Erin Halfelven writing as Morgan Preece
Richie is offered a deal he can't refuse.
by Morgan Preece
Girl-Next-Door #1: The Rooster
Richie Gallo caressed the pale thighs of his girlfriend with one hand while he ran the thumb of the other along her soft rounded chin. Her blondeness spilled across his wrist, her slim body pressed against him. The blonde breathed in his ear, cooing, "Oh, Richie." Her Nordic face contrasted with his olive-skinned hand, her soft body with his hard muscularity.
The scarred knuckles and black hair on the back of his hand also seemed at odds with his soft gray business suit. The gleam in his deep brown eyes, the twist of the smile on his full Mediterranean lips contradicted the carefully shined shoes and precisely combed hair. Richie Gallo projected aa barely controlled violence even in the tender movements of what he might have thought of as foreplay if he had ever heard of foreplay.
The hotel room was clean if not luxurious. The air, almost cool inside, still hinted at the lingering heat of a long Midwestern summer outside. Heat from the windows seemed to press against exposed skin, all the warmer for the erratic drafts from the air conditioning. The cheap perfume he had given her added to the heat, and he liked her to wear a lot. His male-animal scent reminded her of other quick assignations, making love in the back seat of limos, in the offices of liquor warehouses, in a storeroom in Comiskey Park.
The blonde shuddered in frustrated anticipation. When her lover had asked for a downtown rendezvous in a State Street hotel, she had naturally assumed there would be more in it for her this time. "Ain't'cha got time for more than a blowjob, honey?" The pout in her voice made the delectably carmine lips tremble. Her blue eyes swam with unshed tears. She felt his one hand lifting the hem of her simple white sundress while the other tilted her head up for a surprisingly savage kiss. Sometimes he bruised her mouth that way, but he never apologized unless you thought of Ulysses S Grant as a sort of apology.
"Nah," He grunted after the kiss. "Got to leave for a meeting with a fixer in ten minutes. No time to get naked." His accent proclaimed his origins in Chicago's slums, his education in the back alleys and warehouses of the Southside. Richie smiled, pulling her dress to her waist with both hands now. "No time for me to get naked."
"Oooh!" She squealed, stepping back as he snatched the white dress off over her head. She felt a little relieved, last time he had ripped it off her. She wore no bra, he didn't like her to wear a bra. He said she didn't have enough up there to need a bra. Her B-cup boobies bounced from the sudden movement. Her nipples crinkled in the cool of the sudden draft and her face flushed in the heat of embarrassment. Staggering slightly from the violence of her disrobing, she could not resist as he pushed her into a kneeling position. Her long, smooth, white stockinged legs folded under her and her lacy, nude, bikini panties rested on her high heels.
"Get busy, doll," he ordered. His strong blunt fingers tangled in her stylishly tousled blond locks and pulled her head close to his crotch, forcefully enough that her teeth made a small clicking noise when he stopped her head at the desired distance.
She had learned not to protest. Besides, Richie paid for torn dresses and generously compensated her for bruises as well. She had quit her job on his orders and over her mother's protests. She still lived at home, though, and spent most of the money he gave her on clothing and jewelry and beauty shops.
She shook back the bracelets she wore on each arm, jingle-jangle. Then Zzzp! as her French manicured nails lowered his zipper and deftly freed his cock from the pale blue boxers. She brought his already stiffening manhood out to the big round O she had made with her mouth. She moistened her True Red lips and then worked her tongue to lick his prick as she took him all the way back into her throat. She hummed as she worked. She used her swallowing muscles to pull him into her, suppressing the urge to gag. She held her breath, and she pumped her face, six, seven, a dozen times. He came into her hugely, salty and tasting of bleach. She swallowed again, hating this part, certain that Richie insisted on her swallowing because he knew that she hated it.
"That's good," he murmured. "So good." He handed her a tissue from the box on the hotel dresser. "Wipe me off, doll," he ordered. A bit of cum escaped the corner of her mouth, but she did not use the tissue to dab at it. A pink tongue made the cum disappear then she shrugged and cleaned him off, finishing by zipping him back up. He smiled at her pouting face as she retrieved her dress. "You mad at me, baby?"
"Whadda you think?" She tried not to whimper but her frustration at being treated so crunched her vocal cards, squeezing out into her voice. This was part of the routine also, the frustration, the humiliation then the taunts, the threats, the tease. Even knowing what was coming she could not stop herself. When Richie did hold her and make love to her, with his cock inside her and his mouth on her breasts, her lips.... When he took the time to do it right and again and again, holding off his own orgasm until she screamed for him to cum into her.... When he wanted to be, Richie Gallo was the best lover she had ever had.
"Hey! -- Hey!" he snarled suddenly. "You mad at me?" His hands gestured, expressively, explosively. "Are you mad at me!?"
Flinching, she backpedaled, "No, Richie! No, honey!" The flimsy white cotton held in front of her made her nakedness more revealing. "You know I ain't mad at'cha." She spoke in the careless accent of the high school dropout, Richie liked her voice, the way she talked. Usually.
"Yeah? I know that?" He might have been mollified; she couldn't tell. Pulling a pair of fifties from his pocket, he tossed them carelessly toward the floor. Her eyes followed the fluttering paper involuntarily, and Richie smiled, knowingly. "Give me the dress," he ordered.
"What, baby?" she started. But he had already acted to snatch the scrap of fabric from her hands. Taking a white trash bag up from the trash can beside the hotel room desk, he stuffed the dress inside. "Whatcha gonna do with the dress, honey?" She wanted to cover herself suddenly, somehow realizing that her nakedness had taken another quantum jump. The nude panties, white stockings, white high-heeled sandals, the bracelets, the rings and the hoops in her ears and the cultured pearl necklace might as well have been gone also.
"Shaddap." He turned to the door, gesturing with the bag in his left hand. "You stay here till I come back -- understand?"
"You don't gotta take my dress, Richie. I'll stay, you know I'll stay. I'll wait for you." She bit her lip, hoping to avoid this new humiliation but hoping she would not provoke him to something more physically threatening.
"Yeah, you'll wait. You'll wait for me here, and I'll know that you're here, waiting, naked." He smiled, white teeth and twinkling eyes showing a flash of the charm that had first attracted him to her. Her heart leaped. Oh, it was a game, a lovers' charade! He would be back, having thought of her all the time he was gone, thought of her waiting for him, thought of her nakedness. Her nipples crinkled again, and she smiled back at him, open, whole-hearted, vulnerable as a virgin.
"Gimme your panties, too," he ordered. She complied, eagerly, her upset forgotten, her mood turned willing. Her blonde twat had been depilated to a small heart-shaped patch of bush above her clit. He stuffed the panties in the bag then took her purse also, placing it on top. "Get on the bed and stay there." She did, waving the roundness of her pink ass at him deliberately. He was obviously enjoying setting up the second half of their tryst, and she wanted him to know that she was too. "Don't use the telephone, they charge for even local calls here, I'll know. And if that damn TV is on when I get back, I won't come in. You'd better be laying right there, your legs spread." He still smiled, but his eyes no longer twinkled.
She maintained the illusion of a complicated love game as long as she could, while he strained it to shattering. "Don't touch the money, bitch. It better still be laying there when I get back. You ain't earned it yet. And no room service, you just ate, and I want you hungry later." He left, taking the bag with him. She lay on the bed, naked and afraid to start crying.
Thinking about her nakedness waiting for his return gave him a swagger in his step and a chuckle in the back of his throat. Unfinished business, he'd come back in an hour or so and nail her to the mattress. She'd be so grateful she'd forget again that she was nothing but his whore. Or maybe he'd sell the bag of clothes to the black fixer his "Uncle" Carmine had asked him to see. Or just throw it in one of Mayor Daley's slogan-covered trash cans.
* * * * *
Half an hour later, Richard Gallo sat in the deliberately dimmed office of August Maxim, Attorney at Law. "You know my appetites," said Richie. His dark features, sharpened in the light from the desk lamp, made his smile seem more than wolflike. "I wouldn't want to get -- lonely." He placed the knuckles of his right hand on the polished oak of the attorney's nine-foot monument to status in a gesture not so much aggressive as proprietary.
"I assure you, Mr. Gallo. My clients have no intention of causing you any sort of distress. Your comfort and satisfaction are part of the bargain." He eyed the invading appendage with some offense but took no counter-action. A slender, Afro-American man in his middle fifties, August Maxim did not pick fights with thugs twenty years younger than himself. Inwardly sighing, he looked not at the hairy knuckles but at the wide-set brown eyes in the darkly handsome face. A face marred slightly by a nose just a trifle too hooked and a jawline that showed signs of incipient jowls. He smiled, being careful to keep any hint of patronization from touching his own lips or eyes.
"Ah, but prison," Gallo went on. "You know, there aren't any women in prison and I ain't bent the other way." He rapped the deeply polished desktop once, sharply. The sound seemed louder than it might have in another room. The quiet taste of the woods and natural fibers, the authentic African textiles and carvings, seemed to demand reasoned discussion without pathos or comedy.
His suit is off the rack, thought Maxim. He drinks mass-produced American beer. He smokes cheap, generic cigarettes and sleeps with prostitutes. Maxim kept such an imaginary running catalog on everyone he disliked to remind him of how deserving they were of his disdain. But the inward mantra only strengthened the steely gentility of his voice and manner. "Really, Mr. Gallo, no one said anything about prison."
"Yeah, well, no one said anything about gambling, fencing, loan-sharking, prostitution or drugs either but I think we both know just what we're talking about, here." Gallo waved a florid hand and lifted the trespassing knuckles to spread them as further punctuation. He knew he looked like a Joe Pesci character when he did that but it's only because we're both Italian, he told himself. Richie Gallo had used the cheap hood act as disarming camaraderie and subtle threat for so long now that he wasn't sure if he had invented it or borrowed it from some Quentin Tarantino movie. But Richard Gallo needed to upgrade his act. That is, if he decided to sign on to the deal August Maxim was offering.
"I would prefer that we kept the discussion centered on the items actually under consideration," Maxim steepled his fingers in front of him, symbolically reclaiming his desk.
The smile that accompanied this gesture and the mild rebuke could have offended no one. Diplomacy Augie Maxim had learned as a skinny black kid in an otherwise all-white Catholic school nearly forty years ago. His skill he had refined through law school, the public defender's office, the district attorney's office and as a one-term appointee to the state assembly.
Now he had a lucrative private practice, crossing legal t's and dotting regulatory i's for wealthy, if sometimes unsavory, citizens. His contacts, going back to that private religious school in the Indianapolis suburbs included many whom August Maxim regarded as his social inferiors. His private conceit did not prevent him from maintaining valuable relationships with goons, bigots and hypocrites with a precisely titrated respect for their own self-perceived worth.
When Mr. Daniel Lord had asked for a stalking horse and had specified that he would prefer an Italian one, Augie knew which schoolground chum to call. Personally, Maxim thought the ethnic touch the inspiration of a bigot who believes that everyone is just as bigoted as himself. But he said his mantra, Mr. Lord is forty pounds overweight and half-a-foot undertall. He has varicose veins and liver spots. He voted against FDR twice and for him once. He has three bored mistresses, two rich ex-wives and the current Mrs. Lord sleeps undisturbed all night long. Then he called Carmine Sciaparelli, and Richie Gallo arrived gift-wrapped.
"A full partnership in Lord's rackets," Gallo worked his jaw back and forth on that one.
"A managing partnership in Lord Enterprises and Entertainments," Maxim corrected and amplified.
"For nothing," said Gallo.
"For one dollar and other valuable considerations," said Maxim.
"It's got to be he wants someone to go to jail for him. The feds're after him for racketeering. Right?" Richie eyed Maxim to gauge his reaction. Gallo admired the black man's imperturbable finesse but felt compelled to try to rattle the smaller man with his own bluntness. Richie's concept of manliness demanded that he rise to the challenge. It had to be the sweetest deal he had ever hoped to be offered though, from soldier to gang-boss in one move, like the promotion of a chess or checker piece. "How long we talking about here, five years, ten?"
Maxim managed to look baffled by the question while conceding the relevance and importance of his answer. "The district attorney would certainly seek a longer term if any indictments were to arise out of Mr. Lord's activities. However, we believe that a -- pre-arrangement -- with well-placed friends of business will result in lesser charges and lighter punishments. For one thing, we will choose when to bring things to a head, and we will keep proceedings in the state courts. If someone were willing to accept full responsibility, Mr. Lord would use everything in his considerable legal armory to protect his friends from undue and overlong confinement."
Richie spent a moment untangling that. He nodded, it smelled legit, a straight offer from a man with a rep for straight dealing. Lord had been smart to make the offer through a guy like Maxim. "Uncle" Carmine had assured Richie that Maxim could be trusted. Still, no one respected someone who simply rolled over and did as he was told. Gallo felt like being terse, he pretended to an anger he did not feel, "Money? I take a fall and come out to find my partnership is worthless, hah?" He bristled convincingly.
It did not matter to the lawyer if Richie's anger were real or faked. "I assure you that were Mr. Lord contemplating such treachery I would know and would not be a party to it." Maxim projected cool, mild offense. "Carmine can enforce my guarantee for you."
Impressed all over again, Richie could almost admire the black attorney's macho, volunteering to face Carmine for any failure. Richie needed to counter with his own claim to extreme masculinity. "What about my needs, there still ain't no women in prison, and I can't wait for no conjugal visits, once a month or whatever? I need a woman when I need her, sometimes two, three times. An hour," Gallo smiled, enjoying the bragging.
"A suitable substitute can be found..." Maxim began. Richie interrupted. "I told you I don't bend that way. You talking about some fairy thinks he's a woman, right? I don't fuck fruits. If it has a dick and balls, it's a man."
August shuddered invisibly at the vulgarity, but he recognized a bargaining opening when he heard one. "No, Mr. Gallo, we wouldn't expect you to. But what would you say to a lovely young lady with only a very small phallus, enough to qualify her for incarceration in a men's prison in the eyes of a well-paid doctor and no testes at all, but a functioning vagina between her legs?"
"Hanh? Pussy and a dick?" Richie felt intrigued in spite of the mild revulsion he the idea inspired. He'd had a woman with an enormous clit; once, in New Mexico, it had been a memorable experience because she went absolutely wild in bed.
Maxim moved in for the close. "What else do you want in a womanly companion? Blonde, brunette, redhead?" August felt real distaste for his own skill in making that offer, but he knew Richie's tastes, a profile that had come from Carmine with the package.
"Blonde," said Richie, "natural blonde." He licked his lips.
"Of course," agreed August. "How tall? What sort of build? Slender? Buxom?"
Richie looked at him curiously; the dark little man seemed positively clerkish. "Which one are you, Sears or Roebuck?"
"Hardly. This is custom far beyond their ability to supply," Maxim replied dryly. Not unaware of the savage incongruity of a black man dealing in human flesh, he also knew how commonplace the irony had become in most big cities.
"Cute. You can take a joke," Richie smiled, appreciatively. He licked his lips again; his mouth seemed dry. Somehow, he knew that he had already decided to do this thing, to go to jail for the fat, aging, gang boss and spend his nights fucking some ersatz woman. On one level he disgusted himself, on another he felt charged. The heaviness in his pants did not surprise him; he had not exaggerated his sexual appetite much, just talking or thinking about sexual encounters made him horny. But how to get out of this with his self-respect?
"What would your ideal woman look like, Mr. Gallo?" Maxim asked again.
Richie sighed. He considered the woman waiting nakedly in the hotel room for his return. He numbered her shortcomings, too tall when wearing the heels he liked to see on women, too flat-chested, too whiney. He really would nail anything in skirts, but one particular look satisfied him most. "Three, four inches shorter than me when she's wearing heels, slender waist but she's got to have tits and an ass." He outlined a coke-bottle shape with his hands. "I mean, built like one of them exotic dancers at Lord's Ladies, y'know?" He gestured again, holding imaginary milk jugs in front of him. "But not fake looking, no scars on the titties and soft ones, not hard like plastic. Long blonde hair past her waist, a real blonde, blue or green eyes, fair skin." He decided to be overly complete in his description, describing a fantasy woman that it might be impossible to deliver. "Full lips, big eyes, a turned-up nose, and a soft chin. Young, a teenager if you got one, with a high, sweet, little-girl voice." He smiled.
August nodded. He had known all that, but he had to get it right from Richie, himself. Maxim felt appalled at how parallel their tastes were and how common. August felt ashamed that his own fantasies involved busty white women but blamed it on the over-developed young Polish girl who had initiated him into the mysteries back in their senior year in high school. Little Augie's Slavic Madonna had forever set his erotic preferences, with his ambitions, on the same road as many of his white classmates when she had cornered him in the hallway between the music room and the gymnasium. She had wanted to satisfy her curiosity about him, about black men and the differences she had heard about.
In the quiet of the unused music room, on a piano bench, seventeen-year-old Augie had lost his virginity to the eager twat of the bad girl from Bloomington. His hands still remembered the vanilla sweetness of her lips, the imagined milk filling the softball-sized white globes on the chest of his first lust. The excited, guilty, hurry, hurry, hurry lovemaking. The fumbling on his part and the practiced, deft, assurance on her part. They had come together in darkness and in youth, where color should not have made a difference. But it did, it still did, it always did.
Augie, now past fifty, brought himself back to the present problem. "I think we can meet your requirements," he said, blandly. His wife, Cuban-born, a shade lighter than himself and more slender than most models, had no idea what fantasies he indulged in on those nights when he sensed the need to rouse a passion he did not always feel for his delicate, cinnamon-skinned, dark-eyed, Afro-Latin spouse.
"Another thing," Richie added, warming to his own fantasy. "She's got to be a virgin, she can't ever have had a man before, okay? I'll be her first." He smiled, "I'll make a woman out of her myself."
Maxim smiled, "Difficult but not impossible." When the client asked for more and received it, the deal had been set. He pushed papers at Mr. Gallo, "If you'll just sign here."
"One more thing," asked Richie, before signing. He knew he had to push it, somehow. He had to get more, not out of greed but out of pride, pride that sprang from his street origins and the fear a young boy could feel, the fear of those more powerful than he. Signing now left him on the weak end of the deal. What "one more thing" could he ask for, he had spoken before he had thought. "Can I have two? Two women?" Women? The question in the single word reverberated in his mind.
"Almost certainly, Mr. Gallo," responded August, still smiling. "I think that can be arranged, also."
"Yeah?" Richie signed quickly then sat back, wondering. "How you going to do this?" He gestured, an open-handed self-parody.
"We have a source," said Maxim, inspecting the paperwork. The hoodlum had surprisingly beautiful penmanship whereas Mr. Lord's signatures were illegible scrawls.
"What about access, I mean, when I want a fuck, I want it now. I heard about prison; they keep the flamers locked up separate. These girls ain't going to do me no good I can't get at them." Richie's hands drew bars and grasped them and shook them.
Maxim nodded benignly. "You'll be in high-security lock-up, yourself. The girls will be right next door."
"Yeah? Um. When can I expect delivery on my partnership-- and the charges?" Gallo asked, fidgeting. Richie felt threatened, wondering if he had made a bad deal. Something, he had to do something to prove to himself that he still had more balls than anyone even though he had just made a deal to sleep with fairies for five or ten years. He spread his fingers in front of his own indecisive frown in unconscious imitation of Marlon Brando.
"You become Vice President of L.E.E. when you leave this room. The other, one day soon, perhaps within the year...." Maxim gestured vaguely himself.
"Oh," said Richie. Then inspiration striking, "That second girl, could you make her black? I mean, one blonde, one black. For variety." Richie smiled, a cunning winner's smile, as the civilized black man before him stared. "A guy in prison might get bored."
Maxim felt himself struggling not to stare, let alone glare. He felt a wave of unexpected loathing rise up in his soul. Hatred poured over him, not just for Richie Gallo but for the sordidness of the deal, for Richie's lifestyle, Lord's history, and his own connivance in making their mutual satisfaction possible. Richie's request was not the act of an unthinking bigot but a deliberate attempt to use Maxim's color to wound him.
In an instant, Little Augie Maxim remembered his childhood on the streets of Indianapolis before the nuns took him in. His intellect had won for him a reward his skin color would have denied him in that time and place. He remembered his mother speaking of how white men had treated her, used her. She had confessed before she died that his father had been a white man, one who had first beaten her, then paid her and used her. Not that his mother had been a prostitute, just a poor black woman who did what she must.
Suddenly seething, his teeth on edge, Maxim hated Richie Gallo and Daniel Lord and hated himself for being the sort of black man who hated white men because he served their interests above his own. Lord would preserve the comfort of his old age, Gallo would spend a few pleasant years behind bars to emerge the heir apparent to Lord's gang holdings. Maxim would be paid money, enough money to buy a fancy car or put a down payment on a big home. He had fancy cars and beautiful homes, more than enough of each already.
He calmed himself with his mantra. Daniel Lord is an impotent old man who will die soon, his comfort will not extend his life and may shorten it. His women, his money, his power are useless to him. He has no children, no family and no one who loves him for being a parasitic toad. Richie Gallo is a cheap thug who will never be able to hold on to Lord's empire. After discovering a taste for fairies, he will never again regard himself with the same macho he once had. Maxim, on the other hand, had a loving wife and two children in college. He had the respect of both the legitimate and illegitimate rulers of four states. All bastards on both sides of the law, true, but he had the respect of powerful men.
Slowly, he nodded. Gallo was providing deliberate offense for the purpose of scoring points in some inane schoolyard bully's game. "Black? Yes, I believe we could make the second girl black," he managed to say with his usual urbanity. Richie could have done nothing to deepen Maxim's contempt for the two-bit criminal's lifestyle or mores, but August had surprised himself by taking this last request personally. Still, he would never give a thug like Gallo the satisfaction of seeing him snarl.
Richie smiled, knowing that on some level he had won. He nodded once, turning the corners of his mouth down like Sylvester Stallone. "Then we've got a deal." He stuck out his hand to the smaller, older man. If Maxim hesitated a fraction of an instant, Gallo showed no awareness of it. Both smiling, their business concluded, they shook hands.
* * * * *
Outside, Richie retrieved his car from the valet parking and took Lakeshore Drive north. Driving helped him think, and he had a lot to think about. Midnight found him near Madison, Wisconsin before he remembered the naked girl waiting for him in the hotel room. He laughed. Rolling down the window electrically, he tossed the white plastic bag out into the night. Then he turned back toward Chicago, his stiffening dick still proving his manhood.
She knew how to treat him - exactly as he deserved...
He made his living meeting women and giving them what they wanted. But what did the woman in the Mercedes want and would he be willing to give it? And if he did, what would he become.
An erotic tale of lust, greed and transformation on the Gilded Coast as a young man looking for a sugar mama finds out what life is like as an object of desire.
by Morgan Preece
Copyright © 1997, 1998, 2019 by Morgan Preece. All rights reserved.
All other rights retained by Morgan Preece.
My Juno
by Morgan Preece
When the big brunette entered the crowded restaurant I knew right away I wanted her. Easy to spot at five-foot-ten or more, about one hundred fifty pounds I guessed, she wore a deep rose-beige office suit that showed off her figure and her legs. Wide-shouldered and wide-hipped, a narrower-gauge woman could not have carried so much weight so well. Her large breasts strained against her well-chosen clothing discreetly. Her legs tapered in smooth nylon to sensible heels that pushed her height close to six feet. Her voice when she spoke to the hostess had a feminine cadence in a register even deeper than I had expected.
With four-inch heels, I mused, she would be more than a foot taller than me. The exciting thought almost caused me to blow the deal I had been working on for the whole of my lunch hour. I am a pro, though, one of the top salesmen in my field and I closed out of sheer habit. My mind raced with thoughts of how I could meet this Juno. I yearned to have her sitting at the table with me. The client nattered on as I cooled him off, still on automatic.
I noticed that she lingered near the entrance, looking patient. A glance around proved that all the tables in the Seventh Avenue bistro were occupied. She paid no attention to the door, so she did not expect anyone to join her. She only needed a table and two obvious parties already waited ahead of her. Her nails and lips were ruby, her eyes blue-grey with only a hint of shadow to deepen them.
I claimed the check as the client left, then signaled the waitress. Handing her several bills, I told her the change was hers
as a tip if I could keep the table for my next client. This was my favorite table in this restaurant, the one I usually had reserved for me when I entertained clients, or girlfriends, here. The tip seemed large enough because she agreed and called a busboy to clean the table. The waitress went to pay the cashier and fetch my "client," the lone woman I pointed out waiting by the door.
My heart raced as my Juno approached. A childhood kidney ailment had stunted my growth and I reached puberty about the same time I reached the four-foot mark. With medication I eventually topped out at the lordly height of five-foot one-inch, too tall to join Billy Barty's Little People of America and too short for pro football. But a sickly adolescence in the company of nurses and baby-sitters half again my height left me with an abiding longing for the charms of big women.
The busboy wiped the red vinyl tablecloth with a dubious dishrag, pushing the condiment boat from one side of the table to the other. The red vinyl hung to the seats of the chairs on two sides of the table. An L-shaped bench formed the other two sides of the semi-booth, and part of a structure that included another booth, planters for fake plants and a sort of side table where the waitresses left menus and things.
I had a fantasy involving that booth and a small hook I would place near the floor. I would screw the hook, the sort that swag lamps hang from, into the wood of the bench near the floor. My complicit, hopefully large, girlfriend would allow me to disappear under the table, concealed by chairs and hanging vinyl tablecloth. While she snacked as cover, I would pull her panties down and hook them under the hardware. Then I would burrow under her skirts and eat her while she ate linguini.
Alas, my Juno's business skirt would be entirely to tight to enable my fantasy burrowing. Impractical, anyway, but fun to imagine.
She looked doubtful when the waitress showed her to my table but I smiled hugely and stood up beside the table. My height revealed this way derailed her thinking momentarily. Her wide cheekbones and tip-tilted eyes spoke of a heritage not strictly European.
"I thought I'd save you a wait," I said. "We can share a table. Donna isn't it?" implying that I had recognized her even if I had her name wrong. Since she undoubtedly didn't recognize me I had the advantage. Nobody polite tells a short person they haven't been noticed. Her large faux pearl earrings complemented the colors of her lips and suit in a paler, pinker shade.
She shook her head but sat down when I did, swinging those long legs under the same table as mine. With a lift and a scoot she settled into the booth seat. The movement tested the adequacy of her hidden bra to restrain the movement of her breasts. "Juliette, but..." she began. I knew she would take the booth seat, no Juno could sit comfortably in chairs designed by men who can quote Bette Midler lyrics so extensively.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I interrupted. "Juliette, of course. I'm Tim." My smile could get no wider. You have to do this sincerely or it doesn't work but I had just saved her the embarrassment of asking my name. Like most people, she felt grateful for the unacknowlegeable kindness. Sincerity is the salesman's true talent. If you don't have it or can't fake it convincingly, you will never make a living selling.
I never actually eat when I lunch with a client so I had room for some real food. "Try the pasta al olio," I suggested, unfolding the menu. "Or do you eat here often enough to have your own favorites?" She sat erect, just as she had stood and walked, shoulders back, those large breasts proudly pushed against the ice pink cotton of her broadcloth blouse. I wondered if she had modeled, (BBW, of course) or done stage work, not too unlikely here in New York.
"Too much garlic," she protested, "although I do love it. I'll have the primavera and a salad." She closed the menu decisively and thanked the busboy who placed glasses of water in front of us. Taking a sip, she left carmine lip prints on the rim of the envied tumbler.
When the waitress came back, I ordered the primavera also and we talked like long-time acquaintances. I noticed that Juno-Juliette kept her nails medium-long, she did not type for a living nor work as a nurse. Certainly not as a waitress or anything manual. An executive perhaps or might my first guess, model or actress, have been correct? No, the suit said office worker, at least today. Her only ring she wore on the pinkie of her left hand, a thin gold band with a tiny peridot.
Our small talk turned to sports. She claimed to be a baseball fan but hated the Yankees and felt indifferent to the Mets. She favored the Indians "because they win by playing well" and the Dodgers "because of all their young talent." Her eyes were darker than I had supposed, not blue-grey but a changeable hazel with glints, now blue, now gold, now green.
I teased her that basketball was my favorite game and claimed to have "lettered in college." I didn't bother to keep my face straight. She tried to stifle a giggle but failed. Her lower eyelids crinkled and the parentheses of good humor appeared beside her nose. I revised my estimate of her age upward five years; she had laughed a lot, my Juno.
"Actually," I confessed, "I was the mascot of the women's team." When she laughed out loud she showed her teeth. Commercially whitened but the lower ones slightly crooked, more evidence of mixed heritage but also of middle-class or lower upbringing. Orthodontia is the privilege of the upper classes in America. I loved every maloccluded incisor, endearingly imperfect as they were. She probably had not modeled then, with those teeth.
When the food came, she ate well and seemed to enjoy it all. Salad, breadsticks and pasta disappeared between sips of white wine as we talked trivia. She knew when to talk and how to listen, she laughed in the right spots and smiled at me frequently. I tried not to look too much like a middle-school dropout on a date with teacher.
Her laughter seemed sweet to me so I played the comic. I told her that I had psychic powers. "Really," she said, smiling, playing along with the gag. Her hair, merely brunette from across the room, had proved at closer range to be dark chestnut with red and gold highlights dancing in it. She wore it off the shoulder with a turned-under curl and teased bangs, a sort of sexy librarian look.
"You're not a native New Yorker," I said, smiling back. "Your parents are from the South, or maybe Texas or Oklahoma but you were raised in Southern California. You're part Indian, Chickasaw or Cherokee, perhaps? You've never been married, you went to college but you don't have a four-year degree. Your birthday is August 12th." I paused to see her reaction.
"August 10th," she said, surprised. "But, how...." She moved suddenly but minutely, more than a tremble, less than a start. Her heavy breasts swayed ever-so slightly.
I waggled my fingers at her.
"You do know me, don't you?" She frowned with her eyes and smiled with her mouth. "Or have you been looking at my personnel files." Suspicion sharpened her looks into a warning, my Juno could be fierce if she felt the need.
"A magician never tells but I will if you'll answer some other questions for me," I offered. A broad smile took any sting off that. I know I look like a pixie and I'm not afraid to use it.
Smiling with eyes and mouth this time, she agreed. "OK, how?" Her eyes crinkled up when she smiled with them.
"You have a slight accent, you say 'tin' for 'ten' and 'putt' for 'put' among other things. You don't drawl like a real Southerner so you probably learned it from your parents. You have an Indian look to your eyes, the tribes were guesses but they both run tall. The only ring you wear is a birthstone, August, the date was another guess." I watched her smile grow somewhat ruefully. "You're educated, obviously, but if you had an MBA you'd be wearing real pearls, your Leo vanity would demand it." I grinned again.
She shook her head. "You're amazing, what don't you know about me?" Her chestnut mane flashed red-gold lights at me.
"I don't know your shoe size. I don't know what you like for breakfast or what you wear to bed. I don't know your phone number or whether you date short men."
She laughed again, not bells but oboes and French horns. "You're serious?"
"Um, hmm."
"Ten, anything but eggs, nothing but panties, it's unlisted for a reason and maybe." Her eyes brightened the "maybe" into an "ask me."
I asked. "How about dinner tonight, maybe a show. A friend of mine has a play running in the Village, we can get seats practically on-stage."
She laughed. "Just like LA, only there everybody's friend has a 'script in turnaround' or 'a video being shot out at The Rocks.' I'd love to ... see your friend's play." She made the pause meaningful.
***
That night, Juliette-Juno and I made love in her Westside apartment with the lights on. Outside, night in the City That Never Sleeps howled with sirens and flashed with gunfire. Inside, we made our own alarums and struck passionate sparks together.
We undressed each other while we sat on her couch. Somewhere, leaking through the windows, the gap-toothed voice of David Letterman counted backwards, wrenching laughter from inanity.
She had changed for our evening into a long periwinkle evening dress that made her eyes seem blue and her hair, black. The dress fastened at one shoulder with an oversize brooch, an abstract cat lacquered red and navy with gold trim. "My totem," she whispered. "The Cat Who Walks Where It Will." Her lips, nails, and belt had matched the red in the cat, her navy shoes and purse had red accents.
The top of the dress fell away. The nude demi-bra she wore did little to conceal her large pale breasts. Rose and blue highlights on the spheres invited me to touch them and I did. Reaching into the bra I played with her nipples while she caressed my head. The bra fastened in front but I did not release it yet. Her hands found my earlobes and squeezed gently.
I had already shed my coat and tie. Now I undid her belt while she did the same for mine. We stood briefly, stepping out of our shoes and letting our garments fall on the discarded footwear. A half-slip concealed her modesty and my long, starched shirt hid me nearly to my knees. She bent to kiss me on the lips, marking me with the come-away carmine I had seen her renew several times in the evening.
I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of her slip and pulled it down for her to step out of it. She stood barefoot in panties, garter belt, hose and bra, nearly a head taller than me, nearly a goddess. I turned while she held my shirt, stripping it from my shoulders, discarding it to lie on the floor with my trousers.
I wear jockeys -- what else? -- and I knew that I looked like a child beside my Juno. But I don't spend much time thinking about what I look like when I'm making love. She let me start pulling down her panties while still standing, then she lay back on the couch so I could finish.
The skin of her thighs felt smooth above the hose. The muscles underneath her womanly layer of cushion tensed then softened as she adjusted her position. I toed off my own socks and stepped between her legs. Kneeling between the columns, I kissed the clean flesh above her dark, curly bush. She reached a hand to the back of my head, pulling my face closer, pushing it downward.
I licked gently, nuzzled softly, nibbled delicately until she moaned and squirmed then I increased the pressure and frequency until I smelt and tasted her ready wetness. I stood then and she sat forward and we embraced. She folded me into the hollow between her breasts as we kissed.
Now I undid her bra and the large globes fell into my hands, warm where the bra had confined them. The heavy flesh felt soft as her mane of chestnut hair. The nipples found my fingers, large firm seeds in the big soft melons. "Play with them again, Tim," she whispered.
I used my mouth on the right, leaving it sticky with a mixture of our juices. Then her lips found mine again and we kissed deeply.
After she pulled my jockeys off we used pillows to get the angles right and I penetrated her standing up while she lay propped on the couch. I drove my Juno hard but she's a big girl and I knew she could take it. When I came, she closed those big legs around me in a nether hug. I'd still be there if she hadn't let go.
We finished on the floor with cushions stolen from the couch to lie on. I ate her again, this time tasting my own cum mixed with her pussy juice. Her coming featured grunts and writhings and another nether hug, this time on my head. I held my breath and kept her coming till she let go or I blacked out, I don't know which.
***
I bought coffee, bagels and non-fat cream cheese with herbs for our breakfast from the shop on Ninth Avenue. Then she dressed and went to work and I rushed to catch my plane for Atlanta.
I came back to New York in a week -- it's where I live -- but her phone was disconnected, her apartment rented to someone else. She had said, "Good-bye, Tim, it's been very special," when we parted. I didn't know she meant good-bye and I didn't realize how special.
Would I never see my chestnut-haired, Dodger-loving, hazel-eyed Juno again?
The End.
I knew my discovery would revolutionize the cosmetic surgery and fashion industries... and the porn industry… a non-surgical way to enlarge a woman's titties!
As a medical secretary, I spent considerable time reading old medical records. I noticed that many women who had treatment for a rare skin condition reported an increase in bust size, from 32A to 34C for one woman! I investigated further.
My boyfriend had mentioned that my figure would be improved if I had more up top. Moreover, I saw him looking at better-endowed women... Well, I wanted him to look that way at ME. You know, with his eyes big and round and you just know from his expression that his cock is getting hard.
Therefore, I dug through old records looking for 'Miracle Titty-Gro', my pet name for my project, and I found it! Honestly, it sounded so simple. I had a druggist in Mexicali make up the creams. The original formula and another version I thought might be more effective. The salve used DMSO as a base so it soaked right into the breast tissue, right through the skin, nourishing the boobies directly so they grew a little each time.
I had my boyfriend rub the cream into my titties every night. If it worked for me, I could arrange clinical trials. Jake loved it, he always wanted to play with my titties, and I found I liked it more with the cream than I had before. After just a couple of times, I discovered that all the pulling, rubbing, and sucking really turned me on, too.
In a week, I felt my 34B bras getting tighter, in another, I knew for sure, and my boyfriend began to notice. I could tell he liked big, soft titties because he spent more time rubbing my new pillowy tits and we had great sex afterward. My boobies thrived under the treatment and in the loving hands of Jake. My nipples seemed to become more sensitive and responsive as well. By the end of the second week, I practically came just from the tit play. Especially when Jake would nibble on my nipples before he rubbed in the cream then tease the erect little buttons with his hard cock.
Ye cats! I found it hard to concentrate on work and we began fucking right after we got home. The TV grew cobwebs and we both lost a little weight even while my tits were growing bigger.
I measured myself for a new bra, a 36 D. It felt a little loose but comfortable, and I knew I would grow into it. In another week, the 36 D was tight, too.
The new bigger tits made me feel more daring and sexy. In addition, men began looking at me on the street. I wore sexier clothes, high heels and short skirts, and showed off my new melons and my really deep cleavage.
Jake began having sex with me not just in the evening but we would wake up early and have another round as well. His favorite was for me to hold my tits together while he pushed his oak-hard penis into the cleft between my tits so when he came it spurted into my face.
With another new bra, a 36 DDD, but running out of the cream, I decided to increase the dose and use the stronger salve. Within two weeks, I had blossomed to a 36 GG. I began doing exercises to strengthen my back. I bought a completely new wardrobe. Jake moved in permanently and we bought a new playground size bed.
My boyfriend couldn't leave me alone, and I found myself thinking about how sensitive my titties were and how much they wanted to be fucked, even during the day. I loved it all. I had him cream my tits after the tit fucking and before the regular sex.
After a round of him jizzuming between my balloons, we liked to finish a session with a plunge into the steaming furnace of my pussy. Sometimes he would fuck me in my ass, just for variety. A week of that and I needed new 36 J bras, which I had to order special.
On the job, I got a marriage proposal from a guy I hardly knew. When I told Jake about it, he wanted to find the guy and punch him out.
I didn't like that job anyway, and it was getting hard to see the keyboard of my computer so I quit and we took and extended vacation in Las Vegas.
By then, I had told Jake all about the cream. He'd been wondering but hadn't said anything because he didn't want to mess up the great sex we were having. He began dedicating even more time and care to rubbing in the salve and playing with my ever more gigantic titties.
I loved Las Vegas. Everyone kept asking if I was a showgirl. We decided to stay and I bought new bras again, 36 JJJ, custom bras from the shops the showgirls patronize.
I had more cream, an even stronger formula made, and I went to one of the topless clubs and applied for a job. I found out that at strip clubs, the dancers pay the club and make their money, from tips, way totally unfair! The first club wanted $100 a night. Therefore, I found another with a more reasonable attitude. Soon I measured 36 LL and the clubs were calling me!
I took dancing lessons to become a more desirable attraction. I danced as, "Heddie Lights," and they billed me at 69 MMM (MM-MM- MM), an exaggeration, I outgrew quickly.
I loved dancing in front of horny men who were there just to see my enormous titties. I liked to play with myself, my jugs mostly, and the more fun I had, the more money I made. I squeezed them, and rubbed them and made the nipples stand up where I could lick them or nibble hard enough to make me gasp. Sometimes I put the cream on, right on stage but when I did that, it turned me on so much that I had to have Jake standing by to give me a good fuck afterwards. Otherwise, I might throw myself into my work, because it just turned me on so much to know that my tits were actually growing right there in front of all those carnivorous men!
It sounds like I had a bigger jump in bra size than I actually did. Showgirl sizes aren't bra sizes. They're bust measurement plus imagination and hype and by then my bust measurement exceeded my height, five-foot-two. Custom bras don't really have cup sizes, anyway.
My boyfriend felt madly jealous about the club, but I told him he gets in free and fucks me after every show, sometimes between numbers if I'm really, really hot, so what's his beef? Not to mention all the straight sex and tit fucking he was enjoying, when he got me back to our little apartment. Besides, I made so much in tips, he stopped complaining, I made him my manager, and we went on tour. I headlined as, "Brandi Biggens," with a billing of 88 TTTT (Titty-Titty), no brag, just fact.
The problem was along about this time Jake was having erection problems, and his cock was so much smaller than I remember. Maybe it just seemed that way, compared to my titties.
I asked him if my titties were big enough yet, since I was now bigger around in the bust, than HE was tall.
He said there could never be too much of a good thing and to keep using the Miracle Titty-Gro.
We rubbed and fucked our way from Petaluma to Pensacola, but not often at all anymore. By the time we were on the circuit from Tampa to Tacoma, Jake had a dick the size of a four year old.
Then from Yakima to Youngstown, I noticed that Jake was no longer able to hide his DD size titties. Sometimes, I shared a little of the salve with Jake, because when I rubbed it in, his little peter would squirt a thin little stream and his eyes would roll up into the back of his head.
Jake and I would rub the other dancer's titties with cream until their boobs were sensitive enough that they could just cum from the massage 'cause my new creams were a lot more powerful, but I didn't tell anyone the secret. I could have got rich selling the stuff but it was more fun being the Girl with the Miracle Tits.
Eventually, my titties stopped growing so fast, and Jake's cock was nowhere to be, found. I was almost as tall as he was too! Of course, by then, he was sporting a 36 GG bra.
Within a few days, Jake developed a vulva and vagina. He cried a lot, but I would just rub more of my more powerful cream into his big boobies and he would orgasm like gangbusters. He was crying a lot so I would have to do that six or seven times a day.
It wasn't long and Jake had a set near as big as mine!
I talked to the movie people and we arranged for Jake to loose his cherry on film. We didn't tell Jake 'cause he would have said no. Four other naked girls and I, had poor Jake orgasming so much, he hardly noticed when that big cock entered him. After he was penetrated, he was humping himself on that big rod and screaming like a banshee every time he came, his huge boobies bouncing up and down!
I was so aroused that the four porn queens and I Lezed the hell out of one another.
We still use the salve everyday to keep our titties sensitive, feeling soft and natural, and for fun, and they still grow a little bit each time. It's just that they're already so big, a little bit bigger doesn't show as much. I don't dance anymore. I'm a video star under the name of, 'Trillian Tatas'. I don't move much at all, I just lie there and guys cum on my mattress-sized Gazonas.
Jake is in the bed next to me, being fucked just as much as I am now. He still likes girls, more than guys, and he hates admitting how much he loves having a huge cock in him, so we don't contradict him, we just play along and see to it that he gets plenty of dick, and let him pretend he still hates it.
I gave one poor schmo a complex because my nipples were actually bigger than his schlong so I've been doing a few girl-on-girl pictures now. Jake likes that better anyway, he just loves to watch sexy broads impale themselves on my nipple-cocks, and I love watching them do themselves on his.
Occasionally we have lesbian porn stars rub the cream all over our tits and position us so our titties are tight together, and then they get naked and squirm around in the joint cleavage we form. This made me hotter and hotter partly because I knew that the cream was making their tits grow in the bargain. Since the cream also made their titties more sensitive, they naturally became really, really, hot to boot, after just a few minutes of that. I could hear them panting and sighing and saying, "Oh, my God," and, "I Want to come!" My big boobies are so sensitive all over that I just about lose my mind by the time they straddle my mares and start riding me hard.
The mounds of soft, pillowy boobies on my chest jiggled and wobbled as the girls tried to drive my rock-hard eight-inch long nipples deeper, and deeper into their pussies, while rubbing their own titties, squeezing, pinching and twisting their own hard little nipples, cause they wanted to cum so bad. I couldn't do much to help them. My titties are so big I couldn't reach the girls anywhere except maybe their toes. I must have come eighteen or twenty times, myself.
Man, that makes me orgasm insanely! I even pass out once in awhile. So does Jake, but don't tell him I said so. Jake still won't let us refer to him, as her, but he is weakening. (Especially after the squirm sessions.)
When the girls start coming, they don't stop and when the crew run out of film they just grab the girls and keep fucking them until nobody has any more strength for fucking.
The studio is right in our big new house 'cause we don't get around much anymore. In fact, the studio is in our bedroom, so Jake and I have these exhausted people lying around all weekend. It doesn't put a damper on our lovemaking, though.
The movie producer complains that everyone thinks that our boobs are not real, due to the fact they're so big. He would like Jake and me to go on tour again, but that's ridiculous. So now, he wants to lead studio tours through our bedroom!
They bill us on the video box as the twin 111 XXXers, but actually, we're a lot bigger than that now.
Jake teases me that we are taller lying down than we are standing up, and soon, it's going to be true. Jake and I can hardly wait.
Copyright 1998, 2002 by Morgan Preece