Stud

Stud (Part 2)

Kathryn M. Burke

The creature who drifted into my office on a late August afternoon was not exactly what I'd expected. Over the phone she had announced herself as Mollie Randle. She was clearly just a teenager, and her youth was enhanced by the fact that she was barely five feet tall and slender as a reed.

I scowled at her and said, "How old are you?"

"Eighteen," she said in a pixieish voice.

"You'd better show me some I.D.," I said sternly.

She whipped out her driver's license—which, truly enough, showed that she was eighteen and four days.

I rolled my eyes. "Exactly why are you here? Do you really want to get pregnant? Do you even have a husband?"

"No and no," she said flatly.

"Then why?"

"Can't you guess? I'm heading off to college this fall, and I want to make sure I'm ready for the boys who might want to—you know . . . Some guys get all weird when they encounter a virgin—the blood, the mess, and all that."

"A fair number of men," I pontificated, "rather like the idea of deflowering a virgin. It gives them a certain sense of pride and accomplishment."

"Yeah, maybe, but I've also heard of guys who freak out about it. Anyway, I don't want to seem like some rube from the sticks who doesn't know what to do in bed."

"So you're telling me you

don't

want to get pregnant."

"That's right, buster."

"So, if we do it right now, can you assure me you won't?"

"Sure! It's not the right time in my cycle, you dope."

"Fine. Then let's get a move-on."

With that, she marched into my bedroom, flinging off her clothes—not that she was wearing very many on this hot day in late summer—along the way. Her tank top came off, then her shorts, then her bra, then her panties. Presto! she was naked.

I have to say, I do like the small ones—as long as they have some curves, as this one did. Her breasts were small but cute; she had a charming swell around the hips and butt; and her red hair and freckles completed the picture of ripening femininity on the very threshold of adulthood. I guess she had already heard how my operation functioned, because she didn't bat an eye either at stripping herself or at watching me strip, which she did with some care and intentness.

When I revealed my fairly sizeable and erect cock, she raised her eyebrows as if duly impressed, then fell to her knees.

It's funny how so many women are willing, even eager, to adopt this seemingly submissive pose when faced with a cock of some stature. It's as if they are unconsciously aware that this eight-inch device can effectively subdue them, so they might as well get in position to be subdued! Mollie sucked that cock like there was no tomorrow. She licked it up and down with her tongue, as if it was a big lollipop, and even tried to get both of my balls into her mouth at the same time. She didn't quite manage it, but the feel of my sac rolling around in her mouth was pretty nice.

Given her untouched status, I was especially careful to make her come first—both to get her in the proper mood and to counteract any pain she might feel from her initial penetration. She came with enthusiasm when I licked her, watching me every moment as I caused a veritable river of her fluid to drip out of her before her orgasm overwhelmed her.

Then came the tough part.

God knows I didn't want to hurt her, but I knew that prolonging my entry would only prolong the agony. She did cry out when I destroyed her hymen, and two big tears sprang out of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks; but she was a trouper and took the pounding pretty well. When I shot my wad into her, she let out another scream—a sort of whoop of triumph that, to her mind, made her anguish all worth while.

"Oh, man!" she cried. "That was great!"

"Didn't hurt too much?" I said, pulling out as gently as I could.

"Nope," she lied. She didn't want to admit that a tough girl like her could be wounded by even a big cock like mine.

"Glad to hear it," I said. "But let's clean you up. I don't care to have blood on my sheets."

I actually picked her up like a daddy carrying his little girl and took her to the bathroom. I made her sit on the toilet seat (the lid was down) while I took a washcloth soaked in warm water and mopped up her pussy, where both blood and my come were leaking out. I did the same for my own cock, which was also streaked with read.

I did Mollie four more times over the next several days before she announced that she had begun ovulating and couldn't do it anymore without possibly getting pregnant. I did suggest the alternative method (my "bonus offer"), but she gave me this look and said, "I don't think so."

"You don't know what you're missing," I said. "I understand this has gotten pretty popular among the college set."

"I'll take that under advisement," she said sarcastically.

Two weeks later she was back, and I did her five more times. This time she allowed me to do rear entry. She didn't like it at first, but the second and third times were better.

Now she was ready for college!

*

I have to take some care in describing my next client. She was one Charlotte Menzies. I estimated her as in her late thirties. She came into my office wearing a dark blue business suit that fit her perfectly, and she wasted no words on what she wanted.

"I understand you provide a certain service. I'll tell you that I'm a fairly successful executive and I've spent a lot of time devoted to my career. The various men I've been involved with over the years haven't quite gotten the job done as far as begetting offspring is concerned, so I've decided to come to you. I've examined your background, and you seem to be the sort of person whose genes I'd like to have for my child. So shall we get underway?"

"You aren't married?" I said.

"That's correct."

"And you know how this, um, procedure is to be done?"

She gave me a wry smirk. "The 'tried and true method,' as I heard someone describe it."

"You seem well informed."

"I make it my point to be."

She dug out an appointment book and snapped it open. "Listen," she said. "I'm prepared to pay for a full week of your services. I believe this is the optimal time for me to get—"

"Knocked up?" I couldn't help adding.

"If you wish to put it that way," she said tartly.

"You should know that I offer unlimited return engagements until the, er, job is done."

"I'm aware of that. But I want a bit more. I would like to have sessions with you every day for the next eight or nine days. Around this time." It was late afternoon. "Can you manage that?"

"Of course. I don't have any other appointments scheduled for a while."

She frowned, as if I had unexpectedly revealed I was a moron. "I didn't mean that. I meant, can you

perform

every day for the next eight or nine days? Many of the men I've been with haven't been, shall we say, up to the task."

"You don't have anything to worry about on that score."

"Fine. Then let's get started."

And with that, she headed to the bedroom, where she calmly undressed.

I have to tell you, Charlotte was a knockout. She may have been a decade older than me, but you would never have known. If Mollie had been a female who was really still just a girl, there was no question that Charlotte was a full-fledged woman in every sense of the term. Her breasts—after she released them from the encumbrance of her bra—were spectacular; my expert eyes told me they were something close to 38DD. And her flaring hips and round, firm butt were enough to make a man salivate. I may have done exactly that, and when she saw my reaction she again smirked with the smug realization that she was "a piece" and knew it.

But when I undressed, she herself gave a very different smile—one of pleasure and approval. She actually strode up to me, seized my swelling cock with one hand, and gave it a few tugs—maybe to make sure it was attached properly.

"A fairly notable apparatus," she said softly.

"Would you care to, um, give it some attention?"

She glared at me. "On my knees, I suppose?"

"I'd consider it a great privilege."

She glared at me, but went ahead and fell to the floor. She was more than skilled at cocksucking, and I almost sent a load into her mouth. But I managed to restrain myself, even though she was also getting me hot by rubbing and squeezing my bottom. Women do love a good male butt!

She was gratified that I licked her to climax, and even more gratified that I gave her a chance to recover for a few minutes before going into her. She started on her back, but after a while she basically forced me onto my back and, without letting me slip out of her, started riding me. Well, I didn't mind: I like aggressive women, and Charlotte's bouncing breasts were kind of hypnotic. It didn't take long for me to send my discharge into her, and she took it all in with that little smirk of hers.

As she flopped down to my side for a little post-coital cuddling, I said, "I'll be ready for another round in a few minutes, you know."

"Is that right?" she said. "Well, bully for you. I'll be happy to take a second dose."

This time, I kept on top. In fact, I pummeled her in a way that, I suspect, my effete predecessors had probably never done to her, and I also held her arms down to her sides so she couldn't turn the tables on me. I was maliciously satisfied by seeing a few little frowns of pain as I pounded that pussy of hers. But all was well when I shot my second load into her.

It was in the course of our second cuddling session that I put forth my "bonus offer."

She looked at me as if to say

You gotta be kidding me.

I looked back at her with the unspoken thought,

Nope, no joke.

"Do you like that?" I said out loud.

"I do, as a matter of fact," she said. "It's been a while; I'm a little out of practice. But I don't want you wasting your semen back there."

"You don't have to be concerned about that."

"Are you sure?" she said with immense skepticism.

"Madam, I am a professional. I've given you my word that I can perform satisfactorily in the manner you have prescribed, and I intend to keep my word."

She peered into my face intently, not convinced. But then she shrugged and said, "Oh, all right."

This third round was fabulous, although I think Charlotte suffered at least some discomfort from the long absence of a cock in her derrière. She got on all fours and, after I'd entered her, actually grabbed the headboard of the bed with both hands to steady herself as I thrust into that nether orifice. She gave little sighs or grunts in rhythm with my increasingly forceful thrusts, but I didn't let up until I'd sent a third emission into her. I myself bellowed like an ox when that happened.

When I pulled out, we were both covered with sweat, and she flopped back down on the bed, rubbing her bottom.

"Man, you really don't know when to quit," she said.

"You bring out the best in me," I said sweetly.

She didn't care for my humor, apparently, because after a few minutes she got dressed. She did make a show of wiping away the fluid that was trickling out of her butt, but she made sure to keep as much of my come in her vagina as she could.

"Okay," she said, now all business again, "same time tomorrow."

I will say that I performed more than capably over the next nine days. In short, I fucked her twenty-six times: eighteen in her pussy, six in her bottom, and two in her mouth. I estimate that she had at least thirty orgasms. It got to the point that even Charlotte, who was clearly hard to please, became something like putty in my hands. She had clearly not met a man of my potency before; and it amused me to see how even this high-powered businesswoman, who had probably bested lots of her male competitors on the way up the corporate ladder, now reverted to something like a traditional female in the face of my versatile weapon. I won't say she was submissive, but I tamed her to the extent that she started being just a wee bit frightened at the sight of my erect cock.

It's horribly unfeminist of me, but in my humble opinion that's a good way for women to feel.

*

My first house call came about a week after my sessions with Charlotte.

The lady in question—or, rather, the person who made the appointment and summoned me to her house—was one Diana Miller. I confess that I was mighty impressed when I approached her residence, which was in one of the best parts of town and could have been referred to as an "estate." The house itself was three stories tall, with a multitude of wings and surrounded by an impeccably tended garden (maintained, no doubt, by a professional—it was inconceivable that Diana herself would soil her hands at the work). Clearly, she—or her husband or her family—had plenty of money at their disposal.

When I was let in by the butler—yes, there really was a butler—I felt that I should probably have come in through the tradesman's entrance. But when the lady of the house wafted into the living room where I was twiddling my thumbs, I experienced a bit of unease.

After we had introduced ourselves and exchanged meaningless pleasantries, I came right out with my concerns.

"Ma'am," I said, "I hope you don't mind my saying so, but aren't you a bit advanced in age to think of having a child?"

And she was. Even though she was an impressive specimen of womanhood—tall and statuesque, with an aristocratic face and a figure that would have tempted a monk—she was clearly well into her forties, with a sprinkling of gray in her hair and crow's feet around her eyes. I actually praised her silently for not succumbing to the contrived (and expensive) expedients that wealthy women use to conceal their age.

At my remark, she frowned in irritation, and I thought I had offended her. But she was offended for a different reason.

"This is not for me, you moron!" she snapped. "It's for my daughter."

Enlightenment dawned. "Ah, I see."

"No, you don't," she went on, now beginning to pace around the room as if to work off her increasing annoyance—not at me, apparently, but at her wayward offspring. "Here's the situation. My daughter—her name's Frances; you can call her Fanny—took it into her head to fall in love with a young man I don't care for. In fact, I loathe and despise him. He's a good-for-nothing gold-digger (yes, men can be gold-diggers too) who's hoping to use my daughter to get all this"—she waved her arms to take in her property—"when my husband and I shuffle off this mortal coil. And because she's twenty-one, there's not much I can do about the situation."

"You could," I offered, "threaten to cut her—and him—off without a penny."

"Yes, that did occur to me—and it may come to that if Fanny doesn't see the light someday. But right now I'm prepared to take less drastic action."

"And that involves . . . me?" I said, still somewhat at sea.

She looked even more irritated. "You still don't get it, do you?"

"I fear not."

She sighed heavily, as if unable to endure the inveterate stupidity of the human race. "I have studied your record closely and am tolerably impressed with your DNA. I am of a mind to have you impregnate my daughter so that any child that comes from her doesn't have the tainted genes of her layabout husband. Get the picture now?"

"Ah, it's crystal clear," I said. I looked around the room. "Do Fanny and her man live here?"

"God forbid," Diana said with a shudder. "I could not bear to have that man around me, polluting my very presence. I've gotten them a fairly nice apartment downtown. But she's here now."

"Does she actually, um, want to go through with this plan?"

"She will if she knows what's good for her," Diana said with baleful determination. "Anyway," she added with a smirk, "that girl has rarely said no to any presentable man who wants her to spread her legs for him, so I don't think you'll have any trouble."

And with that, she stalked out of the room, stood at the foot of an immense curving marble staircase that led to the second floor, and howled like a fishwife: "Fanny! Get down here this minute!"

Fanny didn't respond immediately, but just as Diana was on the verge of having her butler drag Fanny out of wherever she was lurking upstairs, the young lady sauntered downstairs. She proved to be tall and willowy, like her mother, but not quite as curvy. And the perpetual expression of boredom and vague annoyance that covered her face did not enhance her beauty. Women, take note! That kind of look is a real turn-off to men!

She must have known what I was there for. Her expression gradually changed to something approaching interest, even enthusiasm, as she took in my broad shoulders and strong thighs and calves. She directed her gaze frankly toward my groin, no doubt wondering what kind of apparatus I had at my disposal. Well, she found out very soon.

But Diana threw yet another curve at me.

"We're heading to the guest bedroom on this floor," she said, striding away and expecting Fanny and me to follow. When we got to the room, she stood there and said, "Okay, go to it."

I gave a start. "Um, you weren't planning to be here while we—?"

"Oh, you don't like performing to an audience?" she said, her eyes glinting.

"Well, one usually likes privacy for this procedure. Anyway, you needn't be concerned that I won't fulfill the task in a satisfactory manner."

"I'm not concerned about that. I—"

Fanny now spoke up for the first time. "Oh, Mom, there's no way I can do this with you here!"

Diana turned her attention languidly to her daughter. "Why on earth not? You didn't seem to mind an audience when you and your slimeball husband got it on at that bar a few weeks ago. I heard all about that."

"Oh, that was different!" Fanny cried. "We were drunk. Anyway, you're my

mom,

for God's sake!"

"Just get over it, dearie," Diana said. "I'm watching, and that's all there is to it."

I myself felt a little jolt of excitement at the prospect, and when I took my clothes off my member displayed the emotions I was feeling.

Both women gazed at it with considerable approval, and Fanny suddenly lost her boredom and stripped in under a minute. She was a bit skinnier than I liked, but she had a good pair of knockers and her hips and butt were more than adequate.

As we got down to business, Diana took a seat in a nearby easy chair and watched with a seemingly bland expression on her face. But when Fanny and I moved on to the main event, I glanced over and saw that Diana's hand had crept up under her skirt and was pulling away her panties around her crotch. Fanny was too preoccupied with my cock in her pussy to take note of her mother's masturbatory tactics.

I believe I did the job more than adequately. I fucked Fanny twice that day, and came back twice more to the house and filled her vagina several more times with my seed, not to mention opening up her anus (something she hadn't done before, but which she took to like a fish to water).

Some weeks later, Diana summoned me back to the house.

"Congratulations!" she said, almost as soon as the stone-faced butler had led me into the living room. "You've done the job: Fanny's pregnant."

"Glad to hear it," I said. "I aim to please."

"You certainly do."

"But are you sure the child is

mine?

Surely her husband has made Fanny perform her wifely duties over the past few weeks?"

"I actually doubt it. He's been on something of a bender, and when he's in that condition he can't—if I may express it so bluntly—get it up. The child is yours, no question about it."

"Well, that's fine."

I wasn't quite sure why she had asked me to come to the house to announce this news. I mean, all she had to do was pick up the phone and call me. I was about to ask that very question when she said, with a lascivious smile: