2021 Nellskitchen. All rights reserved. The essayist asserts her right to be identified as the author of 'BILLY BABB'S BARGAIN.' This story or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author (except for the use of brief quotations in a review). If you see this story on any website other than Literotica.com, it is pirated without the author's permission.
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"So, this is for real?"
His skeptical and struggling voice was low, gravelly--his vocal cords inflamed. His nervous chuckle, though meant to highlight male confidence; instead, conveyed agitation.
As intended, his initial sure-footedness dropped with his jeans, which, piled loosely about his ankles, made him appear what he was--alone, foolish. I neglected to answer his question. Instead, gazing up into his dull eyes, I grinned and playfully waved my banner of feminine defiance, a Ziploc sandwich bag.
Yes, my little prop was for real. And in answer to his question, yes, I was serious. That aside, Billy Babb was merely a pacifier, an unremarkable stand-in for the far more appetizing Jackson Sylvane. Fixation of my obsessions, and doubtlessly up to no good, Jackson is back home in Atlantic City, where, summering without me, he spends his time hustling boardwalk dupes.
On the other hand, I am here, stashed away in the backwoods of Maine, the victim of over-the-top parental control. At this very moment, the clock is ticking. With no other options, I seem destined to work with Billy Babb, the handsomish country bumpkin I plan to convert to my personal Sir Galahad, not forever--just for a few weeks.
Unlike last year's selectee, Billy is not stupid; he thought twice before loosening his belt buckle. Moreover, he knows a good offer when he sees one, meaning he's smart. I like smart boys. My ploy is not new; it is a reprise of last year when it tested out well on the slightly more handsome but equally bumpkinish Evan Greaves.
Like Evan, Billy exhibits the same nervous laugh, look of disbelief, and effort to appear comfortable, all with flaccid cock and weighty balls on parade, even as his rather cute backside faces our living room picture window, in this, my parents' summer cottage.
As the reader can well imagine, since I am a clever girl, I started out with a particular type of boy in mind. I liked tall; both last year's victim and this stood tall. I leaned toward lean; each leaned lean. I fancied cocks up close; each offered to show me his. Each stood--I knelt. Each frowned--I smiled. Each trembled--I was serene.
I relied on the uniqueness of my plan. My proposal, after all, is not something backwoods boys trip and fall over on an average day. The blueprint was perfect, and, smugly, I cannot help thinking any girl--well, any calculating girl--would swap places with me in a flash!
I inspected Billy's limp dick. Like the rest of him, it was long and lean. I wonder if, when standing straight, it will display the necessary stamina, something yet to be proven. In addition, there is the question of volume: How much sperm would he shoot? Would Billy's load impress me? I needed to find out!
It is afternoon, warm for Maine. Only yesterday, Billy offered to come by in the morning. "You will not," I commanded. I did not say why, but for you, the reader, I will be honest. Breezes off the ocean are cold in the morning. The chilly air works at cross-purposes with my appetite for unique visuals. A girl wants to see certain things. Testicles, heavy and hanging loosely in their sack, intrigue me. The morning air discourages the spectacle as crisp breezes prod scrotums to lapse into safe mode, making them tighten as balls seek refuge up nearer a boy's body. That, I do not like!
"No, Billy Babb," I decreed. "It's cold in the morning. Come by in the afternoon when it is warm. Sneak into the woods behind our cottage. After my parents drive off, I will open the back door." In anticipation, I lay awake half the night, obsessed that in a few hours, testicles, loose, ripe--like peaches splitting with heavy syrup and dangling vulnerably between masculine legs, would be mine. It is what I wanted!
We were high school seniors when the subject first came up. Standing by Andrea's locker, we listened as she matter-of-factly lectured us about balls. "They float! They move," she assured us. We brightened and glanced about, only half-hoping no boys were listening. It crossed our minds that only Andrea had ever experienced balls--real ones--up close. I had only seen videos.
Playacting skepticism, I asked, "What do you mean, they float?"
Blinking excitedly, the stuck-up cheerleader scolded us like children. We were not children! Authoritatively, Andrea mocked us, saying, "They lift and fall as the temperature goes up and down! A girl can watch them, but she needs to get real close. When she does, she sniffs the boy's sperm!"
