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Seeing Ina nude, wanting to be nude with her, having an urge to feel as much of her nude body against his nude body as possible—within the confines of the front seat of a 1950 Pontiac—pulling his shirt off, he tossed it onto the clutch, unbuttoning his jeans, pushing his underpants off at the same time, he wiggled out of both.
In the unflattering light of day Ina Dorfmann’s thighs were thick, dimpled and heavy. But in romantic moonlight, even in bug-splattered romantic moonlight, Ina Dorfmann’s thighs were soft, smooth, inviting, and most importantly, available.
“Mitchie,” holding a restraining hand against his chest, “wait. I’ll help you.”
Ina Dofmann was normally of a, to say the least, lustful nature, and the thought of actually being with Mitchell Lipensky, along with his contagious, accelerated passion, carried Ina to an even higher degree of urgency than normal and, sitting up, lifting her lower body, she popped the buttons and pushed her shorts, along with her panties, down her legs where they fell off, alongside the brake peddle.
Oh, God! She’s here! Mitchell thought. She’s here! Naked! A real, live, naked girl is here and we’re going to fuck! Really going to fuck! Now was as if, and indeed, a sexual fantasy had come to life from out his dreams and to be sure that this was not yet another fantasy—not that he wouldn’t have done it if this were a fantasy—he brought his hand to the tri-section of Ina’s thighs and twined his fingers through the coarse hair there.
Mitchell looked at Ina through the light of the bug-splattered windshield: at her sloping, milk-white breasts; at the areolae of her large, dark nipples; at the, albeit shadowed, triangle of her pubic hair…
And in the excess of his passion thought Ina Dorfmann was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, and, in a way, being the only girl he had ever seen fully nude, she was, so… “Ina,” he said hoarsely, “you are so beautiful!”
Ina Dorfmann rarely, if ever, heard the words “you are so beautiful,” but Mitchell had said them! Twice, in fact! Once in the Liebman cottage—actually, he was also about to tell her that she had beautiful breasts when they’d heard the slamming of a car door outside—and then here… And, sensing her vagina saturating, becoming even, if possible, wetter, and wondering if she was leaking onto the front seat of her father’s 1950 Pontiac, she squeezed her thighs together, as…
Seeing Ina naked, wanting to be naked with her, having an urge to feel as much of her naked body against his naked body as possible—within the confines of the front seat of a 1950 Pontiac—pulling his shirt off, he tossed it onto the clutch, unbuttoning his jeans, pushing his underpants off at the same time, he wiggled out of both.
Watching him undress, “Mitchie,” taking hold of his stiffly-standing penis, in an excess of passion, “you’re beautiful, too.” Ina said. “All over!”
He saw a hand—not his hand—holding his penis, and the hand was cold and, Oh, God! “That feels so good!”
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