. Her ass caught every rhythm and upstairs she was moving a small but very saucy set of sidewinders. She wore a micro-mini with a little cutoff top that barely covered what it was supposed to. Her exposed navel bobbed sensuously. It was as if each part of her body was mounted on separate bearings, everything moving to the same beat but in different directions. I never saw a girl move like that and she had as cute a face as I had seen in the islands. I was so turned on I would have sawed off an arm for her.

When the number ended she approached me, the top of her head coming about half-way up my chest. “You dance like a dream,” I said.

“I kin dance all night.” She was smiling and looking up out of big doll's eyes.

“I'll bet you can.”

And so we talked, exchanging names. Hers was Marvelanne, but everybody called her The Inch, she said, because she was so small. She undid one of my shirt buttons and wound a finger in my chest hair. “I be you girl tonight, Mike?” She said this very sweetly.

“That would be very nice. That would be the nicest thing in the world.”

“You got twenty bucks, mon, so I can feed my kid?” She whispered this.

“I'm staying at the British Colonial.”

“I can't go in there … but I know someplace we can go.”

“That's not the problem. I'm sleeping on the
beach
of the British Colonial.”

A small furrow creased her brow. She chewed a pretty lip. She looked at me carefully now, my unshaved face, my rumpled clothes. “Hey … you broke, mon?”

“I just blew my last buck.”

“Shit, mon.” There was real disappointment in her face. “Why you be wastin’ my time?”

Her words hurt and I turned away. “Sorry,” I said.

I heard her heels clicking away and pictured the hard-squeeze of her high-buttocked ass twitching above those heels. I huddled miserably over my beer. Fuck it then. I would just finish the beer and head out. I had to find someplace to sleep.

But where? I remembered passing a pair of parked dump trucks a half a mile down the road. Maybe one of them was unlocked.

I killed the beer and stood up. The Inch was sitting with another girl across the room, her crossed legs showing a fine milk chocolate thigh. She looked at me expressionlessly. I blew her a kiss and left.

Outside the night was muggy and breezeless. A mosquito sang in my ear. It was going to be another long night. I headed down the road toward the dump trucks.

“Hey, mon!” She didn't walk, she ran—a kind of kid's skip-jump run. She grabbed my arm in both her hands. “Hey, mon, you can't go sleep on no beach.”

“No?”

“No, mon,” she said, shaking her head. “I gone take care of you.”

Well, son of a bitch, I thought.

And take care of me she did. She got a bottle of Vat 19 rum and four cold cokes and we cabbed to the Paradise Hotel, a dilapidated run down hotel on the outskirts of Nassau. The room had plastic curtains, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, a small oscillating fan, a squeaky floor, and an even squeakier bed—the mattress little more than a pallet. But for me that night, it was paradise.

And The Inch was incredible. We made that bed squeak like a mouse, bark like a dog, and, before we were through, we had it shrieking like a caveful of bats, the feet of the bed whamming on the floor like we were tearing the hotel down around us. Oh, what a fuck that was! The Inch, hooker that she was, had a quince as tight as a choir girl and she could manipulate it like a milking machine. I came like a fire hose and fell back exhausted.

And then I could not believe what happened. The Inch was playing with herself! I never gave a girl a better fuck and there she was, her eyes glazed, her breath catching, three fingers in and really going to town with it, her palm whapping her clit, throwing her butt up to it. I thought I had worn her out, but there she was, masturbating right before my eyes.

I sat up and poured myself a rum and coke and watched her. God, but she was pretty. But crazy. Look at her go. I wondered if she even knew I was in the room anymore. She started to whimper and then it really got weird. She began to spank her pussy! She would three-finger herself like a dervish and then pull it out and spank herself with the other hand. But really spank herself. She would slap her cunt four or five good hard ones and then the three fingers would go back in. She began to toss around on the bed, whimpering and squeezing her tits, and then she spread her legs wide and again began to slap her pussy. Only this time she did not stop. She must have spanked it 20 times, harder and harder, sobbing and gasping, and then she got off.

She lay there panting and teary-eyed. I petted her. Her skin was the color of cocoa and soft to the touch. She purred quietly beneath my hand. As I did so I noticed an odor on her breath that I had caught before but not recognized.

It was iodine. Minutes later when she sat up and I fixed her a drink, she reached into her purse for a small bottle and added a few drops of iodine.

“You drink iodine?”

“It's good,” she cooed. “Make you high. Whooooie, baby, high as the sky.”

I stretched out on the bed as she told me how lots of girls on the island got high this way. She sat on the bed, lotus style, sipping her “New Providence Cocktail” and examining my equipment as if she had never seen anything like that before.

“Nice one,” she said. Her voice was changing, sounding more intoxicated. She tested the head of my cock with her fingers the way she might a mushroom cap at the market. It was almost full hard now and she held it at the base and waved it back and forth. “Pretty,” she said.

My cock sprang to attention and she rewarded it with three slow kisses. “Oh, honey,” I sighed, “suck it.”

She lifted her head. “No, no. The Inch don't do that.”

“What?”

“It rot you teeth you do that.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yes, yes. I know a girl do that all the time. She got very bad teeth. And don't none of us even talk to her.”

“Her teeth are bad for some other reason. Besides, it's good for your titties.”

“No.”

“Yes it is.”

“Nah.”

“I know three girls who had little ones till they started doing that,” I lied. “Two of them wear B cups now.”

“Nah …”

“The other wears a C cup.” My cock was throbbing. I put my hand on the back of her head to encourage her.

“People say bad things about girls who do that.”

“I'll never tell.”

“Just a liddle,” she said, almost whispering. I guided her head down to it and her bee-stung lips took it in deliciously. “Oh, yes,” I sighed, “that's beautiful.”

She made little humming sounds and sucked like an angel. She kept a perfect rhythm, never varying, building the friction, working as if she had gone into a trance with it. The oscillating fan played over my body, cooling me, while the heat in my cock rose, as I began to go into a trance, too, as if my whole being had gone into my cock, that lovely mouth sucking so fine, and I rose up in the sky, whooooie, as if I, too, were on iodine, up there on cloud nine. When I finally got off it wrecked me, folded me up as if what I had shot into her was my bone marrow. She tilted her head back and swallowed, went south with the starch, and I felt a kind of instinctive fulfillment to have put my seed so deep inside her. When I slept it was the sleep of perfect contentment.

I spent a week with The Inch (she actually liked being called that); she was a good sport and if ever there was a happy hooker it was she. She had an almost child-like happiness. She never told me where and how she turned her tricks and I never asked her.

She was away from four in the afternoon until two in the morning. She fed me and washed my clothes and gave me drinking money every day. Every night she fucked me like there might never be a tomorrow. Especially when she was high on the iodine. Then she was insatiable. And it was then that she spanked her cunt to orgasm and gave me those trance-like sucks. I remember the last night I was with her that she snuggled up to my ear, just before we fell asleep, and whispered that she thought she could feel her titties starting to grow.

I rewarded The Inch's goodness to me by dumping her. I landed job one day with the local newspaper, the
Nassau Tribune,
which put me into association with the island's upper-crust, a situation she could not be part of. Today I think of her often, always with regret, for she deserved better than she ever got from me.

FIRST INTERCOURSE, 1946

By Peter Duncan

In the 1940s, sex came a lot later in life for most Americans. I was 19, discharged from the USAF after World War II, before I lost my virginity—and my situation was not unusual, even for young men.

Men,
I say, but most of us thought of ourselves as boys. On a pass in the Barbary Coast section of San Francisco, just before I was discharged, a gang of us were cruising along the streets lined with girlie shows and bars—bars where those of us under 21 could not be served. I had fallen behind the group when a prostitute approached me. She was a striking, very tall mulatto wearing a turban, with a huge gold earring dangling from one lobe. “Wanna have some fun?” she whispered huskily. I swung my head around to find out to what
man
she might be talking. No one. She meant
me.
I blinked and ran back to the pack and told the others what had happened. We giggled about it. I don't think any of us thought we were old enough to do
that.

But in college, expectations were higher. You took one of the inscrutable coeds to a basketball game and went out for a Coke afterward. Then, in the sorority-house parlor, with the lights on but low, you could sit and neck on the sofas alongside all the other pairs, furtively feeling to see how far you could go until curfew.