Enthusiastic Paddling E-Book

Elsa England

• Herausgeber: Taboo Pulp Press
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

This is a VERY taboo, vintage, hard-boiled full length (100+ Pages), post-censorship erotic novel. Excerpt: There was, however, no doubt that Pamela Thornton would have drawn looks of frank and unabashed carnal desire no matter in what part of the country she had been born, and indeed there were a number of young men in Durwent who believed it to be their mission in life to enjoy her mouthwatering charms. Thus far, however, their rather clumsy and obvious efforts had met with no success whatsoever. Indeed, her derisive disdain of their amateurish attempts to fondle her magnificent bosom or bottom, to slip their hands under her skirts to caress her stunningly rounded ivory thighs or to touch that sacrosanct cleft at their apex which was still virginal to the male, had earned her the sobriquet of "The Icebox Princess."

Leseprobe

Enthusiastic Paddling

Elsa England

Copyright © 2017

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

There was, however, no doubt that Pamela Thornton would have drawn looks of frank and unabashed carnal desire no matter in what part of the country she had been born, and indeed there were a number of young men in Durwent who believed it to be their mission in life to enjoy her mouthwatering charms. Thus far, however, their rather clumsy and obvious efforts had met with no success whatsoever. Indeed, her derisive disdain of their amateurish attempts to fondle her magnificent bosom or bottom, to slip their hands under her skirts to caress her stunningly rounded ivory thighs or to touch that sacrosanct cleft at their apex which was still virginal to the male, had earned her the sobriquet of "The Icebox Princess."

At eighteen, Pamela Thornton had outgrown the possibilities of emotional happiness in this farming community, just as she had outgrown the drearily unimaginative education which was all that Durwent had to give its young. Her marks had been exceptional at the James Durwent High School (named like the town itself, after a post-Civil War plantation owner who had settled here in about 1868 and built a small cotton acreage into a highly prosperous community). She longed to go to a college, perhaps the fashionable girls' institution at Oxford, but the bare facts of life were that her parents were extremely poor. Not only that, her father, Walter Thornton, was heavily in debt to Ernest Lattemeyer, the elderly vice president of the Durwent Bank and trust Company.

Walter and Minerva, Pamela's mother, owned a produce farm a few miles south of the little town, raising yams, string beans, corn, squash and tomatoes. They had managed over the years to provide food on the table for their two children, the other being Pamela's eighteen-year-old sister Sally, to pay their taxes and to have a few comforts but that was about all. In the past two years, their land showed signs of needing to lie fallow, so Walter Thornton had approached old Ernest Lattemeyer for a substantial loan to buy farm equipment and to process his land for eventual soy-bean growing. The banker had dealt with him for twenty years and knew him to be hardworking, reliable and honest, so at the present time there was an outstanding debt of seven thousand dollars on which Walter Thornton had been able to make only obligatory interest payments over the past twelve months. It was a subject of constant conversation in the Thornton household, and Pamela was growing oppressed by it. Never before had she wanted to be free of Durwent and the monotonous regularity of her days there. Now that it was July and high school was over and the prospect of college looked more distant than ever in view of her father's indebtedness, she was restless and unhappy.

Auburn-haired, slightly more than medium height with her stature of five feet six and a quarter inches, she possessed that indefinable quality of sensual sulkiness and insolence calculated to rouse an astute member of the opposite sex ferociously eager to conquer her. Her face was oval, the cheekbones somewhat highset, and her uptilting aquiline nose with its thin, widely flaring wings as well as her ripe, insolently curved mouth bespoke a rebelliousness and arrogance of spirit which had more than once sent her would be suitors home after an unsatisfactory date muttering to themselves, dreaming of riotous scenes in which she figured prominently. Since, however, most of the young males were already the rather dull-witted byproducts of a sleepy little town, their nocturnal fantasies were rarely complicated and sadistic only in the fact that they envisioned themselves mounting the ivory -skinned beauty and plundering her maidenhead. Not one of them would have had the creative intellect to project her as an ideal candidate for voluptuous sadism.

And yet subconsciously, perhaps, in her indecisive concern about how to spend this oncoming, boring summer on her parents' little farm and how to manage in spite of the impoverished state of her father's finances to break away completely from Durwent, Pamela Thornton yearned for something to happen, someone to appear out of a clear sky, to change the dull, irritatingly repetitious pattern of her days and nights, and bring at last vigorous energy and decision into her life. She could hardly know that fate was planning to do exactly that.

CHAPTER TWO

Pamela's eighteen-year-old sister Sally was exactly the opposite in viewpoint, attitude and personality. In fact, her father had often threatened to take the strap to her-which he had never done to any of his girls for all his blustering talk, for Walter Thornton was a mild-mannered, almost apologetic kind of man-because even at this precocious age, the saucy brunette was showing signs of an excessive interest in the opposite sex. Unlike Pamela, Sally Thornton enjoyed the company of boys and since she had no pretensions to greater things, had consequently no yardstick of comparison to tell her that they were inevitably predictable and that, when the time came for her to marry one of them, her connubial pleasures would be just as limited as their clumsy technique in petting and necking presently displayed. Nonetheless, Sally Thornton had very nearly lost her maidenhead to stocky eighteen-year-old Dan Trevors, the townheaded, boorish and bullying son of a somewhat more prosperous farmer who lived about a mile east of the Thorntons.

Last night being Saturday, Sally had grudgingly obtained her father's permission to go to Durwent's only movie with Dan with the stipulation that she be home no later than ten-thirty. Personally, Walter Thornton did not think very highly of the youth, but he and Dan's father Ed had been good neighbors and friends for eighteen years and consequently he assumed that Sally could come to little harm with the strict surveillance which both Dan's father and he nominally exercised. However, the movie had been a stereotyped Western, and midway through it, Dan Trevors had whispered, "Whaddya say we sneak out and go have ourselves a walk over to Rabbit Hollow, Sally girl?" and the saucy brunette had giggled and whispered back, "Sure, let's, Dan honey! This is really a crummy picture."

Rabbit Hollow was a somewhat facetious name given by the natives to a secluded little grove near a small creek about two miles northeast of the town. It was a favorite spot for picnics by day and a trysting place for lovers by night. It was also not the first time that Sally Thornton had sneaked off there in the company of Dan Trevors. She had dated him about five or six times since her eighteenth birthday last March, and she had already been to Rabbit Hollow three times and learned what heavy necking was like. On this particular Saturday evening, she wanted to learn a great deal more. Already the precocious minx had discovered the secret delights of using her finger between her sleek, lithe, olive-sheened thighs as she lay in bed in the dark and conjured up what it would be like to have Dan Trevors fuck her. She knew the word from some of her girl friends at school, and one of them, Daisy Blanton, had already "gone the limit" with a tall, lanky eighteen-year-old boy who happened to have more spending money in his pocket than any other male Durwentian pupil because his father was a traveling salesman for a heavy machinery company and easily out-earned any farmer in the vicinity.

So Dan and Sally had walked out of the movie house and, holding hands and giggling inanely at each other as adolescents who have sex on their minds, yet are not quite certain how to go about it, or what to do. Half an hour later, they had found a secluded little nook near a large cypress tree, not too far from the bank of a little creek, and Dan Trevors promptly grabbed Sally by the waist and kissed her hard on the mouth and then began to delve his tongue between her eagerly parting lips. After that long and enthusiastic Frenchkiss, he had slipped his left arm under her shoulders and, turning on his side to her, begun to slide his right hand along her pretty bare calf on up to the knee-length blue cotton skirt. Sally had shivered and giggled, and she had begun to feel the lips of her dainty pussy twitch and moisten with feverish anticipation.

She'd let him put his hand there, right on the crotch of her white cotton panties, and rub her pussy a little, till she'd almost died from wanting him to go much further than that. But she was wise enough to realize that since he hadn't come prepared, there might be certain reprehensible dangers if she were too generous with her favors. At eighteen, Sally Thornton already knew that boys used "safes" to keep from getting a girl "knocked up." Pamela, while theoretically being familiar with such edifying information, never referred to the subject of sex and certainly never in the vulgar four-letter words which Sally had already learned and which indeed would have cost her the strap had Walter Thornton ever heard her use them.

On this hot Sunday afternoon, Sally was thinking ardently of Dan and wishing she could be back with him in Rabbit Hollow. Pamela, listlessly sewing a button on one of her old dresses, looked disconsolately at it and wished she could be preparing for college with a brand-new wardrobe, anything to get away from this uninteresting farm life.

"Min," Walter Thornton stretched as he rose from the living-room chair, "what do you say we go for a spin? It can't be any hotter outside than it is right here."

"I'd like that, Walt. Let's. Maybe the girls would like to come along?"

"No thanks, Mom," Sally drawled. She much preferred to be alone with her burning memories of handsome Dan. Up in her room, all by herself, locking the door, she could pretend he was there with her. She'd take off her clothes and play with her pussy and make out as if he was actually fucking her with his hard young prick. Mm, it would just be super!

"What about you, Pam?" Walter Thornton somewhat anxiously asked. His face was drawn and he looked older than his thirty-three years, just as his plump, dishwater-blonde wife, Minerva, at thirty-eight already looked fifty. Life on this Mississippi farm was drudgery, unrelieved by the pleasures which people in the cities could enjoy when they had a little extra money to spend on their foibles. Here, the conversation, day and night, was how to pay back the loan, or how to raise enough crops and escape drought so as to have enough money for the children's clothes and perhaps a new dress for Minerva. So Walter Thornton could well understand why his lovely young daughters were dissatisfied, yet hopelessly he knew he could do very little about it.

"You go along without me, Dad," the lovely auburn-haired older girl smiled patiently at him. "I think it would do you both good to get away from us kids."

"Now that's no way to talk, Pam dear," Minerva Thornton scolded. "You know we love you both, and we wish we could do more for you both. You know I'd love to see you go away to college, Pam dear."

"Don't talk about it, please, Mom," Pamela sighed. "It just isn't going to happen, and I've made up my mind to it. Maybe I can find a job around here somewhere. But you and Dad go for a ride and go courting again, and then think about us."

"You're a good girl, Pam, and you and Sally are all that's keeping us slaving like this," said Minerva Thornton, blinking her eyes to keep the tears away. Then she turned to her husband: "Come on, Walt. Our children know better than we do what's good for us. Maybe a little drive alone thinking things out and maybe a little prayer will ease this burden we've always got wearing us down."

Walter Thornton took a last look at his daughters, smiled wistfully, raised his hand in token of departure, and then went out of the house. His wife followed, with a last grateful look at her two lovely daughters. . .

They were both tired, and the sun was hotter than they knew. Along the dirt road, it seemed to glare into the windshield. Walter Thornton was thinking hard, as he always did. If only he could sell a little plot of his ground to one of his neighbors who had more money than he, just enough to pay down the tuition for Pamela. She was such a fine girl, she deserved a better life that what she had on this miserable stretch of ground that sometimes didn't seem worth all the toil and sweat and labor he put into it.

Immersed in his thoughts, he didn't see a produce truck drive suddenly out of an intersecting dirt road to the left, until it was too late. Minerva uttered a shriek: "Look out, Wh-" It was too late. The truck crashed broadside into the old Ford, and Walter and Minerva Thornton were dead by the time the horrified eighteen-year-old boy who had snitched a ride on the back of the truck could stumble towards the wreckage and identify them. The truck driver himself was unconscious, with a fractured skull.

Fate had just stepped in to decide the destinies of Sally and Pamela Thornton.

CHAPTER THREE

"It's a dreadful thing, Mr. Saltiel," white-haired Ernest Lattemeyer shook his head and sighed. "You'll never find more hardworking people than poor Walter and Minerva Thornton. I think they put their lives into that little plot of ground, and the produce they got out of it is as good as anything you'll find in the State of Missouri. They didn't have enough land, and they just had bad luck."