Francine’s birthday party was a lot more fun when she made her second appearance. The enlivening punch and Clifford’s talent had put everyone in a fine mood. Laughter and merriment were everywhere. The band was playing an upbeat tune. A number of couples were dancing wildly on the grass. Others lounged in deck chairs, or around the pool, ties loosened, jackets off, heels dangling. Men admired and women flirted. A woman’s sun hat was floating in the pool. A boisterous crowd of people was pressed around Sarah Wiggle, who was demonstrating once and for all that she could hold a punch-glass in her bosom and dance in place at the same time. Somebody’s husband offered to clean up anything she spilled.
The reaction to the made-over Francine was different too. When people noticed the shapely 18-year-old, glowing in her see-through mesh top, swirly microskirt and high heels, a spontaneous cheer arose from the crowd. There were dropped jaws, wolf whistles, and a cry of “Helllloooooo, Franny!” Francine’s earlier self-consciousness was gone and forgotten. She smiled warmly, thrusting out her chest. It was fun to show off. Look at all those guys hungry for my hot bod, she thought proudly.
“Uh-oh” said Vicky. Francine followed her gaze to where her mother was marching toward them. She was looking a little unsteady, and one side of her gold blouse was untucked. There was no mistaking the look of outraged disapproval on her face, however. Francine braced for the worst.
Whatever tirade her mother was about to launch was interrupted at the last moment. “Would you care for some more punch, ma’am?” asked the petite caterer. She and her partner were arriving with fresh trays of drinks. They were both wearing their unbuttoned white blouses tied in a knot across the chest. Neither was wearing a bra. The Japanese girl had less to display than her partner, but she was making the most of it. Before her mum could respond, Francine noticed Clifford lowering his brows.
Francine’s mother stopped for a moment. She blinked several times. “Uhm,” she said. “Oh, why yes, I would love some punch. Thank you.” She took a glass and helped herself to a deep draft. “My that’sh special,” she said idly.
“Mom, I can explain,” Francine began. But her mother didn’t seem to be listening. She was watching the caterer walk away. Her glossy black ponytail swayed across her bare back with every step. It looked like the girl had rolled up her skirt a few inches.
“She has the nicest . . .” Francine’s mother said distractedly. “Don’t you think? She’s so . . . well, so . . . sweet. Mmmm-hmmm. Sweet. Like . . . candy.” She wandered off after the caterer, an amorous look in her grey eyes.
Francine looked after her in wonder. “Hey, there you are! Come on, join the party” cried another voice. Chelsea and Tessa were wandering toward them. Both girls were gathering looks from every man they passed. “Hi there Clifford,” Chelsea said meaningfully. She toyed with a lock of long hair.
Clifford grinned foolishly. The guy simply had no grace. “Uh, hi, again,” he said weakly. “You’re uhm . . . Tessa? Right?”
Instead of being insulted, both girls laughed. “No, I’m Tessa,” said the girl in the blue mini. “She’s Chelsea. And you’re Clifford—in case you can’t remember!” More laughter.
“Looks like you guys are having a good time,” Vicky observed. They started moving off the deck, down onto the grass.
“Oh, this is a gnarly party!” said Tessa.
Chelsea said: “Vic you have got to try some of this punch. It’s super-duper delish!” To prove her point she drained the rest of her glass in one go. “Come on everybody, let’s dance!” She and Tessa were already swaying toward the bandstand.
“Oops, here comes my dad,” Francine said. Her father was tall and lank. His expression was dark as he walked toward them.
Clifford was frowning again, intently. His brow furrowed with concentration. He was looking at Tessa though, not Francine’s perturbed father. The girl stopped walking. She looked distracted, like she had swallowed something funny.
Then she looked at Francine’s father. “Wow,” she said softly. “Why didn’t I ever notice . . . Fran, your dad is so . . . manly. There’s something about a bald man . . . you know . . . ?” She licked her lips. Francine could tell she was putting a little extra wiggle in he walk as she stepped over toward him. The feminine gait was exaggerated by her low-riding mini and white, platform sandals.
“Hey Mr. Goodstock,” the lithe blonde cooed in a smoky voice. “Great party. Care for a dance?” She was already slipping one hand around his arm. The distinguished lawyer, clearly flattered by the attention of a cute young thing, let her lead him off toward the band. She leaned against him as they walked away.
“Well, she sure distracted him,” Francine said, grinning. Clifford sure did know how to smooth things over. What a great guy.
Clifford and the remaining young women made their way through the party-goers. A woman in a short sundress laughed at a joke. She had one leg thrown carelessly over the arm of her deck chair. A shoulder strap had slipped down. The woman seemed serenely unconcerned about how much she was revealing.
Clifford nabbed a snack from a passing tray. All the serving girls had adopted the tied-top look. Clifford stared at the woman’s tits, clearly visible through the thin blouse. Her smile was an invitation. Vicky elbowed him in the ribs.
Francine drew a lot of attention wherever she went, and not just because she was the guest of honour. Showing more leg than a giraffe helped, not to mention the boob show upstairs. So did being with Clifford. As they wandered about the party, Francine caught glimpses of Vicky’s hot boyfriend working more magic.
“No I do not want any more of that damned punch,” declared a thirtyish woman. She was finely dressed in a flattering lilac dress, with matching boots.
The man with her said, “Come on Dimli, lighten up. Have a drink. Enjoy the party!” His tie was at half-mast.
Dimli said, “No! Can’t you tell that’s been spiked beyond believing? What is wrong with you, Roland? Why is everyone acting so stupid? Look, why don’t we just go get your daughter and go home before . . . before . . .” She blinked for a moment. She swayed on her bootheels as Clifford glared at her.
Abruptly she smiled. “Well, maybe one more l’il drink would be all right,” She took the brimming glass that her companion offered. “But don’t you go trying to get me drunk.” She winked at him, then took a long, deep drink of supercharged punch. “Oh hello, that does have punch, doesn’t it,” she declared approvingly.
“I think Becky is dancing,” Roland said. “She probably won’t want to go home yet either.”
Dimli was busy drinking. “Mmmm-hmmm,” she murmured. “Well, she’s a big girl. Oh, here’s Francine. Happy birthday dear! You look delightful. Let’s have a toast to Francine on her birthday.” She raised the glass one more time. Roland did the same. He was devouring Francine and Vicky with his eyes.
“Thanks!” Francine said, smiling. “I hope you’re enjoying the party.” She smoothed down her mesh top with one hand, trying to draw Roland’s attention to her tits. It worked.
“Oh look, empty already,” Dimli said. “Roland, stop staring n’ fetch me nother drink.”
Beside one of the gardens they found another couple, sitting on a carved bench. “Trenton, stop that!” cried the young woman. “Come on, this has gone far enough. You should be ashamed of yourself, you perv.”
“Let me just touch them, OK? For a moment, really. Tabby never wears stockings, I have no idea what they feel like. Come on Jayde, be a sport.” He was leaning over her, with one hand between her legs, at the hem of the short skirt of her suit. She pressed her legs together.
“That’s enough! OK, you’ve had your feel. Now stop that, I mean it!” She squirmed on the bench as his hand wormed higher. “Look, you’re going to get us both in trouble. Your wife is right over there! We’ll get cau—” Her voice died away. She met Clifford’s eyes.
“. . . unless we’re very careful,” she whispered a moment later. She spread her legs a little to give him access. His hand disappeared. “Oh honey, you have warm fingers,” she sighed. She put a hand on his wrist, urging him higher. “My panties are silk too,” she whispered in his ear. “See for yourself.”
As more of the powerful punch made its way around the party, Francine began to have difficulty distinguishing between Clifford’s sly mind-meddling and plain old drunkenness. At one point she almost collided with Millie Cutebottom, who was staggering about with her shoes in one hand and a drink in the other. Removing her heels didn’t seem to have made her any more stable.
“Happppy birthday Francine!” Millie cried. Spontaneously she gave the girl a big hug. Or she may have merely fallen into her, Francine wasn’t sure.
“Mrs. Cutebottom, are you quite all right?” Francine asked.
“Oh, I’m more than all right, darlin’, I’m flyin’! You look absolutely darling in that little skirt, you know, abs’lutely darlin’. Minds me o’ when I was eighteen. That was loooong time ago, but we did know how t’ave fun (hic!). Loooove this punch.” She took another pull from the glass she was holding. “Mmmm, tha’s good. I—” From the way she stopped, Francine knew without looking that Clifford was glaring at her over Francine’s shoulder. Vicky giggled.
So did Millie Cutebottom, a moment later. “Saaaay, Francine honey, I was thinkin’ . . . bout bein’ like eighteen an stuff. It was like, way fun . . . I was like totally a cheerleader, you know? It was awesome!
“Well, uhm, so was I, like, until last year.”
Millie’s eyes lit up. “Can I like, borrow your shoes? Jus’ for now, huh? I can’t like, do cheers in these!” With a laugh she tossed aside her expensive pumps. “I’ll be right back!” She dashed, or rather wobbled, toward the house. The three teens watched her go.
“Some people shouldn’t drink,” Francine observed.
“Come on, let’s dance,” Vicky demanded. All three of them ran off to join the crowd.
There were quite a number of people dancing in front of the bandstand. The band was playing slower numbers, perhaps in deference to the older people in the crowd. The band members themselves had had a bit of punch. The music tended to be improvisational. Apparently nobody cared. The musicians had all taken their jackets off.
Francine insisted on dancing with Clifford, claiming her prerogative as the birthday girl. Vicky was left to find another partner. That took about five seconds.
Clifford turned out to be the worst dancer in the history of romance. Francine didn’t mind; she had expected no less, given his total lack of coolness. It was more annoying that every woman at the party seemed to want to cut in. Every ten seconds, or so it seemed, another tipsy, aerobicized blonde would leave her partner to come wiggling over and fairly throw herself at poor Clifford. Francine was beginning to see why Vicky was so protective.
Still, as they moved about on the dance floor, Francine couldn’t suppress her delight. Clifford was making this into a terrific party. Everyone was laughing and singing and dancing and having a wonderful time. Inhibitions were falling; libidos were rising. Male hands were drifting; women who should have fended them off tittered instead and urged them on. No one seemed too concerned about who was flirting with whom. A spontaneous game of musical chairs ended with two giggly housewives sprawling in the lap of a bemused businessman. He kissed them both until the deck chair he was sitting in collapsed. All three tumbled into a laughing, groping tangle on the grass.
Francine caught a glimpse of Tessa, dancing with her father. She was clearly trying to seduce him. She used every excuse to dance close, pressing her tight teenage body provocatively against the older man. When they parted she held his eyes while she undulated gracefully. Her hips swayed like a belly dancer’s in the low-riding mini. Her blue navel stone glistened in the afternoon sun. Francine’s dad looked very uncomfortable: he was clearly hesitant about responding to his daughter’s friend, no matter how smokingly sexy she was. On the other hand, he was obviously enthralled by the spell of lust she was weaving.
Clifford cured his dilemma. At one point he caught the man’s eye for a moment, frowning. Francine watched her father lose his rhythm, shaking his head. He put a hand on Tessa’s shoulder to steady himself.
In only a few seconds he came to himself. Now a sly grin spread across his face as he admired tempting, teenage Tessa. They began to dance close again. This time, Francine saw her father’s hands slide down Tessa’s bare back and over her hips, until they were firmly planted on her barely covered asscheeks. Tessa murmured and snuggled in his arms. The dance became a moving embrace.
Francine watched the mismatched couple keenly. The atmosphere of sexual heat running through the party was getting to her. It hardly occurred to her to be concerned that her own father was coming on to an oversexed teen within easy view of her mother.
Where was her mother, anyway? She looked around, when she got a break from Clifford stepping on her toes. She finally located her, off in a corner, with one arm around the pretty Japanese caterer. Francine couldn’t hear the conversation. Her mother’s face was coloured with ardour. The caterer kept fending her off, embarrassed, like Francine’s mother was a smitten groupie following a rock star. Except that Francine’s mother was as gorgeous as her daughter.
Clifford must have noticed at about the same time Francine did because he stepped on her toes again. “Sorry,” he said for about the one-hundredth time. “Just a moment.” He scowled off into the distance. Francine noticed the caterer stop suddenly, looking toward them. She rubbed her face with one hand and blinked like she had dust in her eyes.
A moment later she looked back at Francine’s mother. She was no longer trying to get away. She reached out to the older woman and ran one hand down the side of her face. She said something to her, an urgent whisper. She trailed a finger along the older woman’s ruby necklace, lingering along her bodice. Francine’s mother nodded, trembling. She unclasped the necklace and fastened it around the girl’s slim neck. The caterer whispered something else. A moment later she was wearing her earrings too. Then she took the other woman by the hand and they disappeared behind a row of shrubs.
Francine felt a tingle of doubt. Was this right? She was glad her parents were having fun (and staying out of her way so she could party) but . . . well, they were behaving so oddly. She couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t more upset. It must have been something Clifford had done. As the band finished its number, she asked him. “Clifford I wonder if—” That was as far as she got before Clifford’s concentrating look caught her at point blank range. The outside world faded away completely for a second. She might even have fallen, had not Clifford been there to catch her.
As the music started up again, the peccadillos of her parents were the last thing on Francine’s mind. She threw herself against her best friend’s weird boyfriend. “Cliffy, baby,” she moaned, “I am so horny right now I think I’ll die if you don’t fuck me.” She pressed her body against him. Her heavy tits tingled against his chest. She swayed her hips, letting him feel her heat.
“I thought you wanted to dance,” he said.
“We can dance at the same time. We’ll do it right here. Please, I want you. You have to fuck me, it’s my birthday!” To emphasize her point she cupped his cheeks in his hands and gave him a kiss he was not likely to forget for a while. “Come on darling,” she whispered, “put it in me while we dance.”
He looked hesitant. Francine kissed him into acquiescence. She looked about. So many couples were practically ravishing each other standing up, no one was likely to notice what she and Cliffy did. She stayed very close to him, swaying to the music. She slid one delicate hand down between them. She tugged down his zipper. She slipped a hand inside. Clifford grunted when she found her target. In a few seconds he was exposed, in the middle of her parents’ back yard on a pleasant Saturday afternoon. The lead musician wailed away on his saxophone.
Francine laid her head on Clifford’s shoulder and gently stroked him. He was rising swiftly. She looked around. Other couples were necking and fondling on the dance floor. Her father and Tessa were in a similar position to her and Clifford. Tessa was balancing on one two-inch platform with her other leg wrapped around his. Their hips undulated in unison.
On the other side, gorgeous Vicky, looking dead sexy in her microdress and boots, was somehow entrancing two young men at the same time. She was sandwiched between them, kissing and petting the man in front while she ground her delectable ass against the man behind. Out of the corner of her eye Francine saw Chelsea, off to one side. She was seated in the lap of an older man in an Armani suit. She was slowly feeding him cherries, using only her teeth. The man looked as turned on as Francine felt.
Francine was trembling. Clifford had her turned on like none of her boyfriends ever had. She was lubricating into her scanty underwear. “Screw me Cliffy,” she whispered in his ear. “Nail me good in front of everybody.”
She pressed herself close to him, still with her hand on his now firm member. Francine’s skirt was so short it was easy to slip under it. Sexy stockings left her crotch bare. Her flimsy panties were not meant to be a barrier. Clifford was tall, but so was Francine—and she had the advantage of four-inch heels. With a little bending and stretching she got him into position; he thrust forward, parting her pussylips and . . . and . . .
. . . and instantly Francine was in heaven.
She gasped loudly as Clifford’s perfect pecker poked her pulsing pussy. He thrust in deep. He clasped her bum with both hands, keeping her upright. Vicky must have taught him a thing or two. The feeling of his shaft inside her was sensational. Francine moaned into his collar. She felt hot and thrilling. She held him tight, afraid he might slip out if she relaxed. She found his face and buried her lips against his.
After a moment he began to pull his hips back, only a little at first, then forward again, burying himself deeper. It was exquisite. Francine was no stranger to sex. None of the late night liaisons her mother didn’t know about could compare with the fabulous fucking Clifford was giving her for her birthday.
They pretended to dance to the music. They tried to time the thrusts and undulations of their hips with the clamorous music flowing around them. The band was quite drunk. The music was becoming wild and rocky. Francine hardly noticed. She was barely aware of the noise and excitement all around them, the other couples dancing and fondling, of Sarah Wiggle dashing onto the stage and doing a drunken strip-tease to the delight of the crowd, of bodies splashing in the pool, and some woman’s voice shouting “more, don’t stop, please More!” from somewhere.
None of that mattered. All Francine cared about was the sensations of her body against Clifford’s, and his wet, hard, pounding cock inside her. She was hot. Her deep breaths swelled her chest. “Hurry baby,” she rasped in his ear. “Hurry! I’m going to cum . . . oh yes . . . I am . . . faster!”
He was thrusting urgently now. Francine could tell his own peak was approaching. She had abandoned any pretense of dancing. She was standing on her toes, bodily lifting herself onto Clifford’s cock. She surfed along the edge of orgasm for a few moments, cried out “Yes, Clifford YES!” much louder than she intended, then abandoned herself to a superb climax. As her lithe body bucked and fizzed she felt Clifford cumming in swift staccato bursts inside her.
At that moment several complicated things happened. In her rapture, Francine had completely forgotten about getting caught. She realized this as she heard a female voice cry “Francine! My god what are you doing!” a few feet away. She looked over her shoulder to see Mrs. Featherstone, the most conservative of her parents’ friends and still relatively sober, staring at her in shock. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Clifford begin to frown at her.
He was still ejaculating. The force of his orgasm must have amplified the mind trick because Mrs. Featherstone actually stumbled backward with the force of it. Francine was still on her toes. She pulled Clifford off balance. The two of them tumbled downward in a slow spiral, cumming and falling and frowning all at once. Clifford’s scowl swept across the crowd, knocking partygoers backward like spray from a water cannon. He had spun nearly a full 360 degrees before he and still-twitching Francine collapsed on the cool grass.
The effect of Clifford’s wild blast on the party was immediate. In seconds it collapsed into pure orgy. Couples that had been fondling and flirting moments before began rampantly screwing on the grass. They ripped and tore at their clothes in their urgent need to fuck. Partners, threesomes and foursomes formed almost at random. Groans and laughter and shrieks of delight danced through the air. Up on the stage, the lead saxophonist tried gamely to play on, even as Sarah Wiggle sucked him off in her underwear. The other musicians abandoned their instruments and joined the fray.
Francine climbed to her feet. She had to help Clifford up. He almost forgot to do up his fly. “Cliffy, what happened?” she wanted to know. She looked around at the party-turned-orgy in perplexity. Bodies moaned and rolled and flexed. A woman streaked by in her dress heels and nothing else, laughing giddily. She was swinging her bra like a lure for the two falling-down-drunk accountants chasing her.
“I think I overdid it,” Clifford said. “Please, I need to sit down.”
“Of course.” She put her arm around his shoulder and led him away from the commotion. Her destination was a bench beneath the striped tent. It took a while to get there. Women of all stripes and all stages of undress turned toward them whenever they laid eyes on Clifford. Francine had to physically push away a couple, who then turned to ardently kissing each other.
They passed by the shrubbery where her mother had disappeared with the caterer. Someone said, “Oh yes, honey, baby, you make me come again! Yes again, one more time! Make me cum and you can give me your shoes too!”
Clifford and Francine arrived at the bench. He sat down heavily.
“Hey, how bout a drink, Cliffy?” said a voice. Another of the caterers stood there, her eyes glassy with drink and lust, a glass of punch in one hand. She had abandoned her uniform altogether except for black pantyhose and Millie Cutebottom’s high heels. When Clifford tried to take the glass, the girl tumbled deliberately into his lap. Her nipples were erect.
Francine tugged on her arm until she staggered to her feet again. “Please, he needs to rest, K?” Francine said. “For a few minutes.”
“OK gorrrrrgeous,” slurred the girl, “Let’s us fuck till then!” She immediately turned her amorous attention to Francine. The birthday girl found herself kissing a hot young hussy in hose and heels. She separated from the sexed-up server with some difficulty. She was horny again. Some of Clifford’s broad spectrum mind blast must have hit her too.
“Please, wait . . . no,” Francine sputtered. “Not right now. I need . . . to take care of Clifford.”
The girl looked disappointed. She stole another kiss before mincing away. Francine found herself admiring the girl’s legs and ass in her sleek microfibre hose. She didn’t get very far before Francine’s cousin Ralph, wearing nothing but a hard-on and his shoes, practically tackled her. Clifford took a deep draft of the liquor. Francine took the glass and drank the rest.
After a few minutes Tessa came staggering toward them. She was wearing a crooked grin but not much else. “Hi guys!” she chirped. “This is the swellest party. I’m really drunk. Francine, your daddy is the best lay in the whole universe!” She threw out her arms and spun about happily, instantly losing her balance and stumbling onto the bench beside them. “Hey, what’s wrong wit’ Cliffy?” Everybody’s favourite nerd had dozed off.
Francine said, “That thing in his head. He’s a little tired.”
“Oh, poor baby. Izthere anythin’ I can do?” She clearly had something specific in mind.
“He just needs to rest.”
“Hey, there you are!” came Chelsea’s voice. She swayed toward them, even more drunk than Tessa, but somewhat more dressed. She was sopping wet.
“What happened to you?” Francine asked.
Chelsea swayed before them, dripping and smiling. “Fell in the pool (hic!). Los’ my balance. I was tryin’ to give this stud, like, focaccia standing up (hic!).”
“You mean fellatio, airhead!”
“Yeah (giggle). Whatever. Wuz Ok cuz he ended up fuckin’ me n the pool. Hi Cliffy!”
“He’s resting.”
“He did the trick with his mind and like, over did it.”
“Oh, tha’s too bad.” Chelsea folded up on the ground in front of him. Her wet minidress was plastered against her body, revealing every perfect line and curve.
“Hey,” Tessa said, “Where’s Vicky?”
Francine giggled this time. “Over by the bandstand, being fought over by about three guys. You know Vicky.”
Tessa looked around. There was mayhem and mating going on all around them. Tralee Looker, a vision in a classic little-black-dress, was bent over a deck chair, long legs spread wide and hair falling everywhere. She was hungrily sucking off the ex- husband she had bitterly divorced two months earlier, while his lawyer screwed her from behind. Millie Cutebottom went dancing by, attempting to do cartwheels. She had found a pair of metallic red running shoes Francine had worn when she was about fifteen. She had done her hair in pigtails. She wore nothing beneath her skirt. “Go team go!” she shouted, skipping across the lawn. “What a totally awesome party!”
The three girls watched her go. “Do you suppose,” Tessa said in a conspiratory voice, “that Vicky would mind if, you know, we did a little something for Clifford?” She was still wearing her sexy top and her white platform sandals. She had pulled her panties back on after Francine’s dreamy (bald!) father finished, but not her skirt.
Chelsea wrapped her arms around Clifford’s leg. She snuggled against him like an affectionate cat. “I want him to like totally fuck me,” she announced. “I hear he’s awesome.”
“Ohhh, me too,” moaned Tessa. She seemed to be getting off just thinking about it.
“I’m sure Clifford will be happy to do you both, as soon as he wakes up,” Francine said primly. “But I get him first. It’s my birthday.”
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