Reflexes
from East River Stories
by Mick Mykola Dementiuk
But I can't help it, she pouted, because it's like a reflexive action, y'know. That any time my tits are squeezed my legs automatically fly open. And the longer and harder they're squeezed the more the legs open and spread. She shrugged. Nothing I can do about it, y'know.
She crossed her legs, reaching in my shirt pocket for my pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. I lit her cigarette, eyeing her.
Of course, I didn't believe a single she was spouting, even her analogy of a hammer striking a knee, but I sure wished I had a third arm to grope her between her legs because every time I let go of a tit and reached down below to her legs, they snapped shut and she'd push me off.
Reflexes, y'know, she breathed out the smoke in my face. If you let go of my tits, I close up again; I can't help it, y'know.
Reflexes, my ass! I cursed to myself.
Because the sly, smug sneering was evident in her glistening bright eyes. Her over-thick smeared lipstick-lips were definitely twisted in a stifled restraint before she blew up in contemptuous laughter.
Cock-teasing cunt! I bitterly mumbled to myself.
For three days in a row, I'd been pawing her breasts...and pawing...and pawing...squeezing, groping, tweaking, hugging and caressing...
And for those three days she squirmed beside me, spreading her short-skirted legs wider and wider, the panty cloth nothing but a swatch, a smear of protection over her prized possession. Even raising the legs up in the air, bounding and leaping off the bench as if getting fucked by high heaven.
A fat-dicked high heaven, since her spread-out legs could possibly take in two guys, three guys at once.
That would be well and good for the guys, but what about me, was I simply preparing her so that someone else could laid?
Fuck that shit!
But I'm sure that's exactly what I was doing. Her hints of a boyfriend, her innuendoes of a lover, the dreaminess over what happened last night and what was still to come tonight.
Only that enraged me into an angrier, bitter and vicious pawing, squeezing harder, more brutal, my paws like claws, trying to hurt her, to punish her, to blacken her tits with my mauling and clutching.
To which she only responded with more sighing and yelping and stretching out her legs still much higher and wider.
What pleasure was there in this for her? What cock-teasing satisfaction could she be getting out of it? Perhaps the incredible turn-on that she was turning-on a guy but not letting him get turned-on all the way?
Giving up her body yet withholding the one vital body part that males have striven to grab and enter and repossess since the creation and separation of the genders?
It had to satisfy her somehow, as it did me at first. But squeezing tits day after day, no matter how round and soft and young and lush, without feeling anything else was becoming dull after a while. It's like a routine job, not as arousing or enticing as it was at the start.
A bulging tit is a prelude to a wide hollow cunt and it's always a female's tits that elicit that first draw in a man to pursue that hollow emptiness he desperately strains to enter and fill...in her and himself.
That's exactly what lured me to her: young tits curved nicely (with the potential possibility of a nearby cunt), not big tits but tits nicely packaged and bobbed and proportioned on her chest in a tight red blouse that clearly showed off the frills and speckles and linings of a tight bra underneath.
Small-titted girls usually try to disguise their smallness in loose blouses as if there was something more to them than could not be seen. But she showed herself off in a perfection that suddenly lured me to confidently stare, to imagine and dream, to approach, and to finally reach out and touch...
That first day I met her she was sitting on an East River Park bench overlooking the river. Her arms were spread out on the backrest behind her, her tits nicely rounded and bulbed.
I squinted in disbelief but when her shoulder suddenly jerked and her breasts shook, her hand shot out for the tit and desperately scratched and squeezed. Her fingers cupped the breast at its side, from underneath, to the middle of her chest, then jerked her fingers to scratch the other equally shaking and itching tit.
I approached in a trance, still gaping in disbelief but she nervously looked at me and smiled yet continued scratching her tit as her legs strained to open and spread open under her tight black mini skirt.
It's a new bra, y'know, she pouted, as I fell on the bench beside her. It's still hard and stiff, she explained, turning red but flitting her eyelashes. I should-a washed it before putting it on, I guess.
Her voice had that lisped girlishness of fake over-exaggerated adult femininity, high-pitched, mocking, characterless, really undeveloped. She was probably getting her adult-female role-model images from TV soaps rather than own maturity developing on its own.
I bit my lips, knowing she was only a kid, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, hopefully she was eighteen years old, or whatever. I braced myself and shook my head.
Lemme do it, I said, reaching for the itching tit, my other hand going around her shoulder and down her chest, pulsing the two tits and stroking...squeezing...stroking...squeezing...
If women melt in the arms of men than this woman/child oozed into a pliant weightless/softness that instantly settled and released my own hardness and anxiety.
My body shook and erupted into an ejaculation of disbelief and eruption, her tits in my hands, her skirt at her stomach, her legs outspread, and my torso rocking and leaping about in a tremor of giddy release.
If ever the Universe was finally ceding my soul, it still was beating and pummeling me for it. If ever a mortal can achieve Nirvana, Freedom, Awareness, Peace, then that delicious moment of sudden ejaculation was it.
A womanchild in my arms, that was the answer I quested after: a beautiful young woman, a round-titted flirty school-girl, a not-so-innocent love-child. That was all I ever wanted, needed, longed and hoped for...
Now that was three days ago...
By the end of our first day, I had mauled and molded her crisp new bra until she herself felt eased by its natural curved pliant softness, having constantly fought of my hands at her thighs.
The next day she let me lift her blouse and showed off a pink silky bra --with pink silky panties to match-- that covered her breasts in an almost natural sheen of skin, her nipples stiff and tight, but at her age she still had no real need of a supporting bra, her breasts suspended in a natural hovering buoyancy of youth and beauty.
It was then she explained her theory of reflexes and spreading legs, fighting off my hands reaching for her cunt.
And today, her most frenzied open-legged day of all, she showed me a trimmed red and black nipple-cut-out bra with a red and black crotchless panties to match.
Ejaculate in my pants? I thought I'd erupt out of every pore in my body!
I've a date tonight, y'know, she giggled, as I angrily pinched her stiff nipples, glaring at her smirking hairy moist cunt, definitely out of touch below.
So here it was again, eh? Preparing a woman for another guy...
Story of my life, actually, wining and dining, wooing and cooing, choosing and losing.
What woman have I loved who has not retreated from my arms to those of another's, her body still quivering with satisfaction from the already anticipation I seared in her?
Was my courtship too slow, my wooing too cliched, my intensity too serious and disarming, my arousals not enough?
Would I let this one get away so easily and quickly? Why should her heated lusts, triggered and lit by me, be burned and smoldered and turned to ash by the desires of another?
No fucking way!
The aim of all cockteasers, whether in appearance or actual contact, is the power to frustrate, to control, to disappoint, to embitter.
And I was enraged!
I let go of a tit, stiffened my fingers and lashed them into her wet cunt. Two of my fingers entered easily and instantly as she thrust up her torso in surprise or shock.
Oh God no! she sputtered. No, no!
My other finger slipped in after them, a little tighter, a little harder, but she was wet and wide enough to take in anything, probably the fingers of my other hand as well.
Three fingers fucking her, and her entire body shrieked out in spasm of pleasure or pain, I didn't know which, but I didn't care.
I ignored her choking yelps of Stop! Don't! Please! No!
Her spread-out legs nothing but proof of the bullshit she'd been stringing me along with for the last three days. I was glad I finally had enough.
I succeeded in shoving a fourth finger in, my thumb brutally pressing her fat bloated clit like an elevator button I kept pressing, to raise her to an even greater frenzy of weakening denial and faint phony protest.
I sneered down at my fingers inserted in her cunt that my eyes suddenly widened, afraid, my palm smeared and sticky and soaked in the black penetrated protection of her young-girl hymen.
I sneered, then smirked not even wondering at her age, her legs as spread open as ever, her round tits shaking, her face a mixture of pain abandon and contempt, proving she was more than old enough for anything.
I rotated my fingers and pushed my hand in still deeper, blood oozing thicker, darker. I pulled my fingers out, and as if by reflex she raised her open legs and tried spreading them wider.
I quickly was between them, tilting her down to the bench, my cock entering easily and replacing my bloodied hand.
What else can I say, but as if by reflex she wrapped her arms and legs around me and proved to be an expert fuck...
And we fucked!
****
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