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By Zapped! All characters and content copyright © 2022 zappedstories@yahoo.com. This story may not be reproduced in any form. Accept no cheap imitations. Author’s note: Not much remains of the 2008 version, but I still want to thank Dmuk for his Nasuko character as well as his other contributions to the original.
Activity in the Great Room was in full swing; rock glasses clinked and cigar smoke swirled, as fraternal members strolled from one enticing “exhibit” to the next. An enthusiastic buzz filled the air, most of it centered around the twelve attractive contestants competing for Miss Pygmalion 2009. The term “competing” might be a bit of a stretch; maybe inactively participating would be a better choice of words. Each contender stood motionless, completely incapable of making any movement or sound. Confined to pedestals like dolls on display, they slowly rotated around to offer 360-degree views of their nubile bodies. Most members took their time considering the perfect specimen for the next Miss Pygmalion, while one individual seemed to set his sights a little too quickly, swiftly moving from one dais to the next like an excited child wandering through a toy store. “I vote for this one!” Stanley Pitt declared as he stopped in front of one staring blonde, only to be distracted by her equally attractive neighbor. “Blimey! I meant this bird over here!” Dean Kessler merely shook his head; he was too busy making his own evaluations of the impressive array of contestants. And even though he didn’t know every one of them by name, he did recognize a few of the more popular ladies from around campus. Of course, he immediately acknowledged Shawna “Hoopz” Parker, one of Glendale’s most competitive basketball players and a member of the cheerleading squad. The African American’s build was sporty and fit without looking overly masculine; every muscle ripple was evident beneath her coffee-hued skin. Despite her tough-as-nails reputation on the court, Hoopz was also notable for being remarkably kind towards her classmates and always had a warm smile to share. Today, Hoopz merely stared ahead, her lightly made-up visage completely void of any expression. The same look echoed on the faces of the eleven others that gazed forth above their pedestals, proud and beautiful in their immobile grandeur. Dean Kessler’s roving eyes admired Shawna's broad shoulders, followed the inward curve of her lower back, how it transitioned into the firm humps of her protruding glutes ... the way the creases hung out of her snug-fitting briefs. The raunchy lyrics to the Stones’ 1971 hit Brown Sugar played out in his mind. Beyond Hoopz was a cute Japanese exchange student and member of the volleyball team, Nasuko something-or-other. With her pale skin and delicate features, the girl looked like a life-sized anime figure circling around in her contrasting white-on-purple-school colors. Posed just as rigidly and slowly rotating around beside her was another pretty young woman who looked somewhat familiar. Her identity didn’t quite click at first; it wasn’t until the dean mentally added some heavy eyeliner and somber black clothing that he finally recognized her. “Well, I’ll be,” Kessler said in awe. “Is that really Sloane Peters?” “It certainly is, Sir.” The comment came from one of the Pygmalion’s youngest members, who had quietly slipped in alongside the dean. Ian Hardwick was a very capable student, an overachieving preppy-type who often did favors for the brotherhood. Some of those favors were legal; others, not so much. The dean never turned to acknowledge the young man’s presence; he simply tilted his head in wonder. “Her transformation is completely remarkable, if not inspiring. Who could’ve known that hidden beneath the ink-black hair and Gothic clothes was a natural ginger with freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose?” “Amazing indeed, Sir. Sloane was handpicked by Mrs. Kessler; she actually did the makeover herself.” Bebe. That woman never ceases to amaze me. The pair watched, astonished, as the former Goth statically pirouetted on the turntable before them. Sloane’s sexy body was finally revealed within two-piece spandex briefs and a seamless bandeau. Once gloomy and unsociable, this former loner proudly showed off her elegant lines and pale, buttery skin. Her slim but muscular legs and trim ankles stood in strapped high heels (most likely for the first time). All in all, Sloane turned out to be a real head turner on a day that surely mattered. Trying to score even more brownie points with the dean, the young man continued, “There’s a nice variety of candidates, if I do say so, Sir.” The pair had progressed to Ian’s personal favorite: “Juicy” Jessica Fiori. From the heart-shaped ass and killer legs (well displayed thanks to her oh-so-short briefs), to the classic hourglass curves of her waist, the gorgeous Italian already looked like she belonged in one of the alcoves in the Hall of Statuary. Not bothered by her smallish B-cup breasts, Ian cast his vote, placing four of his medusa tokens in her collection box. He could hear the telltale clink as they landed among several other coins that were already in there, meaning Jesse might be doing well in the competition. The 18-year-old freshman looked almost content as she circled around, completely unaware that she was being ogled from across the velvet rope. “You had a lot to do with getting them here,” the dean commended, “and your fellow brothers and I appreciate all of your efforts.” He gave the young man an appreciative pat on the back and then parted ways with him. After all, there were many more girls to review and a pile of tokens left in his pocket. Further down the line, Jack Claussen regarded a statuesque (literally) beauty that had just turned her back to him on the opposite side of the rope. A mass of blonde curls tumbled down her back, and her bare shoulders were nicely set above a narrow waist. His ogling eyes dropped down to an ass so perfectly shaped it could tempt a monk to break his vows. The candidate rotated back around to offer the professor a frontal view. She was obviously young (college-age, as they all were), with flawless skin and a rounded jaw that further emphasized the appeal of her oval face. Her green eyes were framed by long curled lashes; they glinted beneath the light as she began yet another rotation... “Probably a lot more woman than you can handle, old man.” Jack turned half-way toward his harasser, but his annoyed expression quickly transformed into one of pure amusement. The individual’s fitted black Givenchy suit was a sharp contrast to the open-toed jellies on his bare feet. His beard was coarse and his long bushy hair had been pulled back into one of those half-up and annoyingly messy man buns. His whole vibe was that of a badly aging hippie (rather than the acclaimed artist and university professor that he’d become). The man raised his customary White Russian in greeting and flashed his trademark stoner smile... “Talk about a sight for sore eyes! ... Jack Claussen, my brother... my codelincuente. What’s up, man?” The pair exchanged firm handshakes beside the rope. “Glad to see you dressed appropriately for the occasion,” Claussen teased. “Spent so much on the suit, couldn’t afford the matching shoes?” Gerald Bushwick shook his head in mock resignation. “Dress codes are highly overrated; just another form of oppression by the man.” “You’ve always gone against the grain, haven’t you?” “Yeah, well someone has to; it may as well be me, brother.” The two looked back to where the young blonde continued to rotate around. “So who is this?” Claussen asked. “Claire Barnes,” Bushwick slurred as he bit into an ice cube that made a noisy crack. “Freshman, Psych 101, and a member of the cheerleading squad.” “Nice.” “Absolutely. You should see what she’s hiding beneath all that spandex.” A man with a bad comb-over sidled up to them, interrupting the conversation. He put his hand on the artist’s shoulder and flashed a crooked grin... “Hey there Jack ... Jerry.” The pair nodded back at the politician. “So what do you think of the display, Senator?” “Oh, the girls are just fabulous,” the man praised while glancing appreciatively at Claire’s curves. “The crew outdid themselves for sure.” “It was a helluva lot of work gathering them up from around campus and prepping ‘em all.” “Yeah, I can only imagine,” replied the senator with a bit of a chuckle. The newcomer appeared apprehensive as he gazed about the room. After a long moment, the man cleared his throat, and then his expression turned serious. “So, um, how are you coming along on that little assignment of mine?” “Oh,” Gerald seemed to recollect with a little effort, “―that.” The artist scratched the back of his neck as if choosing his next words carefully. “Yeah, I had to put that job on the back burner with the banquet and all, but I’ll get back to them once things settle down.” The man grabbed ahold of Gerald’s arm as if he were detaining him. The artist jerked his head back in shock, a look of disbelief etched on his face. “I thought we had an agreement,” the senator growled, his brow furrowed in anger. “I can’t stress this enough: I need that problem taken care of ―ASAP!” “Chill out, mijo!” “Don’t tell me to chill out! That goddamned bitch is going to take me to the fucking cleaners!” A few of the other members began turning their heads and were looking at them strangely. “You’re causing a scene, man.” “Fuck them!” The senator snapped. “We had an agreement; don’t fuck this up on me, Jerry! My political career and accumulated wealth are at stake here!” It was at that point that Bushwick turned to Professor Claussen. “You’ll have to excuse us, Jack; I have some business to settle with the senator here. I tell you what; you’re going to be here in town for a few days, correct?” “Yeah, I rented myself a nice suite downtown.” “Perfect,” Bushwick replied as he retrieved a business card from his wallet. “My cell number is on the back; give me a call before you leave town and I’ll give you a personal tour of my workshop.” “I’d certainly look forward to that, Jerry.” “Far-out, man.” The artist turned his attention back to the irate senator. As the pair walked off, Jack looked down at the business card to read: Artistic Impressions by Gerald E. Bushwick
†Always seeking artists models for top pay Jack cracked a grin and thought, I’m glad he’s on our side. The professor moved on to the next turntable, where the blankly staring visage of Zala Cooke slowly rotated into view… * * * * “I call this one!” Stanley Pitt raced ahead to the revolving dais of a particularly impressive effigy. He gazed longingly at a raven-haired Latina with big dark eyes and almond skin that gave the young woman an exotic appearance. Roselyn Ortega’s toned thighs and well-muscled calves (further complemented by her trim physique) were all a result of her part-time job, where she worked six nights a week as a ballroom dance instructor. Like all the other frozen contestants, the sophomore-turned-statue held an unblinking stare on her lovely face. “This banquet is the bee’s knees!” Pitt spouted. It was only when Roselyn rotated around to flaunt her well-rounded backside that the businessman noticed the “dancing snoopy” tattoo just above her right buttock. “Oh bloody hell! Now that’s cheeky!” Pitt turned to the onlooker to his immediate right and slapped him on the back so hard it caused him to pitch forward. “Get it?... Cheeky?” The renowned plastic surgeon regarded his spilt brandy and wiped his wet hand on his pant leg. He then surveyed the candidate in question with a look of distaste... “I don’t know; their glazed staring eyes are almost as eerie as their blank, relaxed looks.” (Secretly, he thought the petrified girls seemed like presentation waxworks or even high-end mannequins; either way, they were a little too fake-looking for his personal tastes). Pitt looked at him as if he was from outer space. “Why would you fancy their eyes, mate?” The Brit shook his head in disgust. As he walked off, he thought What a plonker! * * * * Just a few frozen figures down... The younger of the two New Jersey gangsters studied a buxom blonde on the opposite side of the velvet rope. She slowly turned around, offering the pair a full 360-degree-view of her voluptuous curves... “Hey Tone, are these Pygmalion guys a bunch of freaks or what?” “I don’t know, Vinny; they actually might be on to somethin’ here.” Vincent gave his boss an odd look. “I don’t get it?” Anthony took a deep toke off his Cuban cigar and blew a long stream of smoke out into the air. Then he winced his eyes, as if he were about to share some words of wisdom. “Think about all the dough you spend on these broads: the luxury cars; the designer clothes; the fucking credit cards; takin ’em out to fancy restaurants, all jis’ ta get laid. I don’t care if it’s your wife, the goomar, or a goddamned stripper – they’re all out to grab your hard-earned money!” The big guy looked around the room as if he’d suddenly gotten a bad taste in his mouth. “…But then you look at dis setup, and everything you need is right here; you stick it in, badda-bing badda-boom and she don’t say a fuckin’ word or bitch about anything. When you’re finished banging away, you clean off your prick, wipe off your little statue-girl there, then Bang - Zoom― you’re off to the races to bet on some horses…” “I guess ya got a good point there,” Vinny agreed. “It’s totally fucked up, but it’s a good one.” “Ah, fugedaboutdit!” “Nah, I really do: no bitchin’ about I got a headache; it’s too cold, it’s too fuckin’ hot; how come youse didn’t call me last night… Shit, no more havin’ to cuddle afterwards!” “I know, that’s why I said: these guys are definitely on to somethin’ here.” “Look at the rack on dis one, Tone… Mama Mia!” “She’s definitely qualified.” “You ain’t kiddin,” said a voice from beside them. “An ole chap like me could lose his dentures in there.” The big guy nodded his head back, and a smile cracked around his fat cigar. “Now dat’s funny.” A tipsy Stanley Pitt wavered in place beside him, looking like a sunflower in the wind. “I knew her mum back in the day, ya see, stacked like a brick ship-hors’ – ah, shit house… whatever they say. This was long befor’ a bimbo could buy her jubblies from a cat’log. No sir, it’s in her DNA and this bird’s all nat’ral. Hey, wanna hear a real hoot?” Pitt slurred conspiratorially. “Not so much, gran-pops.” Vincent’s eyes glared at the man hatefully as he went on to threaten, “N’fact, maybe you should take a hike before I bust a cap in your drunk ass.” The thug took a step forward and made a motion to reach inside his Armani suit for his piece, but his boss pushed him back. “Whoa, whoa, take it easy for Christ’s sake!” Anthony gazed around the room rather guardedly, and in a lowered voice he cautioned, “...Witnesses.” Pitt (too sloshed to realize his error) drank another brandy, savored the taste on his lips, and then pointed a finger at the subject in question. “Hope―Marie―Chest, can ya believe it? Thass what sweet Chastity stuck her kid with. ’Course, every other wanker to lay eyes on the bird refers to her as Hope Chest…” Anthony just shook his head. “Maybe you should, uh, ease up on the drinks, old timer.” “Yeah,” Vincent reiterated, “And go find someone else to share your wit with.” Pitt would never know how lucky he was to walk away with his limbs still intact. “Jesus, what the hell did you bring that thing in here for?” Anthony scolded. “I’m here tryin’ ta enjoy the presentation, and you’re over there actin’ like Doc Holiday at the O.K. Corral!” All the while, Hope continued to slowly revolve around, her purple bandeau top struggling to contain her colossal 36DD’s within its stretchy confines... * * * * Kiersey Bunny strolled along at a leisurely pace in her raised platform heels. She’d occasionally stop to offer a refill or gather an empty glass from an excited onlooker and then move onward. Now and then a fraternal member would grab a handful of her shapely cotton-tailed rump, but she offered no resistance. Her pretty face held a trance-like expression as she treaded her way along the velvet rope. A dozen classmates slowly rotated around on the opposite side of that rope. At one point, Kiersey came to a stop, and her head slowly tilted to the side as if in slight recognition... Lana was as popular a member of the Gargoyles cheerleading squad as she was among her peers. The junior’s chestnut hair ran down past her shoulders, where it rested just above her perfect C-cup breasts. She rarely wore much makeup (her natural complexion and facial features made it unnecessary), but on this evening, her blankly-staring face almost looked airbrushed. Kiersey’s roving eyes scanned down over the girl’s firm midriff and came to a stop where her low-rise compression briefs hugged her undercarriage like a glove. She barely got a look before Lana slowly turned around to offer a view of her firm posterior. A moment later, her camel toe rotated into view once again... If she had the capacity, Kiersey would’ve recognized the young woman as her neighbor from across the hall (the same one she’d often traded footnotes with for their literature class). But she didn’t (nor would she). A hint of a smile played upon her ruby lips, and she barely managed to form the thought of So pretty… * * * * Jack Claussen gazed across the velvet rope, hands clasped reflectively behind his back. He was captivated by yet another contender, this one with a black pixie cut that complimented her dark brown eyes (which were cast up in a most appealing way). The contestant’s perfect olive skin tone, Castilian nose, and angular features hinted at her Hispanic heritage. She looked strong and lean, as if her body had been pushed to the limits and molded by a strict regime of discipline. Track and field, the professor rationalized. He had no way of knowing he was looking at two-time NCAA pole vaulting champ Daniela Fernández. Daniela completed one agonizingly slow rotation after another, as if mounted on an axis. She’d offer an enticing view of her bubble butt and then circle around again in silent acquiescence, the violet light glinting off her unblinking eyes. Try as he might, Jack couldn’t pull his gaze from her. “She’s really something, eh?” Dean Kessler stepped into his peripheral vision. “Those legs do look pretty powerful.” “Powerful enough to break your back if she were to wrap them around you.” Claussen laughed at the thought. “I could think of worse ways to land in the hospital.” “This is true,” the dean replied. “I don’t think Daniela is in the running for Miss Pygmalion, but we do have other, shall we say, alternatives.” Claussen gave him a curious look and asked, “What kind of alternatives?” “I can assure you that what you see here isn’t all that we’ve managed to accomplish,” the dean answered rather cryptically. “I’m not sure what you mean.” Vernon Kessler peered around the room with a cautious eye. “Perhaps it would be easier to just show you. Let’s go for a little walk.” As Dean Kessler turned away, Jack cast his vote by dropping his last two medusa tokens into Daniela’s collection box… * * * * Bebe Kessler’s eyes flicked open, and she blinked a few times to clear away the bleariness of sleep. The aging forty-one-year-old took in her surroundings as she did so, and it wasn’t long before she realized where she was: lying on a blanket on the carpeted floor of her office. She let out a groan as she rolled over in the opposite direction... Oh. The advisor came to a rest on her side and propped her head up on one hand. She considered the attractive woman stretched out on the blanket beside her. Famke Jakkson was tall, trim, and very Dutch. At thirty-one, she was also an entire decade younger than herself. The two had apparently fallen asleep (whether it be from the major lack of rest over the last month, or from the rosy afterglow of great sex, she wasn’t entirely sure). Probably both. Famke lay naked on her back, her exposed breasts lolling lopsidedly across her chest. Her head was nestled in the crook of her bent forearm, while the other arm was thrown up at the shoulder, the hand limp at the wrist in contentment. The cheerleading coach’s face was turned in the advisor’s direction; her attractive features relaxed deliciously in sleep. God, what a beautiful sight. She looked so peaceful that Bebe really hated to disturb her. She placed a hand on her lover’s shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. “Honey, wake up.” The woman refused to move. Bebe made a second attempt, but with a more forceful shove. “We must’ve dozed off for a bit, now come on.” Her lover remained unaffected by her touch. “Famke, please! My hubby will come looking for me soon!” Still no response. The counselor reached out, placed a thumb and forefinger underneath the woman’s chin, and then she slowly turned her head in profile. Famke’s sleeping visage remained in position even after she withdrew her hand... Is she pretending to be frozen right now? Bebe placed the pads of her thumbs against Famke’s eyelids and carefully pried them open. She was met with a glassy, uncomprehending stare. Her lover’s hazel irises rolled slightly upward, as if she were held in a vampire’s controlling gaze. She looked twice as hot with her eyes left open... I’ll be damned!...Well, sweetheart, two can play this little game! Bebe’s hand cupped Famke’s breast, her fingers and palm testing the pliability of her lover’s flesh. She lowered her head, lips suckling at the left nipple while her thumb gently rubbed across the bumpy ring of her right areola. That nipple quickly peaked under her touch, craving an equal amount of attention. The counselor repositioned her head over said tit, looked up at her “immobile” lover with possessive eyes, and began to suck even harder... By the time Bebe raised her head, Famke’s engorged nipples stood up from her chest like little rounded pegs. The counselor cracked a knowing smirk... I know how to get her up. Bebe’s hand glided down over Famke’s flat tummy, paused at the dip of her bellybutton. Using the side of her thumbnail, she traced slow, lazy circles around the oblong shape. The coach’s stomach muscles quivered beneath her skin, indicating she’d found the right spot to caress. Famke suppressed a moan despite her lover’s delicate ministrations... Bebe’s hand wandered even further, her fingers teasingly brushing over the delta of silky curls between Famke’s thighs. She cupped her partner’s sex, her digits finding the damp folds and slowly drawing them back. Bebe’s middle finger sank down between her lover’s splayed lips, where it located her stiffened nub, and then teasingly rolled it around and around. The rhythmic pulse coming from Famke’s clit was making it difficult to maintain her shallow breathing. Without missing a beat, she cleverly transitioned to inhaling through her nose just to keep the illusion going. Down below, Bebe nudged her thighs aside to allow herself better access. She slid a finger down and in, enjoying the warm grip of Famke’s pussy as she let her inside. The advisor watched her lover’s face for a reaction and found it when her lips parted with a muted sigh... Bebe responded to her with a sharp intake of breath. The velvety-wet sensation encircling her finger, coupled with the very idea of her lover being so dedicated to remaining still (and turning her own pleasure inward), had her clit thrumming. My God, she’s really good at this. Time to reward her. Bebe pushed a second finger in beside the first and waited for another reaction. Famke’s eyes lidded, and for a brief moment her blank expression held an air of puzzlement; she swallowed hard from the intrusion, moved that part of her experimentally, and then slowly angled her hips to accommodate the added width... Her puzzled frown smoothed into a look of calm acceptance, and then she promptly froze in that position. This is sooo fucking hot! Bebe started working those fingers back and forth like a piston in a cylinder. She was very gentle at first, but as her hand built up momentum, wet carnal noises filled the room, her palm slapping loudly against Famke’s undercarriage. Up above, the coach’s eyebrows furrowed a little, and a feral grunt escaped her parted lips, but she somehow remained in character... “God, you’re soaked,” the advisor observed once she withdrew her slick fingers. A devious smirk formed across her face as she said, “Now let’s see if you can handle this.” Oh boy. Famke had allowed Bebe free reign over her body and had every opportunity to stop what was happening (she was very close to doing just that multiple times). But she didn’t (nor would she). The thirty-one-year-old was thoroughly enjoying this little game of dominance and submission they were playing... She definitely knows how to push my buttons! Down below, Bebe had repositioned herself so that she was resting on elbows and knees, heels out, the deep cleft of her bare ass jutting out into the air. From her pussy-facing view, the advisor gazed up over Famke’s prone form. Bebe leaned in, inhaled the intoxicating scent of her crotch, blew her warm breath across her wrinkly folds... Famke held back a whimper, but her hips raised upward on their own. The woman refused to cave in despite her body’s involuntary reaction. She went to bite her lip, but remembered that was a no-no... Fuck, this is getting hard! The raveonette’s French Twist remained at the very bottom of Famke’s vision, her tongue lashing out at the petals of her sex like a kitten lapping up a bowl of milk. The older woman raised her head at one point, and then she let out a wicked chuckle, as if beckoning her to look downward... You know you want to watch this! Sorry, but that is not going to happen! Famke refused to buckle; her eyes remained locked on the ceiling fan above, and she willed herself to fall into the relaxing whirl of the spinning blades... It was all that she could do. Bebe knew it. The advisor locked her lips around Famke’s exposed clit, sucked it in between her sharp teeth... Famke shuddered at the torture of it (she almost jerked away, and likely would have if Bebe hadn’t hooked her hands and forearms around her thighs to keep her in place). Bebe’s mouth continued to work every nook and cranny. She peeled back Famke’s nether lips, tongue-fucked her opening, moving it in broader circles and driving it in with deeper and deeper strokes until the coach was pressing back hard against her face. Famke needed release like she needed air to breathe. Bebe suddenly broke away and crawled up her lover’s naked body; she laid herself down breast to breast, stomach to stomach, mons to mons. Face-to-face. Famke’s eyes widened in place, but she did her best to stay focused on the spinning fan blades. Don’t ―look ―dammit! Bebe moved against her, delighting in the subtle friction of the coach’s springy hairs against her own recently depilated skin (an idea inspired by one of her more recent frozen conquests, Sloane Peters). She leaned in, cupped her face within her hands, and when their lips finally met, the younger woman didn’t react. “You smell that?” The advisor snarled against her set mouth, the vibration of her smoky voice adding yet another element of electricity. Famke could certainly smell it; she even got a taste of her own tangy flavor when Bebe forced her way past her lips and slipped over the barrier of her teeth. She welcomed the intrusion and allowed her partner to explore her mouth unconditionally. Bebe took total possession of it, utilizing her tongue as a lever to force Famke’s own tongue up and down and from side to side. The more she submitted, the more aggressive the advisor acted, but she was too committed to the freeze to turn back now. “C’mon,” Bebe growled with urgency, “start moving, let’s enjoy ourselves.” The advisor taunted the coach with more forceful kissing, but Famke just lay there unmoving like a lifeless doll... Bebe furrowed her eyebrows in frustration. Time to turn it up a notch. The advisor raised Famke’s left arm up high above her head and placed it down on the blanket so that it matched the position of her other arm. Next, she retrieved the throw pillow she’d fallen asleep on, hoisted her lover’s torso up from the floor, and then placed the cushion underneath her pelvis. This strategic positioning altered the angle of Famke’s hips just enough so that the clit-on-clit contact she desired would be possible. Let’s see how long you can hold out now. Bebe looked like a lioness ready to conquer her prey; she began to rock back and forth, her sex slowly grinding up against the coach’s. She quickly fell into a rhythm, nub on nub gently rubbing, half ticklish, half torturous, all desire. Before long, the smell of arousal grew stronger, their slick mons creating squishy noises as they slid up and down each other. A soft “ohh” escaped from Bebe’s mouth. Then another. All at once, the humping turned feverish. The advisor gasped out a frantic “Shit!” as she forced her hands around to grasp Famke’s buttocks... She lifted the woman’s waist up from the floor and used her immobile body to pulverize her swollen clit. “Fuck me, Famke! Fuck me with your cunt!” Famke’s eyes glanced away from the fan blades just long enough to see Bebe perched above, head thrown back, tits swirling around and around, nipples tight, the veins cording up through the pearls that encircled her slender neck. She spurred the heels of her feet into her partner’s buttocks, arching her hips up as her lover spasmed against her. The two moved as one, their humping movements swift and perfectly in sync. Bebe let out a lustful groan, her low voice strained and throaty. The advisor rolled her hips around without losing contact; she didn’t want to let go, didn’t want the thumping sensation to end... Famke held on to her from below, legs tightly wrapped around her ass, the older woman still supporting her weight as if she were her lifeline. They remained like that for a moment, locked together, their breaths rasping, their bodies trembling... And then Bebe collapsed in a heap on top of her. They lay like that for a long while, nipple to nipple, breasts flattened against one another, their soaked pubic mounds still pressed and smoldering. Famke reached around and began to caress her lover’s ass. “Wow,” Bebe managed in an exhausted voice. “I’ll say!” Famke exclaimed. The coach finally loosened her legs and allowed the pair to disconnect... She gazed up at Bebe as she eased away from her. The advisor’s hair was somewhat tidy in its French twist, her face serene, but there was a sensual flush over her cheeks, and a languid expression in her eyes... Then a smile slowly cracked across her face. Like the cat that just ate the canary. “That was pretty fucking wild, huh?” “Yeah,” Famke said with a chuckle. “Who knew that being perfectly still could be so sexy?” “Well, I tell you what; you can freeze for me anytime you want, lover.” Bebe leaned in and placed several light kisses on and around Famke’s face and mouth. When she backed away, the younger woman gave her a funny look… “Something on your mind?” Famke seemed to hesitate for a second. “Well, I was sort of hoping... Maybe... we could squeeze-in another round?” “If we do, we’ll have to be pretty quick about it.” Bebe went to back away, but Famke’s hand shot out and grasped her arm. “Wait!... I was also wondering if maybe... well... if I could masturbate to your frozen body?” With that, Bebe leaned back on her heels. Her lover’s face turned scarlet (whether from embarrassment or desire, she wasn’t entirely sure). Either way, it was cute as hell. “Yes,” came the reply. Then Bebe said nothing at all. Famke freed her thighs from around Bebe and raised herself up from the blanket. She swung around on her butt so that her legs were facing in the opposite direction, pulled the kneeling advisor down on all fours like a pilot dropping a canopy, and then wiggled herself up underneath her frozen form. Now they were face to clit on both ends. One half frozen, two parts 69. Famke had work to do...
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