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Between Joyce Heinrich's Legs
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
How I came to be here between Joyce Heinrich's legs, licking into
the trough of her cunt, will take some explaining. I'm having a
good time eating her out, and I am so excited that this is
happening that I almost don't believe I'm really here with Joyce
on her bed. Still, as I tongue at Joyce's pussy and lightly graze
her trail of pubic hair with a finger, trying to drive her toward
a first orgasm, I can't help but think of how I did actually come
to be here.
Joyce Heinrich and I dated for one hot, busy summer some six years
ago. She was eighteen then, and I was back from college for
vacation. It would be the studly thing to tell you I met her and
immediately had my way with her--but that's not what happened.
Let me tell you of how we met, some seven years ago.
What first drew me to Joyce was her breasts. She appeared at the
back of our practice hall, there to see her friend, the soundman
for my rock and roll band. I noticed her in mid-song, in the midst
of singing a line. I didn't flinch; other girls had appeared there
at the back, and I had learned to stay cool.
The more I looked at this girl, though, the more I wanted to look.
(I had to be sneaky, though.) She was nice and thin and petite,
and soon I noticed how her round breasts jutted out from her body
to defy gravity. They didn't look huge, but as her small frame
subtly shifted and turned to the beat of our music, her tits
looked plenty big. Oh, did I mention it? She was good-looking,
too.
Here at the base of her hips, I'm watching Joyce's clitoris emerge
from its hood as I lick it. If she's like other girls, Joyce is
near orgasm. The girl's clit always grows to maximize its pleasure
when the girl is aroused enough.
I didn't see Joyce's genitals at all that first summer. Indeed, I
didn't see or even feel her breasts. God knows I wanted to.
We met that day after band practice, introduced by our mutual
friend. I thought I had the situation under control when I got the
two of us talking away from the others, but she surprised me by
suddenly asking me out. "War Games just came out," she said. "Why
don't we go see it?"
She looked great that July night when I picked her up for the
movie. Her soft brown hair was somewhat curlier, her jeans fit her
hips somewhat tightly, and her colorful t-shirt ended somewhat shy
of the top of those jeans, obligingly exposing a bit of her light
brown waist. "Hi," she said, cutely. She walked across her
driveway and got into my car.
We saw the movie, we got some yogurt, I took her home, and at no
time did she give me any indication that I should even kiss her.
Why didn't I just put the moves on her? I haven't mentioned
Joyce's upbringing; she was raised to be a very religious girl. We
couldn't go out on that Friday or any Friday, and had to wait for
Saturday, because Joyce was due in church. Yeah, you're thinking,
but that was her parents' doing. Untrue. She spent some time that
night talking about her religious beliefs as she poked at
chocolate yogurt with a spoon. Although she didn't try to convert
me or anything, she did manage to get me into her church a few
times, my long hair tied back as conservatively as possible.
Not that my attendence at these sermons helped my standing with
her. "I feel that God is calling me to other things right now,"
she said after a short pause when I finally confronted her. "Not
that you're not nice, and really cute."
That didn't help--no guy wants to be "nice."
"Don't think I don't care at all; I have been praying about it and
everything." She smiled, fingering a curl of hair that rested on
her shoulder.
I got blunt. "Can I at least kiss you?"
"Mike," she said, "I just wouldn't feel right by the Lord."
After I left for college in late August, I didn't see Joyce until
the next June. Interestingly enough, she wrote me diligently, and
I answered her letters on occasion. ("Tough classes, really busy,"
I told her.)
I called in June, the third night I was home. I was at her house
within half an hour, upon invitation. Joyce opened the door and
let me in. Within a few minutes, I noticed that something had
changed.
She looked the same--oh, she looked great, and maybe her large
breasts were more pronounced because she wore a tighter blouse,
but her appearance was the same.
Her attitude was different. It didn't mean much when she smiled
uncontrollably at first sight of me, or when she fawned over me
with her mother, or when she brought me an ice water, although
these weren't things Joyce typically did. But add them up and she
had a different attitude.
You can guess what happened: I asked her out, and when we did go
out, I kissed her for the first time.
More than kissed her. My arm rubbed the side of her breast,
gently, as we made out in the car. (If she got mad or anything, I
could say I didn't mean to rub her.) Before I knew what happened,
Joyce grabbed my hand and cupped it over her the large swell in
her snug blouse.
I couldn't believe it--I was so surprised that I pulled my hand
away, only to have her firmly put it back to her breast. I then
did what any horny young guy might do with a good-looking girl and
her change of attitude: I squeezed and caressed her big tit until
I could feel her nipple pressing through the fabric.
Joyce had been unbuttoning her blouse, but I didn't notice until
she opened it and put my hand on her bra cup. I kissed her neck,
getting an up-close sample of her sweet perfume, not to mention an
up-close first look at her sweet cleavage. My kisses moved down to
her chest, and my finger tugged down at a bra cup.
Her hand stopped me. "That," she whispered, "is where it stops."
That was where it stopped all summer, although I did manage to get
her bra open during a hot, moist dry-humping session in my car.
Her breasts expanded wonderfully as she release the latch of her
bra; apparently, she hides the size of her chest with tight bras.
I moved quickly, putting my face in front of her tits before she
could stop me. (She didn't.) Her areolas, the shiny brown circles
surrounding each plump nipple, were downright beautiful. She had,
in fact, the most attractively round set of tits I could imagine.
My mouth opened and took in a nipple. Her hand pulled my head into
her chest, and I rubbed the bulge in my pants into her crotch,
hinting at the pleasure she could feel if she'd let it happen.
She didn't let it happen that night; eventually, we cooled down
and I took her home. That was as far as I ever got with her, and
when I started getting letters from a girl I knew from college, I
knew I'd leave town that August with a lot of excitement and Joyce
with a heartfelt "let's just be friends." I didn't see her again
for years.
As a matter of fact, I didn't see her again until today. How did I
end up here, running the length of her tender pussy with my
tongue? (She's coming right now, by the way; has been for about a
minute.)
Here's how: I drove into town this morning with a woody. I had a
hard-on, and I was in my hometown, and somehow, the two together
made me think of Joyce. So I tracked her down.
Someone had told me she worked at The Clothiers, a men's suit
shop. Interesting that I needed a tie for a wedding on Saturday.
"Hi," said Joyce, smiling for a new customer. "Hi!" she exclaimed,
seeing that the customer was me.
She looked thinner and prettier than ever in her patterned, fitted
dress. And somehow, though her frame was more petite, her bust
looked a little bigger. She smelled nice. It was an amplified
Joyce. I contained myself--allowing horniness to show does not get
one laid.
Instead, I was cool: "How's it going?" I said.
Do not be fooled: when it counts, women control the flow and
outcome of any encounter, any relationship. Ego aside, I can't
take any credit for what happened next.
It was Joyce's idea to go to lunch today. It was she who let her
smooth legs stick out from underneath the table for me to see. It
was she who let her curvy ass gyrate ever-so-slightly as she
opened the restaurant door in front of me. And it was she who
invited me over tonight when, I discovered a few minutes ago, she
knew her mother was going to be gone until 11:00.
I let myself in. "Just a minute," she yelled from the back, for
the second time.
One minute later, she emerged, in a purple sleeveless sweatshirt
and black cotton shorts. "Hey," she grinned.
Twenty-five minutes ago, we were sitting on the piano bench,
talking. I was telling her a little about the last six years of my
life. Hey, I noticed, that sweatshirt is pretty low-cut!
Twenty minutes ago Joyce was showing me her room (which looked a
lot like it used to). We sat on her bed. When I made her laugh,
she bent down dramatically. Hey, I noticed, that sweatshirt is
loose! I could see her cleavage. Hey, I thought, she's not wearing
a bra.
Seventeen minutes ago, she laughed again, and her sweatshirt again
fell open in front. This time I was sitting closer to her, and I
couldn't help but look down her top. There were her breasts,
entirely exposed to me, and unquestionably bigger and (were it
possible) rounder. Her nipples, I noted, were a bit erect. I tried
to look up quickly, so she wouldn't notice me looking. It was too
late--she was looking me right in the eyes.
Sixteen minutes ago, I kissed her. Our lips pressed together and
then our mouths opened just so, forming a tight passage through
which I passed my tongue. Her tongue was there to meet mine, and
they slid together sensuously.
Fourteen minutes ago Joyce broke the kiss. She smiled simply. Then
her purple sweatshirt popped over her head and off. She sat there
for a few seconds, topless. "Touch me," she finally said. I did.
Ten minutes ago I was still sucking her tits. I was working on her
right breast, to be exact. I was loving sucking them, but I
couldn't help pulling back occasionally to look at Joyce's tits.
They are truly more beautiful than ever. Her areolas have grown
wider--they're two, maybe two and a half inches in diameter now.
They seem darker brown in tone. Her nipples are thick as ever.
Meanwhile, I was dry-humping the softness of her cotton shorts
crotch.
Eight minutes ago, her black cotton shorts came off. The crotch
was wet; she hadn't been wearing panties. I looked at her pussy
for the first time; it is, like all the parts of her body,
genuinely beautiful. Her pubic hair is light brown, like her hair
and eyebrows. It's carefully trimmed, and only a thin trail
remains on either side of her light pink, wet labia.
"You can lick it if you want," she said, shyly. My tongue forced
the thick lips apart, and as the smell of her pussy grew, I began
carefully eating Joyce out.
She's coming again. My tongue is a half-inch or so into her
vagina, my thumb is stroking her clitoris. Joyce comes for a long
time--it's been two minutes that she's been muffling her intense
moans and whimpers of "yeah, oh yeah."
"I want to fuck," she's saying. Apparently, her orgasm is over.
I'm shocked at her strong language.
I pull my cock out, and she's gazing at it, touching it. "God,"
she says, "I don't know." She shakes her head, smiling sweetly. "I
don't know if I'm built for this."
"Sure you are," I say, laying her on her back. "All girls are
built for this."
Joyce spreads her wonderful brown legs. "I meant built for
something that size," she whispers. She motions to her gams. "Is
this right?"
"That's fine," I'm saying. "Well, a little further apart. Why,
don't you know?"
"No," she's grinning. "I don't."
"Well," I say, "that's fine right there." My dick is taking aim,
gently stroking her crevice.
"Do I need to hold it open or anything?" she asks.
"No," I say. "I'll do the work.."
Joyce folds her arms behind her head. She's tan everywhere; even
her underarms are a beautiful smooth brown. "I'm nervous," she
admits.
I'm sliding my cock into her wet softness. God, she's tight,
really tight! "You're going to enjoy this," I manage to say.
"I know," she says, mouth agape.
I'm fucking Joyce with slow, smooth strokes. She is really turned
on; she just let her finger start circling an areola. Both her
areolas, I'm noticing, have puffed out some. Her nipples are thick
and hard and lumpy. She's fingering one of them now.
My body is leaning down on her; her hand slides away from her big
tit. We're kissing now. It feels warm and passionate. We break. "I
always knew I'd be with you," whispers Joyce.
My hips are pressing hard now, ramming harder and definitely
faster. Joyce is noticing; her breathing is louder.
She's coming!--starting to come. "Yeah," she lets go, encouraging.
"Oh, yeah." She's getting louder.
I raise up over her and fuck her hard. "Ye-eh-eh-es!" she's
shouting, over the rhythm of our colliding hips. I'm looking down
at her beautiful body, and it's hard not to come, watching this
gorgeous babe get off on my dick. She's raising her arms above her
head now, bucking her hips onto mine.
Joyce has lost her self-control. In the face of my fucking her at
full speed, sucking at her shiny brown areola, she has started to
scream. It's an intermittant scream--she seems to let it out when
she can. When she does scream, though, it's loud.
Oh, this is too much for me! I can't hold out on this! Look at
those big round tits, that beautiful face in ecstacy, that
beautiful, tight cunt being reamed by my cock! I'm going to come.
I can feel it now.
I just said that to Joyce in a whisper; I'm not sure she heard me.
No matter, she'll know in a second or so--there. I'm coming!
(Pause for indescribable pleasure.)
I just started shooting my come into Joyce; it's a great feeling.
She knows it now. She's watching me. I've slammed my cock into her
cunt for the last time, pushing it all the way in. Six, seven
squirts, no stopping yet.
"I want to do this again," Joyce is saying with a sincere tone.
"Give me a few minutes," I say.
"Fine," she whispers, stroking my back. "But I meant tomorrow
night, too."
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