Free The Lord Won't Mind (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) by Gordon Merrick

mouth felt small and pursy after the soft, rich generosity of Peter’s. He lifted his hand to her breast in a conventional caress. She made a quick movement, and he found himself holding a small bare breast. He started to cover it tactfully, but her hand urged his head downwards and he bent his head and took the nipple in his mouth, feeling it pucker as he did so. She slumped lower in her seat and placed his hand between her knees. He ran it up under her dress along her thighs, encountering obstacles as he did so, stockings, buckles, straps, and reached the warm moist emptiness of her crotch. He ran his thumb along the edge of some undergarment, stroking hair. She quivered under his touch, writhing and uttering small gasps of pleasure.
    “You can do it with your finger if you want,” she whispered.
    His sex was caught in a fold of his trousers and was becoming intensely uncomfortable. He lifted his head. “Just a minute,” he said, and put his mouth once more on hers. He withdrew his hand and busied himself with his own needs. The buttons were stretched taut, but he managed to undo them and work himself out of the tangle of clothing. Freed, the whole hard length of him rose between them and he felt genuine desire. Perhaps she would let him really have her. It would be wonderful to drive it into her, there where it belonged. The thought made his breath catch and his heart race wildly. His hand was trembling as he found hers and lifted it and placed it on his sex. There was an instant of stunning contact, and then she pulled her mouth from his and screamed. Briefly, he took it as a tribute, but she screamed again and began struggling frantically with the handle of the door.
    “Oh, you—you—you filthy—” she was gasping. “Oh, you made me—you made me touch it. That thing! You made me touch it. Oh—”
    He leaned across her and grabbed her hands and held them. “What’s the matter with you? What’re you trying to—”
    “Don’t you touch me. Help! Go away. Take it away from me.” She tried to fight him off. Her voice rose to a shout. “I’ll tell my father. He’ll take you to the police. He’ll have you thrown out of the club. You dirty—Help!”
    “Stop yelling, you silly fool. There’s nobody around for miles.” He held her wrists in a hard grip. He wanted to break them. Her bare breast hung from her dress. Her skirt was gathered around her thighs. She was disgusting. His momentary bewilderment was replaced by searing rage. He would crush her. He would destroy her. Girls were all alike. They didn’t know what they wanted, unless it was to make a fool of you. They lifted their skirts, they bared their breasts, they screamed if anything came of it. They didn’t give a damn about male needs. The last time, What’s-her-name had made such a fuss that he’d been unable to keep an erection. The other time, it had been rape. That’s what they really deserved. These thoughts flashed through his mind with the speed of hate. He held her wrists and wanted to make her scream with pain. His voice was hoarse with rage when he spoke. “Go on. Tell your father. I have a few things to tell him myself. What am I supposed to touch? A hairy pee-hole. That’s supposed to be wonderful. ‘You can do it with your finger.’ God. Talk about filth.”
    As he spoke, a wail rose in her throat until it broke into sobs and she seemed to shrink as her body was shaken by them. He released her wrists and rearranged himself in his trousers and buttoned himself up. The hand that had been under her skirt felt contaminated. He didn’t like to touch himself with it. As her sobbing continued, his composure returned. He had given her a little of what she deserved. He began to feel a small glow of satisfaction.
    “OK, Miss Hairy-pee-hole. What shall it be? Shall I take you home or back to the club?” Her sobbing redoubled in force, and he almost laughed. “Considering the condition you’re in, I guess it’d better be home.”