The Betsy (1971) Read Free Page B

under me, searching out the secrets of my anus. And all the while she held the knob of my cock in one hand, moving it like a gearshift to position me.
    Her whisper was muffled. “Let me get on top of you.”
    I rolled over to my side, then on my back. Still holding my cock she clambered over me, then slowly lowered herself onto it. It was like dipping into a tub of boiling oil.
    “Oh, God,” she moaned, rocking herself slowly back and forth on me, rubbing her clitoris against my pubic ridge.
    The roar of the racing engines began to travel from speaker to speaker around the bed, filling the room with an explosive violence of sound, and she moved with it, climaxing anew at each cycle around the track. I could feel the fuel of her excitement dripping down my testicles and under me.
    She began to half moan and scream with the frenzy of her passion. Wildly she shook her head from side to side, spilling her long hair into a constant fan. She began slamming into me, harder and harder. I smashed back against her.
    “Good,” she muttered. “That’s so good.”
    I held my arms straight out from my sides, behind her. As she came back toward me I slapped her viciously, one hand on each buttock. She jammed into me and came back. I slapped her again and kept it up to the rhythm of her movements.
    She began to climb the walls, her moans became shrieks of pain and ecstasy. The roar of the engines as they came toward the finish line began to mount, almost drowning her out.
    Suddenly Carl Yarborough crossed the finish line in his Sixty-eight Merc at 143.251 miles per hour and she created her final orgasm, drowning me in the flood of her juices.
    She hung there balanced on my cock for a moment, her eyes glazed and far away, then slowly, she crumpled and slid from me.
    She lay quietly, her breathing slowing down to normal, her eyes open, looking into mine. “It was wild,” she whispered.
    I just looked at her.
    She put her hand down on my cock. Her eyes opened slightly in surprise. She began to stroke it gently. “It’s still hard,” she whispered. “You’re fantastic.”
    I still didn’t speak. There was no point in telling her I hadn’t made it.
    She moved down and kissed me and took me in her mouth. After a moment she raised her head. “You’re all covered with me.”
    I nodded.
    She kissed my knob and tried to part its tip with her tongue. She turned her face and, holding my cock against her cheek, spoke softly. “Where will I ever find another man like you?”
    I put my hand in her hair and turned her face up to me. “Are you going with Fearless?” I asked.
    “Answer my question first,” she said. “Are you quitting?”
    I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
    She did hesitate. I’ll say that much for her. “Then I’m going with Fearless.”
    And it was over. Just like that.
     
     

 Chapter Three
    The soggy heat at the West Palm Beach airport came right through my shirt by the time I got to the Hertz counter. I sprang my freebie card and pushed it at the girl.
    She looked at the card before she looked at me. Then her expression changed. “The Angelo Perino?” she asked respectfully.
    I nodded.
    “I watched you on TV the other day. I’m sorry your car burned out.”
    “One of those things,” I said.
    “I was just a kid when my father took my brother and me to Sebring that time you went over the wall. I cried. I said prayers for you all week until I read that you would be okay.”
    She had that Hertz look. All-American girl. “How old were you?” I asked.
    “Sixteen.”
    I looked at her again. She was all orange-and-sun-country tan and over statutory age by now. “I owe you something for those prayers,” I said. “Maybe we can make dinner.”
    “I have a date tonight,” she said. “But I can break it.”
    “No, keep it,” I said quickly. “I don’t want to mess up your plans. We’ll do it tomorrow night.”
    “Okay,” she said. She wrote something on a slip of paper and pushed it at me. “That’s