By S. Paxton
The sultry July wind blew like lion’s breath from the Arlington, Virginia, side of the Potomac River, flapping the branches of the cedar trees on the riverbanks and parching the lips and throats of the people picnicking and playing badminton and pitching footballs in Northern Virginia Regional Park. A little black boy was standing at the fence that blocked access to the river. He was hitting rocks into the water with a chunked-up wooden baseball bat. On a bench under a tree a couple was making out. A cluster of old black men were gathered around
another old black man who was hammering a steel horseshoe stake into the ground. Several of them were laughing the way only old black men can.
I took a long drink of water from a plastic Sparklett’s bottle and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. It was hot. Too hot to be screwing around in a park, but the heat didn’t seem to bother anybody around here. Across the Potomac was the White House and the Washington Monument. Heat never bothered anybody over there, either. And kneeling on the ground twenty feet from me and pitching bread crumbs to pigeons was either Michael Bolton or Bill and Hillary’s little girl. The person wore a large floppy orange hat and black shades, baggy multi-colored trousers and heavy black boots, similar to those a soldier might wear. Below the hat hung thick tangles of curly brown hair.
This person’s arms stuck out of a black short sleeve shirt. Judging by the arms, I figured the person was probably Chelsea. Michael Bolton was skinnier than that.
I ambled over near her, not staring directly at her, but just glancing at her every couple of seconds. She was giggling, and appeared to be speaking with one of the pigeons. I’d never seen Chelsea in person, but I’d seen enough of her on television and in newspapers and magazines to know that some dirty rotten creep had beaten her with a branch from the Ugly Tree shortly after Hillary performed one of the last womanly acts of her life and gave birth to a daughter. That’s why, at first, I thought it might be Michael Bolton: he’d been beaten with that same branch, with similar shocking results.
But seeing her in person, she wasn’t all that repulsive. Actually, she was sort of cute, in a homely sort of way. With her baggy pants and shirt I couldn’t tell anything else about her, but I knew she was 20 now, and might be hiding a surprise under those clothes. It was often the case that after getting beat with a branch from the Ugly Tree as a youngster, the goddess of lust appeared around puberty to fill the mold of the body with excitement and curves and beauty. Sort of a way to make up for the earlier violence and give the girl a chance to attract something other than ex-convicts and very fat white men named Kenny.
She looked up at me, then quickly back to the pigeons.
“Hey, you’re Michael Bolton,” I joked.
“Ha, ha,” she said.
“I’m kidding. I meant your hair. I love it. I know who you are.”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? I just got my dad to ease up with the SS so I can actually go out and do something alone. I don’t want a gang of people asking for my autograph.”
I moved closer and dropped to one knee. Her lips were full and pink. Her eyes dark brown and wide-set. Braces had repaired most of what the branch from the Ugly Tree had taken from her tooth alignment. She had a few freckles, but otherwise blemish-free skin.
“It must be tough being the president’s daughter.”
“It’s a nightmare you can never imagine,” she said. “When it started in ninety-two, I thought, okay, all this attention is kind of fun–I was only thirteen, what the heck did I know? But it got old real fast.”
“Is that why you chose to go to Stanford, on the other side of the country?”
“That’s right. And if they’d have let me I’d have went to the University of Tokyo.”
She turned her attention back to the pigeons and away from me. Probably thought I was going to pry into her father’s embarrassing personal scandals, which I didn’t give a shit about.
“I’m not star struck by you,” I said. “I don’t care who you are. I just wanted somebody to talk to on this hot day when everybody really should be inside by an air conditioner.”
She looked up. And I gave her everything I had in return. She lost her balance and fell on her butt in the grass. The pigeons squawked and got moving a few feet up the path. When they saw there was no real danger, they came waddling back to their free meal.
“You dizzy?” I said.
“I don’t know. Wow. I just got all weird for a second and had to sit down.”
“It’s the heat.”
She stared closely at me. “You’re a very good looking man.”
“Thanks. And you look much nicer in person than in the photographs I’ve seen.” I figured that was the best way I could return the compliment.
“Do you hang out at the park a lot?” she said.
“I’m just passing through. Thought I’d visit D.C., you know, see the monument and that big statue of Abe and check out where your folks live.”
“Just hold on to your wallet.”
“Why, is the old man short of cash?”
“No, but every manner of filth and scum roving the streets is. Or seems to be.”
“I’ll remember that. What about you? School’s out for the summer–are you staying over there?” I nodded at the White House.
“No, thank God. My dad rented me a place here, in Arlington. It’s a very nice little townhouse in a good neighborhood. Best of all there’s no Secret Service around unless I call and say I want them. I live here during the summers.”
“How about a boyfriend?”
“No cute guys at Stanford?”
“I date. Nothing steady. My mom thinks I should finish my law degree and get a couple of years in practice before starting anything too heavy.”
“Have you ever had sex with a guy?”
“You mean as opposed to with a girl?”
The little smile and the glisten in her eyes was very attractive. I realized that in most of the photos I’d seen of her and the live action clips on television she wasn’t smiling. When she smiled she looked a lot cuter than Michael Bolton.
“Yes, opposed to a girl,” I said.
“I did it three times. With two guys at school.”
“At the same time? Wow. Hail to the chief!”
“No, silly. Twice with one guy and once with the other.”
“Was it fun?”
“The third time was pretty wonderful, I’d have to say. He knew what he was doing, not like the guy I did it twice with. I only did it twice with him because I figured the first time was just a mistake and he’d regroup and figure out what to do. The only thing that changed was he finished even faster.”
“This third guy, did you have an orgasm with him?”
For some reason that struck me as a very sexy thing.
“So I take it you’ve masturbated before.”
“Oh, all the time. Sounds weird, huh?”
“No, it sounds erotic.” I sat on the grass beside her. “How do you do it?”
“What do you mean how do I do it?”
“I mean your technique, how do you do it?”
“Technique. That’s a funny way to look at it. You really want to know?”
“If you want to tell me.”
“Well, what I do is, don’t laugh, I put on one of Linda Ronstadt’s CDs with the Nelson Riddle Orchestra. Then I put on a pair of spandex shorts, like runners wear. Then I put on a very fancy dress, like you’d wear to a ball or some kind of function. I’ve got lots of those. Then I turn off all the lights and dance.”
She shrugged and smiled.
“That’s it? You dance, and that’s how you masturbate.”
“That’s how it starts. While I’m dancing, I imagine I’ve got this incredibly sexy guy with his arms around me. Somebody like you, actually.”
“Yeah, so anyway, while we’re dancing, he’s talking to me.”
“What kinds of things does he say to you?”
“He whispers into my ear that he’s getting turned on just being close to me. He says he can feel my boobs poking him. And when he moves in close he can feel my thing on his leg, hard, and pressing against him. By then I’m usually pretty excited.”
“I’m pretty excited just listening to it.”
“I’m pretty excited telling you about it.”
“So go on.”
“Okay. See, he doesn’t know who I am, he just thinks I’m an average girl that he met at the dance, and that’s the way I like it. It makes me feel I can do anything without getting noticed or getting in trouble. So I dance over by my makeup table where all my stuff is and I take this hair brush with a wooden handle and sort of put the end of it down on the front of my dress, where I imagine his penis would be touching if it were getting hard. A little higher than the waist of my pants.”
“So you pretend that you’re making him grow against you.”
“And it’s so exciting. By then I’m usually ready to, you know, do something to myself, so we dance over to the bed and he lays me on it gently and lifts up my dress, which I do in reality. Then he gets over me and kisses me and talks dirty to me and I put the brush handle against myself and push it into me.”
“Through your shorts?”
“Through my shorts. At first. I like to tease him a little and make it hard for him.”
“I bet you do that.”
“I meant make it hard for him to wait.”
“Does he know you’re going to give yourself to him?”
“Well, that’s just it. He’s not sure. He hopes I am, but he’s really working at seducing me. That’s why he’s talking dirty to me.”
Chelsea stuck both legs out and crossed her ankles. She pitched the last of the bread crumbs at the pigeons, then leaned back, propping herself up on her hands.
Her crotch was hidden by the loose fabric of her pants and she saw me looking at it.
“I’ve got a pair of shorts on underneath,” she said.
“It’s too hot for long pants, anyway,” I said.
“I agree. Want me to get undressed?”
I didn’t answer. I just took one of her feet and began unlacing her boot. She bent over and went to work on the other one.
“I have to keep the hat on, though,” she said. “It’s a pretty good disguise.”
I waited for her to work her pants down her body. When they were off, she let her legs flop down and bounce open.
Her shorts were aqua blue, shiny, stretched around her curves like a thin sheet of rubber. I could see the outline of her panties across her hip.
“Like my shorts?”
“I like them a lot. I can almost see your pussy.”
She looked down. “Yeah, kind of obvious, huh?”
“Yeah. Where were we?”
“He had me on the bed. And so he starts saying things into my ear, like ‘I need you sooooo bad, you’re turning me on sooooo much, please let me eat your twat.’ He says ‘twat’ a lot. That’s my favorite word.”
“In the whole world?”
“For my vagina.”
“Anyway, by then I’m ready, so I slide my shorts and panties down and pretend the brush handle is his penis. I hold it and play with it like it’s a penis. It’s about seven inches long, but not very thick, but that’s okay. I’m good at imagining.”
“I’m pretty good at imagining, too.”
“Really? What are you imagining?”
“I’m imagining taking you over there behind those bushes and finding out if your twat’s as hairy as it appears to be.”
“I can save you the trouble.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble believe me.”
She laughed. “I mean I can tell you it’s extremely hairy. It’s just like my mom’s.”
“You’ve seen your mom nude?”
“Lot’s of times.”
“And she’s pretty hairy, huh?”
“It’s crazy. Her side of the family I think has the hairy genes.”
“Do you put the hair brush in you?”
“Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I push it in and use my hand at the same time. It takes about ten seconds and I’m all over the place.”
She began looking around the park. “You want to go somewhere?”
“So we can be alone?”
She nodded and twisted around toward the recreation building and the restrooms. “Do you want to?”
“What do you have in mind?” I said.
“I want you to have sex with me.”
“That’s nice, right in the middle of a park with the president’s daughter.”
“No, there’s some bushes behind that building over there. No one can see us. I peed over there once when there was a line at the bathrooms.” She turned back to me. “I was fifteen then.”
“If we go over there, will you pee and let me watch?”
“I’ll do anything you want.”
A few minutes later, Chelsea, carrying her pants and boots, led me through a tangle of thick growth along the back wall of the recreation building. The overhang of the roof coupled with the shrubbery hid the sun’s glare and cut some of the biting heat. She was right: nobody would see us because we couldn’t see anything beyond the bushes.
“Should I just squat and pee here?” she said.
I moved against her and pressed her back against the brick wall. I slid my hand over her thick vagina and pushed on it. “No, right here, like this.”
“In my pants?”
She closed her thighs around my hand, which I slid back and forth. Her crotch was already damp in the clingy shorts.
“Kiss me, okay?” she whispered.
As our lips touched she moaned loudly and grabbed me around the back. She thrust her hips up and toward me. She held that position for several seconds, then a flood of warmth began drenching her shorts. I squished my hand around in it, loving the heat that filled my palm and drained over my wrist. I massaged her thighs, where her pee was spreading rapidly, moved my hand onto her bare leg and slid it around in the wetness.
“I have never done anything like that,” she said when she was done. “And it felt sooo good! Do we just lay down?”
“No, we stand.”
I took my car key from my pocket, moved us a few feet to the left out of the puddle, dropped my pants, then squatted down in front of her. Almost the entire front of her shorts was wet; pee still glistened around her slit, which was slightly opened by the material of her shorts.
“What are you doing?” she said. She removed her sunglasses and hooked them over the neckline of her shirt.
“Just hang on.” I grabbed a little section of her shorts over her crotch and ripped it open with the teeth of my key. Then I tore a gap in them. I pulled on the front of her panties and did the same with them until there was room for me to get into her.
“You cut open my clothes,” she said, more with surprise than protest.
Now I stood up, gripped my cock, and fed it through the new opening. She pulled the tear farther apart. She pushed her hips out and opened her feet and I bend my knees and the head of my cock found her slick lips.
The trip in was not easy. It may have been the position we were in, but I think it was also that she was still painfully tight. She felt brand new.
Finally I was coated with her wetness well enough to slide easily. I gave a hard thrust and pinned her against the wall. I kissed her. I massaged her large breasts, trying to locate the nipples, but couldn’t. She made a little noise and I felt her hand slip in between our bodies. A second later her fingers found her clit and began circling it.
I gripped her butt and pulled her against me then relaxed my grip and banged her back into the wall. Her floppy hat fell off. I repeated this at a slow, determined pace. With each forward thrust, I pinned her fingers, smashing them into her clit as I fit as much of me as possible into her.
Her orgasm came out of nowhere; in seconds she was like a floppy rag doll in my arms. Save for her breathing she was quiet. Her hips bucked at twice my pace and virtually used her vagina to masturbate me. When I was ready, I gave one last shove. She hit the wall and blew out a great breath against my neck. I became still, squeezing her butt cheeks, forcing myself to drain into her as if I were peeing. She wiggled a little, but I kept her still and let it all come out.
We stayed that way for almost three minutes, trying to shiver out the last of our passion within each other. She said, “Can we stop? I have to pee again?”
With dexterity that alarmed me, I managed to kick off my shoes and drag my legs out of my pants and toss them to the side with a foot without slipping out of her.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Moving my pants. Pee here.”
“With you in me?”
“You mean it?”
“I think I can.” She grimaced and exhaled. “Okay, it’s right there . . .”
My cock heated up and my balls were bathed in warmth. It ran down my legs. I could hear it spewing from her.
“This is something else I never did,” she said when her flow stopped.
“Maybe it’s something you can do with your dance partner sometime.”
“Yeah, that would be a good idea. I’d have to put a rubber sheet on the bed, though.”
“And do a lot of laundry.”
“Yeah, but that’s okay. Wow. That was interesting. It was really nice. And fun.”
I pulled out of her and began dressing. She took off her shorts and panties and tossed them under the bushes, then got into her baggy pants and boots. She picked up her hat and surveyed a patch of wetness on one side of the brim.
“Ooops,” she said, and pulled it down over her thick curls. She replaced her shades then smiled at me.
“Michael Bolton, I’ll be dammed,” I said.
“I don’t look like Michael Bolton.”
“Actually you do a little. But your much prettier.”
“You really think so?”
“He’s not very pretty.”
“I meant you really think I’m pretty?”
“To tell you the truth, you’ve gotten more lovely throughout our little ordeal. You have a super pussy and somehow that just made you gorgeous all over.”
She blushed. “You know only one other person has ever said that to me in my whole life.”
“The two-time boyfriend?” I said.
“No,” she said. “My dad.”
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