“I liked to think,” his muffled voice continued, “that when you went home, you just couldn’t help touching yourself. You did, didn’t you?” His palm rubbed her shoulder possessively, and then slowly it started to drift inward. Casually he wrapped his hand around the lace-clad mound of her breast and fondled it, making her moan softly. “You touched yourself for me, darling. Didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she admitted in a shy voice, her flushed eyelids closed beatifically. It felt so naughtily freeing to say! Her nipples stood up so hard that they hurt, and Steven took to stroking them through the virginal white fabric of her wedding gown. She shivered helplessly as he caught the excited nubbins and worked them over between his knowing fingers and thumb. It was bliss.
She had thought that she never could confess such a dirty secret, but with her new husband suddenly even this—and perhaps more!—seemed allowable. “I did, Steven,” she continued softly, therefore. “I’d never done it before, but after you took me home and kissed me goodnight, I just went upstairs and climbed into bed and—and—and—” Cynthia swallowed. “And started touching myself… down there.”
She bit her lip, but when she glanced apprehensively at his hot face, his eyes were wild with desire. “I didn’t think good girls did such things…” he teased her, seeming to struggle visibly to restrain himself.
Cynthia blinked, blushing fiercely. “I did,” she whispered again.
Steven’s eyes danced. “It’s called masturbation,” he taunted in a naughty sort of glee.
For a moment she could only shiver there as he manipulated her springy bosom enthusiastically, more for his own enjoyment than for hers. “I know,” she whispered at last.
“Yes…?” he wondered, pinching her nipples encouragingly.
Cynthia’s breath caught in her throat, and her mouth worked soundlessly as her eyelids fluttered, heavy with the blood of arousal. Oh, those hands of his knew just what to do. “I masturbated!” she husked helplessly.
Grinning, the man molested her. “Mmm…?”
Shuddering, she found herself pressing on in a whisper, “M-m-my panties were always soaked, Steven—”
“Yeah?” he growled eagerly as he tortured the points of her breasts through her gown. “What did they smell like?” asked the excited man, tugging roughly upon her sensitive thimbles for emphasis. “Huh? Huh?”
“L-l-like cunt!” she could not help gasping.
His eyes flashed. “So my shy little blushing bride does know that word, eh…?”
“N-no!” she yelped instinctively. “I mean—” She blinked, feeling trapped. “Well, I…”
“Yeeees…?” he wondered in grand innocence as he strummed his splayed fingers back and forth across the peak of a nipple that protruded from beneath the fabric of her gown.
Cynthia bit her lip, aghast that she had said… that. But she had, and there was no getting around it. “I mean, l-like v-v-vagina,” she attempted in a whisper.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he corrected her, grinning. “That word is a thousand years old if it’s a day, and you had better get used to it. Regardless of what euphemisms or Latinate phraseology have been devised since, nothing else quite captures the, ah, essence of the matter like that ancient Anglo-Saxon monosyllable. Vagina is a line drawing in an anatomy textbook, but cunt is the real thing—soft and warm and hairy, plump and juicy, all sticky and smelly…” Eying her expectantly as he squeezed her soft bosoms, he prompted her again. “So your panties smelled like…?”
She licked her lips, embarrassed, but she simply could not deny him. “Like cunt,” she repeated quietly, squirming.
“Again,” he demanded, squeezing her breasts excitedly.
“My panties smelled like cunt,” she husked again, wickedly deliberate.
“I knew it,” he chuckled, “I knew it! Oh, I’ll bet they did!” Panting, he fondled her in the pleasant desperation of his mounting arousal. “Yeah,” he crooned, half to himself, his eyes glassy, “all slippery and warm and fishy…”
“That’s right,” Cynthia confirmed solemnly, her face burning. “And I just couldn’t w-wait to get my fingers down into them, and—”
“You couldn’t, huh?” he wondered dirtily, his hands wild upon her breasts. “So you wanted to masturbate? You wanted to be a bad girl? You wanted to come like a whore? Oh-ho, you dirty slut…”
“Yes, Steven,” she confessed eagerly, “yes!” Her entire body trembled as he pawed her. “I was your slut,” she said in slow-dawning wonderment, “and I didn’t even know it.” Her blue eyes shone joyous.
“Mm, all for me,” grinned Steven tightly, groping her. “My little teenaged virgin-whore, my slut, my cunt—all juiced up and smelly, wanting to frig herself off like a fucking animal…”
“Yes,” she gasped again, happily, “yes! I didn’t know why, but I just needed something down there.” Closing her eyes again, she said softly, “I couldn’t help touching myself, faster and faster… I always thought of you, Steven,” she hastened to assure him. “It—it felt so good.”
“Show me now, slut,” Steven growled, his fingers feverish on the chaste buttons of her lacy dress. He worked hastily to strip her bare right there in the car.
“Why, Steven!” Cynthia gasped in the false modesty that she had always had to show the world. But, flattered wildly, she made no move to cover herself. Eyes slitted, she lay back against the supple Martian boar hide as her new husband pawed her happily. She was so recklessly aroused. Pursing her lips, the girl reached silently beneath the rustling skirts of her wedding gown until she found the hidden flesh that brooded, musky and open, between her sweating thighs. Smiling serenely, she began to stroke herself there, silk-clad fingertips sunk in the wet pink flower of her innermost femininity.
Steven almost tore the upper part of the gown from her body in his excitement, his kisses falling upon her bared shoulders, her collarbone, and her neck. He drew back and stared for a moment at her right arm, the one which reached down under her prim skirts. Entranced, he watched the smoothly rounded muscles ripple beneath the long sheer glove as she fingered herself dreamily, her hand still coyly hidden. His deep brown eyes looked down into her sleepy blue ones—almost gratefully, she thought.
Then, panting, he reached his frank hands into her lacy brassiere and scooped the naked mounds of her innocent breasts right out. The tender flesh which no man ever had seen suddenly jiggled bare and naughty, her puckered pink-brown nipples standing up tight and erect before her husband’s red face. She looked down at herself for a moment, wonderingly—and then her mind reeled as his mouth dropped onto one, then the other, back and forth upon her forbidden treasures, hungry as a baby as he sucked and smacked and chewed, sending a powerful electric shock straight to her moistening crotch. Sighing, she played with herself ever more urgently.
As he feasted so passionately, so hungrily, so demandingly upon the thick, turgid peaks of her heavy young breasts, Steven pushed one hand down around the small of her back to fumble at the closure of her skirts. Cynthia wriggled around in the tanned Martian leather, trying desperately to accommodate his actions. She clutched his head to her bosom while the fingers of her other hand swirled shamelessly through the garden of smelly naked pink beneath her lower belly’s rounded triangle of golden fur. It felt so good.
Finally, he yanked the last tatters of her gown from her body, leaving her gloriously nude save for her long gloves and her sparkling wedding ring, her sleek stockings and her elegant high-heeled shoes, her choker of heavy pearls. She was suddenly conscious of being displayed like some succulent morsel to tempt even the most jaded connoisseur of the flesh. Ah, for that was what it meant to be a woman, was it not? Once upon a time, the shivering bride knew, lustful and decadent old men had owned girls such as her—actually owned them! Yet so had it been since the time of the grunting cavemen, the days of bearded Homer, the blue-jowled Romans, the dusky Rajput maharajas, the rule of the sultans of the Ottoman Turks. Perhaps even now the aloof architects of ancient Mars still kept harems full of such girls to glut the demanding lusts which, despite their cool and vast intellects, they still were rumored to have. God, the perverse thrill of thinking such a thing!
Honey-blonde tresses cascaded about her naked shoulders as she lolled back, knees shamelessly spread to expose her beckoning womanhood. Nubile wenches had been doing this for countless millennia, she knew, and would continue down through the ages, teasing and tantalizing, flaunting themselves, making simple predictable male beasts wild with desire. Perhaps men had the money and the cunning and the brawn, but between her sleek round thighs glistened the ultimate power that had lured entire empires to their doom. In a way, it was the only clout a slender little girl could exercise, and yet even then, its once-smug wielder was sure to end up on her back anyway, moaning as her soft, sweetly subjugated flesh was penetrated, possessed, and polluted in the most intimate way possible… Cynthia felt pretty and loved and wanted, wonderfully naughty. She prodded the slippery bud of her pulsing clitoris as she gazed languidly up at her husband.
“Is this what you wanted to see?” she husked as Steven drew back again to regard her supple young body gleaming white and sleek and rounded on the red-brown leather, her flesh caressed and framed by her remaining few garments rather than covered. This was what a whore did, she imagined—and now she was his willing whore. She reached down to spread her puffy labia wide open to his gaze while the bunched fingers of her other hand played knowingly across her most secret places.
“Ohhh, y-yeah…” panted her husband. “Touch it, slut,” he whispered. “Show me. Show me…”
“Of course, dear,” she replied dutifully, smirking as she performed for him.
Steven stood between her slim ankles, stooping so that his rakish black hair just skimmed the dark Venusian moss-velvet of the limousine’s ceiling. His fingers trembled as he shrugged off his shiny black swallow-tailed coat and worked hastily at the studs of his crisp white shirt. Once he had tossed off his shirt, Steven paused and licked his lips, watching her masturbate for him. He tried to steady himself, and Cynthia could not help but smile at the effect she had upon him. She slowed the fingertips which prodded at the exposed nubbin of her clitoris, trying to prolong his sweet agony, and her own. It felt good to be watched.