Ebooka przeczytasz w aplikacjach Legimi na:
Odsłuch ebooka (TTS) dostępny w abonamencie „ebooki+audiobooki bez limitu” w aplikacji Legimi na:
Diane And The Wonderful Box
Copyright © 2016 Alicia Stanger
Darque Taboo Press
Search For “Darque Taboo Press” to find more forbidden and taboo erotica.
All Rights Reserved: No part of this publication may be reproduced or retransmitted, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher; with the exception of brief quotes used in connection with reviews written for inclusion in a magazine or newspaper.
Disclaimer: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic, adult language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable which might include: multiple sexual practices, heavy and strong BDSM themes and elements, erotic elements and fetish play. This e-book is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/Fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither the publisher nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles. All characters depicted at least eighteen years of age or older.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental. Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.
Strangely enough, I was one of the first in town to set eyes on Diane. I was running a survey crew then and we were set up right in front of the bus station when she arrived. She had one suitcase and she set it down on the sidewalk to make a call on the pay phone by the door. Our work came to a screeching halt, and we just stood there staring. Agape, I suppose is the right word. The girl was young—we guessed eighteen or eighteen by her face. (In fact she was only eighteen at the time, as I found out much later.) She had the white and pink skin typical of new arrivals from the North, and it looked even whiter against her long raven black hair which hung loosely over her shoulders. She wore dark glasses and gold hoops in her ears, and her full lips were freshly painted in pale iridescent violet. She was really beautiful. Her breasts were large for her frame and her cocky hips flared sensually from a narrow waist with just enough swell to the belly to give her that "Arabian look," if you know what I mean.
But what really brought us to our knees, so to speak, was the way she was dressed. Because as soon as she stepped out of the station my chainman said, "Hey, she ain't got no bra on!" and Willie the transitman says, "Goddamn! Look at those tits!" and trains his telescope on her. It was a sight which you don't forget easily—tits like that, swinging free under thin knit, the nipples casting sharp shadows in the morning sunlight. The dress was more like a long T-shirt than anything else, and it clung to every bulge and hollow of her luscious body. It was bright pink with thin black horizontal stripes which defined every contour; it was high-necked, sleeveless and short. No, I mean short. These were the days of the micro-mini, but by any standard that skirt was indecent! When she reached up to put the dime in the slot, the skirt lifted a little and we actually saw the lower cheek of her snow-white behind. It was just a split-second peek though, and we weren't sure whether or not she had any panties on until she hung up the receiver and sat down on her suitcase. She lit a cigarette and crossed her legs and then we were sure.
Under her bare thighs, which were just slightly spread, we saw a pink crease surrounded by lush black curls. Willie centered his cross-hairs on this hairy slit and locked the screws. We all took turns looking, and she saw us but made no attempt to cover herself. I put my hand in my pocket to try to tuck in my erection, and her lips turned up at the corners in a smile. I smiled back and was just about to cross the street when her taxi came. We got a glimpse of her bare crossed legs in the back seat and she was gone.
That was my first encounter with Diane, and though our paths crossed a few times after that, most of what I have to say I learned later— "after the storm," as we put it—from Diane herself. One of her favorite sources of erotic stimulation is telling in detail of her past sexual excesses. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
When Diane got into the taxi, though it all looked planned and efficient, in truth she had no idea where to go; she just wanted to get away from the bus station. She was running away from the law and she had it in her young head that they'd be looking for her on the bus fine. Actually, she had gotten away scot free, and the local vice squad boys in Cairo, Illinois, were still poking around for her in the dingy corners of the city. She liked Florida after she'd been there a while, but she never quite got over a vague feeling of being trapped at the end of a dead-end street, like a wild animal brought to bay at the edge of a cliff. She had headed south with no other thought about a destination than to go as far as possible. Our city was just about that, and there was "nowhere left to go but into the sea," as she told me once.
Anyway, she hit town with nothing but a few bucks for cab fare, and her first concern was to get her hands on some money. Young though she was, she had an unbelievable amount of experience behind her and she knew the quickest (and most enjoyable) way to get what she needed.
"Where to, honey?" She studied the driver for a minute. He looked to be in his late thirties, well-built and tanned; she noticed a wedding band on his left hand.
"Well, I don't really know," she answered, "I'm sort of on a vacation. I thought maybe you could help me find a place to stay."
He looked straight ahead as he talked. "Don't know anybody in town?" She said she didn't. "Well, how about a hotel on the beach?"
"Well... see, I don't have much money. Do you know an inexpensive place?"
"How much you got?" He was getting impatient.
"N-not yery much... "
"Look, miss, you got cab fare?"
"Yes, of course, but—" He swerved out of the stream of traffic and pulled up to the curb, "That'll be half a buck. There's hotels all around here, you don't need me." At that Diane put her face in her hands and began to sob. She could do it real good. "Now look, what am I, a baby-sitter or something? I got to make a living, you know... " For the first time he turned around and got a good look at her. She continued to sob, twisting sideways a little so he could see how much bare white thigh was visible below the little dress. Finally he reached back and put his fingers under her chin, lifting her tear-streaked face. She had removed her sunglasses and her pale blue eyes looked into his. "How old are you?" he asked.
"Uh-huh. You running away from home?" She lowered her eyes but said nothing. "When did you eat last?"
"I-I don't know,' she said, "a couple of days ago, I guess," still sobbing a little.
"Look, it's almost lunch time anyway. I got some sandwiches, enough for both of us. We can go over to the beach and eat and maybe I'll think of something to help, okay?" she nodded, drying her eyes. "Come on up here with me." Instead of getting out and going around, she climbed over the back of the seat and slid down beside him. But on the way over she had swung her legs toward him and the glimpse he got of her sweet little crotch must have added another emotion to the compassion he was feeling for her.
On the way over the bridge to the beach she sat in silence her legs crossed, the hem of her skirt in her lap, and her straight black hair blowing in the wind. The driver kept stealing glances at her and she noticed the bulge grow large in his pants. He drove past the public beach a mile or so and turned into an almost hidden trail leading up the beach ridge through the dense casuarina trees. At the top of the ridge the trail opened out onto a circular clearing overlooking a wide empty beach. He cut the motor.
"Oh, this is beautiful!" Diane exclaimed. She got out and ran to the crest of the bluff. The stiff breeze off the blue ocean caught her hair and it streamed out behind her. She tossed her head and raised her arms high, knowing how her dress reacted to that movement. She heard his low whistle behind her as she felt the clinging hem slide up over the naked under-cheeks of her ass... and quickly pulled it back down with a sexy twist of her hips.
"Never seen the ocean?" he asked, getting out of the taxi and leaning against the hood.
"No, never." She turned and walked toward him at a bouncy gate and saw his eyes rivet onto her bobbing tits. She pretended not to notice. "Could we eat the sandwiches now?" It was a deliberate tease, but she really was hungry.
"Oh! Yeah, forgot all about that." He smiled at her and winked, then turned to get the lunch.
She turned back to the sea for a second and took a deep breath. She had him now, and she felt better. It was a new town, but men were the same everywhere. It would be a new start and everything would be all right. Let the past die, she thought, let 'em all rot up there in the smoke and mud—here the breeze was fresh off the ocean and the sky was clear. She wanted to peel off her dress then and there and be like Eve in the Garden, living off the wild fruit and the fish of the streams...
Then the driver spoke and Diane turned to the immediate project, feeling strangely refreshed and ready for action. "My fruit and fish were right there between that guy's legs," she told me, "and when I thought of that I damn near laughed out loud."
"My name's Mo. What's yours?" He handed her a sandwich and she got up on the hood, leaning back against the windshield, her legs stretched out in front of her, spread a little.
"Look, Diane, you don't have any money, do you?"
"No. But I'm going to get a job."
"Oh yeah? What kind of work do you do?"
"Oh, I can do just about anything." She put the last of the ham sandwich in her mouth and stretched her arms out along the top of the windshield on either side of her, raising one knee. Her nipples stood out in sharp relief through the thin material and the double image of her raised white thighs on the polished hood was blinding. "What do you think I'd be good at, Mo?" She gave him a lascivious grin.
This of course was Mo's cue, but he didn't react as he should have. She thought maybe he was a little thick. His eyes went nervously over her body and he leaned forward on the fender to conceal his erection—but his eyes had a strange, steely glint, a touch of cruelty perhaps. She knew he was thinking what she wanted him to think, but there was something else there too—something which was generating a hardness behind the eyes. His expression didn't change but his hand slid out across the hood as if it had a life and mind of its own and came to rest ever so lightly on the velvet whiteness of her knee. It crept weightlessly down her bare thigh, leaving a wake of goose pimples... and then withdrew, coming down on the polished hood with unnatural force. When he spoke there was a tenseness, a kind of strain, in his voice.
"You're young enough to be my daughter. If I was your father... "
"What would you do if you were my father, Mo?" His hands were pressed flat on the metal, the knuckles death-white. Diane reached behind her back and drew down the zipper of her dress. "Okay if I soak up some of this Florida sun?" He said nothing as she slipped her arms one at a time from the armholes, making a pretense of trying (unsuccessfully) not to show any tit as she did so. She folded down the top of the dress carefully and neatly just above her nipples and tucked it under her arms, leaning back again on the windshield and letting her head go back until it rested on the top of the car. She straightened her legs out and sighed contentedly, looking at him down her nose. Her hair fanned out over the glass, filtering the sun's reflection and rippling in the salt wind.
"I bet your daddy'd like to know where you are."
Diane smiled; she had never known her father, she didn't even know who he was or anything about him. She had often thought about the "father-idea": the word had several conflicting connotations on her. On the one hand there should be the loving father, kind and understanding, but she had no personal knowledge of this type. On the other was the tyrant-father, Authority, and with this breed she'd had plenty of experience. This "father" went under several names—Boss, Judge, Priest, Cop, etc. This father whom she was now seducing evidently came under the second category. "I should have been afraid," she told me thoughtfully, "because I knew he was considering turning me over to the police, but somehow I wasn't. It was sort of a challenge, like trying to make the Pope or something, and the way he looked at me with those steely eyes was making my pussy wet."
"What's your daughter's name, Mo?"
"Peggy, if it's any of your goddamn business."
"Does she look like me?"
"Shut up!"—it wasn't a shout, it was the stern father tone. "Where you from?"
"That where your daddy lives?" She said no. "What were you doing there?"
"Well, I was a-photographer's model for a while, and a night club dancer—"
"Mmhm. Traveled with a carnival one summer, too." (It was a lie about Chicago, but the rest was true.) Here she raised her arms from her sides and stretched them over her head, watching his eyes follow the fold of her dress as it stretched tightly over her taut tits and slipped down toward the nipples— and hit him with the punch line: "I was a whore, too."
"You little bitch," he croaked.
"That's not nice, Daddy."
"Goddamn you, don't call me daddy!" His face flushed livid red, and he slammed his fist down on the hood. The hollow metallic boom echoed through the casuarinas like war drums.
"If I were Peggy, what would you do to me? Spank me... or something else?"
A hoarse roar came from his throat and he grabbed the front of her dress and jerked her off the car. She hit the ground on her back and it knocked the breath out of her. When she could focus her eyes again, still gasping for breath, she saw him standing over her with a rolled up newspaper. She tried to back away from him, but the paper club crashed into the side of her head and knocked her down again. Then the blows fell on her body like hail, but they did not dislodge the fantasy that had been building unconsciously in her mind: —"Oh Daddy, stop! Please, Daddy! Don't! I'll be good, Daddy!—" And with each swing he cursed her in his hoarse croak. "Bitch!—Slut!—-Whore!... " Then the blows stopped. She. lay on her back, shielding her face with her hands. Her dress was wadded up around her waist. She peeked out between her fingers, her face again wet with tears— real ones this time. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she whimpered.
"Peggy... " His voice was changed, soft and soothing. He threw away the newspaper and dropped to his knees. "Poor little Peggy... " He lifted her to a sitting position and held her sobbing body against his, rocking gently back and forth. There were three rhythms: the slow rising and falling of wind-whispers in the pine needles, the more rapid and regular pounding of the surf, and the passionate beat of his blood in her ear.
After a while, her sobbing ceased. The man stroked her head, then her bare back. His hand caressed the sides of her torso, just brushing her breasts at first. She put her arms around him and rubbed his back. His breath was coming faster, the movement of his hands more rapid; they went down her sides and around to the small of her back and down inside the rolled up dress to her bruised buttocks, a hot hairy finger venturing into the crease between them. The finger stayed there, working softly, while the other hand came up under a tit, light as a feather. Again the Goosebumps covered her flesh as he spoke, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Oh, Peggy, poor Peggy... " She lifted her face to his and their lips met, lightly at first, as a father might kiss his child. Then their mouths opened together, and their tongues made love like trained snakes in a bath of hot saliva. He pushed her dress down over the flare of her hips and she raised up to let it pass under her ass and kicked it off her feet.
"Daddy—" She was panting now— "Now, Daddy, now!" She groped for his belt buckle and got it open, jerking down his fly. His prick was stiff and big as a brick and it came out like a jack-in-the-box. He stood up and stepped out of his pants, and she lay back on the pine needles, spreading her legs beneath his throbbing penis. He dropped to his knees between her legs and with both hands worked the snarls out of her cunthair and smoothed it neatly away from the oozing pink slit, which was opening and closing like a trained oyster. She raised her legs and put them over his shoulders, drawing him down until his lips fastened on a puffed-up nipple, his other hand kneading her left tit and pressing its hot heavy bulk against his cheek. She reached between her thighs and guided his prick into her juicy cunt— "Oh little Peggy, little Peggy—"
"Ah, fuck me, Daddy, fuck me—" He began with a slow stroke, almost a "thoughtful" one, as Diane put it, but soon the rhythm increased and she met him on every beat until the fire of their blood ignited sky and sea and they came together in an extended, gushing orgasm.
Since her escape from Cairo Diane had gotten hardly a wink of sleep, and when Mo slipped out and rolled off, she sighed contentedly and drifted off to dreamland.
When she awoke the first thing she was aware of was a sticky sensation and pin-prickling pain all along her left side. She was curled up, fetus-like, on the pine needle carpet and the little casuarina pine cones on the ground were slowly poking holes in her naked skin. Until then she hadn't even noticed the pine cones.
She sat up, brushed off the needles and cones and swabbed out her crotch with the wadded up dress. But she needed something more than that, because she had not taken more than a step or two before she discovered that affliction known to beach lovers everywhere as "sand-in-the crack." An attempted purge with the finger only made it worse.
Mo was dressed and sitting with his back to a big tree, his ankles crossed, smoking a cigarette and watching her with a sort of detached gaze. When she made a face and said, "Yak," drying her finger on the dress, he said, "Wash off in the water."
"In the ocean?" He said nothing. "I think I will," she said and walked gingerly down the steep slope and across the hot sand to the water. The sea was not rough that day, but it looked huge and frightening to her compared to the muddy rivers she was accustomed to, the Ohio and the Mississippi. Standing in the cool wash at the upper reaches of the waves, the little shells tinkling around her ankles, she looked south down the beach to the public bathing area. Not far away was a young couple playing in the surf. They had been out of sight from the ridge. She watched the boy run down the sand and dive into a big wave just as it broke. The girl did the same. Diane was always ready to try anything once, and she waded out to the drop-off and plunged into the next roller. The cool clear water rushing over her naked body was refreshing and exhilarating and she came up laughing.
The feeling she had had before up on the ridge came back to her—the feeling of making a fresh, clean start. She felt she was leaving all the dust and mud of her former life behind; the sea was washing it all out of her pores. "It was like a spiritual douche," she tells me. (Phrases like that come out of her apparently without the slightest effort!) She felt completely self-reliant and indestructible.
When she walked back into the shallows she noticed that the couple had been walking toward her; they weren't more than a hundred feet away and still coming. Most girls, caught naked like that, would have jumped back in the water and waited for the intruders to pass; but not Diane. She squatted slightly and splashed water into her pussy to be sure all the sand was out, and then turned and waved to the couple. They waved back, and she walked and skipped unhurriedly, back up the beach, tits all abounce.
They followed her for a ways, the boy dragging the giggling, protesting girl, until they saw Mo at the top of the bluff. Diane stood beside him, shaking out her hair in the breeze. "Ah, that was wonderful!" she exclaimed, breathless from the exertion.
The boy and girl continued to stare until Mo waved his arm at them and said, "Get the fuck out of here!" The boy gave him the finger, but then they walked back down to the water.
"Oh, what did you do that for, Mo?" Diane giggled.
"You don't give a shit for nothin', do you?"
"Very little," she said seriously, "very little."
Diane went to the taxi and got her suitcase out and opened it on the hood. She took out a pair of white Levi's, brushed the sand off her feet with the pink dress, and stepped into them, tugging them up over her ass with some difficulty and buttoning them under her navel. She selected a black mesh shell and, hanging it over her shoulder, walked back to the tree where Mo sat.
"I think I'm gonna like this place," she said, gazing out at the shimmering blue horizon.
"Zip your fly," Mo said in an irritated voice.
"Yes, Daddy," she replied, pulling up the zipper.
He returned her grin with hard eyes and straight lips. "Now cut that out, Diane. I mean it." He did, too.
"Okay, Mo. It's forgotten." She knelt down and took his hand and kissed it, but he drew it back. "Thanks for letting me sleep. You're losing the whole day because of me. I'll make it up to you someday." He didn't answer. She brushed a grain of sand from her right nipple. The sea water had made the areolas of her nipples wrinkle up slightly. "Hey, look at that," she said, cupping a breast in her hand and examining the phenomenon.
"Why the hell don't you get dressed?"
"Do I make you nervous?" She laughed, unkindly perhaps. "Poor Mo," she said and slipped the shell on over her head. She held her hair up—it wasn't quite dry yet—and turned around. "Zip me up." He pulled up the zipper and locked it at the nape of her neck. She stood up with a little hop in her refreshed exuberance, and her tits bounced under the black mesh. Mo didn't miss it, in spite of himself. Her white jugs and dark pink nipples were plainly visible through the material.
"Jesus Christ. Don't you ever wear a bra?"
He said, "Goddamn," and got up. They walked back to the car and Diane scooped up her sandals off the ground and tossed them into the front seat. She tucked the sticky dress into a corner of the suitcase. "Yak! You musta wiped with this too, huh, Mo?" But she couldn't break his gloomy mood. She closed the suitcase and put it in the back seat, hopping in front beside Mo.
Mo sat behind the wheel and looked straight ahead while he spoke. "Now, listen. You said you'd make up for my lost time and all that. I'm not a complete moron, I know how stupid that is. It's me ought to be paying you, and I will. But if you want to do something for me, you'll leave me alone from now on. I don't want to see you again. Nothin' against you, it's just I got a wife and kid, and— Well, you're nothin' but trouble to me, poison, no matter how you look at it. I'm gonna take you to a place I know, just the place for you." He said, "Boy!" with a mirthless snort of a laugh and shook his head. "They'll give you a job if you want it, and a place to stay. And then we say good-bye. Okay?"
"Okay, Mo." she leaned over" and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He started the motor, made a tight turn and they bumped off down the trail through the tall trees.
The Jungle Club was a little go-go joint and motel-brothel at the junction of two highways outside of town. It was owned and operated by a couple named Leona and Mike. They used the name Patterson and were generally assumed to be married, but they weren't really. Leona was thirty-three and Mike was forty, although everyone took them to be several years younger. Mike was rather tall and had thick dark hair and blue eyes, and he never suffered from want of a strange piece of tail. He and Leona made a striking pair; she had full sensual lips and the same sort of lush oriental figure as Diane's, though with perhaps not as much youthful firmness and a little less exaggeration of contours. She bleached her hair and wore it short with bangs. I used to visit this place from time to time— whenever I could slip away from my wife. I was rarely flush enough to afford one of the girls, but I used to come and sip Jim Beam at a table beside the little stage and raise a tremendous hard-on watching the topless dancers and waitresses. I may as well admit straight off that I was a voyeur in those days—a watcher, Peeping Tom, the whole bit, and the back windows of the frame cottages lined up against a brush-covered vacant lot were a great temptation to me. I mention this because two weeks after that day we watched Diane get off the bus I walked into the Jungle Club and with a pleasant shock immediately recognized her in one of the cages, wearing nothing but a fringed G-string and go-go boots; and later that night I indulged my perversion... But let me get back to that day our girl hit town.
Mo pulled into the parking lot and stopped at the entrance. Leaving the engine running, he got out and carried Diane's suitcase up to the door, then returned to the taxi and opened the door for her. A real gentleman, Mo was.
"I'm not gonna go in," he said. "Just tell Leona you want a job. Tell her Mo sent you, if you want to, but it won't be necessary. One look at you and—" He broke off and, pulling out his wallet, held out a twenty to her, his eyes downcast. "Take it, goddamn it!" he said in a hoarse whisper, shoving it at her. She took the bill and tucked it into the watch pocket of her Levi's.
"Thanks for everything, Mo."
He muttered something to himself, got into his cab and drove off without looking back.
Inside the lounge it was dim and cool after the glare and heat of the afternoon, and it took a minute for her eyes to get accustomed to the dark. Behind the bar was a woman, and a man was stretched out in a corner booth, sipping a drink. Otherwise the place was empty.
Diane went up to the bar and said, "Are you Leona?"
"I'm Diane. Mo said you might be able to give me a job. I'm a dancer."
"He drives a taxi."
"Yeah." She laughed. "He wouldn't come in, would he?"
"Hear that, Mike? Mo still doesn't like us."
The man in the corner laughed. His eyes were riveted on Diane's ass. Leona turned back to the girl. "Do you know Mo well?"
"No, we just met today."
"Mo used to come in all the time, till one night he caught his daughter here—or else she caught him, we never could figure out which. She's just a kid, but built real nice, and she got a little tight and decided to do a strip on the dance floor. Mo was over there in a booth curled up with some young chick. They must have both seen each other at the same time. What a blast. Mike and me about died laughing. The kid still comes in once in a while, but Mo's never set foot in here since." She stopped talking and lit a cigarette, looking at Diane's nipples pushing through the black mesh. "Where you from, Diane?' "New York, I just got in this morning."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-one," she answered, reaching into her tight pocket for her cigarettes ,which brought the thin shell drum-taut across her tits.
"You dance topless?"
"Sure," she said, lighting up. "Bottomless, too, if you like." Leona smiled, glancing at Mike.
"Maybe we could use you. Let's see what you can do. Hey, Mike, put on a record, will you? Wanta go up on the stage, honey?" Leona flipped a switch and the stage lit up.
Diane unzipped the neck of the shell and pulled it off over her head, then picked up her cigarette off the bar and mounted the stage, kicking off her sandals on the way. Mike got up and moved to a stage-side table with his drink, and Leona sat beside him. A slow sitar-rock began, loud and pulsing, and Diane began a spine-whipping frug to the electric beat, her big boobs heaving and bouncing like firm jellies. Her hands moved up and down as if she were ramming a huge phallus into her twat, her black hair flying.
Mike called to her over the music, "What about the bottomless part?"
Diane saw that they were both getting excited now, and so she went into a slow grind, sliding her palms down over her tits, down her belly to where the denim was pulled up into the crease of her cunt, and she began rubbing the twin bulge with her fingers, legs spread wide apart. She heard "Oh Jesus!" from Mike, On the next cymbal-crash she unfastened the button of the Levi's and the zipper sprang open, revealing her lush black bush. She snaked out of the pants and kicked them off the stage, leaning backwards with thrusting bumps and grinds, literally throwing her cunt in their faces, the pink slit moving with a life of its own in the midst of her luxuriant growth of curls.
As the record neared the end, she took the cigarette from her mouth and placed it between the lips of her twat... A bump... a grind... The butt stayed put. She danced to the very edge of the stage, spread her white thighs wide and leaned into a back arch. Then, as the music ended, with a sudden lip-twitch of her vulva the cigarette, still lit, flipped out and landed on the table between Mike and Leona.
Diane scooped up her Levi's and jumped down beside them, panting. "Whew!" she gasped, flopping into a chair.
Leona said, "Wow," rubbing herself between the legs and grinning at Mike. He picked up the ejected butt and put the wet end to his lips, taking a long drag.
"Mmmm mm! Best smoke I've had in years. Ha, ha! That's a good trick. Does that thing have a tongue in it?" Diane giggled and shook her head. "If it did it could talk," he said.
"I'll bet it could tell some tales, too," put in Leona.
Diane laughed. "I learned the trick at the carnival I used to run with, but they tell me I have a— mm—natural talent."
"I'll say!" said Mike, his eyes oscillating from her tits to her pussy.