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I was surprised to find that two of the cheerleader stories I'd already read were by him. One was a really stupid one about a busload of cheerleaders all getting knocked up during a storm one night, but the other one was pretty hot and I'd beat off to it several times before. I kept looking, wanting to find a story that would make Heather understand how powerful a fantasy can be, and why I couldn't help but have them once in a while.The first one I tried was called The Making Of A Cocksman. I picked it because the synopsis said the sister had a bunch of friends, and that was like Heather and her friends. I glanced over the first couple of pages and found that the similarity ended there, though, because Heather wasn't like Claire, in the story. And her friends weren't like Claire's friends. But they did have a posse of sorts, though there wasn't a sheriff, really. I figured it might be a good one to explain why I had those thoughts about her.It wasn't quite like the comic book I'd. I just knew his cock was the only thing that would stop this aching inside, but he wasn't moving fast enough. I wanted him now, hard and fast but he just smiled as he slowly continued tormenting me until finally his cock was lodged deep inside but then he held still, pressing his hips against me, pushing me back against the bed. Moving in thrusts meant to tease and tempt. I leaned forward and licked his nipple and nipped at it gently. I saw him close his eyes and groan at my touch. Quickly I rolled him over until I was on top of him, my knees on either side of him, his hand grabbing my hips. I smiled down at him and leaned forward slightly and rested my hands on his chest, teasing his nipples before sliding his cock inside me, using my thighs to move my hips up his length and then slide back down. From the groan I knew he was enjoying it. I felt him all the way inside me and he loved watching his cock slide in and out of me as much as he seemed to need the feel of it. I saw his eyes.
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She picked up the receiver and punched in the number that Grafton had scribbled on the back of the business card. It was a short conversation. Grafton was coming right over, his hotel was a ten minute drive from the Loehman’s house. Agnes heard a car pull into her driveway. She watched as the driver’s side door of the rented sedan swung open and a man with a briefcase stepped out. It was the man who called on her the day before. Ed Grafton was a small man. Agnes thought him to be five-seven or eight as he slowly walked toward the house. He cleared the front fender of the car that had partially hidden him and Agnes saw the black platform shoes that added an inch or two to his height. He was skinny-looking. Although well into his fifties, his hair showed no apparition of gray, and neither did his full beard and moustache. He wore sunglasses with black frames, so at first it gave the illusion that he wore a mask. It was summer, he wore a seersucker blazer and navy slacks. Grafton.

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