Taylor Wilkins sighed with pleasure as he released again into Vixen's pulsing pussy and squeezed hard on her left breast as he did so, his right hand rubbing at her belly. "Damn it, girl," he gasped as his balls emptied, "don't you ever get tired?" She was still humping and gasping, undulating in his grasp, her vulva aflame.
"Um," groaned Vixen as she wiggled her shapely ass back into the man's hairy groin. "More, more."
"You listening," Wilkins asked as he rolled to his back, getting both hands on the girl's firm jugs, stroking upward and letting his cock slide almost halfway out of her as she lay spread atop him, her head just under his chin, his ram pressing up against the front of her sensitive vagina. He teased out her nipples, lifting and rubbing them between his thumb and forefinger while her quim fluttered on his tired horn, the over-stimulated g-spot now nearly numb.
"No," Vixen said, "let me go." She pulled loose of his grasping hands and got herself upright on his loins, rotated, tossed back her hair and leaned forward, putting her hands on his knees and feeling his firm cock move much deeper in her soggy vagina. She pulsed her Kegel-trained muscles and dragged him still deeper, smiling to herself as his thick ram rubbed her raw. She began bouncing on his belly and grunting out her pleasure, her juices freely flowing.
Wilkins held her at her rounded hips and relaxed as best he could, thoroughly spent but still being used as she moved up and down on his slippery pole. "Vixen," he said calmly, "listen to me. I want to offer you a job."
"Got a job," she said, "uh, uh," squeezing repeatedly on his fading member, "uh uh," eager for more, "uh uh," her constant itch still unscratched. "Told you. Uh. Um. Oh yes."
"No, now listen," he said as she finally gave up and flopped down beside him, gurgling happily, grasping his sticky phallus and placing it gently on his belly. "This is a part-time job I think you can do. Are you listening?" He swallowed down another tremor as she stretched him out.
"Um," said Vixen, unwilling to give up as she nestled her head on the big man's shoulder and continued to stroke his long, spent manhood gently. It was still big and fat but disappointingly inert.
"I need a hostess. My new job entails a lot of entertaining. Receptions, dinners, that sort of thing. All very dressy and very, let's call it chic although I don't like that word. Don't even know what it means."
"In New York?" asked the girl, tickling just under the head and stroking the ridge of his glans, concentrating, her tongue in the corner of her mouth; the engorged lips of her pussy moving like the mouth of a beached fish.
"Of course. I'd want you to come into the city by Friday night, afternoon would be better, and then go to parties and such with me, on my arm, like a trophy wife. Some would be at my place with you as hostess. All you'd have to do is smile and circulate and let men ogle you, perhaps chat a bit."
"I work at the day-care until five, Taylor. How long would it take me to drive to your hotel?"
"Don't do that," he said, smacking her hand away from his tired prick. "Probably a couple of hours on a Friday, terrible time to travel."
"And then what?" She wriggled closer, getting her knee up against his scrotum, pressing, hoping, kneading.
"Well, then we get dressed up and go to dinner, a fine dinner somewhere, sometimes at one of the UN legations, maybe out on one of the ships, perhaps a business function, or a good restaurant or hotel. Sometimes there's dancing. You'll have fun."
"Is that all we do?" She sniffed loudly.
"Vixen, if we do this when you get to the city, we'll go hungry, starve to death and I'll lose my job. You won't believe what they're paying me."
"Pity," she said, her fingers playing with his nipple.
'Now stop," he said, holding her hand. "I'll pay you a thousand a day, let's say $2,500 a weekend, all taxes paid, cash, free and clear, no call for you to report it, a gift, and give you a generous allowance for clothes and to get your hair done, that sort of thing."
"What's wrong with my hair?"
"Nothing," he said, raking his hands though it, "but it is kind of wild and untamed, and I certainly can't figure out what color it is."
"Humph," said Vixen, turning away from him.
"Well?" he asked petting her smooth back, tracing the trench of her spine down to her ass. "Will you do it?"
"I'm too young. I wouldn't know how to behave. You'd be ashamed of me."
"Nonsense, but if you're worried, we can give it a try. If you can't do it, I'll have to hire one of those New York girls."
"You mean a whore?"
"A very high priced one."
Vixen sighed. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat and I'll think about it."
He kissed her shoulder and rolled out of bed, glanced at his watch and saw that they had been coupling for more than an hour. Time with Vixen proved Einstein right. Wilkins was virile and healthy, but no woman ever got more out of him than this slim girl did. He wondered how old she really was. He wasn't sure how many times she had come, but he feared she wasn't fully satisfied.
The next Friday, Mrs. Morrison let Vixen go early and the girl got her Mustang out on the Jersey Turnpike by three o'clock and was at the wide portal of Wilkins' New York hotel parking garage by four-thirty. The device he had given her along with an Easy Pass sensor opened the big doors and she glided in, parked, and went up to the fifty-first floor and Wilkins' suite of rooms overlooking the West Side and a bit of the Park.
The big man kissed her, took her by the hand and led her back out to the elevator bank and down to the concourse and into a beauty salon. 'Give her the works," he told the pony-tailed man who appeared from the curtains. "What size are you?" he asked the girl.
"Depends, a seven usually," she said truthfully and gave him some measurements. She was, she said, five-eight and a hundred and ten, and she needed extra-long hose. "Oh and these are thirty-six and my hips are down to thirty-five thanks to chasing little kids, waist's usually about twenty-five." He scurried away and the fawning man led her to a chair and two young women appeared and washed her hair and did her finger and toenails.
When they were done, Vixen's hair was a rich auburn streaked with gold and very fluffy, turned under and curling about her ears and cheeks. Wilkins collected her with a big bag in his hand and hurried her to the elevator. "You look very interesting," he said, "but the hair is a bit much. They did something to your eyebrows, didn't they?"
"I think it's cool," said the girl, looking at herself in the polished metal of the elevator wall and teasing it out with her fingers. "Like what's her name in the movies."
Wilkins tossed three dresses on the bed. "Pick one and hurry," he said. "You can do your makeup in the car. We've got to leave in ten minutes. It's the damn Russians."
There was a dark purple dress with a tight, short skirt, a flowing lavender gown with a very long skirt and drapery for a top and a raspberry-colored slip with a lacey over dress that was cranberry colored and clung on the shoulders. Vixen guessed the dresses must have cost at least a thousand a piece.
She stripped and wriggled into the dark red one wearing just her tiny underpants. The dress was like a clinging slip with miniscule straps over which a lace gown fell freely. She twirled in front of the mirror and slipped on her gold sandals, aware that her nipples were clearly defined beneath the silk.
"Don't you have any heels?" Wilkins asked when he saw her.
She shook her head and he dragged her to the elevator and down to the parking garage.
"Do your makeup," he said when they were belted into his huge Bentley.
"Don't use any," she said with a grin, aware that the beauty shop had plucked her eyebrows and darkened her lashes.
A man in a green uniform took the car, and Vixen trotted into the fancy, old home right behind Wilkins, looking at the lights and mirrors and all the people dressed in their finery. She accepted a tall glass of something that turned out to be champagne and the mob swallowed her up. Two hours later Wilkins found her surrounded by a half-dozen young men, half of them in uniform, the first glass she had been given still in her hand, still half full.
"Time to go," he said with a grin.
She smiled at him and introduced the men, going right around the circle and getting every single name, even the Slavic and Polish ones, dead on. Wilkins shook hands and dragged her away as the men protested.
In the car, Vixen leaned back against the soft leather and sighed. "At least a dozen men propositioned me, including one who bragged that he was an undersecretary of State, our State Department. Can you imagine? Somebody pinched me too."
"Yes," the man said, smiling in the streetlight's purple-white glare. "Did you have fun? Were you really pinched?"
"Um hm," she said, "but some of the females looked daggers at me. I don't know what I was drinking. I didn't like it."
"Well, your dress did keep falling off your shoulder you know. Guess I got the wrong size."
"All the dresses are lovely, Taylor. You have very good taste, but I really should try things on. I might wear a five in some makes and a twelve in others."
"Thank you. You have a very good body. I could have gotten a gown from Target or Sears and you'd have done just as well."
Vixen laughed. "What's next?"
"A small party in my apartment tomorrow night and then a football game on Sunday."
"A football game? Who's playing?"
"Out at the Meadowlands. It's the Giants and the Redskins."
"I don't have anything to wear."
"You will by then," he said as the heavy car dove into the parking garage.
They slept late on Saturday and woke to make love again, strenuously, showered together and he took her up against the cold bathroom tiles while she squealed and kicked and climaxed, her back arched so that only the top of her head touched the wall.
Then they visited two high-end shoe stores, a half dozen haute couture dress shops and two toney department stores. Vixen bought four pairs of heels, several dozen pairs of stockings, some fancy underwear, two dark daytime dresses, one cocktail dress, two tweedy outfits for the country, three bulky sweaters, five silk blouses, a long black wool skirt and a silly tartan hat. Wilkins spent over $11,000 that morning and then they had franks at Nathans and laughed about their shopping spree.
Back in the hotel, Vixen modeled the clothes for Wilkins, and he chose the ice blue cocktail dress with its sparkling bodice for that evening and the dark green tweed skirt and cable-knit sweater for the game on Sunday.
Then they jumped into bed and joined their highly stimulated bodies, inflamed by Vixen's stripping fashion show. Wilkins could not recall being so hard, and Vixen gloried in his youthful vigor, encouraging him with her hungry body. The room soon filled with the sound of their mutual grunting, their flesh smacking together and the bedsprings complaining.
By the time the caterers arrived, Wilkins was lying spent across his bed and Vixen was eating a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich. For that evening's party she tried on the blue dress, didn't like its flaring skirt and donned a champagne colored strapless sheath that cupped her jutting breasts with slits on both sides and almost no back.
The party for about two dozen happy people, including some young Finns from a rival company, went well, and Vixen was sure she met and chatted with all the men and half the women. She was groped, felt and patted numerous times and when Wilkins peeled her out of the dress and kissed her hard nipples, she was tired and ready for her bed. She lay back and let him enjoy her, one leg up on his right shoulder and the other under his left arm and then his deep thrusting aroused her and she found her second wind. They rolled about on the bed for nearly an hour and finally slept tangled in the sheets and thoroughly spent, his big cock in her small hand.
Vixen woke Wilkins by licking his hard penis and then taking it down her throat. He whimpered and pulled her off of him, tossed her on her back and jumped on her as her legs enfolded him. Wilkins arched up, his fists by her ears, and gasped and grunted through a long series of rams into her wonderful body before he spent himself in gushing explosions.
Not wanting to take his $250,000 convertible to the game, Wilkins asked Vixen to drive and they slid into a reserved parking space about an hour before kickoff, used the elevator up to the luxury box level and joined some of Wilkins' business associates and their wives and girl friends for a good meal. It was an exciting, see-saw game, but Vixen felt somewhat isolated in the room-like atmosphere with its table of food, endless drinks and closed circuit TV. On the way back to the city, Vixen was very quiet.
"What's wrong," the man asked as they emerged from the long tunnel, the sun sinking behind them.
"Back there, at half-time, one of your business partners asked me for a blow job."