Pleasure Thieves

Carol said, "Phillip, I want something to drink."

"Not now, darling," Phillip murmured.

"My mouth is dry," she whimpered.

He covered her mouth with his, and moved his cunt-coated tongue on hers. She sucked timidly at his tongue, unwilling to concede the growing heat in her pussy.

"Drink, baby, quench your thirst. Suck me, darling, I'll give you something to drink."

"Yes," she said, slowly coming back to life in Phillip's arms, wanting to touch and smell and taste. "Yes, Phillip." Carol lay flat on the bed and Phillip straddled her head with his knees. His forehead rested on the satin-covered backboard of the bed. Looking straight up, Carol could see the dense hairs that surrounded his hanging balls. His prick was rigidly pointing at her mouth. He lowered his buttocks to her chest, and his cock pressed against her closed lips.

"Open up, Carol," he commanded.

She parted her lips slightly, and his penis popped against the fleshy inner lining of her mouth. She nibbled, almost daintily, at the swollen head of his erection. It tasted good, familiar and filled with life. Her mouth clung hungrily to his prick, and her tongue was pointed at the pinpoint hole hidden in the crown of his cock.

She opened her throat wide and let the cock sink deep, deep inside her head. She wanted more, and she lifted her head to swallow the sacks that swung smotheringly over her face. She gagged and choked on the bone, but wouldn't give it up.

Phillip moved up and down, using her throat like a cunt, not caring that she was gasping beneath him, just feeling the come swelling inside his prick. "Faster, deeper," he ordered.

She sank into the pillows and opened her throat wider. She gave herself up completely to the blinding body sitting on her breasts. He pounded against her chest, mashing the creature beneath him, getting it out of his swollen rod. Her tongue and mouth were wet and nervous around the cock.

Then he shouted, "Drink, Carol, drink," and poured the hot white fluid into her mute throat.

***

Harry walked, glass in hand, past the admiring women, toward the rear terrace of the mansion. He crossed the terrace to the open French doors leading into the high, thick-beamed ceiling. He studied the room, the position of servants, the doors and windows. He walked past a group of people lunching quietly and talking, remembering the last Llewellyn festival.

Maybe something would happen. Mrs. Llewellyn hated tea parties.

Harry looked vague and abstract, and somebody named Freely walked over, bubbling words and offering a limp hand. Harry said, "A pleasure. Please excuse me," and crossed the room.

He went beyond a tremendous jutting fireplace that broke the room's contours, and finally was alone. The tension was mounting inside him.

He put down the drink, wiped the glass with his handkerchief, and slipped through the door into a long hall.

He moved swiftly up two short flights of steps which angled down from a broad and luxurious landing. He crossed silently to a door, pulling on his gloves. It was silent in this part of the house. Nothing, not even the distant guests could be heard. He hesitated, studying the doors on the landing and then sprinted quickly and noiselessly to a door diagonally across the hall. It cracked open imperceptibly and he looked in. Then he swung it open decisively, entered, and closed it behind him in a single motion.

The room, a spacious, fussily decorated bedroom, opening onto a terrace, was empty. There were two closed doors on the wall to the left. He swung open the first, to a large, windowless dressing room.

He crossed swiftly to the other and threw it open.

There it was. Mrs. Llewellyn's little black swimming pool. A huge, semi-sunken, roman, black-tiled bath. The bath was eight feet long and six feet wide, big enough for Mrs. Llewellyn to wash her pretty toes, or for Mr. Llewellyn to wash any of the guests' backs.

On three sides of the bath were leaded mirror-mosaic panels which cast Harry's image – broken and distorted as he searched desperately for the safe. He fingered the drain, the knobs and the mirrored squares of the wall.

Standing inside the black-tiled pool, he swept the towels from the rack. He pulled open the drawers that receded behind the rack. The first held a conglomerate of jars and lotions, the next a display of manicuring tools and powders. The first drawer wouldn't open. He closed the others and pulled tenaciously at the top rack. It felt cemented deep into the wall, impossible to move. Leaning forward, he studied the tiles behind it closely, searching for a crack or joint that would mean another drawer, another hiding place.

He caught his reflection in the mirrors, sweating and intense. There was something obscene about the room, black and shining, and too voluptuous for plump giggling Mrs. Llewellyn. What the hell did she do there, besides hide her jewels and come to admire them every Ascension Day.