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Her little crew - sex story


Her little crew



Judging from some of the fan mail she has let us read, Grace Eddy is rapidly becoming one of the most popular writers at Surrey House, Inc.. All of her many exciting novels have been very good sellers for Rated X and Surrey Collectors.

We feel very confident that HER LITTLE CREW will be no exception to the following she has already established.

HER LITTLE CREW comes on board, and we do mean comes, after she had been persuaded to take a few boys on an outing on her boat... boys who might otherwise never have the experience of riding the waves on an exciting sailboat... boys who might otherwise never have the experience or riding out the other special things she was destined to teach them, once she had them all to herself on the high seas and their little pants dropped down far enough for her to see the only mast she was interested in hoisting.

She kept each of them up longer than they expected, wearing their firm resolves down time after time, then forcing them through her exciting titillation to get it right back up there where she could use it again, emptying one after the other until she had her fill of hot, throbbing boylove.

HER LITTLE CREW will sail on into ecstasy...

The Publishers

CHAPTER ONE

It was a quiet life but she liked it. At thirty-nine Theodora often laughed at what she had thought being a dancer was like. What it was really like was hard work. Since she had been eight Ted's life had been a daily round of practice, exercises to twist her body into shapes nature had never intended a little girl's bones to go.

It was, she reflected, very like a nun's life except that it required more rigid vows and a greater dedication. A nun had to give up screwing. A dancer... Ted had been a virgin till she was nearly twenty-eight, thanks to the still uninvented pill. Pregnancy for a dancer was not just a social embarrassment. It was The End. Nobody in the world of ballet cared who fucked whom but if a dancer wanted to Make It she had to devote her whole body, every ounce of energy to just one thing. There was no room for fucking. There was even less room for overeating.

Thinking back about it all, Ted knew it had been a waste. All those wonderful years... When she had been fifteen and all her friends had been out in parked cars getting their stockings pulled down their thin legs she, Ted, had been bellying up to the practice bar, exercising, practicing, turning herself into some kind of machine that made old men in the twenty-five-dollar seats sigh. But in street clothes she had been unable to turn the head of any man of any age. They were interested in a girl with some meat on her bones -- an ass to grab, some tits to nuzzle. She had often thought of what she could have done for a man if she had been willing to give up her career -- all the interesting positions she could twist her slight body into. And she had always felt safe walking down dark streets at night, knowing her thin, almost nonexistent body was as muscular as a rattlesnake's and just about as deadly should any male try something she didn't want tried.

But it was all over now. She had been one of the lucky ones, able to see herself objectively and know that she was a good dancer. She had also known she would not be a great one. When, after wasting all the wonderful years from fifteen to twenty-five pursuing a career that never quite materialized, she had finally found The Man, she had known better than to hesitate.

Twenty-eight-year-old virgins with a body of a fifteen-year-old and the mind of a middle-aged adult are not easy to come by. She had, thinking back on it, sold herself. But it had not been all that much of a sacrifice. Virgil had possessed a hard-muscled body, still interesting at fifty. And he had known what he was doing too. She remembered the day he had proposed.

"Look," he said, "a man my age and with my money has had all the clean young cunt he needs. What I need is a woman who can run my house, wear clothes, entertain my friends, and who knows the difference between 'these' and 'them'. Also, I'd like her to like me enough not to make me go to sleep on the couch half the time. You willing?"

Looking toward dwindling talents, an aging body and fifty more years of virginity, Ted had been willing. And Virgil had kept his bargain, too. Most of his money was tied up in trusts, doled out to wives, sons and daughters from previous entanglements. But he had left her with ten thousand a year tax free. He had also left her the yacht.

At thirty-nine, Ted didn't know which she was most grateful for, the money or the yacht. Until she met Virgil she had never been on a boat in her life. Now she was firmly addicted to sailing. No matter what Nixon might do about selling the country to the oil companies, as long as she could keep the sails of her thirty-foot sloop in repair, Ted knew she would never be bored. It was small enough for her to sail single handed, large enough to go around the world if she felt like it.

She finished bagging the Dacron sails, thanking Neptune for the thousandth time that cotton was obsolete and that nobody had to worry about mildew from stowing damp sails any more. After a day's sailing all she had to do now was tie a couple of things down before she went up to the club house at the head of the dock and had a long, soul-satisfying shower.

She had just finished tying the boom in its crutch when the PA speaker blatted, "Telephone for Ted Stickles."

Now who, she wondered, could that be? Still clad in faded sailing denims, she jumped from the raised-deck sloop to the dock and walked toward the telephone.

"Mr. Stickles?"

Since Mr. Stickles had been dead for almost five years Ted knew immediately it was either somebody selling something she didn't need or begging something she couldn't really afford to give. "Not exactly," she said.

"Oh, you must be Mrs. Stickles." It was a woman's voice. "I'm calling for the Souterrain Hilltop Receiving Home."

Ted was tired. She wanted a shower and then a drink before she went back to watch TV in the small but extremely comfortable cabin of her sloop. "How much?" she asked.

"Oh dear, no," the voice protested. "We're not asking for money."

Ted sighed and wondered how much of this face-saving crap she would have to listen to before the woman got down to how much.

"Most of our children come from underprivileged homes," the woman continued. "Many of them have never seen the ocean, much less a boat."

"A boat," Ted said, "is something you use to get from the dock out to where a ship is anchored. On a sloop as small as mine you make do with an inflatable raft."

The woman's canned spiel continued right over Ted's acid commentary. "We're trying to see that each youngster gets an afternoon sailing. It may not sound like much but have you ever considered that a boy who's busy building a boat is too busy to be out stealing hub caps or robbing stores?"

Ted really hadn't considered it. Her own hub-cap-stealing years had been spent bending her ass out of shape at a ballet practice bar. But suddenly she knew she might as well give in. If she didn't this woman would never stop pestering her. And besides, she had never had a child. Maybe it was time she started paying her dues to the human race. "All right," she said. "I've only got room for maybe two. When?"

"Would tomorrow morning at nine be all right?"

"It would except the wind never comes up before noon. Try to have them here at eleven."

The woman's voice was hesitant. "I'm afraid we're a little crowded for transportation," she began.

"I have a ten-speed bicycle to get to the grocery." Ted said with a tone of finality. "Have them out here at eleven."

And that was how it had happened. The next morning a woman gone to fat had pulled up with a station wagon full of grubby children. While they did their best to destroy the car she had gotten out and looked around uncertainly. Ted appeared and the woman gone to fat had laid two boys on her. Leading them down the float of the marina Ted had not been impressed. "First," she began, "you take those shoes off before you mark up my deck."

"Why?" It was the larger boy. He seemed to be about fourteen, tall for his age and rather thin. Though white, he seemed more loaded with hostility than a carload of newly emancipated blacks.

"Three reasons," Ted explained. "First, those soles are slippery on a wet deck. You wear them and you'll be overboard before I'm past the first buoy. Second, you're not on land now, no nails or dirt to step on and plenty of clean white decks that have to be scrubbed clean every time somebody puts a scuff mark on them. And third, I'm the captain of this ship so you'll do what I say without argument. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am." It was the smaller boy. He was maybe thirteen, with a mop of curly red hair that would look like an Afro if the boy had not been so thoroughly Irish in appearance.

Ted glanced at the older boy. He glared back, then realized this trim muscular woman was not going to be bullied. "Yeah," he said. They arrived at her berth and began taking off their shoes.

"Why don't you take yours off?" the older boy asked.

"Because they're boat shoes." She unbent a moment. "If you buy them in the expensive part of town they're boat shoes. In other parts of town they're sneakers or 'tennis shoes' and cost half as much."

"Sheeeeeeeiiiiit!" the older boy growled.

"Down forward next to where the mast is stepped," Ted said crisply. "And don't forget to flush it."

To her mild surprise the boy actually had to go. He finished removing his shoes and socks and went below. "There ain't no door on this crapper!" he complained a moment later.

Ted pulled the slide shut and began setting the jib. Normally she would have motored away from the dock but the wind was nearly nothing and she had a couple of extra hands to help push off so she guessed she might as well save fuel. She put the handle in the coffee grinder winch and taught the smaller boy how to wind it slowly as she fastened snaps to the forestay. The jib was hanging limp in the calm and they were setting the mains'l when the boy fumbled with the cabin slide and came back on deck.

"Ain't you got an engine?" he asked.

"There's one basic rule to remember about engines," Ted explained. "Never sail yourself into some kind of corner where you need an engine to get out because no matter how well you tune it, the damn thing never starts when you need it."

"Sounds like my old man's car," the boy growled.

Ted glanced at the sullen boy and felt a sudden flash of rut. A fine thing, she thought. Here I am thirty-nine, widowed, with just about everything I want in the world and suddenly I'm thinking screwy thoughts about some fourteen-year-old loser!

Covertly she studied the boy, wondering what accident had given her a sylph body that had brought her up out of the slums into the deeper dreariness of daily ballet practice. It was funny. Now that she was middle-aged and had given up dancing her body had finally filled out until at thirty-nine she had the kind of body most girls exercised and dieted for when they were eighteen. One of these days, she decided, she was going to fix her hair straight in some youthful style, put on a mini, and see just how many stiff pricked studs she could fool.

Not that she intended to do anything about it. If Ted had been a hot pants type she would never have sacrificed her best fucking years doing the splits for some usually queer ballet master. But still, this boy was -- interesting.

He was taller than her own five-two. Probably when he was through growing the boy would be a football-player-sized giant. Right now he was slim, dark, with a Latin... she studied the boy's face and decided he was not Latin. That nose had to be Greek. She caught herself speculating about the bulge in his too small Levi's. Idly, she counted the years since.

Virgil hadn't been half the cocksman his own PR network made him out to be. He had been mildly and pleasantly surprised to discover that Ted really was a virgin. But he had made no effort to fill in the lost years. Once or twice a week Virgil had knocked on her door and if she had felt like it they had enjoyed a quiet friendly fuck. If she had been under the wrong phase of the moon, or not feeling quite up to it, her husband had said his polite good-night and gone off, leaving her in solitary peace. It had been a good life.

When Virgil had with dramatic suddenness taken ill and died of something mysterious to do with his lymph glands she had felt the loss keenly. But it had been the loss of a good and respected friend. Ted had now been a virgin for twenty-five, uncomplaining years. Just as uncomplainingly, she had accepted the fact that there would be no more semi-weekly visits to her bed chamber. She was thirty-nine, she had her health, a steady income, and a small yacht. Now what was she doing looking at the swollen crotch of this little bastard's Levi's?

She devoted her attention to the other younger boy. "That's the jib," she explained. "These two winches are called coffee grinders. They're to pull it in tight when the wind's blowing hard."

"You think it'll blow today?"

Ted glanced at the sky. "We ought to have a fair breeze in an hour or so," she guessed.

"Wish somebody'd blow me," the older boy grunted.

Ted decided to pretend she hadn't heard. "This's the main sheet," she continued. "And a sheet is a piece of rope to pull the sail in. It's never the sail and don't ask me why, that's just the way it is."

"Sheeeeeeeeeeeeet!" the older boy muttered.

"I sail this sloop all by myself nearly every day," Ted said. "Without the help of any males, chauvinist pig or otherwise. I'll be happy to teach either of you how to sail but if anybody wants off now's the time before I cast off this stern line."

The silence was absolute.

She considered the thousand ways the boys could fuck up casting off and decided to do it herself. Running bow and stem lines aft to the cockpit with a single turn around the bollards she waited until a gust of wind filled the sails. The yacht heeled and she cast off. For a moment nothing happened, then suddenly they were under way, tacking to windward up the crowded basin.

Once they were clear of the basin and headed out toward the last buoy she started teaching the boys how to steer. It turned into a lovely day as the overcast burned off. Bright sun and a good sailing breeze made the sloop dance along, practically sailing itself. "Keep her pointed toward that buoy," she told the youngest boy, and went below. She was changing out of faded denims into shorts and halter when she saw the older boy frying to pretend he was not looking down into the cabin.

It was funny. All the years she had danced semi-nudity was so common nobody paid any attention to where they shed their tights or tutu. But then, most of the boys in ballet had been more interested in each other than in the girls. Suddenly Ted realized she was thirty-nine, with the body of a twenty-year-old capable of leading a bishop astray. And she was being looked at by a boy in the absolute prime of his sexual vigor. She wondered what it would be like to be male, to be fourteen, to be so obsessed with fucking that he was unable even to think about a woman without mentally calculating his chances, dreaming and fantasizing about how it would feel to slip his hot hard cock into the soft warmth between a woman's... suddenly Ted realized the soft warmth between her own hard-muscled ballerina legs was tingling in a way she had not felt for years.

She finished getting into her shorts and halter. They were both of dark, almost navy blue and set off her long dancer's pony tail of blonde hair in a way that turned men's heads. She came back on deck and to her surprise the younger boy was still steering in the general direction of the buoy she had aimed him at.

"Would you like to steer for a while?" she asked the older boy.

"I sure would," he said. Something about his tone left no doubt that he was not talking about steering. She caught herself wondering what it would be like to...

"You live here on this boat?" the younger boy asked.

Ted nodded.

"All alone?"

She nodded again.

"Ain't you got no husband or no kids?"

"No," Ted explained. "My husband's dead."

"You pretty," the thirteen-year-old said. "How come you ain't got a bunch of men hangin' 'round?"

"I don't know," Ted said. "Maybe they just got tired of hanging and dropped off."

"Sheeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiit!"

"Is that all you know how to say?" she asked the older boy. "By the way, what's your name?"

"Albert."

"Is that all?"

"Albert Warfield."

"I'm John O'Brien," the younger boy said.

"You can call be Ted," she said.

"That's a man's name."

"Do I look like a man? Anyway, Ted stands for Theodora."

The older boy volunteered something for the first time. "No," he said. "You sure don't look nothing like a man!"

Suddenly Ted wished she had worn slacks or at least something less revealing than shorts and halter. It was her own fault. She had never been around horny boys like this. The only boys she had ever known would have zipped her up without a second glance. It was the older girls she had had to be careful about.

The boy -- now what had he said his name was? -- Albert was doing as good a job as could be expected steering. But she knew it was hard for the boy to keep his eye on the buoy when it kept wanting to stray back to the firm line of her well-muscled thigh, to trace the curve of her defiantly skyward pointing tits. She still had a ballerina's body -- but a ballerina's body that had filled out into full-blooming womanhood, with an ass made for grabbing, tits big enough for a man to get his hands on, and with a waist that still remembered those hours and years of constant exercise.

Ted was still a woman. She was reminded of it every time she stepped from her bath and studied her naked body in the full-length mirror. She was solid from head to toe -- not an ounce of flab. She was, and she knew it was plain fact and not just wishful thinking or bragging. At thirty-nine she was in better shape, with a better body and even a better face than most of the bikini queens who lorded it over their tiny harems of a half dozen surfers. The only difference was Ted didn't have a man. Not because she couldn't trap one, but because she hadn't ever really needed or wanted one.

The jib fluttered. She glanced ahead and saw the boy was still steering properly. She wound the jib sheet around the coffee grinder and taught little John how to sheet it in. A moment later they took up slack in the main sheet and the sloop settled down on her lines again. She had been afraid a day's sailing with a couple of inexperienced boys would be a nightmare but so far they were doing pretty well. "When we pass that buoy we're going to come about," she warned.

"What's that?" John asked.

"It's kind of exciting if you've never done it," she said. "Suddenly the boom slams over and sails are flapping and everything changes sides. The hull lays over the opposite way and then you settle down on the other tack." From the way the boys looked at her she knew they hadn't understood anything.

"I can think of something exciting," Albert muttered.

"I'm sure you could," Ted said. "But it takes both hands to steer and if somebody doesn't we'll tip over and all drown." Suddenly she realized neither of these boys would know how to put on a life jacket if there were an emergency. She showed them where the life jackets were under the cockpit seat and put one on. Albert's eyes never left the straps as they bit into the soft yielding flesh of her crotch. He sighed ecstatically.

She knew what the boy was suffering even if she had never experienced it herself. Some people, she guessed, needed it worse than others. When she had been Albert's age she had gone to bed so tired and sore each night she had never had time even to think about sexuality. She supposed it was the aimless dull nothingness of life in the ghetto that so obsessed these boys with fucking. More than ever she was feeling the same thing herself lately. It must be, she supposed, because she was retired, no longer working herself to death at the practice bar, and it had been now many years now since she had had the release of those long, slow, gentle and friendly fucks with Virgil? Suddenly she was assailed with a flash of rut as strong as the boy's.

She wondered what his reaction would be if he knew what she was thinking. Probably run, she guessed. She wondered if he had ever actually what kind of a thing did a boy that age have? A real boy, that is... she had seen some of the boys' in dancing school. They had been athletic enough but somehow she had always suspected they should have been born girls. At least their cocks hadn't even been in the same league as Virgil's.

But this boy was not the type to end up in a ballet school. She wondered if what she had read about ghettos was true. Did they actually start fucking when they were only ten or twelve? Could this younger, curly headed boy with the look of a boyish saint who had managed to be born without original sin... had he already stuck his little tally whacker into the girl next door? Ted wondered how much in life she had missed out on.

Plenty, she supposed. She had never had a date. During all those years she had been too busy dancing ever to think about going to what other girls her age called a "dance". But now those other girls were all fat and dowdy and lying awake nights worrying that their daughters might be out doing the same things they had done. Maybe Ted had come up winners after all...

At least she knew none of the girls she had gone to school with would dare wear shorts and a halter any more. Nor could any of them coax a bulge in the Levi's of a fourteen-year-old boy who was going to put this sloop in stays in a minute if he didn't get his eyes off her tits and back on course. "You're pinching it," she warned, then realized she might as well be talking Greek. "Let it out a little," she explained. "Let it go the way the tiller keeps trying to go. That's right. Now hold it steady that way."

The sails stopped their warning flutter and the sloop settled down again. A moment later they rounded the buoy. She warned the boys to duck as the boom slammed across the cockpit. John worked for a moment winching the jib in with the other coffee grinder and they settled down for a long tack. "Now's your chance to get a tan," she said.

"Huh?"

"Go on up to the foredeck and take off your shirt if you want," she explained. "We won't have to move anything for an hour."

"Who's gonna steer?!" Albert said.

"Who wants to?"

"I do!" little John said.

Albert turned over the tiller to the smaller boy. He went forward, peeling off his shirt and lay down where he could keep his eyes on Ted's smooth hard muscled body. She felt her crotch tingle from the intensity of his gaze. God, she thought, what a torture to be young.

It was a novel sensation for Ted not to be working her sloop. She knew instinctively from the feel of wind and wave that the smaller boy was steering a proper course. She leaned against a stay soaking up sunshine, thinking idle goatish thoughts about what might happen if she had gone asea with only the one boy instead of two.

She remembered the odd look from the gone-to-fat lady in the station wagon. Served her right she guessed, going through some mailing list of boat owners and assuming Ted was a man. Ted had had problems from time to time with her masculine nickname but she wasn't about to change it. If for no other reason, at least a Ted Stickles didn't get the breathers and obscene phone calls that lay in wait for a Theodora.

She wondered what it would be like to get an obscene phone call. Funny. All the years she had been in show business and chances were the average nun had more of a sex life. People wrote erotic novels about the adventures of ballerinas. Why didn't somebody someday write about the manageress of each company, some fiftyish female with a face like a sackful of hammers who lurked in the lobby and could chill the hard-on from the most persistent of stage-door-johnnys?

The boy was staring at her crotch. He stopped staring at it only long enough to inventory her tits. Damn him! Ted was damned if she would go below and change into slacks. It was her yacht. She would wear whatever she damn well pleased, if the boy wanted to stare, let him. It would be his stone ache and not hers.

Somewhere a bell buoy tolled mournfully. A harbor seal sunned himself on the rocks a hundred yards windward. Miles to sea she saw the bulk of an aircraft carrier dwarfed by its mushroom-shaped cloud of black smoke. She glanced at the sky, at the sun. She could hold this course for another hour and a half. Then it would time to turn around and get rid of these boys. She wondered if they were enjoying their first sail.

From the corner of her eye she glanced at Albert. The older boy lay on the foredeck, head pillowed on his shirt. He was really a rather handsome boy when he forgot to keep looking angry and important. His slim body was well formed. Someday there would be hair on his chest but now there was only the same heavy fuzz that covered his chin. His chestnut hair was wavy and, thank the Gods, he had not plastered it with greasy kid stuff.

He lay at a slight angle, trying not to show that he was looking at her. Even so, she could see the bulge in his Levi's. What, she wondered, would it be like to be young and male, to suffer incessantly from that demanding drive -- slave to six inches of cock that would never lie down and stay down? What, she wondered, would it be like to lie down flat on her back with all her clothes off and let the boy try himself out on her? Did he know how? Had he ever done it? Someday somebody would know. Ted knew she never would.

Too bad. It would be fun. And what could she lose? She lived alone and never took the pill and never seemed to need it. All the years old Virgil had been sticking it into her she had never caught an heir in her trap. She had no family to be outraged. And her friends... if anybody from ballet days were to learn she was playing around with boys it would bring no more than a smile and a raised eyebrow. What could she lose?

One hell of a lot, she knew. Most of all Ted knew she could lose her freedom. She wasn't quite sure what they were but she knew there were laws about playing around with underage boys. She had a nice quiet life on this boat, enough money so she would never have to twist her ass into a pretzel again. She had everything she needed -- until lately. She wondered if being thirty-nine and maturing late had anything to do with it. Suddenly she was beginning to feel all the urges that had bothered other girls -- girls who were now fat and flabby grandmothers while she was still built like the proverbial brick pagoda.

She was going to have to do something about it, Ted knew. It just wasn't healthy to bottle up something like this. Either she would have to enter into some working relationship with one of the lonely graying men who lived aboard their boats at the marina -- or she was going to end up doing something foolish with some boy entirely too young. She wondered what it would feel like to have this boy on top of her, struggling to push his hot, throbbing maleness into the opening she had kept intact for twenty-five years. Good God, she thought, I was a virgin, stiffening thousands of cocks in the twenty-five dollar seats for more years than this boy's been alive!

She squinted into the sun and wind. The younger boy was steering well enough. It didn't really make any difference if he drifted off a couple of points. There was nothing to hit any closer than Hawaii. She looked through squinted eyes at the other boy. He lay face up on the foredeck now, his cock making a prodigious bulge in the crotch of his tight stretched Levi's. What would happen if she were to go over and pull down his zipper, let all that straining masculinity spring free?

It was unhealthy to dwell on that kind of thoughts. She guessed she'd better go below and see about rustling up some lunch for these kids. She was about to step down into the cockpit when she felt a hand close over her bare ankle.

CHAPTER TWO

Ted glanced down startled. It was the big one, Albert. While she had been looking the other way he had scooted closer. "Thought you were going to fall overboard," he muttered and let go of her ankle.

I'll just bet you did, she thought, but she didn't say it. Instead, she gave John's course a final check and went down the cabin scuttle, feeling the boy's eyes on her every step. She wished she had never put on shorts and halter but she had and it was her boat and she was damned if she was going to let a fourteen-year-old discomfit her. If there was to be any squirming and embarrassment, let him do it.

She had had her share during auditions. God, those auditions! When she had been a little girl trying to make a place for herself in the world of ballet it had seemed to Ted that the entire theatrical world was one big cock -- and aimed straight at her. She remembered one day when she had been twelve, just starting to sprout those tiny bulges ballerinas wore behind their nipples. Mr. Sprague, her manager, had somehow managed to shunt Momma off on some fool's errand while he arranged the interview with Mr. Hammel who was casting an extravaganza. Since she was only twelve Ted had supposed she was going to dance. Not that she didn't know about casting couches and all that jazz, but twelve-year-old virgins walk around encased in an armor of "it can't happen to me". Ted knew it only happened to older girls. Mr. Hammel, it turned out, was not exactly connected with the world of ballet. But he had a lot of money and be was surrounded by people actively engaged in making some of it rub off on them. Mr. Hammel, somewhat to his own amazement, found himself producing a show. He had been totally immune to the boys in the company. He had shared a laugh with his wife when the girls tried various shortcuts to opulence. In desperation, the promoter decided to see if there weren't some hidden trigger he could pull in Mr. Hammel's psyche.

Ted had worn street clothes for the interview. As a matter of fact, they had not been the clothes she would have chosen. She wore a straw boater hat, patent "little girl" shoes with a single buckle, a skirt shorter than her tutu which required that she stand very straight unless she wanted to show her pink rayon panties. Over it all she wore a middle blouse which, though loose, had been cut somehow to reveal the just-rising buds of her inchoate breasts. In an oversized handbag she carried her dancing costume.

Mr. Sprague had had a few final words of wisdom. "You want a big part, don't you?"

Ted had nodded. After all, what had she been twisting her ass into a pretzel these last seven years for?

"Well, Mr. Hammel is the man with the money. Whether the show gets produced depends on how much he likes you. If I were twelve and wanted a big part I'd do everything I could to make Mr. Hammel like me." And with this advice Mr. Sprague had abruptly disappeared.

Mr. Hammel was old. Thinking back on it now, she supposed he had been maybe forty. His hair was thinning and he had a small mustache. He wore a suit like everybody else she knew and he sat behind an immense desk. In the corner of his office was a couch of the type she was in later life to associate with psychoanalysis.

Mr. Hammel had pushed a button on his desk and in reply to a squawky female voice had said, "Miss Burton, please see that I'm not disturbed until I call you again."

"Well," he said with artificial joviality to the little girl who sat primly in front of him, "I suppose you're a veteran in show business."

"I've been dancing seven years," Ted said.

"Hmmmmm. Would you mind standing up?"

Ted had been standing up for ballet masters as long as she could remember.

"Do you have your costume with you?" Ted nodded toward her oversized handbag.

The man behind the desk thought a moment. He seemed to be having trouble with his breathing. "Uh, I suppose in show business you get used to undressing in front of people..." He left it dangling.

"I guess so," Ted said. It seemed to her that in practice somebody's tights were always ripping.

"Well," Mr. Hammel said, still having some kind of trouble with his breathing, "I've seen plenty of ballet costumes." He forced an artificial laugh. "See one and you've seen them all. The problem in casting this show is, are you mature enough?"

"I don't wear a bra yet if that's what you mean," Ted said.

That was exactly what Mr. Hammel had meant but he hadn't expected it from a twelve-year-old. Somehow his whole blueprint for seduction was going wrong. A twelve-year-old virgin was supposed to be timid and, above all, ignorant. He guessed it must be show business. "Uh," he tried again. "Uh, perhaps we could save a lot of time if you just got out of your street clothes so we can see your figure. No use wasting time getting into a costume."

If all he wanted was for her to take off this silly middy blouse and the too-short skirt Ted didn't mind. After all, she showed more every time she went swimming. "Unbutton me, please," she said, and turned her back.

Mr. Hammel seemed all thumbs as he fiddled with buttons at the back of her neck -- which wouldn't have been there in a real middy blouse but this was something out of the wardrobe department and the front and neckerchief and all the rest were actually one piece all sewed together. Finally she swirled away from, him and removed the blouse herself with one fluid motion. Beneath it she wore a white rayon slip which covered her body down to the too-short skirt.

While Mr. Hammel breathed harder and seemed almost ready to have an attack of asthma she folded the middy blouse neatly and put it over the back of the chair. Then before he could waste more time fiddling with her skirt she undid its single button and lowered the zipper. When she stepped out of it Mr. Hammel gasped.

Ted couldn't guest why. The rayon slip covered her almost as thoroughly as her outer clothes had. She had listened to the boys and some of the older girls in the studio talk about fetishists -- whatever they were -- and some of the other weirdoes encountered in the confusing and sometimes terrifying world outside the studio. Mr. Hammel had asked her to undress so she was going to undress. Without any of the coaxing or long, slow buildup he had engineered in his dream production of this incident, she crossed her hands and whipped her slip off over her head with a minimum of hair-mussing.

Mr. Hammel's face was very red. He was breathing as if he had a chicken bone lodged in his throat. Ted posed before him in single-buckle, black patent leather "little girl" shoes. She wore white ankle length socks and pink rayon panties. From the waist up she wore only a ribbon in her hair. Her tiny breast buds were just sprouting, making her nipples stand out a half inch from her thin muscular chest. Her small, slight body was as trim as seven years of constant exercise could make it. She was still a virgin.

Mr. Hammel just stared. Ted waited for him to say something. When he didn't she paused another moment, then grasped the back of the chair and twisted her slight, muscular body into the First Position. Still Mr. Hammel stared.

Slowly, Ted worked through all the classic positions, showing off her expertise to a man who would not have known a ballerina from a B-girl. When she was finished he still sat red-faced and gasping behind his desk. Ted wondered what she ought to do next. Mr. Sprague had told her to be nice to him. Was she supposed to make him fudge...?

The man behind the desk finally found his voice. "Uh," he began, "how old are you?"

"Twelve. I'll be thirteen in June."

Clearly, Mr. Hammel was undecided about something. "I, uh..." He cleared his throat and tried again. "I've heard you people in show business look at things differently, from the rest of us."

"What things?"

"Oh, uh..." He paused and swallowed again. "Things like taking your clothes off."

Ted wondered what he meant. "Do you want me to take off my shoes and socks?" she asked.

Apparently that was not exactly what Mr. Hammel had had in mind.

Ted was used to shedding her panties. They made a line and bulged in the wrong places if she left them on under a ballet costume. But nobody in the studio had ever asked her to take them off in front of everybody. Still... Mr. Sprague had told her to be nice to Mr. Hammel. Maybe he wanted to check up on how mature she was.

Mr. Hammel had finally found his voice again. "This show may run several years," he explained. "And we can't have any sixteen-year-old twelve-year-olds turning matronly in the middle of the season."

"You want to see if I have any hair down there," Ted translated. Before he could answer she matter-of-factly peeled down her pink rayon panties. Bent over, she thought a moment, then took them the rest of the way off from around her ankles. Clad only in her black patent leather "little girl" shoes, white ankle socks, and a pink hair ribbon, she went through the ballet positions again.

Mr. Hammel's asthma seemed to be getting worse. His face was pink and he was breathing with great difficulty. Ted finished twisting her slight nude body through the positions and asked, "Is there anything else you want to see?"

There wasn't. Mr. Hammel had been dreaming and wanting to see something very like what he was seeing at this moment ever since he had been twelve himself and very close to seeing it until the neighbor girl's mother had come home at an inopportune moment. He couldn't trust himself to speak. Choking, trying to control his breathing, he gestured toward the couch.

Still clad only in white anklets, black patent leather shoes, and a hair ribbon, Ted sat on the edge of the couch. After a moment Mr. Hammel came to sit beside her. He didn't sit very close. He seemed almost afraid to touch her. "Uh," he began, "uh, you want this part real bad?"

"I guess so," Ted said. "It could help start my career."

Mr. Hammel put a timid hand on her thigh. Ted had felt so many men's hands on her body twisting her this way and that, pushing her ass in, pulling it out, making her suck in her tummy that another man's hand on her leg was no big deal. But she was twelve and not totally stupid. She began to suspect what was on Mr. Hammel's mind. It didn't shock her. It only surprised her somewhat. She was twelve -- just starting to sprout and there were other girls in the company with very nice little bodies, girls sixteen, eighteen, even in their twenties. "Did you know," she asked, "that girls who want to be really good dancers have to be virgins?"

Mr. Hammel's hand came off her thigh. "Why?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's something to do with stretching your bones out of shape or getting pregnant or something. But I know it's true. Everybody tells me."

"Isn't it awfully hard to live up to?" Mr. Hammel asked.

Ted shrugged. "Maybe someday. Not now. I don't really care about it that much." To her mild surprise she found she was starting to care more than she ever had before. Something about sitting here naked on the couch beside Mr. Hammel was more wickedly exciting than anything she had ever experienced in all her twelve years. She wondered what it would feel like it Mr. Hammel were to take off his clothes too and lie down on top of her and stick his thing inside that little slit that had never had anything inside it except dust from the practice floor and lint from her ballet tights whenever she half tore herself in two doing the splits.

She thought about how it felt when she let her legs spread wide apart, so wide that the hairless lips of her vulva spread wide apart and her tiny, still-unlicked clitoris rubbed against the seam that ran up the middle of tights. It tickled and made her feel warm and giggly all over. She had often wondered if the other girls had experienced the same sensation when their cunts opened. She had heard stories from other girls her age about putting a finger down there and tickling until Something Nice happened.

Ted had always intended to try it herself some day but six hours at the bar were enough to send her home ready for bed every night. Somehow she had never gotten around to it. Being a dancer, no matter what aging satyrs like Mr. Hammel might think, was hard work.

"It must be an exacting profession," he said.

Ted didn't understand what exacting meant.

"Hard work," Mr. Hammel explained. "Why don't you just lie down and take a little rest on the couch and I'll do some nice things to make you feel better."

"I was a virgin when I came in here," Ted said.

"Don't worry," Mr. Hammel consoled. "You'll still be one when you walk out with a contract for that part."

Ted swung her thin muscular legs up onto the couch and lay back. Though she had never been fucked, she knew how it was done. Mr. Hammel was a grown man but he was also flabby. If he tried to climb between her legs he just might find his neck in a scissors grip he would never forget.

But she soon discovered she didn't have to worry. Mr. Hammel didn't try to get on top of her and force his way between her legs. Instead, he knelt on the floor beside the couch and began kissing her tiny, hard-muscled belly.

Ted sighed at the memory. It had been twenty-seven years since poor Mr. Hammel had buried his face in her immature belly and... At thirty-nine her body had finally made it to what most girls had at twenty. Standing in shorts and halter bracing herself at the windward sidestay she knew she could stiffen every prick in the yacht basin -- and especially the fourteen-year-old's who was steering. She wondered if the other boy was grown up enough to think about girls.

Anyhow, it was cruel and unusual punishment to make the boy look at her superb and eminently fuckable body when he knew he would never get into it. She had gone below to fix lunch.

Ted thought a moment, trying to guess what boys this age and from this background might like. She had a few real goodies aboard -- some Iranian caviar among other things. Chances were a ghetto boy would take half a taste and spit. Suddenly she remembered. That asshole of a marlin fisherman in the next slip who had decided she would be a quick and easy lay... He had brought over a load of garbage one night. She had tossed it in the refrigerator without looking.

She opened the reefer and tore the bag down the side. It was full of hot dog makin's. She gave a mental sneer at the he-man fisherman who had retired in precipitate confusion when she had lifted a hundred-pound anchor with one hand rather than scratch a freshly varnished deck. She hoped he had found a girl somewhere mentally and physically equipped for hot dogs.

But this, she realized, was ideal for these two boys. She started making hot dogs, trying to ignore the fourteen-year-old at the tiller whose eyes alternated between his course and her ass. Then abruptly the boy was in the cabin with her. "Can I help?" he asked.

Ted gave a quick look topside. Thirteen-year-old John was steering. From the heel of the hull and feel of the seas she guessed he was holding a fair course. "Why not?" she said and handed Albert a jar of mustard.

The boy surprised her by washing his hands before he started smearing mustard on buns. Hope for the masses yet, she thought. She tried to think of something they could talk about. "Do you think you'd like to be a sailor?" she asked.

"If you mean go in the Navy the answer is no."

"I mean just to get a job of some kind around boats," she said. "Lots of young people work their way around the world."

"What's there?"

Ted shrugged. "Adventure, I guess."

Albert surveyed her shorts and halter-clad body from fourteen-year-old eyes. "I wouldn't have to go off clear 'round the world for what I want," he said.

Ted felt herself blushing. Not just her face. To her annoyance she knew her whole body -- acres and acres of smooth, white skin was flushing beneath the boy's avid gaze.

She supposed she ought to slap him. She was nearly forty. This fourteen-year-old snot had no business talking that way to her. But... she tried to be honest. She could have worn something else a little less revealing. She knew damn well her body was still better than plenty of twenty-year-olds. She had asked for it. She shouldn't penalize the boy for doing what comes naturally. Besides... it felt good to stand here and be wanted. How long had it been since she had been wanted by any man she could stand thinking about?

Mostly she got dipshits and gone-to-seed rumpots like that marlin fisherman who still carried a mental image of himself twenty years younger and twenty pounds lighter. She didn't need fucking that bad. She didn't need it at all. But it would be fun to... she wondered if in her old age she was turning into the same kind of lecher old Mr. Hammel had been that day when she was twelve and had taken off her clothes and laid down on his casting couch.

With his face buried in the firm muscularity of her little gently-rounded belly Mr. Hammel had breathed so hard and fast she had feared for a moment he was having some kind of attack. "Oooohhhh!" he moaned, and nuzzled her, ploughing gentle furrows back and forth, up and down her soft smooth belly with his nose.

Ted didn't mind. It was easier work than stretching her ass out of shape at the exercise bar. She wondered how long he would keep it up, or if he would want her to do anything else. She knew from whispered commentary that the boys were in the habit of putting their mouths in all sorts of unusual places but she had never heard of men doing that to girls. Mostly men seemed to want to put their thing between a girl's legs and ruin her figure and fix it so she could never dance again.

But Mr. Hammel didn't seem to be trying to do that. His hands were caressing her now, running softly up and down her firm thighs, memorizing the gentle contours of her incipient breasts. His hand felt funny running over the tender new swelling behind her nipple. To her surprise, her tiny virginal nipples had risen to pebble-hard rigidity under the touch of his hand. She could feel an odd warm tingle inside her belly too as he kissed and nuzzled his way up and down it. She had never felt anything quite like it before. It felt good.

She decided just to lie back and let him do what he wanted, providing he didn't try to put his thing inside her. She closed her eyes and it was just like old Miss Jacques rubbing out a cramp.

Like hell it was. Ma'mselle Jacques had possessed a pair of arms like a wrestler and what the ballet bar couldn't tear loose she could. Mr. Hammel on the other hand was soft, smooth and gentle the way things always were in her dreams when she went home dead tired after six hours of practice and fell exhausted in her bed to dream of soft gentle hands soothing her tired body. His mouth and nose tickled a little bit on her belly but she didn't mind. It felt nice to feel a man's warm mouth go up and down, back and forth kissing the ache away.

Gradually she realized he wasn't kissing back and forth. Mr. Hammel seemed to have established a home base in her navel. From there he was kissing his way outward in ascending spirals that tickled her flanks, led nearly up her midriff to where the flesh was growing and swelling behind her nipples. But his nuzzling and kissing seemed to grow more intense each time he approached the bottom of one of his swings, approaching ever nearer the bare sorry prominence of her mons veneris.

Actually it wasn't bare. Down between her legs were a half dozen long coarse hairs and the outer surface of her crotch was already downy with the fuzz that within months would become a luxuriant mat of fur she would have to trim lest it create too much of a bulge inside her nearly transparent tights. Ted wondered if she should have trimmed those half dozen coarse hairs before this interview. But... how could she have known she was going to have to undress? She wondered why Momma or Mr. Sprague hadn't warned her.

Meanwhile it felt nice to he back naked on the couch and let Mr. Hammel kiss away. He wasn't doing her virginity any harm and he seemed to be enjoying it though she couldn't imagine why and if this was what it took to get the part well.

She tried to relax and ignore the tickle each time his mouth wandered away from her crotch to kiss her skittish flanks. It felt nice. Almost as nice as when he wandered upward to kiss the place where someday she would have tits. But it felt even nicer when he stayed down there to kiss the bony prominence of her crotch.

She felt a sudden scare when his hands pulled her knees apart but she was reassured when he made no effort to climb in between them. Instead he began kissing her legs, working slowly up one and down the other, kissing the tender inner surface of her thighs, working his way down to her knees and ankles, then back up to thigh again. From the way he dodged from thigh to belly and back again Ted gained a sudden suspicion. She had heard the older girls talk about it so she guessed such things actually happened. But she had never thought they would happen to her!

Ted caught her breath. Would he actually do it? She didn't know whether she wanted him to or not. She knew enough to realize it wouldn't make any real difference, she would still be a virgin even if he went at her with a spoon and a fork. But was it true? Did men actually eat pussy?

Mr. Hammel sure acted like he was working up to it. He was kissing her belly, kissing her legs, nuzzling the soft tender skin of her inner thighs as he circled ever closer to her secret slit.

Ted didn't know whether she wanted him to do it or not. But abruptly she realized she was letting her legs fan wider apart, drawing her heels up and bending her knees to make it easier for him to find his tender target. She could feel the cool air of the office on the open lips of her vulva. It felt just as if she were doing the splits without any tights on -- except that she wasn't stretching and straining and hurting and going to need an hour in a hot bath afterward. Instead, this felt good. It felt so good she knew she wouldn't mind lying here all afternoon and letting Mr. Hammel kiss his leisurely way up, down and around her naked little body. It sure beat dancing.

But would it get her the part? She put a hand on the back of his neck and asked him.

"Yes!" he assured her. "It's yours. You'll be the prima ballerina for as long as you want it."

Ted thought it was crazy. She wouldn't do it even if she was paid for it and here he was doing it for nothing. But even if it was crazy and kind of dirty, it felt -- interesting. She lay back and let her flexed knees fall wider apart.

Mr. Hammel lost no time in accepting her invitation. Both of his hands grabbed her muscular little dancer's ass and drew her to him. His face penetrated hitherto unplumbed depths between her thighs. Ted felt a funny tingling in her belly. It felt good. It felt like something nice was going to happen soon but she couldn't guess what. She wondered what would happen if she were to close her thighs in a scissors over Mr. Hammel's head. Chances were this florid middle-aged man had no idea of the strength in a pair of legs that had spent six hours a day for the last seven years at the practice bar. But then, Ted decided she'd better not let him find out.

It was much nicer just to lie back on Mr. Hammel's couch, clad only in black patent leather shoes, white ankle socks, and a pink hair ribbon. She wondered what Mr. Hammel was going to try next. Surely there couldn't be much fun in what he was doing. All he was doing was to put his head between her legs and kiss the soft inner surfaces of her thighs, working ever closer to her pee hole but never quite making it. She wondered if he ever would.

What would it feel like to have somebody's mouth on her pee hole? She had heard the boys talk about doing things like that and she knew some of the older girls in the troupe did some very odd things among themselves. But boys and girls alike had always been nice to her. She was the youngest. Maybe that had something to do with it.

She tried to relax and just let it happen. If Mr. Hammel wanted to lick her pee hole it wasn't as if he wanted to fuck her and destroy her virginity. It might feel funny but she was sure it would be nicer than six hours practice. And it couldn't hurt half as much as the first time she had spent two hours doing the splits.

She wondered... Ted had seen the boys' cocks often enough as they shed street clothes and hurried into tights. She had seen the older "girls" cunts too and it had always been a puzzlement how anything as big as a boy's cock could go into a hole as small as... maybe, she guessed, that was why it ruined girls for dancing. Something that big might start a split that -- once a girl spread her legs and settled to the dusty practice floor, maybe she would just keep right on splitting...

Mr. Hammel was moaning and crooning as he nuzzled her crotch. His hands left her ass and she saw him struggle with his belt. A tiny spurt of worry shot through her. If he was going to take off his pants maybe he was thinking about... Ted knew she didn't really have to worry. If Mr. Hammel tried to put his thing into her she could break his arm.

But he didn't seem to be trying. He managed by super-human effort to get out of his trousers and shorts without removing his face from her crotch. But he didn't try to climb on tap of her. Instead, still kneeling beside the couch with his head buried in her crotch, he captured her hand and guided it to the hot hardness of his throbbing cock.

Ted didn't know what to do. Was she supposed to squeeze it, rub it, or just hold it? She closed her tiny fist around it the way he seemed to want her to do. Meanwhile, Mr. Hammel was diving deeper into her crotch. She could feel his breathing quicken, feel the warm dampness of his breath in her open lips. Then suddenly his wide open mouth closed over the gaping hairless lips of her vulva, shutting out the cold air and enveloping her with a soft damp glowing warmth. It felt good.

After a moment she felt his tongue begin its first timid exploration of the tender territory between the lips of her cunt. It tickled but it tickled so nice she liked it. She didn't care how long Mr. Hammel kept his mouth down there as long as he was as soft and gentle as he was now. But what was she supposed to do with his cock?

Suddenly and unexpectedly she felt one of his hands on her ankle.

CHAPTER THREE

Ted roused from her reverie of those dear dead days. There wasn't any mouth on her cunt. But there was a hand on her ankle. Fourteen-year-old Albert who had been slathering mustard on hot dog buns had somehow managed to drop the spoon. On hands and knees ostensibly, cleaning up the mess, he had a hand around her ankle.

"There's no need to hang on," Ted said. "I can't very well fall overboard from inside the cabin."

Reluctantly, the boy let go. "I'm sorry," he said and she knew he really was sorry he had to let go. She felt a tingle in her belly and a premonitory trickling sensation as she thought of the possibilities in this eager untried male. But what could she do? She knew better than to get involved with an underage boy. Besides, there were two of them. Even if she should throw caution to the winds, drop anchor and spend the day milking the virility from this indefatigable young cocksman, what about the other boy? It was impossible.

"Why don't you go up and steer for a while and let John come down and help me?" she asked.

The boy was glassy-eyed from passion and she knew the slightest touch would make him cum right in his skintight Levi's. He gave an unintelligible croak and went out up the cabin scuttle. A moment later the curly-headed thirteen-year-old came down. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

Ted still wore the revealing shorts and halter. She wondered if this boy was old enough to notice things like that. One wild corner of her mind wondered what he would do if she were to say, "I want you to take off your clothes and get in the bunk up forward of the mast and fuck me."

But she knew she would never say it. She wasn't as crazy as poor Mr. Hammel. At least she hoped she wasn't. She was thirty-nine. How old had he been?

Older than she was now, she guessed. She felt a fleeting sympathy for Mr. Hammel. The poor man had been a slave to urges he could not control. She was luckier. She was on a small boat with two boys -- the kind of situation middle-aged spinsters dreamed and fantasized about. But there were no two ways about it. Ted was going to give them an afternoon's sail. Nothing else!

She could just imagine the consequences if she were to give in to the tingling urge in her belly. Let either of these hardcocked boys ever fuck her or even get the idea that someday he might and she would never be rid of them. Night and day they would be hanging around the docks, trying to sneak aboard her sloop, making her the laughing stock of the whole marina. No way was she going to spread her well-turned muscular legs for these young snots. But it was interesting to think about it.

She wondered. Two of them. Somehow the young curly-headed one who was fixing hot dogs with her would have to be temporarily disposed of. How? Suddenly she noticed the boy. Curly-headed little John O'Brien was only thirteen and small for his age but already he was more interested in her legs than he was in the hot dog he was squeezing to death.

Perversely, she felt a flash of rut. What was wrong with her? She had never been a highly sexed woman. Oh, she was no hypocrite, a nice friendly fuck once in a while was the greatest thing since Swedish massage. But she had lived months and years without suffering from the lack. Now suddenly these two immature boys with their awkward needs were turning her on like no man ever, had in all her years of fending off stage-door-johnnies. Suddenly she wished Virgil were still alive, feeding it to her, with long slow strokes in one of those all afternoon bouts of fucking they used to indulge in every month or so.

Life with Virgil had been so comfortable. They had understood each other so well that neither had needed anybody else. But now Virgil was gone. She was alone. She was thirty-nine.

And she was still built just, like a brick shithouse -- not a line on her smooth olive-skinned face! And she was wearing brief shorts and a practically obscene halter in front of these two sex-starved adolescents. She should have known better. It would serve her right if they ganged up on her and raped her.

"What are you looking at?" she asked, knowing damn well what the thirteen-year-old was looking at.

To her surprise he didn't blush and try to lie.

"Your legs," he said.

"Oh?" She tried to keep it impersonal, clinical. "Why?"

This time the boy was startled. "You don't know?" he asked.

Solemnly, Ted shook her head.

"Don't you -- didn't you...?" Obviously the boy could not find the proper words to ask if grownups fucked or if this was just a brief phase to be outgrown like acne. Ted decided to continue playing innocent. Remembering the years of strained muscles it had cost her, she imperceptibly shifted until her superb body was in a pose that had been known to stiffen the pricks of marble statues. It was such a simple thing, once one knew how. Twist a foot here, cock a knee these, shoulders back and the first thing you knew every male in braying distance was panting at the line of firmly skyward pointing tit, the exposed surface of soft, kiss-inviting inner thigh, the long perfect curve of neck, back, ass, thighs all posed for the greatest erotic effect.

She saw the boy from the corner of her eye, his Levi's bulging even more precariously than the older boy's, his eyes glassy and his breathing ragged. She wondered if she could make him cum in his pants without touching him. Probably. But why be cruel? If she was going to make little boys cum it would be nicer for them to cum in.

"What is it I don't or didn't?" she probed.

"Uh -- awwwww." He sighed. "You wouldn't know about it."

"Why?" Ted asked. "Is it something only boys your age know about?"

"Yeah," he said dispiritedly.

"Do girls your age know about it too?"

"I guess so."

"I guess I was born old like this," Ted said and sighed. "I don't suppose I was ever your age."

The boy gave her a sharp look. "You know about it?" he asked.

"I don't know whether I do or not," Ted said. "You still haven't told me what it is."

"I'm gonna hit that thing you told me to steer at!" Albert called from the cockpit.

Ted clambered up the scuttle and checked their position. The sloop was nearing the last buoy. She warned the boys to keep their heads down as the boom swung overhead, then threw the sloop over on the opposite tack. When it had settled down she got Albert's eyes off her legs long enough to learn how to steer a compass course. Then she went below again and back to making sandwiches with John.

"You know," he said.

Ted had forgotten what they were talking about.

"Know what?" she asked.

"You know why men look at girls' legs."

Suddenly she felt her whole belly turn to jelly, melt and flow into strange new shapes at the thought of this little boy touching...

"I've never been a man," she said carefully. "Tell me, why are you looking at my legs?"

"Because they're nice."

"Flowers are nice too." She pointed at the gimbaled vase on the bulkhead.

"Yeah, but you can't..."

"Can't what?"

But John wasn't saying.

They finished making the hot dogs. She rummaged through the fridge and found Cokes and they went on deck. She even managed to eat one of the hot dogs lest the boys think she was putting on unnecessary airs. "Where we going?" Albert asked.

"Well," she said, "to be honest there isn't anywhere closer than Hawaii if you keep heading the way were going. And at sundown the wind nearly always dies so I thought we'd just head out to sea for another couple of hours, then turn around and run before the wind. We'll get home in about one third of the time it takes to get out."

"Why do people do it?"

"I don't know," Ted said. "I suppose everybody has different reasons."

"How about you?" John asked.

"I worked very hard when I was a little girl," Ted said. "I was always surrounded by people. This yacht is the first time in my life I've ever been able to get off and be alone."

"What's so great about that?" Albert wanted to know.

Ted shrugged.

"What kind of work did you do?" John asked.

"I was a dancer."

"In the movies?"

"A couple," she admitted.

Neither boy spoke. When she looked up they were both looking at her legs.

Without thinking she stood and posed in the First Position. While the boys watched openmouthed she went through the basic ballet positions, holding onto a sidestay as her arms and legs pointed in unexpectedly cock stiffening directions. "Jeez!" Albert said.

The jib fluttered. Just in time she jumped down beside him and grabbed the tiller. When the sloop had settled down again she warned, "You can get into real trouble not watching the compass."

"Yeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!" Albert agreed.

They finished lunch and suddenly it was chilly. She thought about going below and changing back into slacks but both boys would be peeking and they'd surely forget about steering and there would be loud flapping noises and general unpleasantness as the sloop drifted off course. She compromised by slipping a parka on over her shorts and halter. Somehow the warm bulk of the hip length garment seemed to emphasize the bare length of her legs.

Suddenly she felt the motion change and knew the boy was falling off his course. Then she looked up and saw it was not his fault. The wind had died until they no longer had steerageway.

"What now?" Albert asked. "You gonna start the motor?"

Ted shook her head. "It's only a little motor for docking. We'd be out of fuel in half an hour."

"So what do we do?"

"Wait."

"How long?"

"Until the wind decides to blow again. Don't worry," she consoled. "We'll have a breeze within an hour or two."

The sloop had worked around into the trough and was rocking with a sickening motion, mast and rigging creaking and cracking with each wave. She hoped the boys wouldn't get sick. They would, sure as hell, if they had time to sit around and think about it.

"Was you really in the movies?" John asked.

"Yes."

"What was it like?"

"Getting up real early, driving miles across town to a sound stage, and ten hours of hard work," she said.

"Hard work?" Plainly Albert didn't believe her.

"Try this," Ted said. She did the first three positions and tried to hide her amusement as the boys twisted and strained to imitate her.

"Ow!" In extending his leg Albert had caught the head of his hot throbbing cock in a fold of his Levi's. What, she wondered, would it be like to let him soak that hard-on inside her just long enough to remove the ache?

I've got to stop thinking crazy thoughts like this, she told herself. What had gotten into her anyway? She was a grown woman -- thirty-nine. All that foolishness ought to be behind her. She sympathized with the two lov

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I called Maddy on Friday and asked her out to dinner,”I thought you might want to meet my wife”I said to her on the phone.There was a long pause as I waited for her response. I was starting to think that she wasn’t ready yet. I spoke up saying ..continue reading

Hot hotel room

As part of my job I have to travel to head office in London once a month. It’s a completely pointless journey but keeps the bosses happy and gives me an opportunity to watch my progammes on Netflix on the train down from Newcastle. I’ve got into ..continue reading